Eclipse Of The Kai

Eclipse of the Kai // 1 Eclipse of the Kai Joe Dever and John Grant Copyright (c) 2003 Joe Dever and John Grant Ecli...

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Eclipse of the Kai // 1

Eclipse of the Kai Joe Dever and John Grant

Copyright (c) 2003 Joe Dever and John Grant


Contents 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11

A Magician Spurned Flight to the Darklands Welcomes Of Truth and Falsehood The Music of Zagarna The Gathering Storm Roads Information Eclipse of the Kai In the Skies Dawn of Darkness


1 A Magician Spurned 1 The word rang around the ancient hall, its echoes losing themselves among the cowled heads. "Fool!" The Guildmaster did not flinch. White-haired and white-bearded, he sat almost nonchalantly on his gilt throne and looked at Vonotar with tranquil blue eyes. The lack of response infuriated the pacing magician. "Incompetent!" he cried as if to the ceiling. "Dotard!" he told a bank of musty banners. The Guildmaster stirred in his seat. When his words came they did so unwillingly. "Vonotar," he said, his voice rusty, "we have had this argument many times before. The Brotherhood of the Crystal Star is devoted to the Left Hand path of magic, to countering the forces of Evil, to assisting the noble gods Kai and Ishir, to . . ." Vonotar spat. He was a tall, handsome man with a neatly trimmed black beard and a proud aquiline nose. His grey eyes flickered with fury. "You churn out all the old nonsense, you trembling ninny," he snapped. "Our Brotherhood was initiated for no high and lofty ideals but for one reason only: the attainment of power! You and your predecessors have led us away from that true imperative. What are we now?" He swept his arm impressively to indicate the gathering of the Brotherhood's Elders, who were listening in shocked silence. Even the Guildmaster had silently to admit they were not a prepossessing collection: male or female, they betrayed all too visibly the signs of advanced age and mental moribundity. Before the Guildmaster could respond, Vonotar spoke again, his voice as sharply edged as a giak sword. "Yes, I know what you're thinking, Guildmaster. This assemblage of antiques . . . what are they? They're people who've ascended to the councilship of our Brotherhood simply because they're old. Never have they asked a question; never have they tried to suggest that the role of our Brotherhood should be thought about. They are . . . they are . . . aged nothings!" The hall of Toran's Guild of Magicians was silent. Through a stainedglass window shone a beam of bright red sunlight in which swam motes of sparkling dust. For a few moments these were the only things moving as


Vonotar, the Guildmaster and the Elders remained in a frozen tableau. Vonotar's arms were outstretched, one index finger pointing accusingly at the Guildmaster, the other at the low gallery where the twelve Elders sat, their mouths agape in various expressions of horror and insult. The faded flags of the Brotherhood of the Crystal Star, crusted in centuries-thick layers of dust, hung motionless in the dank air. The stillness was interrupted by a kitten. Small and grey, it scampered into the hall, jumped with some difficulty up the three steps to the throne of the Guildmaster, and began to rub itself appreciatively against his leg. One of the Elders chuckled, and that broke the spell. Vonotar seemed to swell in size. Always a big man, he now appeared twice life-size. His broad chest pressed against the fabric of his starred blue robe "You!" he shouted, pointing at the Elder. "You find something to laugh about? I have studied the Right Hand path of magic, and I know it is our only way to power!" He moved his arm around until he was pointing at the kitten, which was now licking the Guildmaster's extended foot. "Can you do this using the Left Hand Path?" Vonotar whispered. A flame shot from his finger to the kitten. The little animal collapsed into a pile of ashes. The magician turned back to the Elders. "Be warned," he said. "I could do that to any one of you. The magic of the Right Hand Path is much more powerful than that of the Left. It can be used for killing as well as curing. If our Brotherhood is to achieve the power which it deserves -which it needs -- we must be prepared to study the Right Hand Path!" The Guildmaster looked at Vonotar with studied vagueness. "Killing a kitten is a childish trick, and hardly worthy of you, Vonotar," he said mildly. "Perhaps you could use the Right Hand Path to restore the kitten to life?" The rebel folded his arms and stared belligerently at his frost-haired Guildmaster. There was another silence. The Guildmaster had been appointed, many long years ago, not just because of his magical prowess but also because he had a perfect sense of timing. After he had allowed the moment to hang long enough he smiled at Vonotar as a parent might at a child. Then he leaned forward to touch the little heap of ash at his feet. It stirred itself, and within an instant was a small grey kitten. The kitten clawed its way up the Guildmaster's robe and sat in


his lap, where it settled and began to purr with startling loudness. "You see," said the Guildmaster, "our Brotherhood is not just about power, it is about the power to save this world -- all Magnamund -- from the forces of Evil. We eschew the Right Hand Path deliberately because, although the wise may use it with impunity, the foolish may find themselves in the thrall of Naar, the King of Darkness." "Naar!" shouted Vonotar. "You say that Naar is the epitome of all Evil, but one what evidence? Do you even know for a certainty that he so much as exists?" "Yes," said the Guildmaster quietly. He lowered the kitten gently to the floor. "Even now his minions, the Darklords, are gathering their forces in Kaag. Their plan is to lead their forces eastward over the Durncrag Mountains and conquer Sommerlund. Our land is to be put to the torch and the sword, our people to be tortured or murdered or enslaved. If you choose to continue in the practice of the Right Hand Path you will be helping -indirectly, to be sure, but helping nevertheless -- all this to come about." Vonotar spat again. This time the Guildmaster looked pointedly at the place where the spittle had landed. His aged forehead wrinkled yet further as he concentrated. The sunlight in the hall flickered. Where the shiny white spittle had been there was now a small yellow rose-blossom. "Evil," said the Guildmaster, "can be turned into Good, but only after a long and difficult struggle. To turn Good into Evil is far easier." He waved a finger in a leisurely way and the rose-blossom was once again a blob of spit. "Can you, Vonotar," said the Guildmaster, "transform the mark of your hatred and venom back into a blossom?" The rebel looked at the gathering of Elders, and sneered. "The Right Hand Path allows us to do anything -- anything," he proclaimed pompously. From a pocket of his robe he pulled a short Y-shaped rod, which he directed at the tiled floor where the spittle lay. His whole body tensed as he poured the full force of his magical knowledge into the rod. Crimson sparks surrounded his body and the air grew thick. "Try as you will, Vonotar," said the Guildmaster softly. "Damn you," muttered the rebel. The arteries of his face stood out in relief as he strained to summon up every last reserve of his Right Hand powers. There was a loud crack, as if one of the great stones of the walls had suddenly shattered.


Vonotar half-collapsed from the abrupt release. On the floor there was a tiny creature. No more than a fingerlength long, it sat there squatly. It wrinkled back its grey-green lips to reveal an array of blood-red teeth. Its eyes were as hard and soulless as adamantine. Vonotar looked at his creation with revulsion. He glanced up at the Guildmaster, who allowed himself a small smile. "What is . . . this?" said Vonotar. "It is what you have been able to create from the sign of your hatred." "All that is ugly is not wicked," countered Vonotar. "True," said the Guildmaster, "and all that is wicked is not ugly. But do not allow your eyes or your mind to be deceived: just because something is ugly does not mean that it is not wicked." He leaned forward to tickle the ears of the kitten. "The creature you have brought into our hall is both ugly and wicked. Although it is so tiny, its bite is powerful enough to rip out the throat of the strongest of men. And you have no way of controlling it. It may choose to kill me, but it may equally choose to kill you, or any of the rest of us gathered here." The Elders shuffled uneasily in their seats. "Vonotar, from hatred you have created Evil. That must always be the way for those who choose to follow the Right Hand Path. Make no mistake: Evil is powerful, and slow to die. Yet it can be conquered. Those on the side of Good need not have raw strength in order to defeat it -- they need only ability, agility, and the will to succeed in their cause. Watch carefully." The Guildmaster leaned forward again to the kitten, but this time he picked it up from his lap and settled it on his knees. He stroked its head, and its eyes closed as it released itself into the ecstasy of the moment. He ruffled the fur between its forelegs and it looked mildly annoyed. Then he whispered a few words in its ear. The kitten stood upright, and its tail began to flick. It stared intently at the loathsome little creature on the blue-and-silver mosaic floor. It leapt softly from the Guildmaster's knee and crouched by his feet. The toadlike beast stared back. Its mouth opened again to reveal those razor-sharp teeth, and a luridly red forked tongue emerged. Clearly it was hungry, and equally clearly it saw the kitten as its next meal. "Which side are you on, Vonotar?" breathed the Guildmaster dustily. Vonotar did not reply. Like the Elders he was utterly motionless, watching in helpless fascination the contest that was about to begin. "The cat is called Grey One," said the Guildmaster. "It is young, and it


is not strong. Yet I pit it against your creature, and I know that it can win. Does your creature have a name? Surely" -- the quiet voice held more than a touch of mockery -- "that . . . that thing must have a name?" "I give it no name," muttered the rebel. The kitten looked at him with contempt, sat up, and began studiously to wash its paw. The creature on the floor suddenly scuttled forward towards its adversary, its horny claws rattling on the floor's stone tiles. Its breath was a high-pitched hiss. The kitten wiped its damp paw over its head. The creature pounced . . . and landed on the step where Grey One had been only an instant before. The kitten had moved like quicksilver, so that now it stood behind Vonotar. While the small monster looked this way and that in perplexity, its forked red tongue anxiously probing the air, Grey One leapt up onto Vonotar's back and rapidly scrambled up to his shoulder. "What th --?" stuttered Vonotar. The kitten nuzzled its cheek against his ear and started, once more, to purr. The magician accepted the affection for a few moments, and then came to a decision. Abruptly he walked the few paces necessary to reach the steps to the Guildmaster's throne and stamped down once, twice, three times on the monster he had brought into existence. Then he brought his leonine head forward to glare into the Guildmaster's eyes. "You say that I flirt with Evil," he shouted, his voice given resonance by the vaults of the huge hall, "and yet, as you can see, I allied myself with the kitten. We can use the Right Hand Path for the cause of Good, I tell you! Without it we can never gain supreme power, and without supreme power we can never bring the world to its senses!" The Guildmaster ignored this tirade. "Who killed your little monster, Vonotar?" he sighed. "I did, of course!" "No. The kitten did. Grey One used you as a weapon just as you might use an arrow to kill a giak. The kitten knows more about the difference between Good and Evil than you do, my friend. Oh, yes" -- the Guildmaster held up a hand to ward off the torrent of words that threatened to burst from Vonotar's lips -- "you are a man of great learning, and all of us respect you for that. But your learning has been at the cost of your wisdom. My kitten has read no books and discovered no spells, yet it recognized Evil and, even though it was weak, understood immediately how to deal with it."


Vonotar tried to say something, but from the flurry of expressions chasing each other across his face it was obvious that the chaos in his mind was beyond words. "Grey One is my gift to you," said the Guildmaster, and this time there was not a trace of taunting in his smile. "Let the kitten be your mentor the next time you desire to follow the Right Hand Path." At last Vonotar found words. "I reject your gift!" he thundered. "I killed the creature! It was I who saw it as the incarnation of Evil. Just because I practise the Right Hand Path doesn't mean that I'm not on the side of Good." "So Good conquers Evil through the stamping of your foot," said the Guildmaster sadly. "Vonotar, lift that foot." The rebel obeyed, and then looked down. Crushed on the hard stone step lay the remains of a yellow roseblossom. 2 "Cast your mind back to a time before the world was young . . . "In a time that was so long ago that there was no time, the Lords of Good and the Lords of Evil were locked in battle. This was a bloodless conflict, for the gods have no hands to raise swords and no bodies to be injured. They are everywhere and yet they are nowhere. The breeze that makes a leaf tremble is a manifestation of a god. The fall of rocks to crush children in the creaking thunder of an avalanche is a manifestation of a god. The sweet breathing of a peaceful sleeper is a manifestation of a god. "The war between the Lords of Good and Evil had been in progress for eternity. We can understand what is meant by 'eternity' no better than we can understand the true nature of the gods. We are limited by our own notions of what time is. We look around at our Universe and we see that everything is in a state of change: moons orbit planets, planets orbit stars, stars orbit the centres of their galaxies, and the galaxies themselves swiftly recede from each other. On the more mundane level, we are born, we age and, in due course, we die. We look at all these changes, and we say that they are the product of 'time's passing'. This comforts us, but in fact it is not really an explanation. The truth is that we have a name -- 'time' -- for something whose nature we cannot even begin to comprehend. "'Eternity' is another of those words which we use but do not really understand. To most of us it means -- if we are honest with ourselves --


nothing more than 'a very long time'. A few million years, perhaps. Some people cast their scope wider, and can imagine eternity as lasting for a few billion years, yet even then they cling to the reassuring idea that, somewhen, time started. What happened before that moment is something about which they can only speculate, yet they accept there must have been such a moment. Their vision of eternity is the span of time between then and the infinite future -- for no one has a vision of time ever ceasing to be. "But this view of eternity is a fallacy. A fallacy based on a fallacy. Time is an idea created by mortals solely to explain what they see going on around them. To the gods, there is no such thing as time; their Universe has been in existence forever, and will remain in existence forever. Eternity, for the gods, is indeed eternity. "Nevertheless, we should not throw away the concept of time too swiftly. Countless billions of years before the creation of the Moonstone there was a ripple in the timeless waters of eternity. This ripple was the sudden appearance of our physical Universe -- the stars and the planets and the stones and the trees and the air and the flowers. And creatures such as ourselves. "The formation of the Universe came about in this way. "The goddess Ishir sought an end to the ageless war. We cannot imagine how the gods speak with each other, yet we know that somehow she gained the attention of Naar, the King of the Darkness, and communicated with him. She swore to guarantee that the Lords of Good would no longer battle with the Lords of Evil on condition that the Lords of Evil made a similar promise. Naar, too, was tired of the war and so, rather to Ishir's surprise (if gods can be said to possess the faculty of surprise), he agreed to her terms. "Peace reigned, but the gods needed a symbol of their accord. Ishir took the truth of her pledge and shaped it into a vessel. Of course, this was not a box or a barrel; yet the gods perceived it as a vessel. Into it she placed Naar's power and his Evil, so that they would remain sealed away from the rest of the Universe. The vessel and its contents were called Aon, meaning 'The Great Balance'. "Gods may be everywhere, but they are not omniscient. Ishir could not know that by creating Aon she had sparked off the creation of our physical Universe. For all of eternity there had been just featureless emptiness -- a blank backdrop before which the war between the gods had been conducted -- but now this emptiness had been disrupted. Aon was a tiny seed, yet its effect upon the emptiness was to buckle it and crumple it


until the smallest particles of energy came into explosive existence. Soon, thanks to the intervention of the insane creator god called Qinmeartha, these particles used the forces and other energies about them to mould themselves into matter, and within a breath of a god's slumber the physical Universe was populated by myriad brilliant stars, each with its retinue of worlds. "The gods were amazed. Never before had they imagined that there could be a reality outside their own intangibility. They watched as the physical Universe evolved and achieved its rather dubious stability. They saw the galaxies fleeing from one another. They saw stars explode and, in so doing, create new stars. They saw planets cool to become hard, rocky balls or clumps of liquid and gas. "And they saw life crawl from the waters of some planets. "It was then that the fragile Peace of Ishir fell asunder. All through the endlessness of eternity the gods had assumed that sentience and free will were exclusively reserved to themselves: now they saw that the physical Universe born from Aon was capable of generating other intelligent beings -- not in their thousands or their millions, but in their billions of billions. These lifeforms, thought the gods, were their potential allies. "Naar was the first to break the truce. He saw a small world, near the edge of a minor galaxy, whose inhabitants were following a version of the way of Darkness, and he chose to manifest himself there. He took the form of a little child, so that even the good among the world's inhabitants believed in his innocence. Within a few generations that world was committed to Evil, and countless millions of its denizens had been put to agonized death. "For Naar had discovered something new during his excursion into bodily form. The gods had never had any realization of pain. They had observed death (another novel idea) among the peoples of the countless worlds of Aon, but they had had no conception that there was such a thing as pain among the mortals. It was something totally alien to anything which they themselves had ever experienced. "Naar relished his discovery -- and his new-found power. By threatening pain he could make mortals bend to his whim. He seized upon another world, and then another. "Ishir soon recognized that the war between the Lords of Good and Evil had entered a new phase, and was now to be fought through mortals -that is, with mortals as the pawns of the gods. Quietly she annexed several worlds for the forces of Good, and communicated this fact to Naar. His response was to subject all the livable planets of a large galaxy to his brutal regime. Ishir's reply was to send emissaries to more than a quarter of the


habitable worlds in Aon. Naar retaliated by . . . "But all of us here know what happened thereafter. "The balance between the forces of Good and the forces of Evil in our Universe is a delicate one. A single world -- our own -- is all that stands between the triumph of Naar and the triumph of Ishir. "Ishir's companion, the noble Kai, the God of the Sun, has come to help us in our task. But even Kai will never on his own be able to guide our world into the path of Good. We Sommlending are imperfect instruments of Kai and Ishir, but it is in our power to ensure that Evil is abased. "The forces of Darkness are all around us. Even as I speak to you, the Darklords are amassing their forces at Kaag, in preparation to march upon Sommerlund. "My pupils, the final war may not come in our lifetimes, but it could equally well be launched tomorrow, or even today. As yet you are only acolytes, but soon you will be Kai Lords like myself. Be always watchful for the pawns of Naar, for perhaps they are among us as I speak. And remember that, even if you yourselves are not chosen to fight in the glorious war against Evil, those whom in years ahead you teach or guide by your example may be -- so your training will not be in vain, for you can pass on to them all that you have learned." Storm Hawk permitted himself a deep sigh. "I am an old man, and I am tired, even though the sun is barely over the horizon. Your lessons are ended for the day. In ten days' time it will be Fehmarn, and every Kai Lord will be gathered here to celebrate the first day of spring. Make sure that you are courteous if you meet them; even better, keep out of their way. "Lessons will resume tomorrow at daybreak, as usual, here in the refectory. Break your fast, my pupils, and glory in the fact that the last war between Good and Evil has not yet begun." His morning lecture over, the elderly Kai Lord settled down to his own meal, a steaming boiled trout fresh from the river. Storm Hawk was a massive man. He had spent twenty years of his old age as a teacher here at the Monastery -- a task which he performed excellently. The young men and women in his charge would soon become warriors in the cause of Good, he ruminated as he stared at his fish, which stared back glassily. All except . . . He looked up and, sure enough, one of them was slipping from the room. The boy named Silent Wolf was a major headache. Yet again he had fallen asleep in class, and so yet again he had been condemned to forego breakfast in order to collect firewood from the outskirts of the forest. In fact,


because of Silent Wolf's constant misbehaviour, the Monastery currently had more firewood than it could possibly burn over the summer months: the futility of Silent Wolf's punishment was part of the lesson which Storm Hawk hoped he would learn from it. Even so, it was likely that the boy would never achieve the status of Kai Master. It had been a mistake to pluck him from his village and bring him here to the Monastery. Storm Hawk returned his attention to his fish. It looked appetizing enough but . . . but somehow he felt uneasy. Today was not like any other day; he felt certain that something was going to happen, but he didn't know from where that certainty had sprung. His own powers of prescience were limited, yet now he used them to probe the future as best he could. There was nothing but an amorphous darkness. He shuddered, and pushed his plate away from him. Few of the acolytes noticed as he left the room, his head bowed in anxiety. 3 Cast your mind back to a time before you were young . . . In the year MS 5036 there was born in the village of Dage, on the banks of the River Tor, in Sommerlund, a boy called Landar. His parents were respected members of the village society. They had two older children, a girl called Kari and a boy called Jen. At the time of Landar's birth Kari was thirteen years old and Jen eight. Kari was a beautiful child, and already people from the nearby villages had offered their sons as suitable future marriage partners. Jen, by contrast, was wall-eyed and limping; he had lank black hair and he spoke only with difficulty. Landar's parents dreaded his birth. They loved Jen as any parents love their child, but his disabilities were a severe drain upon their resources. Landar's mother, Houva, was forty-five years old; when first she learned that she was pregnant again, she ran her fingers worriedly through her hair and noticed that it was all too obviously grey. It was late for her to have a child, and she feared that the newborn would be as disabled as Jen, if not more so. Yet the boy was perfectly formed, and it was very soon evident that his wits were sharp. He had a pronounced sense of humour -- although it was less than subtle: many times Houva had to beat him for the cruel tricks he played upon his elder brother Jen. Jen himself merely laughed at the little boy's games, tolerating him as a dog does a puppy. Landar's father died when Landar was aged four, and Kari and Houva shared the running of the household. When Landar was five, Kari married


the son of a merchant. She hated her new husband, Raballen, but his father's wealth contributed to the security of her family and so she accepted him as he was. Later she was to dissolve their marriage, on the grounds that he returned her hatred; but the true reason was that he was frequently drunk, and when he was drunk he often beat her. Jen, on the other hand, remained unwed: the girls of the village laughed at him. The only people who appreciated his kindness and humour were his mother, Houva, and his baby brother, Landar. The two boys often wandered around the surrounding countryside, climbing trees and swimming in ponds. Jen's lameness prevented him from taking part in some of the more outrageous adventures that Landar proposed, but when he was in the water their difference disappeared: with his powerful arms and his bull-like shoulders, Jen could haul himself across the surface more swiftly than most grown men. For a child, Dage was a paradise. To be true, the blacksmith, Lorbach, was grumpy and hit out at any child who dared to come within arm's reach; Gunniweb, the local money-lender and notorious miser, would shout incomprehensible insults at the two boys as they walked past his shop. But these were minor irritations. Dage is set within a ring of low, gentle hills, where sheep graze and pigeons strut in the sure confidence that they are safe from predators. The outside world is just that -- outside -- and the people of Dage care little for what goes on there. So far as the boy Landar was concerned, Dage was all of the Universe there was. On Landar's sixth birthday he persuaded Jen to take him tickling fish on the banks of the River Tor. The day was brilliantly clear, the sky of an almost harsh blueness. The older boy picked up stones from the riverbank and spun them out across the lazy brown water, cheering them as they skipped and hopped, each touch leaving an expanding circle of ripples that slowly dissolved as it moved downstream. Landar squelched through the mud until he was just around a curve of the river from Jen. Regardless of his clean white tunic, he threw himself down on his belly and gazed into the shallows. He could see small silver fish darting eagerly hither and thither, but there was also a still, lurking presence -- a trout or a salmon of prodigious size. The boy caught his breath. If he could tickle this fish there would be a rich meal this evening -- a meal fit to mark the occasion of his birthday. He reached his skinny pink arm into the cold, powerful waters. He moved his hand slowly, so slowly that even the small fish were not


frightened by it. He felt their little bodies bumping against his forearm. Aside from his arm, his whole body was motionless, but not tense. He imagined himself to be a plant growing by the river, and tried to fill his mind with this idea. Slowly, slowly he let his hand drift downwards towards where the great brown shape quivered. A small cloud covered the sun, and Landar instinctivelY jumped as the bright daylight ebbed. His abrupt motion startled the huge fish and, with a few efficient waves of its tail, it moved away. Landar couldn't believe his lousy luck. He used a word which he had heard when playing with friends but which he sensed, quite correctly, his mother would have forbidden him to utter. He got to his feet and, after checking that Jen was well out of earshot, he used it again. It was, however, in all other respects a perfect day, and his anger soon vanished. He picked up a twig, threw it into the current, and watched as it was swept inexorably towards the sea. He began to grin uncontrollably. Fish or no fish for supper, life was good and he was happy to be a part of it. He wondered where Jen was, and began to pick his way back along the riverbank. The mud was deep, and at times he sank in almost up to his knees. Wherever possible he used fallen logs as stepping-stones. This was a good plan until one of the logs moved beneath his feet. He realized with horror that he had just trodden on the back of a sleeping storgh. The beast was covered in bark-like scales, and its tail was edged like a broadsword. It had no eyes -- its head was a blank mask -- yet its large nostrils accurately located the intruder. It opened its vast jaws and snapped in the general direction of Landar's legs. "Jen!" he shrieked. There was no echo to his cry, and he realized that the scream had been only in his mind. Yet Jen appeared around the bend in the river, waving a length of muddy wood he had obviously just grabbed from the ground. "Help!" cried Landar, and this time he knew he had indeed screamed out loud. The storgh chuckled. It sounded like a human being cackling over a well told joke. In an inn the sound would have been comforting, reassuring. Coming from the leathery lips of this powerful carnivore, it was the most terrifying sound Landar had ever heard.


He leapt back into mud as the beast swung its heavy tail. The storgh was too quick for him. It took the high ground and began to advance, forcing him towards the water. Its ears popped erect -- a sure sign that it was seeking food. Jen was approaching as fast as he could, shouting meaningless syllables in an attempt to frighten the creature. However, his lame leg and the sticky mud were collaborating to make his progress slow. Landar retreated before the storgh's hissing onslaught. He found himself up to the ankles in water, then up to the calves. He knew he could not retreat much further; storghs are swift on land, but in the water they are even swifter. "Jen! Help! Please!" The older boy dragged himself closer and fell upon the storgh. He turned to look at Landar as the great teeth of the beast clamped down on his shoulder and, with amazing calmness, said: "Go now, Landar. Run all the way home." Landar picked up the branch which Jen had been brandishing and beat with it futilely on the horned back of the storgh. The creature paid him no attention, but set about clinically devouring the child's older brother. Jen's screams were to resound in Landar's ears for the rest of his life. The child who had laughed through all the dusty streets of Dage would rarely smile again. As he had been told, Landar ran all the way home. He battered on the wooden door of his home until his mother threw it open. She listened to his jumbled account just long enough to recognize that she had lost her elder son. Her wail of misery was heard by the entire village. Landar felt an overwhelming sense of guilt, yet he could not identify its exact source. He wanted to comfort his mother, but he didn't know how to do this. He wanted to bring Jen back to life, but this was obviously impossible. He wanted . . . he wanted to be something other than he was. Which was just as well. Almost exactly a year later he was selected by the Kai Lords to be a student at their Monastery. From the moment he arrived there he was renamed and became a different person. Under their instruction, he sloughed off the name Landar and the person who was Landar and became the person known as Silent Wolf. And at the same time -- although the Kai Lords had no recognition of or wish for this -- he discarded also the remainder of his true sense of laughter and fun. He sullenly rejected most of the things that he was taught. Here and there, along the way, he picked up the rudiments of magic. But when old


Storm Hawk prated on about the origin of the Universe he was as like as not to produce a parody of a giggle, his mouth crumpled into a shape that was the very antithesis of mirth. At break times he sat reading books while the other children ran around playing games; during the nights he lay awake remembering the efficient crunch of the storgh's teeth on the deadness of his elder brother. Sometimes he thought of his mother, but not very often: as far as he was concerned she was someone who had been important in his dim and distant past. His role, he decided, in the harsh environment of the Monastery, was to be a survivor. And so he survived. 4 Alyss touched a lilac and watched as it turned into a firefly and flew away. Bored with her game, she raised her brown arms and soon was soaring between the clouds. She swung among the birds, running her fingers down their long, muscular backs. Then she headed out into space, and plunged her slender body into the white-hot plasma of the sun, where she bathed in a sense of wistful beatitude. She lost count of the years, but at last she realized that there was on Magnamund the march of Evil. She snapped her strong fingers and, moments later, was standing on a mound near Toran. Approaching her, on a broken pony, was a youth clad in a blue robe spotted with silver stars. She extended her right arm and played in the air with her fingers. From their tips fell small buzzing insects. She threw back her head and laughed. As an afterthought, she caused an eclipse of the sun. It wasn't a very good eclipse, but then Alyss wasn't a very good person. In strict point of fact, she wasn't even really a person at all.


2 Flight to the Darklands 1 Vonotar ran furtively through the dark, cobwebbed corridors towards his own cubicle. Once again that blundering old goat had humiliated him in public debate. Yet Vonotar was certain that he himself was right. The Brotherhood of the Crystal Star had been created, way back in the mists of history, solely to gain power. Its intentions were benign, but the plans of the founders had been quite specific on the matter. Generations would pass, and then from the ranks of the Brotherhood would emerge a young man who would join with a warrior to reign over all of Sommerlund and bring the land security and peace. Vonotar was just such a young man, he reasoned. He had tried for himself the Right Hand Path of magic, the magic of the Dark wizards, the Nadziranim. As yet he knew only a little of it -- a few spells gleaned from dusty books in the Guild's library -- but already he had increased his magical powers tenfold. If he were fully initiated into its mysteries he would be fit to rule over the country, and indeed the world. He felt the adrenaline coursing through his arteries. For months the certainty had been growing within him that he was the chosen one, the young man who would spring from the Brotherhood to bring the world to heel. Now things were all beginning to lock together. On the far side of the Durncrag Mountains the Darklord Zagarna was amassing an army. Zagarna was surely the warrior described in the founders' plan, for who else could it be? Moreover, Zagarna had access to the innermost secrets of Nadziranim magic. Obviously it was intended that Vonotar and Zagarna should join together to conquer all the lands of Magnamund. Blood would be spilled in the conquest, but blood is always spilled during times of change. Vonotar's cell was cold, dark, windowless and spartan. He crept into it and lit a foul-smelling torch clamped in a bracket on the wall. As soon as he had done so he cursed. The light might attract other Brothers. He had no need of light, anyway, for all the Brothers had access to a Left Hand spell which could make them capable of seeing perfectly well in the darkness. There was little he wished to take with him. There were legions of books in his cell, but almost all were devoted to the Left Hand Path, and he knew everything there was to know about that form of magic. He pulled two


or three from the shelves -- books which he had long ago stolen from the Guild's library. He dragged a sheet from his bed, laid it out on the floor and threw the books into its centre. A spare robe and some other items of clothing followed. Almost as an afterthought he added the crystal star which he had been given, some years before, on the occasion of his attaining the status of Brother. He pulled the corners of the sheet together and knotted them. Today -today was the day when he must leave the Brotherhood forever and journey to ally himself with Zagarna. His breath came fitfully, partly because of the speed with which he was moving, partly because of his excitement over the audacity of his plan. He was barely conscious of a slight sound in the corridor outside his cell. 2 Silent Wolf flung the axe accurately. It whirled through the air and lodged itself in the hard oak of another team's goal. His team-mates cheered. Formal lessons having been cancelled for the day, the boys and girls of the Monastery were playing greel. It was a dangerous game, and only half-approved by their Kai tutors. There were three teams playing in a triangular space. The axe was thrown from player to player in an attempt to keep it out of the hands of the opposing teams, who did their best to intercept it. A point was scored each time the axe was embedded in one of the three wooden goals. Swift reflexes and a great deal of foolhardiness were required, but injuries were surprisingly rare. Silent Wolf's moment of glory was short-lived. Storm Hawk, who had been watching the game with a mixture of disapprobation and excitement, suddenly called his name. The youth looked irritatedly across the pitch at the elderly tutor. "Silent Wolf!" Storm Hawk shouted again. "Come here, boy." He was beckoning urgently. A messenger who had just arrived now hurried away. Reluctantly Silent Wolf obeyed the command. He shrugged at his team-mates, who looked at him in dismay. Although Silent Wolf was remiss in his general Kai studies, his skill with the axe was renowned and his removal from the team most probably would result in its defeat. Storm Hawk regarded the boy thoughtfully while flicking away an inquisitive fly. The old man was dressed in his full fighting costume -- a


green helmet with a bright gold emblem of an oak tree on it, a robe of red velvet, a green cotton tunic hemmed with golden filigree, a sturdy jacket of overlapping scales of leather, and boots made from untreated animal hides. He was carrying his battleshield, and his sword was in his belt. Even though he was aged, he made an imposing sight -- and one which would have struck terror into the soul of any foe. "Boy," said the warrior as Silent Wolf approached, "when Kai and Ishir in their wisdom sent you here to the Monastery they cannot have known what a heavy burden they were putting on an old man's shoulders." The youth prepared himself for one of the customary lectures about truancy, lack of diligence . . . But the old man was smiling. "The only skill you seem interested in acquiring is in the use of weapons. Well, never mind. If Ishir smiles, the rest will come to you as you grow older and perhaps a little wiser. For now, I want you to put your weaponry skill to good use and help me." Silent Wolf became interested. Playing greel was exciting and fun, yet he had always longed for the excuse to put his abilities with the axe to a more genuine purpose. "Come with me and I shall explain," said Storm Hawk, and he refused to speak further until the two of them were sitting in the old man's study. The room was littered with strange objects which Silent Wolf was unable to identify. Some were gaudily coloured and so bright that it was as if the substances of which they were made glowed of their own accord. Others were in subdued hues, and clearly very ancient. Along the front of Storm Hawk's desk lay a neat row of small skulls; Silent Wolf recognized the forms of a few of these, but most came from animals he had never seen. At one end of the row was a skull which he could swear was human . . . The old warrior saw Silent Wolf's half-sickened, half-fascinated stare at this, and nodded. "My predecessor," he grunted. "In his will he left me nothing but his head, which he said would give me better advice than any living person. And, do you know, I think he was right." He tapped the skull with his knuckle, and it pocked hollowly. "An empty skull, my boy, yet sometimes I think it has more brains in it than you and me put together. Whenever I have a problem I cannot solve, I sit and look into its eyes and, sooner or later, it tells me what the solution is. Mind you, I have to listen very carefully, because its voice is very quiet." He gestured Silent Wolf to a hard, upright chair and himself sat down in the scarcely more luxurious one behind his desk. "Which brings me," he said, "to the reason I've asked you to help me."


"Yes, sir," said Silent Wolf, leaning forward eagerly. "An hour ago I was asking my old friend" -- he nodded at the skull -"about a little difficulty that faces me. We've heard reports that there are scouting parties of mountain giaks intruding into Sommerlund. So far the reports come only from the farms on the flanks of the Durncrag Mountains, but unless we repel those . . . those unborn as soon as possible they will become bolder and bolder in their forays." Silent Wolf felt slightly sick. In his classes he had been told much about the giaks. Slaves spawned by the Darklords, they were small and squat, and more vicious than any human could ever be. He had seen pictures of the most ruthless of them all, the mountain giaks, which dominated the other breeds with a chilling cruelty. They had yellow fangs and eyes, and their skin was a putrescent grey. A war band of giaks, led by a gourgaz -one of the intelligent reptile creatures from the Maakenmire swamp of Eastern Magnamund -- represented a formidable adversary, even for a large army of the Sommlending. Storm Hawk read the thoughts that were chasing each other across Silent Wolf's mind. "No, no," he said. "I'm not asking you to do battle with the giaks. You're a little too young for that yet." The old Kai Lord looked out of the window, where the sun was low in the sky. The days were still short, even though spring was very near, and the cold air pinched the brow of the nose and made the earlobes tingle. His breath steamed as he spoke. "We must repel the giaks, as I've said. However, before we can send an army against them we must establish where they are and how strong their forces are. For this we need a spy mission. You are lax in your studies, but you have some qualities that I admire. One of these is courage, boy, and another, as I've said, is your ability with weapons. Going on a mission of this kind may persuade you that there is more to the way of the Kai than courage and brute strength." "Who else will be on this mission?" asked Silent Wolf. He realized there would be dangers, but at least he was not being asked to battle directly with the giaks. His axemanship might be adept, but he was all too conscious of his youth and inexperience. "Oh," muttered the old man, offhandedly, "it'll be just you and me, of course." 3


"What are you doing, Vonotar?" said a voice. It was an old and querulous piping. "I saw your light and I wanted to say that --" "Doing?" snapped the magician. "Why should you ask?" The Elder, whom Vonotar recognized as Loren, came further into the room. "It seems curious to me that you should be putting books and clothes and who knows what into a sheet, that's all," he said. "Never mind. I felt I should tell you that you were not alone in the complaints you made to the Guildmaster today. Others of us have felt the same, but haven't had the courage to voice our feelings." "So you agree with me, then?" cried Vonotar. "How many of you are there?" "Merely a handful," said Loren. He spread his bony hands. His body was frail and angular, his beard long yet wispy. One could almost see his heart and his lungs through the pale gauze of his ancient skin. "We are all" -he sighed -- "old. But our magic has lost little of its strength." Vonotar looked at the sorry collection of possessions he had put together. Might he be better off biding his time? If he could unite the group of dissenting Elders -- why, with himself at their head, they could possibly overthrow the Guildmaster and then bring the Brotherhood together with Zagarna. The more he thought about it, the more it seemed as if this might have been the intention of the Brotherhood's founders. Vonotar and Zagarna together would be a powerful force in the land, but if they had also the magical support of half a dozen of the most powerful magicians of all Sommerlund they would surely be invincible. "Would you be prepared to join me?" he said. His grey eyes, as he stared intently at Loren's face, took on the hardness of tarnished steel. "Join you? What do you mean?" "Join me in overthrowing the Guildmaster, so that we can adopt the magic of the Nadziranim!" Loren's lips fluttered in distress. His whole body trembled. "That . . ." he stuttered, ". . . That is heresy. Do not be so foolish, Vonotar." "But I thought you said you agreed with me?" Vonotar sat down on the edge of his bed with a thump. He looked at the old man incredulously. "Surely that's what you meant?" Loren made a valiant attempt to control the shaking of his body. "I could never contemplate such a heresy," he said, the words forcing


themselves from his mouth with difficulty. "What I meant was that, the next time you debate with the Guildmaster, we shall support you in calling for the Brotherhood to experiment with different forms of magic. We are all adepts in the Left Hand Path, yourself included. There is doubtless some Good to be found in the Right Hand Path. We are willing to sift through it to see what is good there. But even you must know that the fullness of Nadziranim magic can bring about only Evil. And as for overthrowing the Guildmaster . . ." Vonotar slumped. It was useless. For a moment his hopes had been raised. Now it was a question of reverting to his original plan. "You tire me, Loren," he said. "You are an old man of fading courage. Leave me alone." Loren took the insult without a flicker of affront. "As you wish it, Vonotar," he said softly. "But do remember: you are not totally without allies among us Elders. Even though we are old, we agree with you that it is time for youth to be given its say. But let's have no more talk of deposing the Guildmaster. He is a finer person -- and a finer magician -- than you or I will ever be. It is right that he should remain our leader." He turned to leave, but as he did so his eye fell again on Vonotar's hastily assembled bundle. "Pardon my curiosity," he said mildly, "but just what all is in that sheet?" "Bits and pieces," replied Vonotar, waving an airily dismissive hand. "Some things to be thrown away." Loren abruptly looked suspicious. "Vonotar, you would not lie to a fellow-member of the Guild, would you? I saw you put books there, and clothing. What else? Why?" "Lie? Ha! Of course not! Do you think I'm a traitor to our true principles?" Loren shook his head automatically, but the lines around his jaw hardened and his eyes pursed. He stared more firmly at the bundle, and Vonotar knew he was looking through the sheet to what lay within. "Perhaps you're planning a journey?" asked Loren, after a pause. "Where might you be going? And why would you lie about it? Oh no!" His skin had been pale before, but now it was the whiteness of ice. "I understand it now, Vonotar. Oh, how could you be so stupid? You plan to travel to the Darklands and find allies there! You, who are supposed to be working against Evil in this land -- you could even contemplate this? Vonotar, you're a madman. Forget about --"


Vonotar thought a Dark thought of a curious shape and extended the index finger of his right hand towards the Elder. The air crackled, and a rim of green appeared all around Loren's body. The Elder looked less frightened than pitiful. "And now you would try to use magic to destroy me," he said. "Vonotar, I cannot let this go unnoticed. Even though your magic is powerless against my shields, you have shattered the cardinal principle of the Brotherhood, and must be expelled." He turned once again towards the door. "I have to report all this to the Guildmaster," he said. "I'm -- well, I'm sorry, Vonotar." "Wait a moment, Loren," said the younger magician. Loren paused, but did not turn around. "Perhaps you older men are right after all. Perhaps I've been letting my heart guide my head." "It's too late for regrets. Anyway, how could I believe you?" Vonotar chuckled. "You cannot," he said. He clapped his hands together and then held the palms up towards Loren's retreating back. The veins of his arms stood out proud from the flesh as he concentrated. Agony -- the pain of Left Hand magic but magnified a hundred times over -- filled him, and yet he persevered. He made within his mind a new and more powerful Dark thought, and he focused it into his palms. A barely visible shadow darted across the cell and struck Loren between the shoulderblades. The Elder's green shield withered instantly. His robe singed momentarily and then burst into unnatural flames. He screamed -- the last sound he was ever to utter. Loren's heart exploded. 4 Vonotar fell back on his bed, exhausted from the pain and the exertion. The room and the corridor immediately outside it were covered in blood, fragments of bone, and tatters of cloth and flesh. Who could have imagined that such a slight figure as Loren's could have contained so much? He was sickened by what he had done. He had known that the results of using the Right Hand Path would not always be pretty, but even in his wildest imaginings he had never expected anything quite like this. It was not only the carnage that nauseated him: there was also the fact that he had,


quite deliberately, violated all the codes to which he had once promised to adhere. Perhaps he could have justified to himself using Right Hand magic against one of the Darklords' hideous spawn, but against a good man and a brother-magician . . . And Loren, Vonotar reflected, had indeed been a good man. The pain ebbed from his body and he sat up. There was no time, now, to think about whether he had done right or wrong: it could be only a matter of minutes before another member of the Brotherhood discovered the sticky mess in the corridor and raised the alarm. Vonotar must be long gone by then. He picked up his bundle and, with a wink of his eye, extinguished the torch. A single thought -- no more than a reflex action of his mind -- was enough to remove the blood from his own clothing. He muttered a word, so that he could see in the blackness as clearly as if it were broad daylight. Picking his way fastidiously through the mangled remains of the Elder, he crept out into the corridor, looking left and right to see if anyone was approaching. But the corridor was empty and dark. To the right -- that was the way he had to go to find the stables, where he could commandeer a horse. He half-walked, half-ran along the twisting corridors. Some of the Brothers' cells were occupied, their lights casting vivid stripes across the corridor wall. As Vonotar approached these he slowed his pace to a lazy amble; afterwards he speeded up again. He forced his mind to think: I am nothing more than a fellow Guild-member going to check the horses. I'm somewhat bored by the chore, but it has to be done. He knew that if he thought this hard enough any Brother who accidentally picked up a fragment of what was going through his mind would assume that yes, indeed, Vonotar was engaged on an innocent routine task. He suppressed all recollections of his encounter with Loren and its gruesome conclusion. Think it again: I am just someone going wearily to make sure the ostlers are doing their jobs properly. The men and women of the Brotherhood of the Crystal Star never deliberately eavesdropped on each other's thoughts. From time to time one of them might pick up a fleeting impression from somebody else, but it was a matter of courtesy to forget whatever it was you had "heard". There was a Left Hand spell for forgetfulness which the Brothers used in such cases. Now Vonotar used it to forget what had happened to Loren. If the spell worked correctly, he would never to be able to recall the precise cause that had triggered his precipitate flight from the Brotherhood. Even when, later, the memory came back to him, it would be as if he were being told a


story about someone else. He would remember Loren, and the fact that he, Vonotar, had killed the man, but it would always seem somehow unreal to him, as if he'd merely read about it in a book. The ostlers at the stables were at first unhelpful. Then they saw Vonotar's badges of rank, and moved swiftly to usher forth the finest of the horses. It was a proud grey mare called Allia. She kicked and bucked as they put the reins on her, and not until she was fully harnessed did she calm down. Her eyes rolled nervously, but Vonotar sent her a Mindspell to soothe her. "Thank you," he said politely to the ostlers. "I must go westwards. I would be grateful if you could wish me well." "Good luck," said one of the ostlers grudgingly. The others said nothing. "I thank you," said Vonotar with mock formality. He heaved his bundle onto Allia's back and tied it to her saddle. With a little difficulty -- he wasn't accustomed to riding -- he hauled himself up and pointed her head towards the main gate of Toran. The guards hesitated, but finally they let him through. One doesn't argue too hard with someone who could, for all you know, fry your brain with a glance. Once outside the city he spurred Allia to a gallop. He kept her at this pace until he rounded a bend and the walls and spires of Toran were lost to sight behind him. As soon as he was certain that no guard could spy him from the city ramparts and there were no other travellers visible on the road, he reined the mare in and dismounted. "Now, my pretty one," he whispered, "it's time to make a few improvements to you. If you've ever dreamt of being the fastest horse in all Sommerlund -- well, your dreams are about to come true." He gripped the coarse hair of Allia's mane in his right hand and sang a short phrase from an ancient Right Hand spell. He felt her strength swell beneath his hand. She whinnied nervously, but then the tone of her voice changed. Now she snorted, her nostrils flaring. Her forefeet trod the ground, impatient to carry her on her way. Vonotar snapped his fingers, and the grey mare became instantly silent. "From now on," he said, "you will do everything I tell you to -- that and no more. Understood?" The horse stood there, her subservience to his will clear from every line of her body. Her breathing calmed until Vonotar could hear the wind


riffling the grass around him. He smiled. Suddenly, for the first time in all the long years since he had entered the Brotherhood of the Crystal Star, he felt as if he were free. Until a few minutes ago he had been shackled by the rules and regulations of the Guild, but now he was his own man, able to do whatever he wished to do. He vaulted onto Allia's back and slapped her on the rump. She responded by taking a first pace forward -- a pace that covered more than a mile of the road. She shied, unnerved by the sudden transition, but Vonotar smacked her hindquarters once again, and so she took another pace. And another. And another and another and . . . 5 Silent Wolf and Storm Hawk crouched behind a huge rock that jutted from the bleak hillside. Up here in the foothills of the Durncrag Mountains few things grew. Yellowish, mossy grass struggled for survival; there were a few shrubs, but most were bent and contorted into bizarre shapes that mocked natural growth. The only form of animal life they had seen so far today had been a hare with three legs and a pinkly naked head. It had bounded swiftly away as soon as it had heard the sound of their feet treading cautiously across the mossiness; it could not have seen their approach, because it had possessed no eyes. The light was a curious greasy green. Even the harsh yellow of the sun and the piercing blue of the sky could not affect this. In a shallow col beneath them was an encampment of giaks. The stink was indescribable. The gourgaz in charge of the band was fast asleep, snoring loudly. Some of the giaks were likewise taking the opportunity to sleep, while others milled about, apparently bored and trying to think up jobs for each other. Silent Wolf could catch only a few snatches of what they were saying among themselves, and none of the words made any sense to him. Storm Hawk, beside him, was listening intently, his lips moving soundlessly as he translated the words he could hear. All of the giaks were dressed in red uniforms, with the symbol of a long, toothed jaw embroidered on the chest. The red clashed violently with the greyness of their skins -- like


a vivid poppy growing in a plain of mire. "What's going on?" whispered Silent Wolf. "Hisst!" The boy relapsed into silence once more. For the thousandth time he fondled the haft of the axe tucked into his belt, and wondered what it would be like if he should have to use it. Would he be a brave and fearless warrior, or would he find himself incapable of killing another intelligent being, no matter how evil that being might be? He didn't know, and a large part of him hoped that he might never know. After a while Silent Wolf grew bored with watching the giaks. He turned his back to the rock and looked out across the foothills over the great plain of Sommerlund. By comparison with the dim light prevalent among the Durncrags, that from Sommerlund was brightly yellow. He could see the neat fields of the farmers laid out across the land like some maniacal multicoloured checkerboard. It was too far to see individual figures, but he could imagine farmers urging their horses forward to till the soil or reap the crops, could almost scent the dull cows plodding along as they grazed on the grass, could . . . He fell asleep. When he awoke it was dusk. Storm Hawk was shaking him by the shoulder, holding a hand over his mouth in case he made any sound. "It's time to leave," hissed the Kai Lord. Taking care to make as little sound as possible, the two of them edged their way from the protection of the rock, moving backwards on their stomachs. The sun was nearly setting when they finally reached the cover of some straggly trees and could stand up to stretch their stiff muscles. A bat fluttered across their line of sight as they gazed out over the dusk-dimmed plains of Sommerlund. "We must travel some distance tonight, boy," said Storm Hawk. "I'd like to put a good many miles between ourselves and the giaks before we sleep." Silent Wolf would rather have gambled on their remaining undiscovered in the copse, but he recognized the sense of Storm Hawk's plan. "What were the giaks talking about?" he asked in a low tone as they crept further down the hillside. "Better you don't . . . On second thoughts, if something should happen to me . . . Just wait a little while."


For over an hour they scrambled and tripped down the hillside in increasingly dense darkness. Silent Wolf was surprised to hear Storm Hawk use occasional oaths which he had always assumed were confined only to Kai novices. He himself gave vent to one of these oaths when, in the blackness, he fell into a ditch, and was astonished not to receive the anticipated cuff around the ear. Once they were on level ground again they made swifter progress. The night sky above them blazed with diamond-hard stars. The Moon was below the horizon, only a faint pallor in the west betraying its presence. As they walked along a dirt track they could occasionally hear nocturnal animals busily shuffling in the fields to either side. Silent Wolf loped easily alongside his tutor, feeling rather smug about the fact that Storm Hawk was treating him as an equal rather than as a pupil. "The giaks," said Storm Hawk abruptly. "You wanted to know what I heard them saying." "Yes," Silent Wolf replied. He had just trodden on some slithery animal which had screeched and wriggled away, so his mind was not really on the answer. "Hmmm. As we knew, the Darklords are on the march once more. This time it's Zagarna who's at the top of the shit-heap. What we hadn't realized is the size of the army he's amassing. That's what the giaks were talking about -- part of it, anyway. He's already gathered half a million or more giaks, vordaks, helghast and doomwolves. They said that he has, too, over a hundred thousand zlanbeast and kraan at his beck and call. Not to mention several thousand drakkarim." Storm Hawk coughed, and didn't speak for a few moments. At last he said: "It's going to be an ugly business. Sommerlund isn't prepared for an invasion on this scale. The Kai are ready, but the Kai by themselves are not enough. The giaks we were watching are only an advance guard. As far as I could gather from what they were telling each other, we can expect a full-scale invasion either this summer or the next. Raising an army in so short a time to repel the Darklords isn't going to be easy." He swerved to avoid a rock in the road. "Trouble is, the people of Sommerlund have become lackadaisical in recent years, assuming the peace will last forever. Well, boy, the peace could end in just a few months' time, but it's going to be hard to persuade them of it." "But surely when we tell them --" "People don't like to be told what they don't want to hear. Unless we


of the Kai move swiftly, far too many farmers and artisans are going to bask in their complacency and tell us that we're just scaremongering. I wish people were different, boy, but that's the way the gods made them." The darkness was now so deep that it was almost impossible for them to make out the road ahead: had it not been for Storm Hawk's tracking skills they would have been hopelessly lost. When the wind told them that they were near a clump of trees, Storm Hawk put a hand on Silent Wolf's shoulder and came to a halt. "That's enough for tonight," he said. "We'll sleep here and carry on in the morning." Silent Wolf was only too willing to acquiesce. 6 The brilliance of the sky, when Silent Wolf awoke, was like a knife prising its way into his eyes. He rolled over onto his stomach and shielded his face with his hands. He had slept fitfully during the night, and his head was full of the muffled jangling of fatigue. The grass beneath his face smelled cloying. His whole body seemed to be drenched in dew. "I thought I'd let you sleep late, boy," said Storm Hawk, the boom of his voice causing Silent Wolf definite physical pain, "but it's time now we were on our way again." Silent Wolf looked up, squinting against the brightness of the sunlight, and saw the bulky figure of his tutor silhouetted by the backdrop of sky. The light filtered through the old man's grey beard so that it seemed to glow like polished pewter. He was about to protest -- to ask for just another hour's rest -- when he reminded himself that it was the duty of Kai warriors, even initiates, to push themselves forward when others would balk. "Right," he said wearily, pulling himself to his feet. "If you'll just bear with me for a moment." "Of course." Minutes later they were back on the road. Now that they could see where they were going they made good time. As Silent Wolf had learned at the Monastery, the best way of moving swiftly across level terrain was to run a hundred yards, walk the next hundred yards, run the next, and so on. He was pleased to notice that he was better able to cope with this demanding regime than was his tutor. Yet Storm Hawk, although he soon showed signs of tiredness, made no complaint. At noon they made a halt by the side of a stream. They bathed their


sweating faces and drank copiously; the water was wonderfully chilly. Silent Wolf was ready to eat anything remotely edible, dead or alive, but he said nothing: if Storm Hawk could keep going without food then so could he. He pushed the grumblings and mumblings of his stomach out of his mind. "What's that over there, boy?" Storm Hawk suddenly asked. His eyes were intent on a long, shallow hillside ahead of them. "Your eyes are better than mine. Oh. It's gone now." Silent Wolf nevertheless obediently trained his gaze on the road. Suddenly he saw a grey horse and its rider snap into existence. His brain had just registered the image when the horse and rider vanished as abruptly as they had appeared. He blinked disbelievingly. "I think, sir --" "I don't care much what you think, boy," said Storm Hawk, now in a frenzy of motion as he gathered his weapons around him and leapt to his feet. "That's magic you're seeing, and you can call me a giak if it's Left Hand magic. Go and hide yourself in the long grass." Silent Wolf was just about to object when the expression on Storm Hawk's face froze the words on his lips. He ran to conceal himself in the long reeds growing by the water's edge. His tutor stepped out into the middle of the road and waited, his mighty broadsword drawn. He raised it, his old hands knotted around its hilt, and pointed it in the direction from which they had seen the flickering apparition approach. Twice more Silent Wolf saw the rider and horse blink into and out of existence. The third time they appeared they were only some fifty yards ahead of Storm Hawk, and the man astride the horse reined in. "Who are you?" growled Storm Hawk. "A magician," said the other, raising his arm so that the Kai warrior could see the pattern of his robe. "I've been sent by the Brotherhood of the Crystal Star to investigate these parts." Storm Hawk lowered his broadsword, but only a little. "I could put on a robe like yours and claim to be a member of your Guild," he said. "How do I know you're telling the truth?" "Why should you think I'm telling you false?" "Because your way of travelling puts me in mind of something I saw a long time ago. A magician came among us and he promised to show us things which we wouldn't be able to believe. He kept his promise. He took a handful of air and made it into a serpent. He poured a cup of water and after a wave of his hands it was fresh blood. He sang a slow, sad song and seven


of us were dead. More would have died had Spring Eagle not plunged a dagger into his chest." "Old man," said the magician, "I have many miles to cover. On another day I would be fascinated by your recollections, but right now I must be on my way." Storm Hawk ignored what had been said. "Later we learned why all that the man's magic had produced was evil. He was a servant of the Darklords, and his magic came from the Right Hand Path. Can you assure me that you, too, do not practise the arts of the Nadziranim?" "You are beginning to bore me, old man. Of course I cannot draw on the powers of Darkness. As I told you" -- and once more the horseman waved the arm of his robe -- "I'm a member of the Brotherhood of the Crystal Star. We're devoted to Left Hand magic. We are your friends . . ." "Then why is it," said the old Kai warrior, "that my senses all tell me there is danger in the air?" The rider made no verbal response. Instead, he curled back his upper lip to show even rows of white teeth. He ran his right hand through his mane of black hair. "I asked you --" Storm Hawk began. "You ask too much." The voice was a hiss, yet it crossed the distance between them. Silent Wolf could see Storm Hawk flinch. Earlier the skies had been clear, but now there was a tangle of dark clouds overhead. The loss of sunlight swept over the land like an incoming wave over the seashore. Silent Wolf shivered: suddenly it had become icy cold. Yet Storm Hawk still stood defiantly in the middle of the road, and now he had again raised his sword so that he was in full attacking position. A tiny whirlwind grew up on the dirt-track between the two men. At first it was hardly noticeable -- just a swirling of pebbles and dust -- but it slowly grew larger and larger until it reared a hundred feet into the air. The sound of the clashing air was almost deafening. A sapling at the edge of the road bent and cracked. The clouds overhead now filled the sky, blotting out most of the sunlight. Storm Hawk moved not a muscle as the whirlwind began to advance towards him. Silent Wolf could see that his tutor was attempting to launch a mental onslaught on his adversary . . . but he could also see, only too clearly, that the attempt was failing. The wind caught at Storm Hawk's tunic. Still he didn't move.


A moment later it seized his body, and lifted him off the ground, his arms and legs flailing. A single glance at his face told Silent Wolf that his tutor was a prisoner of terror, yet the old man glanced very briefly at him and quite deliberately allowed his broadsword to fall to the ground. Take this back to the Monastery, boy, said a voice in Silent Wolf's mind. And then Storm Hawk was carried up and up into the sky, until he was as high as the dark clouds and seemed as small as a gnat. His body whirled in giddy circles. Silent Wolf could not hear that Storm Hawk was screaming, over the roar of the wind, but he could sense it. Abruptly the horseman waved a hand and the clouds vanished. The wind died instantly. Silent Wolf watched as the figure of his tutor grew. The old man was spreadeagled as he fell. And now Silent Wolf could hear him screaming. Storm Hawk was the size of a coin, then the size of a dog, then . . . And then he was the sound of soft flesh meeting the hard ground. His body twitched once, as if it hoped to defy reality, and was still. Silent Wolf didn't dare move. He watched as the rider slapped the rump of his grey mare and vanished. He waited a few moments longer, unable to believe what he had just seen, and then crawled forwards to the road. He found that he was weeping. Ishir and Kai knew how often he had cursed Storm Hawk for punishing him, but in the past couple of days they had become friends -- the finest of friends. Now his friend was a scumble of blood and broken flesh. The young man knelt beside the wreckage of the old, and searched for signs of life. None. No pulse. Not a breath. The flow of blood had almost ceased. Silent Wolf picked up the broadsword and with some difficulty attached it to his leather belt. There would be time for only the hastiest of burials -- he knew his finest testimony to Storm Hawk would be to carry the news of the Darklord invasion back to the Monastery. So he dragged the body into a field, dug a shallow hole, and piled a small heap of stones on top. Storm Hawk was gone, and he, too, must be on his way. The sun shone. The road was even, and kind to the feet. Without even thinking about it, Silent Wolf found himself running the first hundred yards, then slowing to a walk, conserving his strength for a hundred yards until he could let himself run again . . .


3 Welcomes 1 The Sun God Kai was the first of the gods to come to the primaeval world of Magnamund. He brought with him many demigods, who voluntarily sacrificed their immortality and took on the form of living beings. They felt that death was a small price to pay for the triumph of Good and the rejection of Evil from Magnamund -- and, in due course, from all of Aon. They adopted the shape of giant sea dragons, living in the depths of the oceans. They had accepted death -- but they had not realized that in doing so they had also accepted that they would make mistakes, or choose wrong courses of action. After generations, Naar, the King of Darkness, sent among them some of his creations who copied their dragon-forms, and they did not at first realize what was happening. Kai saw this, and it brought him great grief. The god returned to Magnamund and warned Nyxator, the wisest of all the dragons, of the corruption that was spreading in the civilization beneath the waves. He gave Nyxator many powers, and instructed him to use them well. Nyxator gathered around him all of those dragons who cleaved to the path of Good and led them from their ocean homes to dwell on the land. There they built a new civilization, the land of Cynx. So that the powers given to him by Kai would be preserved forever, Nyxator created artefacts in which to lock their essence. These artefacts were called the Lorestones. It is known that this was in the year 12,209 before the creation of the Moonstone. The dragons of the sea -- the hellish minions of the Dark God Naar -were not willing to allow Cynx to grow and flourish. They emerged from the waves and for many centuries they rained fire on the tormented land. Untold numbers of the dragons true to Kai died, but still they struggled to resist the forces of Evil. Even when they counted themselves in the tens rather than the thousands, they struggled. But at last, in one final battle, all were slain. All except for Nyxator himself, who fled to take refuge in Magnamund's molten core. In an orgy of destruction the dragons of Naar laid waste the land, killing every living thing they could find, burning crops and forests, and shattering the mountains. When this carnage was over they fell upon each


other, for sport and for food. Within centuries they, too, were no more. The survival of Nyxator at the core of the world was like a constant itch to Naar. He tortured Magnamund in his attempts to make it yield up his adversary. The seas boiled and the land erupted, yet still the world protected the aged dragon. For two millennia the air was dark with steam and fiery dust, and still Magnamund shielded Nyxator. Finally in his fury Naar sent forth the most powerful of his avatars, Agarash the Damned, to the world. In the year 6700 before the creation of the Moonstone, Agarash emerged from Naaros, the fortress he had created, and took possession of the entire continent of Southern Magnamund. Parodying Nyxator so many thousands of years before, he created the Doomstones in order to preserve the evil powers which Naar had invested in him, and he used these powers to breed a legion of dreadful forms -- the Creatures of Darkness, who soon came to be known simply as the Agarashi. When the Agarashi were let loose on the land, nothing was safe from their voracity of their Evil. Agarash raised the dead to form a vast army of unkillable monstrosities that roamed Magnamund, seeking to exterminate the last remaining living things. But for the greatest of all his evils Agarash was forced to act alone. He journeyed to the core of Magnamund and discovered Nyxator. The dragon was by now many thousands of years old, and his strength failed to match up to his courage. For decades the two duelled, but Nyxator's powers waned and at last he was slain. In his dying moments he was forced to endure the sight of Agarash stealing the Lorestones which for so long he had guarded. It seemed that Evil would reign for all eternity. Ishir and Kai faced the doom of Good, yet they were not powerless. They perceived that, if mortals could be given the ability to perform magic, then even the darkest of the forces of Naar could be countered. They created the Elder Magi, a human-like race who dwelt in Central Magnamund and practised the Left Hand Path. In the year 4570 before the creation of the Moonstone, they came to Agarash's fortress of Naaros and wove spells around it. All therein slept, from Agarash the Damned himself to the vermin once scuttling behind the walls. The Elder Magi entered the fortress, and seized the Lorestones. Agarash's rage, when he at last awoke, was unimaginable.


He sent his Creatures of Darkness in their millions to annihilate the Elder Magi, giving his minions the magic of the Right Hand Path. But the Elder Magi were too skilled in their magic for the Creatures of Darkness. They knotted the very fabric of reality so that the Creatures of Darkness each saw their fellows as the true foe, and slaughtered one another. The war lasted over a thousand years, but at the end of it the Agarashi Empire lay in ruins. Naaros itself was reduced to rubble, and over the centuries farmers took away most of its stones to build walls and homes for themselves and their families. Ishir and Kai looked fondly upon the world of Magnamund, for it seemed that at last Good had triumphed. That Agarash had managed to hide the Doomstones before his death seemed a matter of little concern. This was the Age of the Old Kingdoms, and on the scarred face of the world there emerged new civilizations. Villages grew and prospered until they became towns. Farms stretched lazily across the land. There was food for all, and with it came peace and security. There is Evil in the forces of Naar, but there is Evil, too, in the hearts of human beings. A race called the Cenerese arose in Central Magnamund and swiftly subjugated the people of the neighbouring countries. Their dictatorship was opposed by the Elder Magi and by a people called the Drodarin. But in the year 2514 before the creation of the Moonstone a great plague swept the land. The Cenerese were immune to this disease, which inflamed the brain and brought swift death. Fewer than one in ten of the Elder Magi and the Drodarin survived it. The Cenerese seemed set to dominate all of Magnamund, but fortunately a holy order called the Herbalish, whose skills and arts were devoted to healing, came into being. They fought a long and bitter war with the Cenerese, a war which they won. There were other outbreaks of Evil in the world, but for several succeeding centuries Ishir and Kai were, in the main, pleased with Magnamund. In the year 1600 before the creation of the Moonstone, however, there was an accident -- an accident which was to change the course of history and crucially affect the balance between the forces of Good and the forces of Evil. This was the arrival of the Shianti. 2


The Durncrag Mountains form a harsh barrier between Sommerlund and the Darklands. Their peaks thrust high into the sky, and are capped with snow that is tainted a sullen orange colour. There are passes through them, but these are rock-strewn and dangerous. No Sommlending voluntarily ventures there, for the atmosphere of the Darklands beyond is cruelly corrosive, and giaks are sometimes known to venture down into the foothills on the Sommerlund side of the range. The mountains themselves look like a parade of rotting teeth. In fact, they hide an even greater rottenness -- the realm of the Darklords. Once the Durncrags were behind him, Vonotar allowed Allia to trot along at her own pace. Now that they were in the Darklands the colour of the scenery shifted. Even the sky seemed to have taken on a different hue. It was as if the air itself contained a tint of misery. There was a faint but vile smell of burning sulphur in the air, and the grass of the slopes was scant and twisted. Ahead he could see that the foliage ended completely: a tract of grey desert extended to the horizon. Not another living thing was visible to him. Vonotar did his best to ignore these poor omens. He was feeling surprisingly pleased with life. After he had killed Loren, he had been filled with guilt; he had had to charm himself into forgetting the matter, so that all that remained in his mind of it were brief darts of half-memory. But in the aftermath of killing that elderly Kai buffoon who had dared to interfere with his progress there was nothing but a feeling of self-cleansing. He relished the memory of the old man screaming as he swirled in the sky; he took great pleasure in bringing back to mind the long scream as the body fell to the ground. A scar in the hillside betrayed a stream, and Vonotar directed Allia towards it. It might be as well to allow her to drink her fill and crop some of the sickly grass before they went any further. Who knew where her next meal might come from? Vonotar himself could go for weeks without food if necessary, but the horse could not, and he shuddered at the thought of having to travel on foot through the dusty desert ahead. The stream was something of a disappointment. Clearly it had once been much larger. Now only a trickle of greenish water spattered reluctantly down the dried-out course. Still, Vonotar mentally insisted that Allia drink from it, and the beast had no choice but to obey. He wondered what it must be like to have the mind of a horse. Like any well trained magician, he had the skill of being able to communicate with, or, at worst, guess the intentions of many animals. Yet no one had ever


been able to read the minds of insects, horses or the beasts spawned in Helgedad by the Darklords. The failure to communicate with the latter was understandable -- to describe them as animals was misleading, because theirs was not life as human beings knew it -- and insects were so alien that it was hardly surprising that people couldn't understand their thoughts. But the inability to share the minds of horses was a mystery. To be sure, many magicians were able to manipulate the creatures' will -- he had just forced Allia to drink water which she quite obviously regarded as rank -- but there was no way that he or anyone else could see the world through her eyes, and no way that he might know what she would do next, unless it was under his explicit mental command. He was musing along these lines when he heard a stone scrape. He spun around in the saddle and saw that a platoon of giaks had crept up behind him. All were armed and mounted on doomwolves, and all looked hostile. Arrows, spears and swords were aimed directly at him. It was a matter of reflex for him to construct a protective shield around himself; as an afterthought, he added one around Allia as well. He had acted only just in time, for a swarm of missiles was immediately launched in his direction. The shield protected him completely. Arrows, spears and sling-shot stones disappeared, to be replaced by angrily buzzing hornets. The insects flew off over the wastelands. Yet Vonotar was terrified. The degree of magic he required to maintain the shield was considerable, and therefore so was the pain. He couldn't keep this protection in place for long. And, once he lost it, the giaks could easily override all his other magical protections and cut him to pieces. "Well met!" he said, trying to keep the fear out of his voice. The giaks, who had been looking at the vanishing hornets in considerable perplexity, turned their attention back to him. "Orgadak zutgorak," said one of them. "Taag! Taag!" Vonotar recognized the word "taag". It meant "kill". He waved a hand and brought a Nadziranim spell into existence. The giak who had spoken became a column of flame. "Well met," the magician repeated, and this time there was a more favourable response. Giaks were notorious for their sense of discipline and order. In battle they were virtually invincible so long as they served under a strong leader, for they feared their superior officers more than they feared the most vicious of enemies.


This was a weakness. Kill the officers, and it was easy to drive back the suddenly spineless giaks. The Kai had discovered this failing many years ago, in the year 4219 after the creation of the Moonstone, and, by simply picking off the officers, had routed a vast army of giaks who were besieging their Monastery. Nowadays brigades of giaks were led by gourgaz. These reptiles, in the fever of battle, secreted from the underside of their tail an oil whose molecules, when inhaled by giaks, reacted chemically with other molecules in their bloodstream and drove them into a frenzy of courage. Had Vonotar come across a full-scale military party, headed by a gourgaz, he would have been in even more difficulties than he now was. However, he was faced only by a routine patrol. Having watched as their leader had met his incandescent end, the other giaks were prepared to turn and run. One of them, rather braver than the rest, took a pace towards Vonotar and held up his hand to symbolize that his intentions were peaceful. "You . . . human," he said with difficulty. "You. enemy . . . why . . . you . . . here?" Vonotar spoke enough of the giaks' strangely precise language to be able to reply in it. "I am here to help the Darklords," he said. This caused much muttering among the twenty or so members of the patrol. Never had one of the Sommlending offered assistance to the Darklords -- on the contrary, they always fought the forces of Evil with every weapon at their command. Either this was a madman or he was a spy. Most of them believed he was a spy: caught in the act, he was coming out with a tall tale in order to try to escape with his skin intact. Vonotar understood much of this, and responded by reducing another giak to a heap of embers. On the other hand, most of the mutterers now concluded, it seems extremely likely that he is indeed that rarest of things, a Sommlending who wishes to assist our masters. "Take me to the Darklord Zagarna," demanded Vonotar clearly, tossing back his mane of black hair. "I have much to tell him." The giaks recognized a strong leader when they saw one. Without another word of dissent, they gestured that he should follow them, and set out towards the grey desert. 3 Silent Wolf was limping and weeping when finally he came over the crest of


a gentle hill and saw the Kai Monastery ahead of him. For two days he had pushed his body to the limit, using Kai skills he had only half-developed during his classes. He had paused neither to eat nor to drink. He had lost several pounds in weight, and his hands trembled when he held them up before his eyes. He hated the pain in his feet, but more than that he hated the fact that he had been incapable of saving his tutor from the wrath of the stranger they had encountered. His feelings about his failure were more complex than merely guilt -- in fact, guilt was only a tiny part, because he was realist enough to recognize that, as a partly trained youth, he would have been powerless in the face of magic of that strength. Far better, as Storm Hawk had clearly seen, that one of them at least should survive to bring home the information he had gleaned from the giaks. No, what was swirling through Silent Wolf's mind was a mixture of misery and a deep bitterness -- a resentment directed towards no specific person or thing but against the situation, against a world in which such things could happen. Storm Hawk's death would not be in vain, he told himself. "Vengeance" can be a hollow word, and it wasn't really vengeance that he wanted. Instead, he had determined to become as fine a Kai Master as Storm Hawk had been -- finer. If Evil such as he had seen was at loose in the world, then it was his duty to combat it, and the means to perform that duty were the disciplines of the Kai. His achievement would be a way of perpetuating Storm Hawk's name, of preserving his tutor's renown for the centuries to come. He was greeted at the Monastery gate by two of his other tutors. Their faces were grim. One clasped Silent Wolf briefly to his breast in an expression of sorrow more eloquent than words could ever have been. Then they led him to Storm Hawk's study. Only, of course, now it wasn't Storm Hawk's study. It was the same room, but clearly it belonged to someone else. The clutter had gone, and in its place were tidiness and order. The only thing there that Silent Wolf could remember from before was the human skull, which still lay in its place on the desk. The transformation of the room brought home to the youth the fact that his tutor was dead almost more than had the sight of his battered body. He collapsed into the chair, and for a moment he could say nothing. His sobbing renewed itself, it was as if there was nothing else his body could do. At last he gained some control, and sat up. "You knew already," he said hoarsely. "How did you know?" The


voice was hardly his own. "We were told," one of the tutors, Winter Owl, said gently. He gestured towards the empty skull. Winter Owl walked round to the other side of the desk and settled himself in place. He was much younger than Storm Hawk had been but, although his face was unlined, the hair of his head and eyebrows was prematurely grey. There were smile-wrinkles around the edge of his mouth, but at the moment he was far from smiling. "All we know is that Storm Hawk is dead," he half-whispered. "Our grief is too great to be spoken. Now, tell us what happened, and then you can go to your dormitory to get some sleep." Once Silent Wolf began to speak, the words came tumbling out like water bursting through a breach in a dam. He told them of the journey to the Durncrags, what Storm Hawk had heard there, the encounter with the magician as they had returned, and his own staggering, limping, miserable journey back to the Monastery. As he spoke, he felt as if a great burden were being removed from his body, as if the words themselves had weight and their expulsion made him lighter. He gave Winter Owl as many details as he could remember. Every now and then the tutor would interpose a question in that dry, soft voice of his, and Silent Wolf would rack his brains to give the fullest possible answer. It was many minutes before he was done and lay back in his chair, drained. "Are you sure there was nothing else?" Winter Owl asked. "Quite sure," said Silent Wolf. "No . . . there was something. When we met that magician, Storm Hawk said something about 'the Nadziranim'. I didn't understand what he was talking about, but I know it had something to do with magic." He was falling asleep even as he spoke. He tried to resist it but found he couldn't. His eyelids slowly closed and his body, which for days and nights had felt like ice, became warm. He was still just a little awake when the two tutors began to speak urgently to each other. "This is bad news indeed," said Winter Owl. "Worse than we had ever imagined." "Much worse." "This magician who slaughtered our dear friend is clearly a member of the Brotherhood of the Crystal Star." "It might have been a helghast." Helghast were Darklord spawn who


could adopt human form at will. Occasionally they were sent to try to infiltrate themselves into Sommerlund. "Unlikely. Whoever heard of a helghast with powers like that? No, it was a man, all right." Winter Owl rattled his fingernails on the desk. "A member of the Brotherhood turning to the ways of the Nadziranim. It's never been heard of before." They both contemplated the fact silently for a few moments. Then Winter Owl spoke again. "Even one mad magician roaming the land could make things very hard for us," he mused. "We are ill able -- particularly so close to Fehmarn -to afford to send out a party of the strongest Kai to deal with the problem. No: magic must be fought by magic. The Guildmaster at Toran must know of this renegade by now. He will have despatched a party in pursuit. You might send a party of the initiates to offer the Brotherhood some practical help -- hefting and carrying and so on. On second thoughts, perhaps not. They'd probably just get in his way. The Guildmaster will have everything in hand, I'm sure." "Winter Owl, there is one thing that troubles me." "Yes?" "This magician was heading towards the Durncrags. Is it not possible that he might be intending to cross them? His secrets would be worth a great deal to the Darklords." Winter Owl stopped rattling his fingertips. "Not a chance of it. No human being could survive long in the Darklands. If the man tried, that might be to our advantage, because Zagarna's spawn would kill him on sight." "A magician using the Right Hand Path might fare better than a normal human being," the other tutor proposed tentatively. "No," said Winter Owl, "I cannot believe it. And if this madman somehow has gone to the Darklands and has succeeded in staying alive, there is absolutely nothing we can do about it. Let's not make a large problem out of a minor one. Although there is a large problem we must turn our minds to. If this can happen to one magician . . ." Silent Wolf slept. He slept all that day and all the night, and did not awake until nearly noon the following morning.


4 Of Truth and Falsehood 1 When the young woman stepped out into Banedon's path he was not best pleased. His day had not been a good one. Last night he had been just one of the many acolytes of the Brotherhood of the Crystal Star, preparing to settle down to bed with a satisfying supper inside him. This morning he was a messenger with an urgent mission, and already there had been too many things to distract and delay him. This seemingly innocent girl could well be the Darklord spy the Rangers had been searching for back at Meadowood. He thought it unlikely -- although his experience was limited, he had the impression that spies for the Darklords were unlikely to be so pretty -- but he couldn't be sure. Banedon remembered the previous evening only too well. The summons from the Guildmaster of the Brotherhood of the Crystal Star had terrified him. Such summonses were usually for disciplinary reasons. Although the Brotherhood did not practise any form of corporal punishment, an admonishment from the Guildmaster was painful in its own way. What have I done wrong? he thought. It's been quite a long time since I . . . well I suppose I shouldn't have looked through those books on the top shelves of the library, but no one knows about that . . . or, at least, I think that . . . Banedon was, understandably, trembling a little as he rapped on the staunch oak door of the Guildmaster's private study. "Come in, child," said the Guildmaster's voice. Banedon was startled. He had expected sternness, but instead the Guildmaster sounded paternal. The boy's mind was filled with grotesque images as he pushed the door open. Everyone stole a look at the prohibited books from time to time, he reminded himself. Even the Guildmaster, as a boy -- his mind quailed at the thought of the Guildmaster ever having had a childhood, yet he pursued the thought -- yes, even the Guildmaster had probably at one time waited until there were no prying librarians around and . . . "What are you thinking, Banedon?" asked the Guildmaster kindly, his crinkled face lit sporadically by the candle spluttering on his great onyx desk. "Nothing in particular," said Banedon.


"Well, stop thinking it and come sit down beside me." The Guildmaster moved along the gnarled wooden bench behind his desk and gestured that Banedon should join him. "You've heard of the Darklords?" "Yes, of course," Banedon replied, settling himself down uncomfortably. "Of course," said the old man, nodding. He seemed not to notice the slight note of impertinence in Banedon's voice. "And have you heard of Helgedad?" "Who?" "Helgedad is not a person," said the Guildmaster. "It's a place. If you're lucky, young man, it's a place you will never have to visit, because you'd almost certainly be dead by the time you'd got there -- and, if you weren't, you'd wish you had been. And yet . . . and yet it is a marvel in its way." He leaned back and breathed out deeply, almost as if he were yawning. "All cities are marvels, in a way." The Guildmaster fell silent for so long, staring into the gloom at the far corner of his study, that Banedon began to wonder if the old man had forgotten his presence. He was startled when the Guildmaster abruptly began to speak. The half-whispered words were less like normal conversation than like the recital of a creed. "Over a thousand years ago Vashna, the greatest of the Darklords, Archlord of all the Darklands, began the construction of eight vast fortresscities; his task was finished by the Darklord Zagarna, who still rules. The mightiest of these cities is Helgedad. Some six hundred miles to the west of here is a great gash in the face of the world -- a lake of bubbling lava. It is, if you like, an open doorway to Darkness. But in the middle of it, like a tongue-tip, there is a rising spur of granite, and it was upon this island that Vashna chose to build his city of cities. "At his orders, giak slaves were compelled to construct a bridge of twisted steel across the hissing rock, from the bleak plain of Naogizaga to the granite island. Who knows how many thousands of the slaves lost their lives? Some fell from the bridgeworks into the chasm; others succumbed to the vile black fumes of the plain's many fumaroles; others still died under the lash of the slavedrivers. Yet the bridge was, after many years, built, and" -the Guildmaster turned to look earnestly at Banedon -- "it was one of the great wonders of Magnamund. Make no mistake about it, laddie: the constructions effected by Evil can inspire as much awe as the greatest of


sculptures. Should you ever be unfortunate enough to visit Helgedad and see that bridge, look at it with all due respect and think upon the untold numbers of giaks who died building it. In their own small and evil way, they were heroes." His voice trailed off. The candle flickered. "Perhaps," said the Guildmaster suddenly, "perhaps a million giaks died during the long years that it took to construct Helgedad itself. They built walls all around the perimeter of the island, and they tunnelled deep into its granite heart to create passageways and dungeons. From the lava of the lake they smelted black steel, using which they erected great towers and turrets. Vashna had instructed them to build a city whose very appearance would represent the Evil of which he himself was the incarnation, and this they did. Should you ever see Helgedad, you will find that those towers are like the teeth on the underside of a predator's gaping jaw, waiting for the sky to clamp down so that the prey can be devoured. "But, lad, ignore the towers: they are nothing but symbols. It is deep underneath Helgedad that the real Evil is to be found. Down in the dungeons, close to the seething floor of the lava lake -- No, you are too young to hear more of this." Banedon was startled . . . and frustrated. The direct experience of horror is not to be welcomed, but hearing about distant horrors is almost refreshing. So far as he was concerned, the Guildmaster had just been getting to the good bit. "Enough of this!" The words stabbed like a needle's point. Banedon suddenly realized that the old man had been listening to his thoughts. The Guildmaster snapped his fingers, and on the onyx desk before him stood a minute giak, perfect in every detail. It waved its serrated sabre upwards, towards the two giants facing it, and squeaked threateningly. An instant later the Guildmaster's fist thundered down upon it, and blood and bones splattered across the desktop. Banedon fought his rising nausea. "That," said the Guildmaster, his voice reverting to the soft paternalism of before, "is the reality of violence, and of power. It is not pretty: crushing out the existence of even the vilest of beings is not something you should ever do lightly. Yet sometimes it must be done, and the training you have received here at Toran gives you the power to do it." There was another silence, and Banedon surreptitiously scratched his side. Knowing that the Guildmaster would know what he was thinking, he


tried to force himself not to wonder what all this was leading up to. The result was that . . . "Yes," said the Guildmaster, "you wonder why I tell you all this. Well, I have a task for you." "What?" said Banedon, then blushed. His single word had hardly contained the respect owed to the most highly honoured member of the Brotherhood of the Crystal Star. "I mean --" "No, don't worry," said the Guildmaster, waving his hand as if to fan away Banedon's embarrassment. "I am an old man, and I tend to take a long time talking around a point before I reach it. Your impatience is justified." He then told Banedon about the flight of Vonotar and his fear that the renegade magician would betray the Kai to the Darklords. "We know," he concluded, "that the forces of Evil plan to launch an assault upon Sommerlund sometime this summer -- maybe not until next summer, if we're lucky. But one of our brothers, Vonotar, whom I had intended to appoint as my successor, has betrayed our trust and fled to join the Darklord Zagarna at Kaag, one of the other great fortress-cities of the Darklands. It may be that Vonotar will never reach there, and even if he does he may be slaughtered out of hand. But it's possible that he'll survive long enough to give the Darklord information that could assist the invasion. The Kai must be told of all this -- and they must be told soon." He pulled a rolled-up piece of parchment from his voluminous robe and set it on the desk in front of the young acolyte. "It is not often," he said, "that your mentors tell you that you are uniquely qualified to serve the Brotherhood, is it?" "Not often," agreed Banedon. He swallowed. He was one of the least skilled of the pupils in the Guild. His mentors frequently remarked that he had all the requisite aptitude but none of the requisite diligence, and recently he had been falling well behind in his studies. This was hardly his fault, he reflected. It was pure accident that he had discovered the game of vtovlry, and that it now took up so much of his energies. "Yes," agreed the Guildmaster, "vtovlry is a good game. I still play it whenever I have the time." Banedon smiled agreeably, wishing he were somewhere else. A fly flew into the candle-flame and instantly combusted. He slightly envied the fly. "The reason I've asked you here this evening," said the Guildmaster, pulling himself to his feet and shuffling across to the far corner of the study, "is that I need someone to take that message of warning to the Kai Grand


Master. The duty of the Guild will, of course, be to use the magical forces at our command to try to resist the invaders. Still, we must spare somebody to take that warning. You are old enough, Banedon." The Guildmaster turned to stare at the acolyte through the shadows. "Aye, you are old enough, and of all the pupils of your age you are the least competent to aid us with your magical powers. We can spare you. You can be our journeyman." 3 Banedon shivered and tried to wrap himself more firmly in his cloak. Ahead of him, the light of the guard-post at Toran's South Gate was a blur through the mist of his breath. He had been grateful earlier to find that the snow had stopped, but now the cold of the early spring pre-dawn air gripped his chest so tightly that he fervently wished the snow would start again. Nina, the old brown mare which had been issued to him at the stables, shifted unhappily under his weight. He wondered if she would endure the rigours of the cold and the journey. Despite the fact that the Guildmaster had insisted that his journey was an urgent one, the ostlers had refused to let him have one of the faster, fitter horses. Banedon leant forward and patted Nina on the neck, feeling suddenly guilty about the flow of his thoughts. The two of them were to be companions on the journey; their lives might depend upon each other. If he expected her loyalty then he must be loyal to her. He moved his fingers and lips in the ritual of the Mind Charm; immediately her gait became firmer and more confident. The walls of Toran were forty yards thick, their rocky solidity providing strength in itself but also symbolizing the strength of the city's magical defences. From outside the city they looked even stronger than their rocky massiveness would anyway have suggested, for long ago, when the city had first been built, the Crystal Star Guildmaster of those times had cast a spell on the stones of the walls, so that they became almost like living things. Their active hostility to enemy intruders almost pulsed. From the inside, however, they looked quite different: solid, comforting, almost parental. As Banedon slowly approached the South Gate, he swept his eyes along the walls' massive bulk, and sensed a message coming from them. "Good luck, little brother." It was as if somebody had spoken to him but most of the words had been whipped away by the piercing wind.


Built into the South Gate was the guard-post, a room about twenty feet square. Banedon shiveringly slithered down from Nina's back and pounded on the door with his heavy staff. There was no response. He beat the ancient wood again, but still nothing happened. Blowing into a fist, he moved to the window. The warmth of a log fire and a lantern inside the room had misted up the rippled glass of the window, but he was able to make out the figures of the two guards sprawling among a litter of bottles. Clearly they had used a traditional technique for keeping out the cold. Banedon was in a quandary. The guards were big and they were tough. If he woke them, they might very well beat him before they let him go on his way. Yet the Guildmaster had stressed to him the importance of his mission. He looked at Nina, illogically hoping that the drooping-headed mare might give him some advice, but all she did was snort and look miserable. The office of Journeyman -- good for heavy labour and occasional message-bearing, but little else -- was one of the lowest in the Brotherhood of the Crystal Star, little above that of the horses. Moreover, Banedon had only just been given it; at the age of fifteen, he had yet to grow even the lightest of down on his chin. He looked young, he knew, and right now he felt young, too. He could probably summon up a spell from the back of his mind to open the South Gate, but he was by no means certain he would be able to close it again. His devotion to his Brotherhood struggled with his fear of a beating, and his sense of duty won -- but only just. "I hope you're on my side," he said to Nina, who responded by turning her head to look in the opposite direction. "Here goes," he continued, pushing back the hood of his cloak to reveal his lank blond hair. He took his staff in one hand and swiftly, so that he could not allow himself time for second thoughts, swirled it in an arc to shatter the window into a million fragments. One of the guards was on his feet in an instant, his sword half-drawn from its scabbard. "Who are you?" the guard screamed into the freezing darkness. "I am a member of the Brotherhood of the Crystal Star," said Banedon. He wished his voice didn't sound so nervous and wobbly. It has broken -- it really has! "I've been given a letter by our Guildmaster and been told to . . ." "Come closer to the window!" Gingerly, Banedon moved to frame his face in the shattered glass.


"A child," growled the guard, his voice thick from the liquor he and his companion had consumed. But at least he returned his sword fully to its scabbard. He stared at the youth through one rheumy, bloodshot eye. "Whaddya want?" "I need the gate to be opened," said Banedon. He smiled innocently in the way he had been trained to do when confronted by potential enemies of superior strength. "Then why couldn't you just knock on the door?" the guard grumbled. "How're Tem and I" -- he gestured at his sleeping companion -- "supposed to keep watch on the gate if the blood's turning to ice in our veins? Tell me that, you little skunk." Banedon stayed silent, still smiling. The guard stared at him murderously for a few more seconds, then turned to operate the heavy system of pulleys and chains, muttering tightly about the boy's direct descent from a giak so loathsome that he revolted even other giaks. The gate swung ponderously open, the ice on its mighty wooden hinges squeaking in protest. "Go, child, before I add your ears to my collection!" The guard dragged his fingers through his tangled beard, then once more half-drew his sword from its scabbard. "Thanks!" shouted Banedon, realizing as he said the word that it sounded rather inadequate. He pulled himself with difficulty onto the reluctant Nina, and with his heels prodded her forward through the great gate, which was slammed with venomous finality behind him. Ahead of him stretched the short tunnel to the outside of the wall; the sky ahead was pink from the sun's early rays. The landscape was painted with a thin veneer of glittering white. Banedon shivered, but not just from the cold. This was the first time he had ever ventured outside the walled city of Toran since he'd been brought here as an infant, and he was terrified by the sight of all that empty space. His terror soon subsided, however, as the sun rose. Nina plodded on through the thin snow, and the scrunch of her hooves acted as counterpoint to the song of the birds. Off to his right the sharp peaks of the Durncrag Mountains bit into the pale sky. Although Banedon was still freezing cold, the light of the rising sun made him feel warmer, and he found himself smiling as he gazed around. Somewhat to his surprise, he was beginning to enjoy the sense of being alone.


The snow melted rapidly as the sun climbed yet further in the sky. Soon it would be spring: in a few days' time the noon heat would be overpowering. A couple of hours later he rounded a bend to discover the road blocked by a group of traders' wagons, whose owners were arguing furiously with four surly-looking Border Rangers. Banedon slowed Nina as they approached the cursing moil. The wagons, he saw now, had been halted by a rude barricade of old barrels and planks erected across the road. One of the merchants was not joining in with the argument. A big man, with a bronze beard covering most of his face and freckles covering the rest of it, he was sitting on a rock by the side of the road and whittling philosophically at a clothespeg. Banedon drew Nina to a halt beside him. "What's going on?" "Border Rangers," said the trader, not looking up. "Yes," said Banedon, nettled. "I can see that. But why are they blocking off the road?" The trader stopped whittling and looked up at the mounted youth. "What's it to you?" "I'm under instructions to follow this road." "So?" "My mission is urgent." "Well, I'd find another route if I were you." The trader resumed his whittling. Banedon could see what appeared to be a svelte wooden buttock taking shape. "There's nothing and nobody allowed through Meadowood today, not until the Rangers have found this Darklord spy they're fussing about." "Darklord spy?" "Maybe more than one of 'em. Pitched battle in the village last night, I gather. Three Rangers killed and half a dozen others looking as if they might snuff it any second. Naar knows how many other people killed. Funny old world, isn't it?" The trader looked at the clothespeg, whistled in disapproval, and threw it into the ditch. "Don't blame the Rangers, myself: no one's allowed into Meadowood until they've asked everyone there where they were last night at a quarter to such-and-such -- the usual routine." "But I have to get through," insisted Banedon. "So? I have to get through as well: I've got two tons of turnips that have to be in Holmgard before they rot." He indicated a wagon with a flick of his head. "Don't tell me what you have to do. You want an argument, you go pick it with the Rangers. They'll like as not tell you what they told me --


except maybe a little more politely, seeing as you're only a boy." Banedon dismounted. "I thank you for your advice, stranger," he said courteously. He led Nina forward until he was directly confronting the Rangers. It was difficult to make himself heard above the shouts and complaints of the infuriated merchants, but eventually he succeeded in identifying the officer in charge. "Can we talk for a moment?" shouted Banedon over the hubbub. "Suppose so," said the man unwillingly. He spat into the frost and pointed Banedon off to the side of the road. When they were a little way away from the rest of the crowd, the officer halted. "Well?" His right cheek bore a vivid scar. "I've been sent on an urgent mission on behalf of the Guildmaster of the Crystal Star. I have to travel through Meadowood on the road to Holmgard. You must instruct your men to let me pass." "No." "Oh." Banedon had hoped that the pompous approach might do the trick. "Er . . . why not?" "You don't imagine you're the first person here to be 'travelling on the instructions of a Guildmaster', do you? That's what they all say." The officer waved his arm in the general direction of the crowd. "I have a bag of gold crowns with my --" "Don't say any more. If it weren't for the fact you was just a kid I'd have you clapped in irons." The officer tapped the metal of his shield to emphasize the point. The scar on his cheek reddened as he fought with his temper. Banedon sighed. He regretted now that he had used a spell to encourage Nina. Although in theory his resources of magical abilities were infinite, theory was much different from practice: over-frequent use of the same power caused the practitioner considerable pain. Moreover, exercising Mind Charm was in itself a rather unpleasant experience; while to outsiders it looked as if the magician were merely flexing his fingers and twitching his lips, the sensation was as if one's throat were being firmly squeezed. Still, this was the first time Banedon had been entrusted with an important duty: if using Mind Charm was the only way to persuade the Rangers to let him through Meadowood, then use it he would have to. "I'm sorry," he said. "I wasn't trying to offer you money." "Then what were you trying to do, you little bumswipe? Stop wasting


my time. Get off back to Toran. You'll be safer there with your mumsy -and out from under my feet." The Ranger turned and began to walk off towards the barricade. Banedon had to run along beside him in order to keep up; he cursed the length of his loose cloak and the slipperiness of the snow underfoot. "Just one moment longer," he pressed. The officer shrugged and kept walking. Banedon flinched in anticipation of the pain, and used his Mind Charm. His throat felt suddenly as though it were in the grip of a wrestler's forearm; more than that, there was a sharper agony, as if his Adam's apple were being assailed by a slow-moving saw. Tears came to his eyes, but he managed to smile. "Please, sir," he said. "It's very important that I continue on my way." "There's a path through the forest." The response was almost a grunt, but the Ranger had slowed his pace. "Mind you, it's dangerous there for a young lad like you -- perhaps even more hazardous than going through the village." He stopped and smiled back over his shoulder at Banedon. "Here, I tell you what. You could maybe take a message from me to the captain on the south side of Meadowood." The pain was beginning to dim Banedon's vision. "Sir, what message shall I take?" The Ranger looked baffled, his mind fuddled by the effects of the magic. "Oh, any message you want," he said. "Do I have to spell out every last little detail?" Banedon reached up to pat the man gratefully on the shoulder and then ran past him to where Nina was patiently waiting. Most of the traders were still hurling abuse at the remaining three Rangers, who looked at the approaching boy with contempt. Breathlessly Banedon explained that he was acting on the instructions of their superior officer, and they reluctantly allowed him to lead Nina around the edge of the barrier. The effect on the merchants was instant: they began to shout even louder. One of them vengefully threw a rock at the Rangers, and, as Banedon hurried on his guilty way, trying not to look back over his shoulder, scuffling broke out. 4 Meadowood was a deserted village and, like all deserted places, it made the spine crawl. Banedon prodded Nina into a canter and, looking neither to left


nor to right, they made their way through the hamlet as swiftly as possible. On the far outskirts he had a brief altercation with another group of guarding Rangers, who initially suspected him of being himself the fugitive spy, but in due course they let him by -- persuaded as much by his silver-starred robe as by the sealed parchment scroll he carried. Once he had left them behind, he allowed a puffing Nina to settle into an amble. The sky was a blue so intense that he found difficulty believing such a colour could really exist. The cold of the early morning had eased. On either side of the road he saw the withering remains of winter's flowers surrounded by the eager young shoots of the spring's. Aside from the chirping of the birds there was virtually no noise except the swishing of the wind through the half-naked trees and the steady clopping of Nina's hooves on the packedmud roadway. There were tilled fields here but, oddly, no people. It was as if all the farm-workers were somehow aware that tragedy was imminent, and, seeking security, had stayed at home. They passed through a small copse and, just as they came out of it, the sunlight was blotted out for a few moments. Banedon instinctively clutched at Nina's mane for reassurance. Even after the light had rather nervously returned, he could feel his heart pumping. Sweat poured down his forehead, and its saltiness got into his eyes, making him blink painfully. When at last he could see properly he noticed that, a few hundred yards ahead, there was a small mound by the side of the road. On it sat a young woman, the first person he had seen since leaving Meadowood. As he drew closer he could make out more details of her appearance. Her skin was nut-brown, and her short-cropped hair was an almost coppery red. She was dressed in a battered leather jerkin and ragged trousers. Her face was thin and somewhat pinched; her cheekbones were prominent. He guessed she was about the same age as himself -- perhaps a year or two older. Banedon was startled when, at his approach, she scurried down from the mound to stand in the road in front of him. She raised her right hand to halt him, and obediently he tugged on Nina's reins. The pony snorted with relief, and began to crop grass from the verge. "Hello, Banedon," said the girl. "Er . . . hello." There was a short silence, and then Banedon spoke again. "How do you know my name? Have we met before?" "Yes," she said, "but not yet."


Banedon looked baffled. When he realized that he was looking baffled he tried to stop doing so. The result was that he looked not just doubly baffled but a bit dimwitted. The woman laughed, but sympathetically. The sound reminded Banedon of the flitter of fingers over the strings of a harp. "We have met many times in the future," she said, "but of course you can't remember that. The time will come, boy magician, when you too will be able to remember things the way I do. As for now, let me introduce myself. Jump down off that thing, and talk with me for a little while. I'll not delay you long." Banedon was acutely aware that the message he bore was an urgent one. At the same time he was eager to find out who this strange person was, with her wild talk and her seeming omniscience. He would probably have ridden on had it not been for the fact that he found her disturbingly . . . interesting. Girls were supposed to be attractive only in the pictures in those books in the library, not in real life. Worrying over this paradox, he looked at the sky, muttered, "Forgive me, Guildmaster," and got down to the road. After telling Nina to stay where she was, not to run away, and above all to cause no trouble when he climbed back onto her, he allowed the girl to lead him up the mound. They settled themselves on its cool grass. "Who are you?" Banedon asked after a while. The girl lay back, clasping her hands behind her head. "Alyss," she said. "Such an exquisite name, don't you think? Suits me perfectly." For a little while Banedon listened to the hum of the numerous small insects which circled around them. Eventually he said: "That doesn't tell me very much. Everyone has a name. I mean, who are you? You don't seem to be like other people I've met." Alyss considered this for a moment. "It's going to be difficult for you to accept this," she said, "you having been locked away in Toran all these years, but I'm me. No one else. There aren't any others like me. I can do things that the people of the Brotherhood of the Crystal Star could never imagine, even in their dreams." "Yeah, right" "Would you like me to prove it?" She treated him to a strychninesweet smile. Her little white teeth flashed. "Er, no." Another pause. "Are you human?" He didn't know quite what had prompted him to ask the question.


"Sort of. But not very much." "Are you a servant of the Darklords?" This time he shocked himself by his effrontery. She sat up. All traces of her ease and laziness vanished. "Of course I'm --" she began, and then she smiled. "Sorry, I forgot you can't remember the future. No, I'm here precisely because I'm going to help you and someone else resist the Darklords." "What do you mean? Who is this other person?" "No one you know, as yet. You'll know him once you meet him." Alyss relaxed back onto the grass again. A white butterfly settled on her pointy nose, and she went cross-eyed as she looked at it. Then she giggled and it fluttered away. Banedon looked at Nina, who looked back at him. There was still a long road to the Kai Monastery, and here he was wasting time with someone whom he increasingly believed to be a madwoman. On the other hand, she had known his name. "Shall I show you," said Alyss, scattering his thoughts, "who I am?" "Yes, please," he replied. "Well," she said, "for one thing, I'm a poet." She waved her right hand and there was silence. The wind ceased and the trees stilled. Far above, Banedon could see a bird frozen in position against the backdrop of the bright blue sky. "Listen," said Alyss. "I will tell you a poem I made when for the first time I held the moon cupped in my hands." She leapt to her feet and paced around before him on the flat ground in front of the mound. As she moved, flowers sprang from the ground everywhere that her bare feet had paused. Soon the grass was carpeted with poppies, daisies, creeping roses and narcissi. She seemed not to notice. Alyss pointed her finger at the sky and began to speak. Or was it speech? Banedon could not discern any words in the noise which she uttered. Her voice created a long pattern of vowels that each blended into the next. For most of the while the sound was a tranquil one, almost restful, but here and there were staccato pauses which jolted Banedon as if he had been cut by a whip. And soon he realized that this strange wordless sound was affecting him physically in other ways as well. He was drifting through the cold vacuum of space, basking in the bliss of its emptiness. He came close to a star and they greeted each other like long-lost friends. A comet entangled itself in his hair and he pulled it free, setting it on its way with an


affectionate pat. He breathed the refreshing taste of nothingness . . . and then he was cradling the bleak moon in his outstretched hands, feeling its loneliness through the tips of his fingers. Hello, little sister, he thought, and he felt the moon respond: Friend. The spell broke. Alyss had ended her poem. The newborn flowers wilted and died, so that within a few seconds there was no way of telling they had ever been there. Banedon found he had been weeping -- although not with grief. "The moon," he managed to say at last. "How can she bear to be so solitary?" "She has visitors," said Alyss with a dismissive flicker of her fingers. "Don't waste your sympathy on her. I go there from time to time, and others do as well. The moon's a little inclined to fall into a self-induced slough of misery. More important, did you like my poem?" Banedon couldn't find words. He felt that in Alyss's poem he had experienced more in a few moments than he had in all the years of his life. He put his hands to his eyes and allowed the tears to continue. When he looked up. she was standing on one leg, the other tucked behind her thighs, and was staring at him with a wondering expression on her face. "The last time I told you that poem," she said, "you were less affected. "Still," she went on in a businesslike voice, "enough of poetry. No doubt you're eager to hear my music." She plucked a buttercup from the grass and threw it into the air. At the height of its arc it shimmered and transformed into a drumlike stringed instrument, which she caught gracefully as it descended. Banedon had never seen an instrument like it. It was a hollow trunk whose ends were two ellipses cut askew to each other. Between them the trunk curved inwards. Taut strings stretched between the perimeters of the two ellipses, so that the whole body of the instrument would act as a soundbox when the strings were plucked. Alyss passed her left arm through the interior of the trunk so that she, too, became part of the soundbox. She spun the instrument on her arm, tweaking a string here and a string there, occasionally adjusting the tension of one or another. "Here," she said, "is a song I made when I first realized that I loved you and knew that you loved me." She shook her head as he began to speak. "No, I won't tell you when that was -- is going to be. You'll just have to wait and see. Now be quiet for a moment."


Holding the instrument aloft, she began to dance. Banedon was unable to take his eyes away from her. Suddenly she came to a halt, smiled at him like a ten-year-old who has just come top of the class, and drew a chord. Her music spoke not to his ears but to something deep inside his mind. He no longer knew where he was, because his vision had gone. Yet this was no blindness: although his eyes had ceased to function, he could still see. He saw columns of purple smoke interspersed with red glimmers of lightning. He saw armies of men and bizarre creatures battling bloodily for a few square feet of reddened grass. He saw an unknown youth, clad from head to foot in green, wielding a battle-axe, his face an immobile mask as he cut down his enemies with stark ruthlessness. He saw flying reptiles, their eyes bright yellow with cruel glee, flock to the ground and pick up screaming men, carrying them off to who knew what charnel-house of the sky. At the same time he saw Alyss swimming naked in a russet-coloured pond, her body almost invisible beneath the surface of the earthy water. He saw her flying far above the field of battle, her thin lips drawn into a manic grin. He saw her fingers caress the neck of one of the flying reptiles, and watched as she dropped its lifeless form, which fluttered as it fell in a parody of animated flight. And then, over all of this, he could see superimposed his own face. To be true, this was not quite the face he saw in the mirror every morning. There were lines that he did not recognize, and there were streaks of premature grey in his yellow hair. His eyes held wisdom, and yet they showed that they had seen cruel sights -- sights which would never finally vanish from his inner vision. He was seeing himself as if he were a few decades older in body; centuries older in mind. He was not sure that he wished to become the person he saw, the person whose face had now completely blotted out the battlefield. And then there was another face beside his own, its cheek nestled against his. The face was Alyss's. As he watched the two faces, side by side, she poked her tongue out at him and winked. 5 Alyss ended the piece of music with a violent discord and threw the instrument from her. Banedon instantly found himself back in the world of


the here-and-now. He felt drained. He felt as if a great hand had reached down out of the sky and squeezed him dry. His emotions were like tatters of paper tossed into a howling wind. Alyss squatted, put a finger to the groove in her chin, and stared him straight in the eyes. She wrinkled her nose, and he could see that, inside, she was laughing at him -- as before, but this time the laughter was a rather more affectionate mocking. "Did you like my song, Banedon?" she asked with formal courtesy. "I . . . I don't know." His throat was dry, and he had to gulp before he said any more. "I think I did. It's just that I've not come across any song quite like it before." He wiped his sleeve over his brow. "Perhaps you could, well, not play it again for a while?" "As you say, sir," she said crisply. "The next time I play it to you, then, will be just after I've written it for you. Perhaps then you will like it a little better." "It's not that I didn't . . ." "Never mind! A fig for music! You asked me who I am and I've shown you that I'm both poet and musician. Would you wish me to show you more?" "I have a message to carry to the Kai Grand Master," said Banedon desperately, "and I've already spent too long with you." He glanced at Nina, who was in ecstasy, rolling on her back on the ground. "Banedon, you can be very stupid sometimes. Isn't it clear to you yet that I know about things like that?" Alyss tossed her head impatiently. Until recently, Banedon guessed, she had worn her hair much longer. "I could recite your message word-perfect if I wanted -- which, let it be plain, I don't. As for time passing . . . well, just how much time do you think has passed?" Hours, thought Banedon, but he looked around and saw that the sun had barely moved, if at all, in the morning sky. And the bird, far above them, was still transfixed against the motionless clouds. "Precisely," Alyss spat frostily. "No time at all. Do you think I'd want to delay you? Don't you remember I'm on your side? Now stop interrupting and give me your handkerchief." Banedon was startled by the non sequitur, and found himself obediently digging in the pockets of his robe to find his crumpled cotton handkerchief. He passed it to her wordlessly. "A bit dirty," she muttered. She flicked it, so that it cracked like a whip, and all the dried snot was shaken out of it. She sat down and draped


the now-white cloth over her lap. "Fetch me a few flowers," she said. "As many different colours as possible." Feeling like a fool, Banedon did so. Soon he had two fistfuls of brightly coloured meadow weeds. It seemed an incongruous moment to be bringing this madwoman a posy. When he handed the flowers to her, however, she barely glanced at them, instead merely throwing them down on the grass by her side. "Excuse me," she said, unusually polite. "I need a little of the sky for this and, at this stage in time, it would frighten you to see me fetch it. I'll be only a moment." Immediately Banedon was blind. He toppled over on the bank of the mound and clutched his eyes, trying desperately to scream, to let all his terror come out. Now he knew it all. This . . . this fiend in female form had been sent by the Darklords to tempt him from his task, and she had succeeded only too well. Now she had blinded him, and there would be no chance of his being able to complete his mission. Guilt, fear, misery -overtopping all of them was the sense of personal failure. He would rather die here on this mound than live for even a few seconds longer with the knowledge that he had betrayed the trust the Guildmaster had placed in him, that he had shown himself to be a fool of a child rather than a . . . Vision returned, the daylight battering his eyes. The pain screwed his face up. He scrambled to his feet, furious now the fear had gone. "I told you I'd be only a moment," said Alyss composedly, sitting just as she had been before. "Sit down, will you? I want to show you that I'm an artist as well, and it will take some time. Oh" -- she waved her arm dismissively -- "I mean no time at all in terms of the rest of the world. But, as far as you're concerned, you'll have to wait and watch for a little while. Now, where did I put that piece of sky . . .?" Banedon was never able in his own mind to see what it was that she took in her hand and mixed with the heap of flowers beside her. However, as she stirred her fingers lazily, the flowers became threads of a multitude of hues -- more colours than Banedon could ever recall having seen. And the threads seemed to be of a million different textures, too. This one was cerise silk, fine as a spider's gossamer; the one next to it was like a cord of purple velvet, knotty as a sailor's rope; next again there was a thread of mahoganybrown cotton; and beyond that . . . "I can paint, of course," said Alyss, "and one day I shall paint a canvas for you. In fact" -- she closed her eyes for a moment and thought -- "it's


going to be an extremely good painting, I remember now. But for the moment I prefer to work in tapestry. You'll have a tapestry to take with you as you cross the world. Much more useful, in many ways, than a handkerchief. Now, let me work." Banedon had, of course, seen magic before. He had seen the Guildmaster and the other mentors at Toran perform things that would have been regarded as impossible marvels by the common folk. Yet he had never seen anyone who could do the things that Alyss was doing. More than that, no magician of the Brotherhood could have produced so much magic in such a short space of time. Magic hurt: even such a simple trick as persuading the Ranger at Meadowood to let him through had caused as much pain as a knife in his belly. Yet to Alyss it all seemed so easy . . . all so natural. She was a creature to whom the usual rules did not apply. The magic was through and through her like the blood coursing in her veins. Her fingers were moving now with blurring speed. Disdaining the use of a needle, she was stitching the threads she had created into the cotton of his handkerchief using her fingernails. He saw the blocks of colour grow beneath her hands. He had no idea how long he watched her, but it seemed a very long time. Nina came over for a while to see what was going on, but then wandered away again. It was less as if Alyss were creating an artwork, more as if the flickering of her busy hands was inducing it to grow of its own accord -- as if the tapestry had always been within the handkerchief and the threads and she were simply allowing it to take shape. Yet, from her crimped lips and the fixed stare of her catlike eyes, he knew that she was concentrating with a quite scarifying intensity. Why does she want so much to impress me? he thought. As he had more than half expected, Alyss used up exactly the number of threads beside her. When the last of them was gone she shook out her tapestry and threw it casually to Banedon. "A present for you." From the threads she had produced a scene of country revelry so precise in all its details that Banedon could hardly believe what he was seeing. There was a dance in progress, and burly men and equally burly women were spinning in each other's arms. A man was serving eager customers with great tankards of cider drawn from huge oak barrels that rested uncertainly on a shaky table. In the distance, someone lay sleeping in the dust, still cradling his half-empty tankard in his arm. Hens and ducks were scuttling around the dancer's feet, dodging as best they could. A young


pig was on the right of the scene, looking on bemusedly. Alyss's creation would have been a wonder in itself had it just been a static portrayal. But it wasn't. The people and the animals in the scene were moving. Banedon peered more closely, trying to see how the trick was done. Suddenly one of the peasants -- a plump matron of fifty years or more -- stopped dancing and turned to face him. "Look," she said, "how would you like it if you were trying to have a booze-up, and somebody came along and stared at you?" "Well --" "You wouldn't like it at all, you pimply young tyke, would you?" "No, I --" "So go away and let us get on with things. There are people here trying to enjoy themselves, you know. We don't need intruders like you. Sod off." Banedon looked up at Alyss. She smiled, yet again. "Yes," she said, "the tapestry people do tend to be rather, well, forthright. But don't worry: you'll find that they're really your friends. In due course. Fold up this present of mine and keep it with you always. In times to come you'll find that you need to consult your friends, to ask them how to solve a problem or vanquish a foe." Dumbly Banedon tucked the tapestry away into one of the pockets of his robe. "Now," he said at last, "can I be on my way?" "Not quite yet. We are going to be allies, you and I, and so it is important that you realize just one more of the things that I can do. It'll be a long while before I see you next, but it might be as well if you were able to recognize me." Alyss vanished, and in her place was a prancing white unicorn. The unicorn looked at Banedon and giggled. Suddenly it was replaced by a brown rat, which sat up on its hindquarters and scratched itself under the chin; like the unicorn, like Alyss herself, the rat had green, catlike eyes. A leopard was there next, its tail waving as it gazed with a mixture of hunger and amiability at Banedon's throat. Immediately afterwards -- almost before Banedon's eyes could register the appearance of the leopard -- there stood before him a trumpeting elephant, and then came a small quivering dog, and then . . . Then there was Alyss herself.


"I admit the elephant was silly," she said immediately. "But I do like to show off from time to time. You may have noticed." Banedon said nothing. "Anyway," continued Alyss, "I will be a part of your life, here and there, over the next few years. Each time I come to help you, you will be able to know who I am, don't worry. In the meantime, do you like the form I have adopted especially for you?" Banedon looked at her -- at her freshness and her clarity and her light -- and nodded his agreement. Yes, sitting here on the side of this mound, she looked almost beautiful. "I certainly prefer you to the elephant," he mumbled. She smiled once more. "And to this?" she said, and disappeared. Moments later, Banedon found there was a money-spider on the back of his hand. He shook it carefully onto the turf. As it dropped away, he heard a crystal-clear voice speaking in his mind. Goodbye, it said. At least for now . . .


5 The Music of Zagarna 1 Kaag . . . Rising in the midst of a plain of dust and ash, the mighty walls of the fortress seemed to touch the sky. The vast stone blocks of which they had been built were fifty feet square. Untold millions of giaks had perished building Kaag -- the greatest of the Darklord fortresses after Helgedad. The giaks had been crushed by tumbling boulders, whipped to death by maddened overseers, driven until they expired by the inexorable will of Zagarna, the cruellest Darklord since the terrible time when Agarash had held sway. The quarries for miles around had been exhausted of their black marble. The forests which had once, many thousands of years before, spread all over what were now the Darklands had been felled to the last tree to provide wood for furnishings and for fires. The mortar which joined the giant rocks had been made from the bones of giaks, animals and human beings -- powdered and mixed with the foul waters of the Durn River. The great gates had been fashioned from the steel-hard scaled skin of the dragon Nyxator, preserved for millennia by the Darklords as an emblem of their power. A few slits had been set into the walls to allow air into the titanic fortress, but apart from these the face of Kaag was almost featureless. Kaag was forty miles across, and it rose five miles into the sky. It squatted like some vile reptile on a vile floor. Kraan, zlanbeast and crypt spawn fluttered around its cloud-high parapets. Their droppings formed a deep carpet on the arid plain surrounding the fortress. Their cackling cries were everywhere as they swooped hither and thither through the air. Sometimes they fought, and blood would rain from the sky: a dead beast would be devoured before it reached the ground. Twice a day, at sunrise and sunset, thousands of swamp giaks considered guilty of some supposed crime would be led out in front of the fortress, tethered in place, and left to serve as living fodder for the flying creatures. Zagarna enjoyed watching feeding-time, and always tried to do so: the shrill screams of the doomed giaks were like music to him. The zlanbeast were bred in the deepest pits of Helgedad; on their broad backs the Darklords rode the skies. Their wings were batlike, with sharp talons; their serrated beaks were well over a yard long. The kraan were a subspecies; smaller than the zlanbeast, they were nevertheless as vicious.


They served as mounts for the drakkarim, the pitiless humanoid servants of the Darklords. The crypt spawn likewise had the wings of a bat, but their bodies could not have been more dissimilar from those of the zlanbeast and kraan. Neither could their origins. They came from a different plane of existence -- the one occupied by the Darklords' evil master, Naar. Whenever the crypt spawn numbers fell too low, more could be called to Magnamund by the Darklords. Their bodies were like human brains; behind them they trailed skeletal appendages. The sun was setting. The zlanbeast stabbed their beaks into the chests of the tethered giaks so that ichor spurted into the pallid, orange air. The sight pleased Zagarna. He turned reluctantly from the slit window through which he had been watching the carnage and clapped his fanged jaws appreciatively. The sight had made him hungry. He looked at the fifty drakkarim in the room and speculated. Just at that moment, however, a drakkar servant hurried in bearing a platter on which lay a steaming giak haunch. Zagarna accepted it with regret -- he preferred his meat raw and recently killed or, even better, still live -- and began to eat. Gobbets of half-chewed giak fell to the floor around him as he made his way past the cowering drakkarim to his platinum throne. He settled himself heavily. He moved to throw away the giak bone and then, on second thoughts, fed it to his second mouth, located in his midriff. Those lower jaws crunched away with steady menace while he spoke to the assembled drakkarim. "How do our plans fare?" he said. The drakkarim had to strain to hear. His voice was quiet and bubbling, as if he spoke through a foot of water. Its quietness was all the more terrifying in the context of the hugeness of his form. Standing, he was nearly twenty feet tall. His skin was scaled, and coloured blue and green. The outsides of his arms and legs were studded with sharp claws, as were his hands and his feet; a double row of claws ran backwards from his forehead and down his spine. From his horned face projected a massive jaw in which were set knife-sharp teeth longer than a man's hand. His incongruously pink tongue flickered in and out like that of a serpent. He leaned back in his throne, and stained saliva ran from both his mouths. His audience shuffled uneasily. "Speak!" Zagarna said impatiently "Oh, Lord of All that is Dark," a drakkar began tentatively, "these are


early days in our --" "Silence, you fool. I don't want excuses. In three months' time I will subject Sommerlund to the rule of Darkness, the rule of our master Naar. In summer there will be crops aplenty for my armies to feed on. After, that is, we have had our fill of the two-legged meat." He chuckled, picking his teeth with the claw on the back of his left wrist. "So tell me what you have been doing to advance our cause or, by Naar, I shall disembowel you all myself and select new advisers." The room was momentarily dark. A zlanbeast had clamped itself hungrily to the outside of the slit window, seeking further giak prey. It saw Zagarna's great eyes glowing venomously in the darkness, and fluttered hastily away. One of the tallest of the drakkarim stepped forward. "Most Mighty One," he said, "I cower in the face of your awesomeness, but I cannot lie to you." Zagarna wanted to kill the drakkar, but clutched the arms of his great metal throne to hold himself back. "Your name?" he snapped in his ominously quiet way. "Alyss, Oh Lord of the Damned," replied the drakkar. He seemed remarkably calm for someone who was a mere hairsbreadth from a very gruesome death. "Well, Alyss," said Zagarna, "if you do not wish to lie to me, and if you are not eager to tell me your news, I can only assume that your news is bad. How bad?" "Sire and Master of Evil, we have amassed the troops you requested. We have sufficient giaks and gourgaz to enslave Sommerlund twice over. But even a giak must have weapons if it is to fight effectively. Only one in ten of the giaks are armed. Without swords and axes, any attempt we made this summer would be doomed. The Kai would repel us easily. Far better to wait until the summer of next year." This drakkar's nerve is amazing, thought Zagarna, against the rage that filled most of his mind. I must make sure that his death comes soon -and is especially unpleasant. The drakkarim are useful, but what would happen if I allowed any of them to become too useful? "You are a bearer of bad news," Zagarna bubbled. "There is a tradition about bearers of bad news." "Your Highness, it is a foolish tradition. If you fail to take note of bad news, then you will be unable to convert it into wise courses of action. Here


you have a choice. Either you can postpone the invasion until next year, or you can persuade those at Helgedad, Nadgazad and Aarnak to forge our weapons more swiftly." The drakkar's voice had lingered with clear emphasis on the word "persuade". "You are right," conceded Zagarna with a click of his teeth. And you will de dead by morning, he added silently. "Send messengers at once to Helgedad. If we need weapons then we must first have weaponmakers. Tell Thulrash that yet more giaks must be spawned. It is my will that we do not delay our attack until next year." "Certainly, Great One," said the curiously courageous drakkar. "You are new to me," mused Zagarna. "Drakkarim are all oddly alike, yet I cannot remember having seen one like you before. Where do you come from?" The drakkar waved his arms. "Where do we all come from? From the bosom of Naar himself, of course." Late that night a troop of giaks burst into the room assigned to the strange drakkar called Alyss as sleeping quarters. Sent under the express instructions of Zagarna, their intention was to carry out a slow execution. But the drakkar's bunk was empty, the bedclothes unruffled. The giaks nonetheless reported to their superiors that the execution had been a long and anguished one. Nobody ever volunteers to be breakfast. 2 Sixteen hundred years before the creation of the Moonstone there was an accident. There was a rent in the fabric of the Universe, and for a short while the material world of Magnamund was linked to the astral world of Dazhiarn. Through this rent -- the Shadow Gate -- came a race of beings called the Shianti. Their skins were as black as ebony, and their eyes were yellow. The only food they required was air. Their powers were those of demigods: they were immortal and invulnerable; they could create and destroy through the mildest exercise of their will. Yet they were not omnipotent. Centuries went by. The Shianti, who had at first been content to remain close to where they had emerged from the Shadow Gate, began to explore their new home. They ventured north, where they became known as Majhan; by the beings in the east they were described as Suukon. All the


people of Magnamund now recall them as the Ancients. The Shianti were not conquerors. They sought knowledge -knowledge of both their new world and the one they had abandoned, Dazhiarn. Once they had attained the level of knowledge they required, they crystallized it in the form of a gem, the Moonstone; formed in the astral plane, this gem became the focus of their existence. The creation of the Moonstone was a momentous event, and all dates are now calculated with reference to it. The creation brought about a golden age in which all the beings of Magnamund enjoyed harmony, plenty and tranquillity. There was also, during this era, an influx of human races to the world. However, even the best of ages can be the precursor of an eternity of Evil. The presence of the Shianti had unsettled the balance of the conflict between the forces of Light and those of Darkness, but this had been tolerable. The existence of the Moonstone created an even greater imbalance. Ishir and Kai looked on Magnamund with dismay. After some three thousand years Ishir descended and took on bodily form to speak to the leaders of the Shianti. She explained to them that, while they were in themselves not evil, their exploration of the lands of Magnamund would, over the millennia, contribute to the eventual triumph of Darkness. As soon as they realized the truth that she spoke, they agreed to banish themselves to the Isle of Lorn, far away in Southern Magnamund, lying in a sea whose shores belonged to the nations of Forlu, Suhn and Azanam. Over the following years they retreated in their thousands and hundreds of thousands to this inhospitable rock. Even though they had been persuaded by Ishir that their self-exile was necessary, the Shianti travelled to the Isle of Lam with heavy hearts, for they were only too aware that in the west there had sprung up a vile race, the drakkarim. These people were of human form, yet there were few who would have called them human. They hacked and tortured their way across great swathes of Magnamund, slaughtering men, women and children with equal zeal. Their greatest prizes, which they hung around their belts, were the skulls of newborn children. But the drakkarim's reign of terror was shortlived, for, a few decades after the exodus of the Shianti, Naar succeeded in bringing to Magnamund his newest spawn, the Darklords. This was in the year 3072 after the creation of the Moonstone. Originally there were twenty of these beings, each of them more evil than the last. They took diverse forms. Yet Naar's creation


was flawed, because none of the Darklords could survive for long on Magnamund: its sweet air was poison to their bodies. Accordingly they set about destroying all around them, and from the greenness of a once-great continent they created the Darklands, a nation where the air swiftly corroded a mortal's lungs and the rivers were of acid. The drakkarim, recognizing the might of the Darklords, swiftly allied with them. The Darklords used the magic of the Nadziranim -- the Dark Wizards -- to transform the drakkar race so that they could breathe the foul air of the Darklands as well as that of the rest of Magnamund. The most powerful of the Darklords was Vashna. He it was who conducted a terrible war of attrition -- the War of Desecration -- against the human population of Magnamund. The drakkarim served as his troops. In the year 3192 after the creation of the Moonstone he set himself up as Archlord of the Darklands, and all abased themselves before him . . . or died. He set about building the first of the eight great fortress-cities in the Darklands and, once this work was under way, started the construction of the vast city of Helgedad. In its dungeons he spawned the vordaks, the zlanbeast and kraan, the doomwolves and -- most prolifically of all -- the giaks. From the astral plane of the God of Darkness, Naar, he summoned the crypt spawn. Around him he gathered a host of lesser Darklords, known as xaghash. His forces assisted by these pitiless beings, he set forth to conquer all of Magnamund. Northern Magnamund was soon under his sway. But Ishir and Kai had not been idle all this while. They had created a new race of human beings, the Sommlending, and they had given to them two gifts: one was that of human wisdom; the other was the Sword of the Sun, the Sommerswerd. In the year 3434 after the creation of the Moonstone, the fair-haired Sommlending came, led by their King, Kian. They penetrated deep into Northern Magnamund, their bravery and their spiritual resources serving them well as they fought against the evil armies of Vashna. The forces of the Darklords were pushed back and ever back, until they were contained behind the natural barrier of the Durncrag Mountains. King Kian called the land which he had reclaimed Sommerlund, in honour of the many Sommlending who had died during the wars. The thought of defeat was a novel one to Vashna. His wrath caused all the atmosphere of Magnamund to roil and fracture, so that clouds fell to the ground. He swore undying revenge upon the Sommlending. In the stench-filled pits of Helgedad he spawned a greater Evil than had ever gone before, the helghast, beings of the undead who could change


their physical appearance and who were impervious to assault by all normal weapons. During the three decades following the year 3520 after the creation of the Moonstone, Vashna unleashed hordes of these creatures upon the folk of Sommerlund . . . and yet he was still unsuccessful. The Brotherhood of the Crystal Star discovered magical means of identifying and killing the helghast. The King of Sommerlund himself wielded the mighty Sommerswerd, whose magic countered the evil of the helghast: men lost count of the number of helghast that died upon its razor-sharp blade. The last battle of the Helghast Wars came in the year 3550 after the creation of the Moonstone, and it was fought on the fringes of the Darklands. In later years it came to be known as the Great Battle of Maakengorge. On its northern rim Vashna was confronted directly by Ulnar I, the Sommlending king. They fought at first with swords and axes, but then they turned to magic. Ulnar turned the air around them to fire, but Vashna caused the fire to rise so high above the ground that people today believe it to be a dim, remote star. Vashna forced the rocks rimming the canyon to become molten lava, and thousands battling there were burned alive or leapt to their dooms in the canyon below. Ulnar swept the air with the Sommerswerd, and rain poured from the skies to quench the burning of the rocks. Then Ulnar pointed the Sommerswerd at Vashna's eyes and spat a curse. The curse killed him instantly, but he lived on after his death. The Darklord began to grow bigger. Soon he was a hundred feet high, soon a thousand. When he was a million feet tall his body was almost invisible, and his scream of fury was nothing more than a faint piping. Soon even that stopped, as the particles of his body were further and further dissipated. At last that body was dispersed throughout all the Universe, and so far removed from each other were the particles of which he had been made that they no longer had any power to create Evil. Yet his bleak soul survived, being swallowed into the Maakengorge, which collapsed in on itself to capture not only the soul of the Darklord but also all of the bodies of those who survived from his army. One day, perhaps, these foul minions of Darkness might re-emerge from their rocky tomb. As for the body of Vashna? There is a lake in southern Slovia called Lake Adon. Children are told that one of the oxygen atoms in the waters of that lake was once a part of the body of Vashna. But nobody knows which oxygen atom it is. Vashna's death saw an end to the wars for many years. At Helgedad the Darklords feuded among themselves, each seeking supremacy over the others. None could claim to be Archlord of the Darklands, since all were of


equal strength. Some quested the world to find the Doomstones, created eons before by Agarash the Damned, and one of the Darklords, Zagarna, finally found them encapsulated in the body of a dying man. Zagarna bore his trophies home to Helgedad, and with his enhanced powers soon succeeded in establishing himself as the master of all the other Darklords. Zagarna, like Vashna before him, was dedicated to the destruction of Sommerlund. To him this country of peace and goodness was like an excrescence on the face of the world. In the year 4219 after the creation of the Moonstone he launched a siege against the Kai Monastery of Sommerlund, and his armies seemed certain to succeed in their aim of exterminating the Kai, so great were they in numbers. But it was not to be. More than four hundred years before, the Monastery had been founded by the earliest of the Kai. Who were these Kai? When first the Sommlending came to the mainland of Magnamund there were warriors among them who were not simply brave: they had a strength within them that transcended sheer physical strength. They had powers of body greater than those of other men and women but, more importantly, they had minds capable of being trained so that they could use mental as well as physical skills against their foes. Because of their invincibility, even when confronted by the colossal powers of the Darklords and the Nadziranim sorcerers who assisted them, these warriors became known as Lords and, in due course, because the Sommlending traced their ancestry from the Sun, Kai, the warriors were called Kai Lords. The first of the Kai Lords was one of those Sommlending who had fought at the Battle of Maakengorge. In later life he would adopt the name of Sun Eagle; little is known of his earlier existence, except that he was a Baron of Toran. He gathered magicians around him, and they reassured him that he was indeed a person blessed by Ishir and Kai, and that he was possessed of great powers. Ishir had put him upon Magnamund expressly to counter the Darklords, the magicians urged, and for this purpose she had given him talents of which most men and women could only dream. These were only latent within him: before he could exercise them to the fullest he had to locate the lost Lorestones which Nyxator had created all those many thousands of years before. His quest was long and arduous, but in the end he succeeded. He had a hunting skill: wherever he went, he would be able to stalk


and kill prey in order to feed himself. In addition, he could never find himself lost: always he would instinctively know the right path to take. He could heal himself and he could, in a more limited way, heal other people. A prickling of the hair at the back of his neck would infallibly warn him when danger was immediately at hand. He could make himself virtually invisible by blending in so well with his surroundings that he seemed to be a part of them, or by affecting the minds of those around so that somehow they never chanced to look at him. He could read the thoughts of many species of animals. He could use his mind to launch an onslaught upon his enemies, and at the same time shield his mind against mental attack from others. His cerebral powers were so great that he could, if he focused his thoughts, move small objects over short distances. These abilities became known to the generations that followed Sun Eagle as the Kai Disciplines. In the year 3810 after the creation of the Moonstone he erected a Monastery in Western Sommerlund. It was far from centres of commerce and other human habitations, set in a shallow valley high among the hills. Sun Eagle and his followers sought out children among all the Sommlending who seemed to possess the potential to attain the Kai Disciplines and, with the consent of their parents, brought them to the Monastery for tuition and nurture. These children were trained to be warriors but, more than that, they were trained to uphold virtue in the face of Evil. Sun Eagle wrote down the wisdom he had gained both from his own mind and from the Lorestones. The book he wrote was soon known as The Book of the Magnakai. Kai Masters acted as tutors in the Monastery, basing their teachings on this book. Their aim was to train their pupils to achieve complete mastery of all ten of the basic Kai Disciplines. Pupils who did so became Kai Masters, and were enabled to teach the next generation of novices. Each year, on the first day of spring, the feast day of Fehmarn, all of the pupils who had studied for a year or more were given new names. These names were descriptions of their emergent personalities. There were higher versions of the Kai Disciplines. Through personal tuition and long study of The Book of the Magnakai, the best of all the pupils could attain these skills. The Kai Masters divided their acolytes into groups called lore-circles so that they could concentrate on developing specific Magnakai Disciplines. Few pupils attained this level but, when they did, they became fearsome warriors, possessed of physical and mental abilities far in excess of those granted to ordinary mortals. They were the Kai Lords.


These were the people whom Zagarna sought to exterminate. He besieged their Monastery, his giak hordes looking like a vast army of ants upon a hillside. For months there was a stalemate until the Kai Lords realized that giaks required a leader if they were to fight with any courage. Proud Kai archers laid down their lives to kill giak leaders, and so the forces of Zagarna were defeated. Once more the Darklords and the forces of Evil were driven back to cower behind the protective curtain of the Durncrag Mountains; once more the Sommlending were free to live as they wished. Yet the shadow of the Darklords was still harsh upon the land. Zagarna's hatred was deep. He sent his agents -- helghast, drakkarim and others -- to infiltrate the governments and royal courts of the human nations outside Sommerlund. Their task was to foment strife and war, and in this they succeeded only too well. He sent also his sorcerers, the Nadziranim, in a quest to discover the magical items and "wise books" which had been lost millennia earlier, when the Elder Magi had been virtually extinguished by the Great Plague during the year 2514 before the creation of the Moonstone. Yet physical warfare with the people of Sommerlund, and especially the Kai, was what Zagarna craved. He forced the creatures of Helgedad to create new and terrible weapons. There were staves of power within whose twisted shafts of black steel lurked blue lightning. There were poisoned spikes which never failed to miss their mark. There were crystals which erupted with explosive force whenever a human being looked upon them. There were daggers and swords which were charged with magic: their blades could turn from iron to flame at a warrior's mental command. He built fortresses, too, like Agarash and Vashna before him. The last of his great fortresses to be constructed was Kaag, only a few tens of miles from the Durncrag Mountains. Closer to these awe-inspiring peaks he built a number of other, lesser, fortresses. From these he launched spying missions into Sommerlund. The Kai and the Border Rangers of the Sommlending observed these, and took account of the small numbers of giaks there. They believed that Zagarna's troops were small in number, little realizing the size of the colossal army he was amassing at Kaag. They thought that Zagarna commanded only a few thousand giaks. They were wrong; and their assumption was nearly fatal for the people of Sommerlund. 3


Vonotar was finding the pain intolerable. The air around the small party was now a murky orange, and filled with little particles of smouldering ash. For a moment he had dropped the protective shield he had constructed around himself and Allia, and the single breath he had taken had shocked his lungs. "Stop!" he gasped. "Koga!" "Why . . . we . . . stop?" said the solitary giak who had mastered Sommlending. "I'm not made for this environment," wheezed Vonotar, his voice sounding like the rustling of dry, dead leaves. Sweat was pouring from all parts of his body. "Taag dok," suggested one of the other giaks. "Googa akamaz." Vonotar had little desire to be fed to a doomwolf, and summoned up resources he'd never known he had in order to incinerate the mutterer. "We stop," he said with deliberation, choosing the simplest words he could, "because I say so. Your air -- is not good for me to breathe. I must make magic so that I can breathe your air. Magic hurts. Magic makes pain go all through my body. I need your help." "Why . . . should . . . we . . . give . . . you . . . our help?" Vonotar gestured at the smoking ruins of the giak which he had just destroyed, and the point was well taken. If the other members of the patrol did not assist him he was doomed -- but before he died they too would be dead. "There . . . is . . . drug . . . . It . . . stop . . . pain." "What drug? Do you have any with you?" "It . . . good . . . drug. It . . . keep . . . Sommlending alive . . . long time . . . after . . . they . . . should die. They . . able . . . watch . . . as we . . . eat their . . . flesh." The giak swiftly translated this for the benefit of his companions, and they responded with a malodorous cackle of approval. Vonotar thought swiftly. If this giak were telling the truth, then his immediate problem was solved. More importantly, though, if he could gain access to sufficient supplies of the drug, he would become virtually invincible. The great hindrance to the efforts of the Brotherhood of the Crystal Star had always been that the human body can stand only so much pain. If he were numbed to that pain, he could perform feats of magic undreamed of by his rivals. "Can I trust you?" he said. "You . . . must."


The magician bit a piece of flesh from his finger, just by the nail. A giak's sincerity was as worthless as a boat on dry land, yet the stakes were high . . . "I will trust you," he said. The giak dug into one of the pockets of his studded tunic. His sharp little fangs clattered as he forced himself to concentrate on what he was looking for. Finally he found it -- a tiny phial, encrusted with green mould. "This the . . . drug," he said triumphantly, advancing towards Vonotar. "May . . . give . . . you?" "Yes," said the magician. Without knowing quite why he added: "Friend." The giak smiled, and Vonotar fought back panic. Was this a smile of unity or was it a grin of devious glee? Still, there was no time for second thoughts. If this were a poison he would die -- but then he would soon die anyway, without something to bolster his protective shield. He had to take a chance. He took the phial from the giak's outstretched claws. "You . . . drink. Not . . . too much . . . or . . . fall over . . ." "I've come across beverages like that before," mumbled Vonotar. He pulled out the stopper and slimy brown smoke poured from the phial's neck. "I drink this?" "Yes . . . you drink. Looks . . . good . . . ripe." The magician peered around him. If these were his last moments, he could think of better places to die. The grey ash of the barren plain swirled uneasily in rheumatic hot winds. The orange of the sky crouched over him like a predator. In the far distance he could see a volcano belch its lava and choking gases high into the dismal air. He smelled the contents of the phial and recoiled. But then he closed his eyes and swigged back half a mouthful. Astonishingly, the liquid tasted of strawberries. Within a few seconds the pain had vanished from his body. He was conscious of the fact that he was still using his energies to keep the shield in place, yet the sensation which had once been pain was now vaguely pleasurable. He was reminded of the time when, as a child, he had broken his arm: the agony had been extreme at first, but after a couple of weeks it had reduced to an intangible itch. When even the itch had disappeared he had realized that he had in some perverse way been enjoying it. The shrieking pain which had tormented him was now like that itch. "Thank you," he said to the giak. "You have been honest with me. I


shall remember this." He tucked the phial away in his robe. "Now, let's make the best speed we can to reach Kaag and your master, Zagarna." The giak grinned again, and this time Vonotar did not find the sight quite so revolting as before. "We . . . friends," said the giak. "That's right," said Vonotar. "We friends." 4 The little band wended its way through the dour plains of the Darklands. From time to time Vonotar dozed off on Allia's back, knowing that now the giaks had subordinated themselves to a new leader he was safe from treachery. The creatures seemed to need no sleep, and even when darkness fell -- although it was difficult to tell when this was, because the light was murky enough at noon -- they plodded on. It was on the second morning, according to Vonotar's calculations, that a couple of winged beasts flew down through the orange haze to land beside the party. Although he had never seen one before, he recognized these as zlanbeast. They looked at him with beady, semi-reptilian eyes, and chattered in a high, chirping language which he couldn't understand. The leading giak -- his "friend" -- turned after a while to explain. "They . . . say you . . . orgadak . . . must . . . gaj . . ." It took a moment before Vonotar remembered the meaning of "gaj". Then he sat upright in the saddle. The zlanbeast wanted him to die. He contemplated killing one of them to demonstrate his powers, but almost at once decided against. His troop of giaks was, for the moment, a guarantee of protection. The zlanbeast jostled together, obviously ill at ease on the dusty ground, twittering to each other in evident confusion. Vonotar's "friend" interrupted their conversation, speaking in their own language. They argued with him for a while, but eventually seemed to concede a point. The giak turned to explain. "I tell . . . zlanbeast . . . you have . . . news for . . . Zagarna. I tell . . . zlanbeast . . . take us . . . to . . . ride . . . in skies. Much . . . quick . . . They say . . . take . . . us . . . Kaag . . . then Zagarna . . . order us . . . eat . . . by


zlanbeast." The ugly little creature looked terrified. His leathery greyish-green face had paled until it was almost white. Vonotar looked around the dismal landscape, and realized how tired he was. Tired of riding after all these hours; tired of the tedium of endless swathes of dusty greyness; tired of the orange light that made him blink and wink despite his every magical attempt to alter his vision. If these hideous creatures could carry him swiftly to Kaag to meet with Zagarna, then his journey would be shortened by days. Moreover, at their current pace, it seemed doubtful if he and the giaks would reach Kaag before Fehmarn. "Tell them I will agree to go with them to Kaag," he said. "But tell them also of my powers of Right Hand magic." The giak chattered briefly, and the zlanbeast responded. "I . . . tell them," the giak explained in due course, "that . . . you . . .me both . . . go . . . Kaag. I . . . help . . . you." Vonotar nodded, and the giak understood his gesture. The magician slipped from Allia's back. A cloud of dust arose around his feet as they landed on the desolate ground. "What," he asked, "of the rest of these?" He waved his hand to encompass Allia and the remainder of the giaks. "Oh . . . they . . . eat . . . horse. Maybe . . . all . . . die." The giak shrugged in a curiously human way. Vonotar had little interest in the fate of the giaks, but he was concerned about Allia. She had served him well, and in his own way he had become fond of her. The thought of her spending the last moments of her existence parched with thirst and ravaged by starvation on this misbegotten plain was something which gave him pain. Still less did he enjoy the idea of her being slaughtered for giak-meat, her elegant grey flanks ripped apart by greedily voracious claws. Yet, all too clearly, she could not ride on a zlanbeast to Kaag. There were tears in his eyes as he touched a hand to her forehead. "Allia," he whispered, his mind filled with the consciousness that no one had as yet been able to communicate with horses, "the time to come will be very frightening for you. Don't give up hope." He petted her mane, and then he created a Left Hand thought and sent it down his arm and into the mare. Allia shrank slowly at first, but then more rapidly. She began to whinny in terror when she was the size of a wolf. She was still bellowing in terror when the shrinking stopped. Very gently, Vonotar reached down and plucked from the dust an animal that was no larger than a mouse. She kicked and bit against his hand, but he picked her up and put her in the relative


security of one of the pockets of his robe. For a few moments the tiny horse struggled but then, in the darkness, she toppled into long-needed sleep. "I am prepared for the journey," the magician said loudly -- too loudly, he realized. He was disguising his fears. He trusted his giak "friend", who had adopted him as a leader, but the zlanbeast were much less predictable. He could be high in the skies when one of them decided to roll lazily and let him fall through the thick, orange air to his crushing death below. Still, he seemed to have little choice. The giak clearly didn't recognize the fact that Vonotar had doubts. He beckoned one of the zlanbeast to come forward, and swiftly climbed onto its back. Hesitation might prove fatal, Vonotar realized. He strode purposefully towards the other zlanbeast and leapt astride it. Its back was bony and uncomfortable, but he pretended not to notice. "To Kaag!" he cried. "To . . . Kaag," the giak repeated dutifully. Moments later they were airborne. For the first few seconds Vonotar's mind was a mess of panic as the ground receded beneath them. The little party of giaks stood in a circle, watching as the zlanbeast and their riders grew smaller and smaller against the flaccid sky. Vonotar clutched the slime-encrusted scaliness of his zlanbeast's neck and closed his eyes. He could feel the pulsing of the creature's great wings as it drove swiftly through the air. The wings beat slowly, yet with tremendous power. For a few seconds the zlanbeast and its rider were moving across the sky at colossal speed, so that Vonotar's head was thrown back by the rushing wind, and then there would be a moment of calm as the creature coasted, drawing its wings back to its sides. Then again the wings would arch out and push against the miserable air, and Vonotar's head would be thrust back once more. In the intervals of calm he looked around him. Up here, some thousands of feet above the desolation of the Darklands, he could see the blight which the Darklords had created in what had once been green and fertile land. Behind him the Durncrag range loomed. Below, volcanoes spat their venom skyward; it was their light and the gases they emitted that coloured the air orange. In every direction, as far as the eye could see, there was nothing but the bleakness and dustiness of the barren plain, punctuated only by mountains which disgorged flame and fury. He saw that the lips of his "friend" were drawn back in a caricature of ecstasy. Clearly giaks were rarely allowed to enjoy the pleasures of sky-


riding, and this one was experiencing an infrequent exhilaration. The sun looked like an orange balloon filled with water. Letting his fancy wander, Vonotar saw it also as a malevolent eye watching the world. The flight seemed to last forever, but it was still not yet noon when the two zlanbeast came to rest in front of the great gates of Kaag. They chirped to the giak, and he translated. "Zlanbeast . . . think . . . now they . . . eat us. They let . . . Zagarna . . . master . . . decide." Vonotar could hardly believe the size of the fortress. It seemed to be too large to exist, let alone to have been constructed by creatures as vile and lowly as the squat giaks. The mere mass of the place dragged him towards it, as if its gravity were pulling on him. He climbed down from the zlanbeast he had been riding and stumbled through the ash and dust towards the gates; as an afterthought, he beckoned the giak to follow him. The zlanbeast chattered urgently. One pecked suddenly at a parasite under its wing. Their pipings produced a response, for the great gates slowly began to open. Accompanied by his "friend", Vonotar entered Kaag. 5 When Silent Wolf finally awoke he found himself tucked up neatly in bed. The smell of fresh cotton filled his nostrils. One of his fellow-students, a young girl whose name he couldn't remember, was sitting at the foot of the bed reading a book. She looked up as soon as his eyes opened. The sunlight flooded into the room, pinpointing the metal flanges and studs of the sparse furniture. Silent Wolf dimly recalled falling to sleep in Storm Hawk's -- no, now it was Winter Owl's -- study, and for a few seconds he was puzzled. How had he got here? More than that, where was "here"? "Am I home?" he muttered. "Home?" said the girl. "Home is anywhere you want it to be." Silent Wolf rested his hot cheek against the coolness of his pillow. Just what he needed: a homespun philosopher. Memories swirled in his mind. Again he saw Storm Hawk's screaming fall from the skies. He blinked, as if in a refusal to watch this scene once more. "This is home, if you would like it to be," said the girl. She put her book down on the floor and stepped across to adjust his blankets.


After she had finished fussing around him she drew her fingers down his face, closing his eyelids. "Sleep a little while longer," she said. He let himself fall dreamily into the darkness of his mind. The girl snapped her fingers, and was gone. After a few seconds, her book followed.


6 The Gathering Storm 1 Zagarna strode through one of Kaag's gloomy corridors, and a giak was unfortunate enough to be coming in the opposite direction -- unfortunate because Zagarna was rapaciously hungry. The Darklord, without pausing in his stride, seized the giak and bit through its throat. Greenness sprayed all over the Darklord's front, but he was unconcerned. As he walked and ate he spoke to the crowd of anxious drakkarim who scuttled in his wake. "I care nothing for your arguments," he bubbled, "and nothing for you yourselves. You harboured a traitor among you. This makes each of you as much a traitor as he was." The party was briefly lit up as it passed one of the blazing torches set into the corridor wall. The next seemed a very long way ahead. "The traitor is dead, now, and I am told his death was worse than the worst of nightmares. Yet imagine if he had escaped?" The attendant drakkarim were doing their very best not to imagine anything at that moment, and so Zagarna's rhetorical question lost much of its impact. Besides, they were too terrified of him in his fury to make any coherent response. Zagarna answered his own question. "By now he could have been beyond the Durncrags, blabbing all our secrets to the Kai, to the Brotherhood of the Crystal Star, or to King Whatsisname. How much do you think your lives would be worth if they knew how short of weaponry we are?" He spat fragmented shards of giak cartilage into a corner. As he paced past a slit window, orange light glinted eerily on his blue-green hide. The giak's ichor, mixed with his own grey saliva, dribbled thickly from his jaw. "And how are we to know that there was only the one traitor among you?" asked the Darklord, expecting no answer and getting none. "For all I can tell, even now one of you may be listening to all that I say, and remembering it, and plotting to flee to Sommerlund and tell everything you know." The drakkarim looked at each other, desperately seeking out any obvious signs of treason in somebody else. "There's only one solution," said Zagarna, just as he came to a great door of polished granite. He stood aside and ushered the drakkarim into the


dark room beyond. "A final solution, as it happens," said the Darklord with a cackle, slamming the door behind them. Even through the granite he could hear the screams of the drakkarim as a flock of starved crypt spawn fluttered down from the vaulted ceiling of the cavernous theatre. He waited for a moment, listening with pleasure, and then went on his way. He had more urgent things to do than indulge himself. If there was treachery even within Kaag itself, then he must move swiftly. Sommerlund must be conquered this summer, before those pathetic human faint-hearts had time to erect sufficient defences. He moved swiftly back along the corridor. Another giak was unfortunate enough to be coming in the opposite direction. 2 The instant Vonotar and his "friend" passed through the massive portals of Kaag they were seized by a group of a dozen giaks. They were pinned against the dank stone wall and subjected to a full-scale search. Vonotar's robes provided rich rewards; had it not been for his half-strangled protests, the squirming Allia would have been nothing more than a giak's snack. The bundle of clothing and Nadziranim books which he had brought with him received less attention: giaks had never really learnt to understand what books were. Vonotar felt sharp little teeth eagerly biting his arms and legs, and he glanced across to his "friend" for reassurance. The look he received in return was almost blank: in the presence of other giaks the creature's allegiances were shifting. For some little while now he had recognized Vonotar as his natural leader, but in this congested space he began to look instead to the senior officer among the guards. Vonotar could see indecision flickering across the giak's weaselly eyes. The sorcerer tried to look like a powerful leader who was, just at this moment, suffering a trifling adversity. Almost as an afterthought he shaped a Dark thought, freezing the giaks of the guard into immobility. It was as if he had suddenly been transported from a crowded mall to the storeroom of a waxworks. The only other moving creature, aside from himself, was his "friend". Vonotar noticed that the magical effort caused him a twinge of pain,


and plucked from the razor-sharp fist of one of the giaks the phial which it had been in the process of confiscating. He drained the liquid, and the pain vanished. "A fine welcome," he said sarcastically. "You . . . friend," said the giak. "Shall I kill these . . . objects?" Vonotar gestured around him at the silent mob. "Taag," agreed the giak. But Vonotar hesitated. The fidelity of his "friend" was fickle, and not to be relied upon. Yet the magician recognized that, in the next few hours, he would have to deal with many giaks and other creatures spawned in Helgedad, whose natural instincts would be to slaughter him. In addition, he would have to persuade them to take him to the Darklord Zagarna . . . who might very well order him put to death without listening to a word he had to say. A group of supportive giaks might be, not to put too fine a point on it, useful. "I am your master," he said. "You . . . master." The giak pushed away one of the guards who had been pressing him against the wall. The rigid figure toppled to the stone floor and smashed into a million pieces. "You," said the giak, "friend . . . and . . . master." "Then follow me," Vonotar said sharply. "In a moment or two I'll allow these craven fools to have their lives back. But we can't allow ourselves to be attacked like this again." "You . . . master. I . . . obey . . . master. I . . . kill . . . giaks." The giak pulled his serrated sword from its scabbard and raised it high above his head. "Stop!" Vonotar yelled. The echoes of his cry travelled along the bleak and black corridor, fading as they did so but nevertheless reverberating long enough to be caught by the ear of Zagarna, as he mused and muttered in his council chamber some miles away. The Darklord heard the word and for a few moments thought nothing of it; then he realized that it was a Sommlending word, and he sprang from his platinum throne. Vonotar's "friend" lowered his sword and replaced it in its scabbard. "Why . . . no . . . kill? They . . . no . . . able . . . kill us. Plenty . . . other . . . giaks." "We need these ones to help us," said Vonotar with studied patience. "Come with me."


The two of them picked their way slowly and carefully through the silent tableau. Vonotar urged his "friend" to caution, but even so a couple more lifeless forms were toppled to the ground, where they shattered. He and the giak made their way further down the dark and smoky corridor, deeper into the heart of Kaag. The magician held up a hand to indicate that they should halt directly beneath one of the guttering torches. In its unsteady light he looked back towards the frozen figures. "In a moment," he said, "I'll let life return to them. If they attack us, I shall still them again and you may slaughter them if you wish. But I hope they'll pause just long enough to listen to what I have to say. I must ask you to translate for me. Do so faithfully and you will be well rewarded." The giak grunted dubiously, and put one hand to the hilt of his sword, just in case. Vonotar clapped his hands and from his fingertips a spark of yellow light sprang along the corridor to bathe the silent forms . . . . . . which instantly sprang into motion. "Wait!" the magician cried. Standing tall in his blue, star-encrusted robe, he made an imposing figure. The giaks, conditioned as they were to obey the orders of their superiors, were suddenly quiet. Although they did not know the word that he had used, its meaning was clear to them. Their lips remained drawn back from their pointy fangs, however, and their weapons were poised ready for onslaught. "Recognize me," said Vonotar, "as your leader." His "friend" jabbered incomprehensibly, and Vonotar hoped that he was not being betrayed. It seemed, though, that the giak was indeed translating his words accurately, for there was a certain measure of relaxation among the guards. "Ever since you can remember," said Vonotar, trying to breathe more evenly, "you have been taught that all Sommlending, without exception, must perish by the sword. Yet there are exceptions to all things. I am a Sommlending who brings great benefits to the worthy cause of your ultimate master, the Darklord Zagarna." He paused to allow his "friend" to convey this to the other giaks, and was pleased to notice that a number of them were now, albeit hesitantly, sheathing their weapons. "I demand of you that you act as my escort, and take me to your great lord. Until I am in his presence, you must obey the instructions of no one other than myself. Is that clear?"


Again his companion jabbered, and more of the guards lowered their weapons. A few of them spoke, but so quickly that Vonotar was unable to make out what they were saying. "They . . . say . . . they . . . do . . . you . . . say but . . . only until . . . you with . . . Zagarna. If he say . . . kill you . . . you . . . be dead gazumbo." Vonotar relaxed a little for the first time since he had entered the fortress. He had been granted as much as he could have hoped for, and he allowed himself a trace of a smile. "Tell them to lead the way," he hissed, and his "friend" spat a few words. Uneasily the giaks of the guard patrol shuffled past them. "Der!" snapped Vonotar as soon as they were in position, and obediently they began to clatter off into the gloom. They moved remarkably quickly, and it was as much as the magician could do to keep up with them. He whispered a phrase and the darkness of the corridor became as bright as day but, even so, after a few minutes of this rapid progress he realized he was utterly lost within Kaag's labyrinthine passageways. There were no decorations on the walls, nothing to distinguish one corridor from the next. How the giaks knew where they were heading he could only guess. The ceilings under which they passed were at least thirty feet high and probably quite a lot more, but Vonotar found that, in contrast to the airiness one might have expected from the corridors' vast proportions, the surroundings grew more and more stifling the further he and his escort went. The smell of burning sulphur which he had first noticed shortly after entering the Darklands was now so strong that it would have overpowered him had he not maintained his shield. His sandals began to smoulder, little wisps of smoke rising from their blackened edges. He felt no pain from the heat, of course, but nevertheless he experienced a tug of panic. Did he have a spell in his armoury to stop his flesh and bones burning away? If he couldn't walk it would be of little consolation that the loss of his lower legs hadn't actually hurt him. He tapped his "friend" on the arm and pointed to the floor. The giak nodded in sluggish understanding and hefted the magician up onto his shoulders. By Naar! thought Vonotar. He did that with one hand! If I'd realized quite how strong these creatures are I might have been less confident out there on the plain. On and on they went. Now they sometimes passed places where the walls glowed sombrely red. Each time this happened, Vonotar fought terror.


Kaag's walls reminded him of the fleshy red sides of some huge creature's throat -- a huge creature that he was willingly allowing himself to be swallowed by. The giaks seemed totally unaffected by the heat. He wondered if perhaps they had a magical shield like his own which rendered them impervious to extremes of hot and cold. He felt the forehead of his "friend" beneath him and found, as he had suspected, that there was not a trace of sweat. Perhaps giaks don't sweat, he thought. But he was disconcerted to realize at the same time that neither was the giak breathing hard, even though he had been half-running for well over an hour, and for part of that time burdened down by Vonotar's not inconsiderable weight. The sorcerer felt inside his robe and fetched out a ball of fluff. He tossed it up in the air. As he had suspected, as soon as it was outside the influence of his protective shield it burst into flames. Even had he not enhanced his eyesight, he would have been able to see clearly enough in the corridors they now entered. Although the floor remained incongruously black, the walls were a long trail of red heat, stretching out ahead of them; in places they glared whitely. One of the giaks stumbled against a white patch and screamed in agony, its shoulder charred to a black cinder. So, even though they can tolerate great heat, as hot as a glowing iron, thought Vonotar, they do have their limits. It was rather cheering to know this. Yet, after only the slightest pause, the injured giak continued to scurry on down the corridor, keeping pace easily with his fellows. At first Vonotar thought it was only his imagination, but soon he was certain that the corridors were becoming broader and grander. There were patterned traceries of a gold-coloured metal in the surface of the black floors, and now, occasionally, the party would come upon stone statues of beings so hideous that he could not have found the words to describe them. It was only after they had passed the third of these obscene sculptures that he realized they were depictions of Darklords. The scuttling troop rounded a corner, and ahead of them was nothing but blackness. Instinctively Vonotar increased his powers of dark-seeing. The passageway he saw was bleak. Icicles clung to the walls and hung from the ceiling. The breath of the leading giaks was a cloud of fetid steam, which almost immediately froze, clattering to the floor as ice. Why, mused Vonotar, does the heat not penetrate through to here? This must be Nadziranim magic. Even though he had selected the Right Hand Path for himself, he


quailed at the brilliant Evil of such spells. Is there nothing that the magic of the Nadziranim cannot achieve? he wondered. Self-doubt assailed him. Perhaps his scheme to come to Zagarna had been an act of lunatic folly. Perhaps the Darklord would slaughter him on sight or -- worse -- enjoy watching him die slowly over days or weeks. Perhaps . . . And the worst of it was that, without the assistance of a giak, there was no way he could escape. His shield and the giak's drug could insulate him against feeling the pain of the heat in the corridors through which they had been journeying, but, as he had already realized, there was no magic that he knew, Nadziranim or otherwise, that would protect his feet and legs from the blackly hot floors. Besides, it had been long ago that he had lost track of where they were going. Even if Zagarna merely told him to leave -- which was unlikely to the point of impossibility ("I say, old fellow, terribly nice of you to have come and all that, but you really are rather persona non grata around here, so could you possibly, er, make yourself scarce, there's a good chap?") -- and even if he were given some Nadziranim spell to counteract the heat, he would never be able to find his way out of Kaag, not in a million lifetimes. You could always ask someone for directions, said an impertinent voice in his mind. Vonotar jerked. The voice was an intruder. Who are you? he thought urgently. A friend of your enemies. Or, at least, of people you have made your enemies. I could become your friend if you could become their friend again. Who do you mean? You know who I mean. And Vonotar did. By seeking this alliance with Zagarna he had turned all the people of Sommerlund into his implacable foes. To be sure, he had disagreed bitterly with the Guildmaster in recent years, but often, even during the times of their most vociferous disputes, they had walked and talked together amicably enough; once they had shared a remarkable partnership during a game of vtovlry, and for some days had forgotten completely the issues which so deeply divided them -- instead laughingly talking, each time they met, of the hours of glory they had enjoyed together playing the "game of games". To Vonotar's surprise, he found himself picturing the grizzled face of the Guildmaster, and thinking of the old man with an affection that bordered on love. And there were other members of


the Brotherhood of the Crystal Star with whom he had forged strong links, too. He remembered Artal, and Heikon, and Martat, and Loren . . . Loren. The name appeared in huge letters scrawled across his mind. Memories flooded back to him. He had killed Loren in cold blood. He had left the fragments of the old man's body scattered like so much butchermeat on the floor of his cubicle. So much for that Left Hand spell I cast, he thought. It doesn't hold here. It was impossible for him to return. The Brotherhood would not put him to death. Rather, they would cast him into the Dazhiarn, the Shadow Gate, a spiritual dungeon from which he could never escape unless they eventually relented and used their magic in his favour. Yet, even if they did exercise their mercy, as in due course they almost assuredly would, he would have to acknowledge publicly that his actions had been misguided and constituted a crime. Even more humiliatingly, he would have to admit to himself that he had committed an act of incredible folly. No. That was something he could never do. Never? said the invasive voice in his mind. Are you sure? "Never!" said Vonotar out loud, and his "friend" turned to squint up at him in surprise. "Never" is a very big word to use unless you really mean it, whispered the seductive voice. Think again, Vonotar. You're so very young, you know. When people are young they say foolish words like "never" without knowing what they really mean. I know what "never" means, because I also know what "forever" means. I do not use either word without first asking myself if it really is the word I want to use. Go away, thought Vonotar. I've decided. Irrevocably. Whoever you are, get away from me! But the voice didn't leave him. Right now you think that you can't decide to go back. But you're wrong, you know. It would be very difficult to find your way out of Kaag, to be sure, but I would help you. I would guide you through the maze, and I would make the heat seem like the welcome warmth of a fresh summer's morning. I would transport you across the wastes of the Darklands more comfortably than ever a zlanbeast could. I would restore you to your own people, and in time -- admittedly quite a very long time -- they would regard you once again as their friend. All of this miserable flirtation with Evil


would be over. Vonotar found himself tempted. To be back in Toran, surrounded by the other Brothers, spending lazy, dusty hours browsing in the library, or strolling by the riverbank debating the issues of the day, or playing vtovlry with all the mirth and companionship which that game engendered, or . . . No! his mind shouted. That's all behind me now. I've got to take my chance with Zagarna. That's the way the future lies. It's too late for any thought of turning back! What you really mean, said the voice, is that you can't bear to admit to yourself that you've made a series of foolish errors -- that you, the great and mighty Vonotar (a somewhat ridiculous self-image, but far be it from me to comment), might possess the remotest trace of fallibility. You perceive so many enemies -- the Sommlending, the giaks, the Darklords, dah-de-dahdah-dah -- but you never allow yourself to recognize that there is an enemy greater than all of these. Who? Yourself What do you mean? Magician, heal thyself. Vonotar found his head filled with the rippling of childish giggles. Just my little joke, said the voice. The bad puns are always the best. And then he felt it leave him. 3 Only the poorest of the people of Sommerlund considered that theirs was not a free country. They felt the gnawing pains of hunger in their unnaturally distended bellies, they looked at those to whom precious stones were merely baubles, and they should have realized their freedom was illusory. The freedom to have an empty stomach, and to be unable to fill it, is no freedom at all. To see one's children grow slowly and stuntedly, their limbs like fragile twigs and their eyes huge and mutely pleading, is a freedom few would wish to share. Yet King Kian had done his best to create in Sommerlund a society in which all could benefit from the land's riches. He had once said that "every Sommlending must have a lord", but he had not meant to imply that all of his people were to subjugate themselves. Instead, his intention was to erect a structure which might best serve to keep the Darklords at bay and, in due course, drive them from the face of Magnamund.


Armies need a leader. Every Sommlending, therefore, was required on attaining the age of seven to declare fealty to the king. Throughout the land, the feast of Fehmarn -- the first day of spring -- was seen as an opportunity to welcome new initiates and to confirm the vows of those initiated in earlier years. This annual ceremony served to remind all of the Sommlending that, on the occasion of war, it was their duty to serve their king and thereby protect their country. The whole of Sommerlund, reasoned Kian, must be like an army if the country were not to be laid waste. Armies are divided up into sections -battalions, squadrons, companies -- and each of these, too, must have a leader. Even the king himself must have a leader -- or two leaders, for Kian recognized Ishir and Kai as his "lords". He created baronages, honouring those high-ranking warrior lords who had served him best during the great war against the vile forces of the Darklord Vashna. To them and their families in perpetuity he awarded great tracts of land. In the northwest of Sommerlund, for example, there was the Baronial Province of Anskaven, ruled by the descendants of Dundir Caldar. The Caldars were, by right of heredity, the Stewards of the Royal Court and Commanders of the Royal Fleet. The city of Anskaven itself was the greatest fishing port of all Sommerlund, and was capable of raising mighty military fleets whenever the country was threatened from the sea. To its south was the County of Tyso. To its west was the Baronial Confederation of Toran, which was in reality not so much a baronial province as a confederation of diverse different guilds, one of which was the Brotherhood of the Crystal Star. The five other provinces of Sommerlund were the Baronial Province of Ruanon, the Southlund Marches, the Fryelund of the Kai, the Kirlundin Isles and, last but far from least, the Royal Estates. Kian took to himself the power to create Fryearls of Sommerlund, and his successors empowered themselves similarly. The coveted title of Fryearl was granted to people who had distinguished themselves in some way -usually through valour in battle, but sometimes through humanitarian selfsacrifice -- and it granted them status equivalent to that of a baron. Great wealth came with the ennoblement; Fryearls were powerful figures among Sommlending society. As, indeed, were the fryemen -- people whose ability to accumulate wealth and prestige demanded royal recognition. Armies require funds and Sommerlund was always either at war or facing its possibility. Yet, as Kian had planned, the whole country became in a way an army. Almost as soon as a child could walk, he or she began to be trained in


the use of weapons. The early stages of the training were carried out close to the court of the child's regional baron, and anyone who showed a special aptitude or combativeness was taken into the household of a Knight of the Realm. Here the child would be educated in intellectual as well as martial skills. The training was not too rigorous, however, the children being allowed to spend long holidays with their families and being encouraged to participate in sports and games. Few of them realized that their sports were designed to quicken their reflexes and increase their courage. Children who showed latent magical talents were, likewise, recruited to the Brotherhood of the Crystal Star, where they learned the arcane mysteries of the Left Hand Path. The standing army of Sommerlund was small, but was known throughout Magnamund for the excellence of its skills and equipment. At any moment it could be swelled a thousandfold by the conscription of all the able-bodied men and women of the nation. Or, at least, that was the theory. In practice, in times of protracted peace, as now, the people began to think that war would never come again, at least not in their lifetimes, and swords were used as scythes or allowed to become rusty and blunt. The year 5050 after the creation of the Moonstone would see the end of several decades of peace. 4 Silent Wolf lazed in his bed, enjoying the light and the cool air pouring in through the open window. He allowed his mind to wander where it wished, rather than thinking about all the things that had happened to him during the past few days. He had initially been mystified by the strange girl who had been in his room, but he had eventually decided that she'd been nothing more than a mirage. Or perhaps he had fallen back to sleep for a little while without realizing it. His mood was one of languor rather than of speculation. He felt as if his thoughts were butterflies, flitting aimlessly in the wind, with no particular destination in mind. He was back in the Monastery, he knew. The sounds and the scents were familiar to him. He could hear the shouts of the ostlers as they exercised the horses, the chock! of arrows as they embedded themselves in the pressed-straw targets of the archery range, the clattering and clinking of crockery in the kitchens as the cooks prepared the midday meal. Somewhere in the distance he could hear massed children's voices chanting a liturgy.


The Monastery had been his home for eight years now. He knew all of its rooms and its battlements. He was more loyal to it than to the farm where he had spent his earliest childhood, and the friends he had made here were more vivid in his imagination than his mother or even his dead brother. Nowadays, when he returned on holiday to the place of his birth, it seemed to him that he was a stranger, tolerated by the people there purely because they had known his old name. He wasn't Landar any more. He knew that, and they knew that. He was an outsider. There were parts of the Monastery, of course, where he was rarely allowed to venture. There were the four Lore Halls -- of Light, Fire, Spirit and Solaris -- which were out of bounds to all the Kai initiates unless one of their tutors specifically invited them there. And Silent Wolf had never been to the rooms at the uppermost tower of the Monastery, the chambers of the Grand Master and of the Kai Masters. Once, while serving as a sentry on the battlement known as the North Watch, he had furtively peered through the windows of the Kai Masters' Hall, but he had been disappointed by what he saw there: he had expected something more grandiose than a wooden throne and plain pillars of green marble. The Kai Lords did not believe in cossetting themselves. You're cossetting yourself, said a voice inside him. He sat up in his bed, his thoughts suddenly focused. You're simply lying there, letting your mind amble around, when you could be up and helping the Kai army prepare for the war that's going to start very soon -- tomorrow morning, if you want to be exact. Silent Wolf wondered why he was still dreaming. Surely he was fully awake? In a few minutes' time Winter Owl will come to you. You must tell him that even now Vonotar is approaching the grand court of the Darklord Zagarna. Of course, Zagarna may simply kill him. If not, though, Vonotar will certainly tell him of the gathering of the Kai at the Feast of Fehmarn. Should this come about, the Darklord will send his army of spawn to murder the Kai Lords gathered here. The silent voice sighed. It's all so very complicated, unfortunately, it muttered. If only you Sommlending would open your minds a little more! I can tell you things, but I can't make you believe them. Silent Wolf clutched the edges of his blankets. Had the events of the past few days driven him mad?


You're just a figment of my imagination, he thought desperately. You're nothing more than that. Storm Hawk and I . . . we heard the giaks talking about the invasion. It's not going to be for months, more likely not until next year. I was -The voice cut in on him. The giaks knew nothing of Vonotar's treachery. Should Zagarna heed what Vonotar says, then the Darklord will know how to reach this Monastery and will be fully aware of its vulnerability. And he will know, too, that by a single assault tomorrow he can slay the finest warriors of all Sommerlund. Silent Wolf remembered a time, many years ago, when he had had a fever. For a week he had lain in his bed hearing voices speaking inside his head. They had talked all kinds of obvious nonsense -- and yet, at the time, he had believed their prattle. They had told him that the sky was a cupful of clear water, and he had believed them. They had told him that the fishes of the sea were not living creatures but moving stones, and he had believed them. They had told him that statues could cry salt tears, and he had believed them. Later he had laughed one of his rare laughs as he'd recalled the nonsense that those internal voices had spoken. This was just another of them. He must be iller than he'd thought. But the little voice persisted. Please believe me! I've tried to speak to Winter Owl and the other Kai Masters, but their minds are too old and too fixed to hear me. If they'd come into your room a while ago, when I showed myself to you, they wouldn't have seen me. I can speak only to the people whose minds are flexible enough to contemplate my existence. I've even spoken to Vonotar, but he didn't want to listen to me. I don't believe in you, thought Silent Wolf. You're just a collection of my own thoughts that has somehow come together in a way that mimics logic. I'm more than that, said the voice. Oh, much, much more than that. But you're right. It's not just that you don't believe me: you cannot believe me. If you did, you would warn Winter Owl and the events of the next few days would be so different. But you Sommlending cannot remember the future, and I'm a fool to try to change it. I tried to alter Vonotar's intentions and I failed. Now I've failed to persuade you of the coming dangers to the devotees of Ishir and Kai. The future is laid out like a map. Some things will happen and some


things won't happen. Even the gods cannot change the map. The countries planned out in that map of the future have fixed boundaries: they are as rigid as the walls that the Sommlending have built, and, in their essence, as meaningless. You could, if you wanted, act now in such a way as to shift those boundaries. You could batter down the walls. But you won't. You're locked in the prison of your humanity. Silent Wolf still sat erect in his bed. He felt the owner of the voice withdraw from him. The experience was not painful, yet neither was it pleasant. It was rather like the removal of pain. A moment later the door opened and Winter Owl came into the room. "How're you feeling?" said Silent Wolf's new tutor, smiling. "Very well," said Silent Wolf. He decided not to speak about the mysterious voice in his head. A delusion, it was -- a delusion brought about by his exhaustion. Yet he remembered the delirium-voice's final sentence: You're locked in the prison of your humanity. Why, thought Silent Wolf, should humanity be a prison? "I've asked that some soup be brought to you," said Winter Owl. "Who is Vonotar?" said Silent Wolf. "Never heard of him," said Winter Owl. "Is he a friend of yours? Here, let me fluff up your pillows." 5 Vonotar's party halted before a huge door of ebony. He gestured impatiently, eager that the forthcoming confrontation be started as soon as possible, and one of the giaks rather apprehensively raised its spiked fist and knocked -once, twice, a third time -- on the hard surface. The door boomed, and the echoes of the sound reverberated back behind them along the corridors of vitriol ice. There was, for a moment, nothing but silence. Then the door erupted outwards towards them, killing several of the giaks as it thundered to the floor. Vonotar was blinded by the intensity of the light which exploded into the corridor, the cells of his retinae destroyed by the white-hot glare. He threw his arms up to protect his face, but it was too late -- far too late. "Welcome, Vonotar," came a mental thunder that made his body buckle. "I've been expecting you."


7 Roads 1 Banedon watched the money-spider until it was lost in the grass. The tints of the daylight around him abruptly changed, and he realized that now he was experiencing time at the normal rate, rather than the timelessness which Alyss had somehow invoked. He looked across at Nina, who seemed startled. "'Spose we should be on our way," he muttered to her. She responded by cropping an extra mouthful of weeds, but let him climb onto her back with only a token wriggle of her rump by way of protest. The sun was ahead of them and to the left, low in the sky. Its brilliance made Banedon's eyes narrow as Nina trotted down the earthy lane. Overhead bright birds did their crazy dances from side to side. Before him the road curved, and he could see a clutch of cattle earnestly eyeing his approach over a drystone dyke. In the field behind this welcoming party there were a couple of very young lambs prancing and gambolling. Why, he thought, is it that lambs are such active, playful, intelligent creatures, but when they grow up are so confounded stupid? Are people the same way? It might explain a lot of the misery in the world. They came to a stream and Banedon allowed Nina to drink. He, too, after a moment's reflection, cupped his hands and drank from the chill, fresh waters -- making a point of drinking upstream from the horse. Although his encounter with Alyss had taken up no time so far as the rest of the world was concerned, it had lasted for some hours in his time. It was only when the first drops of water touched his lips that he discovered quite how thirsty he was. He drank copiously, so that his stomach became weighty, sloshy and uncomfortable. Even so, he felt the strength of the water coursing through his body. Enough was enough. He called Nina to him and, after a resentful glare, she obeyed. As they carried on along the road, he found himself amazed by the beauty of Sommerlund in these last days of winter. He well recalled his initial terror, earlier in the morning, at the sight of the great expanses of fields and meadows receding seemingly infinitely from his gaze, yet now he found the sight reassuring. He was a part of all this. He wasn't just a human being moving, with his horse, through a vast emptiness; he was a cousin of


the budding trees and the newly sprouting crops. Still, he had a task to perform. He tapped Nina on the shoulder and she speeded her pace. As she did so, a cloud came over the sun, and at the same time Banedon felt foreboding creep into his mind. For the last hour or two he had undergone extremes of emotion, but now he recalled that his mission had nothing to do with sightseeing . . . that he had been entrusted with the delivery of a vital message. It was all very well to appreciate the sights and sounds around him, but he could do that another day. He spanked Nina's rump, and she broke into something approaching a gallop. 2 Miles behind him, the Guildmaster of the Brotherhood of the Crystal Star stared into a saucerful of water and gasped at the vision he saw there. From a bleak sky descended untold thousands of batlike creatures, each ridden by a hideous warrior bearing even more hideous weapons. They clustered around an impressive and ancient building. Beyond that the Guildmaster could see no more. His magical abilities were considerable, but no one had ever fully mastered the art of scrying -- the power to look at a static, transparent substance, such as water, and see in it events happening far away or in the immediate future. Like so many others, he could see the images clearly enough; understanding their import was something else. The vision seemed meaningless to him. Perhaps Loren would have known what it meant -- Loren, who had brought scrying to a new peak of artistry within the Brotherhood -- but of course there wasn't a Loren any longer. For an instant the Guildmaster mourned the dead Elder. Then he forced such thoughts from his mind and concentrated on the vision. The building seemed somehow . . . familiar. It couldn't be . . . But, oh by the name of great Ishir, it was. And he had sent his lowliest acolyte on an ageing horse to warn the Kai. He knelt to pray to his probably unheeding gods, but of course it was far too late for prayer. 3


Vonotar was blind. He could see nothing as his "friend" carried him into Zagarna's court. In a detached way he felt, even through his shield, that the otherworldly coldness of the corridors had given way to a parching heat. His blindness was not a total blackness: instead, his brain seemed to be perceiving a mass of vivid colours swirling like molten metal on a plain of glowing rock. The fragments of his mind that clutched to sanity asked him if, having been once blinded, he was now being blinded again. The gurgling voice of Zagarna filled his ears. "For a second time, Vonotar, I say it: I bid you welcome." The echoes of the words bounced from walls that were obviously very distant. The magician gripped his "friend" firmly around the neck with one hand while raising the other in a garbled gesture of supplication. He had no idea of exactly where Zagarna was: the voice of the Darklord surrounded him completely. "Ah, little one," said Zagarna, "you find the brilliance of my presence more than your mortal faculties can bear. So be it. For a while you can live with your loss of sight. Perhaps, if you please me, I shall return your vision." Vonotar bit his tongue, deliberately. The pain was fiery, now that the drug was wearing off, and he almost screamed, but it called his body and his mind to order. His consciousness, having dribbled to the edge of madness, cracked down on itself, so that he once more became the cold, calculating entity he had always been. Yet, because of his blindness, he felt as if he were somehow disembodied. He slapped his thigh hard with his free hand, and in the stinging pain he rediscovered his own reality. "Indeed, Zagarna," he said, "I'm glad of your welcome. But I wish it were a better one." He could feel on his skin the Darklord's sudden fury, and its equally sudden abatement. "Do you say that I insult you?" "Yes. I've come here to help you, and you reward me with . . . this." Vonotar waved his hand sweepingly, hoping that the gesture was in at least some of the right directions; it was so hard to converse when one hadn't the remotest idea whether one was facing the Darklord or not. "Better you stay blind for a while than that you see me," Zagarna's voice bubbled. "Men have been driven to insanity by the very sight of me. You are a man and, I suspect, not a very strong one: would you defy the testimony of your senses and look upon my face?"


Vonotar swithered. His mind conjured up a thought in a Right Hand shape and his sight was restored. More or less. Now he could see things the way he wished to see them, rather than the way they actually were. He saw Zagarna's court as a quiet living-room, full of tapestries and oak and maple panelling, with his host sitting on the far side of a low table and pouring out a cup of tea. Zagarna was, it seemed, a genial old man, with a grey beard and approaching baldness. Through the arched windows of the room Vonotar could see a blue sky streaked with apprehensive clouds. Outside one of the windows yellow nasturtiums bobbed gently in an afternoon breeze. "I can look at you now," he said softly. The old man added milk to the tea and passed the cup to Vonotar. "Perhaps a spoonful of honey?" he asked. The magician shook his head. A fly buzzed around the room. Vonotar looked at it with resentment, and it obediently sailed on blurred wings out through one of the windows. The clock on the mantelpiece chimed, once, to indicate the quarter-hour. "I can look at you now," Vonotar repeated. The old man chuckled sadly. "No, Vonotar, you cannot look at me. But you can see enough of me, I guess." "I can see you well enough to speak with you -- and speak with you I must." "I know you must." "For decades and centuries the Sommlending have hated you and your kind. We have portrayed you as vicious and mindless monsters: even the children are trained in swordship so that -- one day, any day -- they may have the chance of destroying you." Vonotar licked his lips and raised his cup to his mouth. It tasted sweet to him, even without the honey. "The Brotherhood of the Crystal Star and the Kai Lords are sworn to your destruction," he said, "yet they know there is no meaning in their oaths. Their aim is the same as yours: to dominate all of Magnamund." "True," said the old man. He bit delicately on a buttered scone. "There seems no reason," said Vonotar, settling back into the comforting embrace of his armchair, "why you should not unite with the Kai and the Guild. There is no force in this world which could resist you if we were all acting together."


The old man nodded placidly, and leaned forward to help himself to a cake. His clothes were shabby and in places so thin that his grey skin could be seen through them. The little finger of his right hand was missing; at the base of where it would have been there was an ugly scar. "I come to you," said Vonotar, "both to assist you and to ask for your assistance. Long ago, when the Brotherhood of the Crystal Star was founded, it was predicted that two young men would come together to rule the world. It seems clear to me that those two young men are you and I." In Vonotar's illusory vision the old man on the other side of the table suddenly became a smooth-faced youth, his hand outstretched, offering more tea. The nasturtiums had gone from the window, however, and the sky was deepest dusk. "Whatever I may look like," said the youth, "I am neither young nor a man." "Yes, you are young!" Vonotar cried. "Centuries are fleeting seconds to an immortal. You're barely more than a child in arms!" "But am I a man?" "Yes, you're a man, just as sure as I'm a man. Look at yourself. Haven't you got two legs and two arms and a head?" The youth dutifully looked at his limbs. He got up and stared into the mirror over the mantelpiece. He pulled at one of his cheeks tentatively, tugging it away from his teeth as if to check that it was really there. "All right," he said, "let's assume for the moment that I'm a man. So, we should act together. Conquering Magnamund is rather a tall order for the two of us, but I should imagine we could manage it if we set our minds to it. There's a very big question, though: why should I help you if the way is open to me to conquer the world by myself?" Vonotar crossed his legs and smiled. "Because I can tell you how to capture Sommerlund not this year, not next year, but tomorrow." "How?" The young man's word was like the crack of a whip. There wasn't the slightest trace of motion, yet, although he had been standing by the mantelpiece, casually rubbing his hand on his chin, he was now face-to-face with the magician, staring directly into Vonotar's eyes. "If I tell you, will you give me back my sight? My true sight?" "A piffling matter." The youth snapped his fingers to indicate how trivial the whole affair would be. "And will you allow your Nadziranim magicians to initiate me into


the deepest of their secrets? Only if I have full control of those powers will I be able to reign alongside you." The youth thought harder about this. "I see no reason why not," he said after a while. "Even if you plotted treason against me, the abilities of the Right Hand Path are not so great as to present any threat." He moved around the table and settled himself in his chair. "Another cup of tea?" "No, thank you." "A scone? These are extremely good." "No, what I want is your handshake . . . and your guarantee of our allegiance, and your promise that I shall learn the fullest secrets of Nadziranim magic." "Do you trust my promise?" "Not entirely, no. But if I'm possessed of the Nadziranim abilities I'll be able to protect myself against any force which you could direct against me." The youth turned his head sideways, looking at the clock on the mantelpiece. Its hands had started to whirl with lightning speed, so that they were visible only as a grey haze over the foxed white face. "You interest me, magician. I could kill you at any moment more easily than you could kill a gnat. Yet here you are, not just having the presumption to speak to me but also trying to drive a hard bargain." The young man eased a finger around the neck of his shirt. "Let us put each other on probation, as it were," he said. "I will instruct my Nadziranim to give you their magic, but bear in mind that, should you attempt to turn it against me, their concerted powers will be easily sufficient to destroy you. In return, I demand that you give me the secret of how I can take Sommerlund into my thrall." "First," said Vonotar, "give me back my sight." "No," the youth, Zagarna, replied. He laughed out loud, then waved a hand in apology for his discourtesy. "If I restored your vision to you now you would lose your eyes forever, and possibly your mind. Let me first call upon my Nadziranim to instil their mysteries into your mind." He rang a little silver bell, and after a few moments, a servant shyly pushed open the door. She had the plumpness and the creasedness of an overripe apple, and there was an amicable smile on her pink-cheeked face. She was dressed in a uniform of grey and white. "Sire?" she said. The youth didn't reply to her, but instead turned his gaze on Vonotar.


"This woman," he said, "is -- are -- my Nadziranim. If you wish their secrets you must embrace her. You must persuade yourself to love her as if she were your own mother. It is only a small thing to ask, and the rewards for you will assuredly be great." Vonotar looked at the servant. He felt love for her growing within him. "Embrace each other!" ordered the youth suddenly. The clock chimed twice, indicating the half-hour, although its hands were still whizzing around almost invisibly. Vonotar got shakily to his feet and moved uncertainly towards the elderly servant. His legs felt as if they had only just enough power to walk the few yards necessary to reach her. She smiled encouragingly at him. Her body was as old as the winter of the world, but in her eyes there was the brightness of summer. Her wrinkled throat belied the ampleness of her form. Her arms were livermarked, but her wrists were oddly slender, almost like those of a young girl. "Embrace her," said the youth, pouring himself yet another cup of tea and putting on a somewhat selfconscious display of uninterest. Obediently, his limbs moving jerkily like those of a marionette, Vonotar put his hands on her shoulders and pulled her towards him. She responded by sinking her suddenly sharp teeth into his jugular vein. 4 Night was falling when Banedon and Nina reached the outskirts of a village. He was delighted that, at last, he had come across somewhere where he might beg a night's lodging. He was exhausted. Aside from the fact that he was unused to riding for a full day, he was still emotionally racked from the time -- or non-time -he had spent with Alyss. Whoever she was, and he hardly dared to speculate whether she had actually existed or whether she was simply the product of his own fevered mind, she had opened up gateways within him which he had never known existed. She had had a massive impact on him, he knew, but he couldn't as yet work out what precisely that impact was: either he now saw himself as a very small and insignificant creature creeping furtively across the barrenness of a vast and unheeding world, or he was a person of latent greatness who held the potential to regard the whole of Magnamund as nothing more than a glittering jewel lying in his palm.


Perhaps, he thought, her lesson is that I'm both of those. But then the thought skidded away and out of sight. The village was a fairly miserable, scraggly place: a few barns, a single street of houses, some starved and wicked-looking dogs. A beggar sat in a doorway, but was so despondent that he didn't even look up as Nina clopped. Banedon looked around, but there seemed to be no inn. Perhaps he'd be better off carrying on through this place and finding a field to sleep in. At the far end of the street was a smithy, and from within it came the only sounds of life he had heard in this place. There was the steady, repeated clang of a heavy mallet on molten metal. As Banedon drew level with the smithy's door he could not just feel the heat, he could almost hear it. He let himself down from Nina's back and stumbled in the dust. His robe caught itself around his ankles and he almost fell. The stagger made him realize that he was not only mentally but physically drained. He recovered himself and clutched Nina's reins. With her following resentfully -- she's obviously had nasty experiences with blacksmiths, and remembered them only too well -- he dragged his feet across to the doorway of the house immediately adjoining the smithy. The paint on the ancient, scarred wood was cracked and pitted: the suns of too many summers had blazed down upon it. In the centre of the door, at Banedon's eye-level, there was a blistered bronze knocker shaped like the head of a dog. Above this the outline of a five-pointed star, forged crudely in iron, had been nailed to the wood. Banedon raised the heavy knocker and let it drop. There was no immediate response. He was just about to turn away and go into the open entrance of the smithy itself when the door opened. Framed against the darkness was a short, bulging woman, wiping her hands briskly on her chequered apron. Once upon a time she might have been pretty, but now her face was pocked with the marks of old burns. Yet this wasn't the first thing that Banedon noticed about her; instead it was the aura of comprehensive cleanliness which surrounded her. She smelt of soft soaps and crisp white towels, of purifying salts and of brittle starch. She smiled at him. "May I help you, young man?" she said. "I'm a . . . a Journeyman for the Brotherhood of the Crystal Star." Banedon touched his robe as if to confirm his statement. "I'm looking for somewhere to stay for the night, and this village doesn't seem to have an inn.


Do any of the houses here take in lodgers? I have some money, and I'll --" "Don't talk of money," said the woman. "My husband and I have reason enough to be grateful to the members of your Guild. Only five years ago (or was it six? -- no, it was five) Tym broke his arm when a horse he was shoeing kicked him and he would have lost it (the arm, that is) if it hadn't been for the fact that . . . Banedon allowed the words to lap over him. He was too tired to take in much of what she was saying. Peripatetic magicians frequently helped out the people in the remoter parts of the country in return for food or a night's lodging. "So you come right on in, young sir, and I'll call my husband. Tym, his name is. (I already told you that, didn't I?) He'll be glad to meet you, I'm sure. Stay here for the night, and share our supper with us. The children'll be glad for your company, too. They're not our children, mind you. Ishir and Kai never saw fit to grant us children. No, Daron and Thelda (that's the names of the children, you see) are our nephew and niece; they're the kids of my Tym's youngest brother and very sweet children they are, although a bit raucous for some people's tastes." Banedon tethered Nina to a ring set into the stone wall, and patted the mare on her nose. Talking constantly, her voice a burbling stream of sound, the woman led him down a short, dark passageway and threw open the door on a well lit kitchen. Her movements were like her speech, full of explanatory gestures and fidgety nuances. The room was painted in a deep creamy yellow and there was a wood fire glowing at one end. Around the fire were scattered various blackened cooking implements. Through a window opposite the door Banedon could see the sun easing itself down into a bed of gently rolling hills; his aching body wished that it, too, could rest itself. Beneath the window were a stone sink and chopping surface. There were various chairs and cushions in the room, all of them looking old and much-used. Two children bounced up from where they had been playing by the fire to have a look at the newcomer. "I'm Thelda," said the taller of them, a solemn-faced girl with an incongruous mop of raggedy blonde hair. Banedon guessed she was about twelve. "Hello there, mister," said the younger child gruffly, "I'm called Daron." He too had fair hair, but, in contrast to his sister, he was heavily built, his bones covered in puppy-fat. Banedon guessed he was about six or seven. The boy wrinkled his nose theatrically, and the message was only too


clear. "Daron!" cried the woman. "What's wrong, Aunt Petrea?" said Daron. "Really!" the woman said. "You shouldn't behave like that in front of a visitor, especially not one as what is a member of the Brotherhood of the Crystal Star. When I was your age, if I'd done something like that, I would have had my head cut off -- not just once, but twice." The children giggled, and Banedon was delighted to see how beautiful Thelda looked in laughter. He sensed pain somewhere in her memory, and that grieved him; that she could grin like any other twelve-year-old filled him with pleasure. "Mind you," said Petrea, after the noise had died down, "any Journeyman from the Brotherhood of the Crystal Star is welcome to a bath in this house, and particularly, if you see what I mean, yourself." Banedon nodded to her. "Daron's quite right: I've been riding all day long, and sometimes it's been hot. Even if I hadn't been sweating myself there'd be the smell of the horse all over me. Thanks. Yes, I'd like a bath." "Thank you," said Daron politely. 5 Vonotar could feel knowledge pouring into him. His first reaction to the bite had been a scream, but almost immediately he had sensed the powers of the Nadziranim flowing into his bloodstream. He and the maidservant clutched each other in precarious balance, he eager to absorb all that her sharp fangs were giving to him. The civilized living-room in which they stood seemed to flicker in and out of existence. Vonotar knew that at some times he was in a hellish glare of whiteness, at others standing on a shaggy carpet. The sensation in his neck was a bizarre and somehow vaguely erotic mixture of pain and ecstasy. He saw the youth smiling encouragingly at him, but a moment later perceived him as a colossal reptilian monster, blue-skinned and with two mouths packed with murderous teeth. Vonotar didn't really know, any longer, where reality lay: perhaps he himself was the monster; perhaps he was safe in his bed back in Toran, secure within the Guild Hall of the Brotherhood of the Crystal Star; perhaps he really was in a quiet livingroom; perhaps he had passed through the Dark Door and was discovering what lay beyond it. Perhaps the person in his arms was a beautiful woman or perhaps she/he/it was something born out of the worst of his dreams.


For the first time in many years, he found himself utterly confused, incapable of locating himself. Indeed, he was no longer certain who "himself" was. Yes, he knew his name: Vonotar. Yes, he had some vague recollections of his previous existence, as a magician of the Brotherhood of the Crystal Star. But in the next instant he was incapable of remembering his name, and had no memory of the Guild in which he had spent most of his life. Instead he was a bodiless entity, filling a sad Universe with its malevolent thoughts. Then again he was a country gentleman, replete with tea, finding himself in a strange embrace with a pretty, obliging servant. He saw many things in a few moments. He saw how the sky was merely a thin layer of paint washed over the ceiling of the Universe. He saw how the stars were brightly glowing insects circling mindlessly around the world. He saw how the sea was the blood of Magnamund, swirling and whirling to bring life to every last corner of the world. He saw how all the living beings of Magnamund were microscopic parasites devouring their dying host. Then he saw the myriad worlds of Aon through the eyes of Zagarna, and he collapsed, his body twisting as he crumpled to the white-hot floor. "Your secrets are his," said Zagarna to the Nadziranim, "and his are yours." The massed Nadziranim assented in their soundless way. "Then," said the Darklord, "I have kept my part of the bargain. If he does not keep his, it is my command that the pieces of his worthless body be scattered to every end of Aon. Is that clear?" Again the Nadziranim nodded. A winking indigo light supported Vonotar a few inches above the white heat of the floor; the minds of the Nadziranim were holding it there. When, and if, Vonotar recovered consciousness he would be able to retain that insulation between himself and the glowing whiteness, but for the moment his life depended on the Nadziranim. And on the whim of Zagarna. 6 Banedon was embarrassed by the fact that in the home of the blacksmith baths were public affairs. A great copper cauldron was hauled out in front of the kitchen fire and bucketfuls of hot water were poured into it by a sweating Petrea. Daron and Thelda looked on with enthusiasm as Banedon peered


around for somewhere to strip off his robes and wrap around him the towel which Petrea had supplied. There seemed to be nowhere, and so, doing his best to retain some semblance of dignity, he went to a corner of the room and turned his back as he undressed. But as the hot water soothed his aching muscles, and the soft soap which Petrea had given him worked its wonders on his legs, he started to realize how lucky he was. These people had taken him in as if he were one of their family, and they were treating him accordingly. He could have found himself, instead, forced to spend the night in an inn habituated by cutthroats. He luxuriated in the caressing warmth of the water, rubbing the soap into his chest and his legs. He splashed around like a small child, trying to ignore the fact that Thelda and Daron were peeping over the edge of the cauldron to watch him and cheering every time his privates bobbed above the increasingly scummy surface. At length he felt fully cleansed; besides, the water was becoming greasy-grey and chilly. He sat up and looked at Petrea, who had been busy throwing together various ingredients and tossing them into pans on the hearth. "May I have my towel again?" he asked. "To be sure and of course you can, young man (assuming I can find it)," she said. "It's there," he said, pointing. "Um, I wonder if you could all leave the room for a little while." "Thelda! Daron! Get out of here right now! Go and help your Uncle Tym. He'll want to meet our visitor." The children obeyed, but Banedon was acutely conscious of the fact that Petrea herself still remained. "I want to dry myself," he said shyly "Don't worry about me," she replied. "I'm just getting our supper together. I won't notice anything. (Seen one, seen 'em all, anyway. That's what I say.)" Unhappily Banedon hauled himself out of the bath and, very aware of his nakedness, worked the towel assiduously over his body. Petrea carried on with her preparations for the evening meal. Banedon realized that, as far as she was concerned, he simply wasn't there. Once he was totally dry he climbed back into the modesty of his robe, feeling its fustiness grate against his skin.


The blacksmith entered the room as Banedon was tidying his clothing. Tym was almost as short as his wife, and if anything rounder. It was clear that once upon a time his hair had been a mob of blackness, but now there remained only a fringe around the dome of his shiny pate. His snub nose was the centre of a face which showed not a single unkind line. "So you're a Journeyman," he said. "Honoured we are to have a Journeyman with us this night, are we not, Petrea?" "Supper's almost ready (or, at least, I think it is)," said his wife. She looked a little unhappy as she surveyed the bubbling pans over the fire. "If you and he could carry the bath out . . ." Banedon took one side of the cauldron and Tym the other. The young magician was amazed by the strength of the blacksmith: small and plump he might be, but his arms were as thick and knotted as the trunks of young trees. They turned the bath over in the garden behind the house, and the soapy water swiftly vanished into the ground. The meal was magnificent. Banedon had little idea of which meats he was eating, but all of them were succulent and fresh. Spices which he couldn't identify set off the meats' natural flavour. A great bowl of vegetables occupied the centre of the table and Banedon, at Petrea's urging, helped himself from it time and time again. After a long time he noticed that, while he was still eating, everyone else had stopped some while ago. He felt simultaneously replete and voracious, but it occurred to him that this was a poor family; doubtless they were relying on the leftovers from the meal to be eaten cold tomorrow. He pushed his plate towards the centre of the table and, despite Petrea's encouragement, refused any more. "I can't thank you enough," he said, abruptly aware that he was dangerously full. "We must feed your horse," Tym said, "and then -- well, it's been a long day." He left the sentence hanging, but Banedon was quick to agree. "Yes, it's time to sleep. First, though, is there anything I can do to repay you for your hospitality? My magical powers aren't great, but I'm capable of helping you in small ways." "You could wash the dishes," Petrea remarked. Banedon, once Nina had been fed, did exactly that. He used natural rather than magical means, however. All in all, it seemed easier. That night, as he settled himself into a bed of overstuffed pillows, warm blankets and shiningly clean linen sheets, he resolved to rise early in


the morning. The fullness of his stomach and his sense of belonging to this family mustn't be allowed to divert his aim: he had been given a mission by the Guildmaster, and until it was fulfilled he couldn't allow himself to rest too much. As he drifted off to sleep he saw swirling visions of Alyss, her thin face and her cropped coppery hair repeated a million times in his mind's eye. Just as he toppled into unconsciousness, he was disconcerted to find that the last of all her faces was winking at him, and blowing him a kiss. 7 The morning came rather earlier than Banedon would have wished. His head was thick with tiredness but nevertheless, in the strangely washed-out colours of the dawn light, he forced himself to climb from his warm bed and into his robe. He stumbled down the stairs to the kitchen and splashed cold water on his face. There seemed to be nobody else about, but then Thelda came bouncing into the room, dressed in a soft blue nightgown. She hugged him briefly, in a sleepy sort of way; then ran her fingers through her mat of hair. "This is the last day we're staying with Uncle Tym and Aunt Petrea," she said sadly, throwing herself theatrically down onto one of the soft cushions in the room. "It's so unfair! I'd like to stay for ever and ever." Banedon's opinions were roughly the same: he was far from looking forward to the final stages of his journey to the Kai Monastery. Apart from his continuing nervousness about those vast distances he could see now that he was outside the enclosed world of Toran, he was having difficulty in making his legs work properly. Yep, riding all day yesterday, great idea, Banedon. He felt as if he had been beaten all over by someone wielding a stout pole. It was no consolation to him to remember that such stiffnesses are even worse on the second day: tomorrow was going to be even less fun than today. He and Thelda shared tea at the table, neither of them finding very much to say. She'd discovered some cold boiled eggs in the larder, and they solemnly cracked open the shells and ate them, she eating with a birdlike delicacy unusual in so young a child, he gobbling his down eagerly. He recalled the huge quantities of food he'd consumed the night before, but still he felt hungry. There was a heavy tread on the stairs directly above their heads. Then Tym lumbered into the room, his hair a mess of spiky shapes and his eyes


bloodshot. He sat down heavily next to Thelda. "Morning," he said. "Morning," Banedon agreed. "Last morning," said Thelda. She jumped up and hugged her uncle tightly, tears coming to her eyes. "Daron and I . . . oh, can't we stay just a few days longer, Uncle?" Tym shrugged her off. "It's the day before Fehmarn. I promised your father you'd be home today." Thelda looked sulky for a moment, and then brightened. "Could we ride with Banedon?" she asked. Tym looked at her dubiously. "He's a Journeyman of the Brotherhood of the Crystal Star," he said. "He's been sent to deliver a message. He's not going to go out of his way to keep a couple of kids happy. No, I'm afraid you'll just have to ride along with your old nunks." "Where do they have to go to?" asked Banedon. "Searsby," said Tym. "It's to the south of here." "That's on my road," Banedon said. "I'll gladly ride with them, if we can leave here soon. But I mustn't wait too long before I set off." Tym looked relieved. Blacksmiths are paid only for the work they do, and the prospect of missing a full day's work to escort the children home had obviously been worrying him. There was an old grey mare belonging to Farmer Maldor that had to be reshod, and the Widow Curmurrin required the holes in three of her cooking vessels patched. "Are you sure?" he said. "But of course. Only, we've got to set out soon." "Go and get your brother out of bed," Tym said to Thelda. "I want you out there on Bobin in ten minutes." Thelda's lips trembled, and it was clear she was very unhappy. "Nunks," she said in a very small voice, "do you love us?" "Of course I do." The blacksmith put his arm roughly around her and held her close for a moment. "And Aunt Petrea loves you too. Silly little nonsense that you are." "Really?" A reproachful look, but the eyes held also a demand for reassurance. "Sure I'm sure," said Tym. "You'll be back here for the summer. Now run and drag Daron out of his bed." It was more like an hour than ten minutes before the three of them were ready to leave. The two children were perched on the back of a small black pony, Bobin, at which Nina looked with obvious disgust before she led


the way down the road out of the village. Tym and Petrea waved and called out good wishes. Soon the village's scanty buildings were behind them. As they emerged into the open countryside Thelda's miserable spirits lifted, and she began to smile. Banedon felt like an older brother, and it made him less frightened of this strange world. He whistled a few tunes and Thelda clapped her hands, almost falling off her rickety mount; Daron grabbed her arm at the last moment to save her. "What's grey and can see just as well at both ends?" said the Journeyman with the full force of his authority. "I don't know," said Thelda after a few moments' thought. Her brother nodded agreement. "A giak with its eyes shut," said Banedon. "What's a giak?" said Daron. But Thelda giggled convulsively, and this time she did fall off.


8 Information 1 When Vonotar awoke he was instantly aware of the powers that filled every cell of his body. He knew that he needed only to stretch out his hand for the walls of mighty Kaag to dissolve away into waterfalls, or for the moon to plummet from the sky. With a wink of his eye he could reduce nations to rubble and humiliate the mightiest of all warriors. He could . . . At the moment he was having some difficulty in sitting up in the rough stone cot where he found himself. At Zagarna's behest, a troop of giaks had carried Vonotar's motionless body out of the courtroom and back through all the long corridors to one of Kaag's more remote rooms, where it was neither excessively hot nor excessively cold. There was light from a spitting torch stapled to the wall. The little room was framed in badly hewn black marble. There was no door, but Vonotar could see through the narrow entrance that his "friend" was standing guard. The giak was carrying a vicious-looking sword, and Vonotar realized at once that the spawned creature's loyalties did not currently lie with him: leaders who collapse in a faint do not capture a giak's natural loyalties. Vonotar's muscles seemed almost to be wrenching themselves apart as he pushed up on to his elbows, yet the colossal strength of his new Nadziranim abilities entirely permeated his consciousness. The light of the torch was infinitely bright in his eyes, but it did not dazzle him. He could see things in so much more detail than ever before: the tiniest crystal in the black marble walls was like a whole world to him; a hair on the back of his hand was a scaly tower. All of his senses were altered. He could feel the bump of individual air molecules as they battered against his skin and hear their minuscule impacts; he could smell the soul of the stony ground underlying Kaag, far beneath him. He considered himself to be halfway to godhood, and yet his limbs ached. His "friend" saw that he was awake and advanced into the room, his mouth open in threat, liquid dripping from his filthy teeth. He pointed his sword directly at Vonotar's heart, and it suddenly dawned on the magician


that he was still mortal, despite his infusion of Nadziranim knowledge and understanding. He struggled with his tongue and his lips, but at last he was able to bark the words: "Obey me!" At once the giak lowered his sword, although he showed a little reluctance in returning it to its scabbard. "Why . . . obey . . . you?" he said. "I'm your . . ." Pain twisted Vonotar's body. Yet he knew that, once upon a time -- and right now it seemed like a very long time ago -- he had had the ability to heal his own body. It was one of the Kai disciplines which the Brotherhood of the Crystal Star had incorporated into its own scheme of magic. Centuries or millennia in the past he had been able to cure himself of all diseases and injuries. The knowledge of how to do so was still somewhere inside his brain: he could feel its presence, but he didn't know exactly where it was. His mind was flooded by the recognition that, while he had acquired all the wisdoms of the Nadziranim, he had also lost something. But what was that "something"? He conjured up a Right Hand thought, as if by instinct, and his eyes became small flames. The giak was visibly impressed by this display of might. Vonotar opened the newly created channels of his mind, and the Nadziranim knowledge tumbled in its entirety into his awareness. It was boilingly hot, and as it came it scalded any thoughts of his own against which it brushed. An image came to him of acid eating into the flesh of his arm, and he realized that the suffusion of Nadziranim ideas into his mind was having much the same effect. The flames that were now his eyes flared brightly. His limbs became lithely sliding serpents; his torso was a vast glowing coal. An instant later he was a room in which danced creatures made out of tortured lava and the memories of childhood. Before he could even conceive of the changes that were occurring within him he found that he was a scorpion creeping across the desert sand in search of prey; the sunlight thrashed his back as he moved, its heat the only true reality in his world aside from the ever-present hunger. His carapace stiffened as the smell of warm flesh came to . . . but by then he was a torch held high by a giak, one of a million torches raised aloft in a great army which was running furiously to devour its foe, a small kitten called Grey One. The kitten snarled shrilly, and Vonotar found that he was once again


in his human form. His "friend", having seen the parts of these transformations that were visible in this plane of reality, had backed against the wall, and was clearly terrified. Vonotar, his body now surging with strength, swung himself from the stone cot and took two paces towards the cowering giak. "Never, never forget," said the magician, the fires of his eyes like bright beacons in the darkness of night, "that for now and all of eternity I am your master and you are my slave. If I tell you to die, you die; and if I tell your dead body to live again, you live. If I tell you that you are in agony, then you will experience nothing, nothing, but pain. If I tell you to kill, you will kill -- even if it is the Darklord Zagarna himself who perishes under your sword." The giak's lips curled as he acquiesced. From now on he had a single master, a one true leader. He Who Must Be Obeyed. No matter what the commands were. No matter the circumstances. Vonotar. His own private deity. He fell to his knees as a sign of worship, and listened in ecstasy to the harsh laughter of his god. 2 It was the day before Fehmarn and Kai Lords were arriving from all over Sommerlund. By secret tradition, each year they spent the night before the first dawn of spring in fasting and contemplation. It was an intensely holy time for them: without this ritual, so it was said, a Kai Lord would lose his or her mental and physical abilities. No one really believed this, but nonetheless the Monastery hosted an annual gathering. The following morning would see the warriors massed in the Lore Hall of Light, standing in loose ranks, their heads bowed, waiting for the first ray of light from the sun to put its fingers on the hall's tiled floor. It was the task of the acolytes -- even those who, like Silent Wolf, had recently flirted with death -- to fetch and carry as they were commanded, to help cope with the extra demand in the kitchens and the laundry, and primarily to keep out from underfoot. They were fascinated, though, by the hundreds of staunch warriors who were arriving, some on foot, some on


horseback, and took every opportunity to spy on them, alternately giggling and gasping at their own boldness. Look -- over there's a woman nearly seven feet tall, her shoulders almost bursting her scarlet tunic. And who could this be with such a vivid, bitter scar slashed across his cheek and almost reaching to his eye? That grizzled old fellow -- you see him down by the gates? -- he must be eighty if he's a day, but I've just seen him pick up a rock and idly hurl it a hundred yards or more. And the woman climbing down from the black stallion: she looks less like eighty than seventeen, but she's dressed in the silver so she, too, must be an Archmaster. I'm not sure I like the way her hair's cut so short, but it's a funny colour of red and her face is . . . well, all right, it's pretty. Say, one of the Kai Lords has so much of the mind-over-matter discipline that he brought himself here with it all the way from the Pass of Moytura; at least, that's what they're saying in the kitchens. Seems the effort of it took so much out of him that he had to eat a whole boar before his belly was full. And . . . They came in their many-coloured costumes from all over the land of Sommerlund. Those in grey were the Kai Masters -- among the most junior of the Kai yet still fearsome warriors. Those who had progressed a little further were in light or dark blue. Higher ranks were indicated by green (a colour shared by the initiates), scarlet, orange, yellow, white, silver and, finally, for the Kai Grand Master, gold. In earlier years Silent Wolf had joined with his prattling friends in the great game, but this year he felt different. It wasn't just that he was still weak after his long trek from the Durncrags: it was more that he had begun to think of himself as an adult. For some years he'd considered himself to be fully grown-up, and had been infuriated when people older than him had seemed to patronize him. Now, though, it was as if he had passed through a gate: the other acolytes of his age seemed simply to be playing at being adults. He, on the other hand, had seen the force of magic being used to create Evil, and he'd forced himself to hike long miles across the landscape to bring the news home. The blisters on his feet seemed to him to be the visible marks of his adulthood, but what had really changed was his mental picture of the world. It wasn't any longer a place in which the height of danger was a game of greel. Storm Hawk's final scream was still -- would forever be -- in his ears, just like Jen's screams were. He continued to clean vegetables.


To everyone's surprise, he had volunteered for extra kitchen duties. Winter Owl had pursed his lips in astonishment, but then understanding had come to him and he had nodded his head, a rather sad smile appearing just for a moment on his wintry young-old face. The chief cook was called Red Dawn, and -- a short, scrawny man -he looked as if he should eat rather more of the food he so carefully prepared. In his youth, apparently, he had been trained in the Kai disciplines but had failed to comprehend them -- this happened quite frequently. In Red Dawn's case, though, it had become evident that he had a talent for dreaming up exquisite dishes from even the plainest of foodstuffs and so, rather than being sent back to his home, he had been asked to stay on at the Monastery as a cook. He spent each and every day denouncing his staff to their faces as incompetents, imbeciles, sexual deviants and much worse. His movements were swift and staccato; he seemed to stab his elbows at the air in an attempt to punish it. The insults he issued to his staff were regarded as fearsome by newcomers, but those who had been there for a while greeted them with laughter: somewhere behind Red Dawn's bolting black eyes and tight little mouth was a sense of humour and humanity. People soon learn positively to enjoy being insulted if the insults are funny enough. Silent Wolf had decided to like him when, that very morning, Red Dawn had publicly described him as being as inept as a giak eating bouillon with a fork. . . . Except that the mention of the word "giak" pulled his mind back to the meeting between Storm Hawk and the magician. Silent Wolf peeled vegetables with renewed industry. Maybe I was wrong, he thought. Maybe it didn't really happen like that at all. It could have been that Storm Hawk fell into a river and drowned. Or maybe he simply died: he was old and we'd travelled a long way. But . . . but no: I'm sure I can still remember him spinning all the way up into the sky, and I'm sure I can still see him falling spreadeagled all that way to the ground. And then there was the sound of him . . . Silent Wolf cut his finger. Instantly Red Dawn was in front of him. "Why do they do it?" the cook demanded. "Buttock-brains! They want the best of food and they send me the worst of assistants. Go and bandage yourself and think about what Winter Owl would say if he found bits of you on his plate." Silent Wolf wanted to shout back, but all of his training forbade it. More than that, though, was the knowledge that squabbling like this was the


province of children. Red Dawn might be a king among cooks but he'd never really grown up. In a way, Silent Wolf wished that he himself hadn't grown up, but it had happened. It was too late now for that to be changed. He hurried out of the kitchens, across the courtyard with its training park and its archery range, and into the building where the initiates' dormitories were housed. There was a cupboard just inside its arched door where bandages and mild medicaments were stored, and it took him only a moment or so to bind up his finger. He was interested to notice that the cut had caused him no pain. Perhaps it was that his body was inured to pain after the events of the past few days, or perhaps it was that he was subconsciously absorbing more of the Kai Disciplines than he had realized. He didn't know, and he wasn't really worried. He was an adult, but his status was still that of a youth, a humble initiate. Things that happen when you're a youth don't necessarily have explanations. They come randomly, and in that sense there isn't any difference between seeing the murder of your tutor and cutting your finger in the kitchens. There was a creeping cloud in his mind, a premonition of catastrophe, but he firmly shoved it away beyond the walls of his awareness. The sunlight of that bright day echoed like music from the cobbles of the courtyard. Arrows landed in the butts with a monotonous chock! He was startled to have to admit it to himself, as the first blood seeped redly through the bandage on his hand, but he was happy. Time takes many shapes and forms, and in some of them it allows happiness. The moments in which people are filled with happiness are not simply thrown away; instead they are salvaged by Ishir, who stores them in a cloth pouch so that, some day, she can sprinkle them over the heads of those whose sole desire is to create peace among themselves. Ishir's pouch is forever barely half-full. Still, Silent Wolf's moments of ease with the world were being collected faithfully and, in due course, they will be spilled back over the world. So far as Silent Wolf was concerned, wrapping his finger in plain cotton bandages was much like wrapping away his memories of the past few days. The blood that emerged was the pain that he had felt, but somehow it was now remote from him. He turned his head and saw a rainbow of light easing itself into the room through the sagging window of the dormitory building. He felt as if he were at the crux of all the Kai teachings and principles. He felt destiny so


clearly that it was as if he had been punched on the shoulder. The moment passed. He strolled back across the courtyard but Red Dawn said that, thank you very much, he had enough help without boys who were obsessed with sticking knives into themselves. A few days before, Silent Wolf might have taken offence at the rejection. Now it merely provided a release. He left the Monastery and strolled down to the river bank. He stripped off his clothes and swam through the urgent current to the other side. Here there were trees which shaded him. Naked, feeling his animalness as opposed to his humanity, he stalked through the woods, watching the way the small forest creatures either fled out of his path or moved inquisitively to confront him. That little cloud of foreboding was still there, of course, but he had decided to ignore it. At the moment he had no mind. He just was. 3 Touch. Zagarna touched his forehead. His brain was filled with the buzzing of small insects as he brought himself back to full consciousness. He was seated in his huge platinum throne. He had slept for a short while and, as always after he awoke, the fury in him was almost too great to contain. The light that surrounded him was a pleasure to his slatted eyes, but that was nowhere enough to assuage his wrath. He snorted. He wanted very badly to kill something, but his great courtroom seemed to be empty, apart from himself. He enjoyed wrath, revelled in it, bathed in the luxury of his own rage. He remembered well the time before Naar had brought him into existence, when he had looked at anger dispassionately: it was, so he then thought, just another of the emotions. Most of the human races of Magnamund experienced emotions, he recognized, but he didn't really know what they were. He himself had then been a spaceless entity, waiting for the moment of time when time would start to have a meaning for him; the minds of the Sommlending and the other races of Magnamund had held only the slightest interest to him. Now, though, he was incarnate: he was here. Once he could have been


anything he wanted to be, but Naar had decreed that he be a Darklord, and so a Darklord he was. It never dawned on him to wonder what he might have been if he'd been incarnated in a different form -- a Sommlending child, perhaps. His mind resided not in possibilities or probabilities but in realities. He was the greatest of all the Darklords. That was the end of the story. He let the rage flood through him as he looked around the emptiness of his courtroom. He allowed himself this indulgence for only a few seconds, though. Then he bellowed: "Bring me the sorcerer!" A scuttling squealing from outside the great doors told him that the attendant giaks had heard his command, and were hurrying to obey. As he waited, he let his mind roam. There had been that curious drakkar, the one whom he had had to order the giaks to slaughter. Where had he/she/it come from? The more Zagarna thought about this, the more anxious he became. Kaag was impervious to all of the Sommlending, despite their cleverness, and their few allies were even less likely to be able to penetrate all of the fortress's many defences. Was it possible that the Sommlending had recruited some of the drakkarim to their cause? It seemed highly unlikely. Yet even so . . . The white heat of his great courtroom continued to rest easily on his vast eyes, soothing his thoughts. He was almost omnipotent. This summer, or even sooner, he would rid Magnamund of the parasites that called themselves the Sommlending, and this would signal the triumph of his own lord, Naar, not just over the world of Magnamund but also throughout the countless worlds that were Aon. And then, of course (and he hid this thought even from himself), it would be time to be thinking about what to do with Naar. Zagarna saw a universe opening up before him. More than that: a universe of universes. The belly of the entire polycosmos was exposed in pink vulnerability to his ready teeth. In the meantime, he waited for the giaks to bring him the magician. 4 "You need a name," said Vonotar. His "friend" shrank back against the cell's gloomy wall. He was clearly terrified, which was exactly what Vonotar wanted. A terrorized giak was one that would have it firmly imprinted in his mind that he must obey. "Have you any particular preference in the choice of your name?"


Vonotar looked down at the creature and deliberately displayed his contempt. "Giaks . . . no . . . names have." The words came even more slowly than usual. "This giak will have a name!" snapped the magician. "I tell you so, and I am your master." He almost hit the creature across the face to emphasize his point, but then recalled the easy strength the giak had shown earlier, and decided against it. There was no sense in breaking a wrist. "You . . . master . . . you choose . . . name me." Vonotar smiled a sneering smile. He had picked up a few words of foreign tongues from his reading in the Guild's library, and he was reminded of a Vassagonian term, carag. "From now on," he said, "you shall be known as Carag." "I . . . Carag," the giak agreed. He shuffled unhappily. He had the vague notion that adopting a name was a minor crime, and he didn't fancy being fed to the zlanbeast one vital organ at a time. "That's right, you're Carag. When I shout 'Carag' you come to me immediately and you do whatever I tell you. Right?" Vonotar spoke loudly. Best to make sure Carag was one hundred per cent intimidated from the outset. One day the little creature might discover that, in the Empire of Vassagonia, the word carag meant "chamberpot". "I . . . obey. You . . . master. You . . . Vonotar master. I . . . I Carag." The magician turned away abruptly and sat down on the stone bunk. He put his hands on his knees and looked out through the cell's open doorway. "Right then, Carag, prepare yourself for a little adventure. You and I are going to pay a visit to Zagarna. We've dawdled here for far too long already." Carag, considerably to Vonotar's surprise, accepted the information with equanimity. "I . . . take . . .you," he said. "No," said Vonotar. "I'll go first. I know the route." And he did. Among the vast body of Nadziranim knowledge which had been imparted to him was the ability to make his way unerringly from one place to another. He made good progress through the maze of Kaag's passageways, looking neither to left nor to right of him, Carag trotting along in his wake. Many of the creatures they encountered -- drakkarim, giaks, even the


occasional gourgaz or helghast -- were visibly shocked by the sight of this determined-looking Sommlending. Surely no Sommlending should be permitted to live a second longer here in the bowels of the fortress? Yet there was something in the set of his face that made them meekly give way to let him past. Perhaps the giak behind him was taking him to be fed to the zlanbeast, or perhaps he was a helghast which had shape-shifted itself into humanoid form and had had the poor taste to forget to change its appearance back into something a little more repulsive. In due course the pair were confronted by the party which Zagarna had sent out to fetch them. As soon as the giaks saw him they unsheathed their swords. Vicious little hisses of indrawn breath susurrated in the corridor. Vonotar leant casually against the red-hot wall and regarded them with evident lack of interest. "Tell them that I'm on my way to see the Darklord, and that they obstruct my course at their own peril." Carag gibbered briefly. Vonotar recognized the word oknar -- "leader" -- and saw that it instantly changed the demeanour of the troop. The swords were put away and a path opened up between the giaks. The magician strode through, beckoning Carag to come with him, and the others turned as one to follow them. When the clattering group came to the region of white heat, Vonotar ran his fingers along the walls, still amazed by the abilities the Nadziranim had given to him. He felt as if he were indestructible, both mentally and physically. The hot stone, thanks to a Nadziranim thought which he had sculpted inside his mind, felt pleasantly warm to his touch. The frigid passages, when the party reached them, were like a cool summer's breeze in his face. He didn't bother to knock when he came to the door of Zagarna's court. He simply threw it open and strode across the white-hot floor to stand before the Darklord, who loomed over him on his dazzling throne. "What is the day?" the magician asked, without troubling over preliminaries. The Darklord was startled. "The day before the start of spring," he bubbled. "The Eve of Fehmarn. Indeed it is," said Vonotar, mostly to himself. Then, more loudly: "Zagarna, if you wish to conquer Sommerlund you must move with all swiftness." "True," the Darklord agreed. The drakkarim surrounding him -- his newly selected assembly of courtiers and sycophants -- were amazed that he


had not yet slaughtered the intruder for his impertinence. "There are only three short months until summer. We must prepare with urgency." Vonotar waved his arm dismissively. "Summer is the wrong time to attack. The Kai Lords will be scattered all over the land. Even if you subjugate part of Sommerlund, they will still lead the Sommlending against your armies. It will take them years, but eventually they'll drive you back here behind the Durncrags." "What would you suggest, then?" There was menace in Zagarna's voice now. It was clear to his courtiers that he was only moments away from an outburst of fury that would destroy Vonotar, not to mention many of themselves. They knew only too well what had happened to their predecessors, and their predecessors, and . . . "We attack early tomorrow," proclaimed Vonotar firmly. "You've said that before. I didn't believe you then, and there seems very little reason to believe you now. Be more realistic, sorcerer. When would be the best time for us to attack?" "I've just told you. Early tomorrow. Tomorrow is Fehmarn, the first day of spring. Every year, at dawn on Fehmarn, the Kai Lords worship together at their Monastery, hidden in the woods some fifty miles to the south of Toran. They're all in one place, without any armies of Sommlending to fight for them. If we attack at dawn, we can massacre every last one of the Kai, and Sommerlund will be ours. Without the Kai to lead them, any further resistance by the Sommlending will be nothing more than a minor irritation. A short-lived one, at that." After a moment's contemplation, the Darklord sprang from his throne. The drakkarim recoiled, expecting the worst, but he just wanted to pace about the wide courtroom, stamping away the huge excesses of energy which were pounding through his body. Finally he stopped, and he stared, half over his shoulder, at the motionless figure of the magician. Viscous green slaver dripped from Zagarna's bared fangs. "Then tomorrow at dawn it is!" "And an end to Sommerlund." This time Vonotar spoke quite quietly. 5 Silent Wolf slept badly that night, as did the gathered Kai Lords. An itching of their premonitory skills seemed to be hinting to them that something


terrible was about to happen, but they had no way of knowing what it might be. When Silent Wolf did finally slip off into sleep, his dreams were about playing greel. He mis-held an axe and cut his finger. The pain wasn't great and he carried on playing, but the blood flooded from the tiny injury until soon it was lapping around the ankles of all the players. They looked at him in annoyance, because obviously it was impossible to continue the game in these conditions. He opened his mouth to apologize, but realized that the warm sticky blood was now around his waist. Soon some of the smaller greel-players were having to swim in order to keep their heads above the surface. Silent Wolf was about to do the same when he discovered to his horror that he had completely forgotten how to swim. He woke with a jerk, sitting up in the cold darkness. His whole body was sheathed in sweat. A bell chimed, and he counted. It was the hour before dawn. After a dream like that, he would never be able to go back to sleep. He might as well get up and do something useful.


9 Eclipse of the Kai 1 A slight figure dressed in a silver costume flitted silently across the Monastery's stone-paved courtyard. The full moon was high in the sky, casting the shadow of the dormitory's low tower over her as she moved. Alyss was rather pleased with herself. Already the first stage of her plan had worked. She knew it was impossible for her to alter the future in any radical fashion -- Vonotar's refusal to consider her arguments and turn back from the Darklands had been confirmation of this -- yet she could nudge people in one way or another so as to modify it slightly. The nightmare she had insinuated into Silent Wolf's mind had worked as she had hoped. He was awake now, and had decided to get out of bed. He was pulling on his clothes, stumbling in the darkness, and wondering if there was anything constructive he could do both to take his thoughts away from the dream and to assist the preparations for the celebration of Fehmarn. There was a light on in the kitchens, but no one saw her as she slipped into the Grand Hall. If need be, she'd render herself invisible, but for the moment she preferred to stay in the guise of a Kai: besides, she felt that she looked rather fetching in silver. All of the more important halls in the Monastery had mosaic floors, and so a normal mortal would have made a great din while clacking across the stone. Alyss adjusted her pace so that she was walking an inch or so above the floor; her footsteps made no sound at all, muffled as they were by the layer of air. She ran up the stairs, two at a time, to the Lore Hall of Fire, and then through it to the Lore Hall of Light. Beyond were the Lore Hall of the Spirit and another flight of stairs. She mounted these with greater circumspection, because the more devout of the Kai Lords were praying in the Kai Masters' Hall. She was prepared to adopt invisibility instantly, should the need arise, but it didn't; she scurried past the hall's doorway and up yet more stairs to the Kai Masters' Chambers. These were empty, as were the Grand Masters' Chambers on the next floor up; Winter Owl was praying devoutly in the Kai Masters' Hall. Finally she found herself on the roof of the great tower she had ascended -- the Tower of the Sun. The light of the moon was strong enough for her to see parts of the surrounding countryside. Across the river there were woods, and beyond


them neatly laid-out fields. There were hills, too, but they were softly rolling ones, and none of them very high: as she knew, even the younger children from the Monastery would, in their spare time, make a day's adventure out of scrambling up the nearby ones. She looked around her. The walls and buildings of the Monastery seemed strong, yet they were only of stone: stone was a weak and fragile material when assaulted by the quick corrosion of Nadziranim magic, and she was certain that Vonotar would be present to use that magic in the service of his new ally, Zagarna. She also knew -- and this was something that neither Zagarna nor Vonotar was yet aware of -- that the magician was a unique creation. The powers of the other Nadziranim were impressive; yet none of them had received the long and rigorous training in Left Hand magic to which Vonotar had subjected himself during his years with the Brotherhood of the Crystal Star. To be sure -- and Vonotar himself, she sensed, was slowly becoming aware of this -- he had already lost many of his facilities in the Left Hand Path, yet the effects of the training still remained with him, and he was now a more powerful Nadziranim magician than any that had gone before. His abilities were not as great as her own, a thought which gave her some sour pleasure, but they might be enough to resist her for a long while. And if he advanced yet further in his learning . . . She shuddered. A cloud crept slowly across the moon, so that for several minutes the Monastery was in complete darkness. Then the silver light was restored. She felt, far beneath her, one of the side-gates of the Monastery being cautiously pushed open. Ah, that must be Silent Wolf, trying to escape from the shackles of the dream she had given him. She looked up to the moon and felt Ishir's light caress her. She touched Ishir with her mind, and felt in response a wash of affection. Alyss spoke briefly with the moon. I ask for your help, Ishir, this coming morning. Give me the strength to do what I have to do. Your request is granted, Alyss. You're not the best of godlings, you know, but then neither is anyone else. There's going to be great cruelty and pain in a few hours' time: don't allow your heart to flinch at the sight of it all. No, of course I won't, thought Alyss. What do you think I'm made of? I think you're far less of an adamantine being than you imagine yourself to be. You have a way of sympathizing with individuals among the


Sommlending. For myself, I wish them to succeed in their struggle against the Evil of Naar, but I cannot find it in myself to weep every time a sparrow falls. It seemed to Alyss as if the face of the moon had changed. Its stare was strict. There was a steeliness there which she found repellent. She'd told Ishir before about this attitude problem -- to get a bit more laid back -- but her advice seemed to have had no effect. If you'll excuse me, thought Alyss, I'd rather like to see what I can do to help these Sommlending whom you seem to regard as nothing more than objects. I rather like them, as individuals. Of course, they all have their little imperfections, how unlucky for them, but they're a source of hope in this harsh world. I'm sorry, little one, said the moon. I've offended you, and you're quite right to be offended. Good luck in your efforts. If I could help you, I would. But for now all I can do is watch. I do love you, you know, remarked Alyss almost reluctantly. I love you too, thought the moon, but there'll come the time when you'll find your main love is elsewhere. I know, Alyss agreed, but that's a long way off and there's no certainty of it. He'll have to do something about those zits, for a start. The moon seemed to smile, and then another cloud obscured Ishir's face. 2 From the highest rooftop of Kaag one could gaze out over acres of the dusty, grey plain which surrounded the fortress-city. The sky overhead was mustily dark; the moon was up, but the haze of the sky above the Darklands filtered out most of its wan light. Even the darkness was coloured in deepest orange. Vonotar, Zagarna and Carag stood supervising the work that was going ahead on the flatlands in front of Kaag. The scene was lit by thousands of flickering torches made from sheaves of dried marsh rushes and fuelled by giak oil. The light was bright enough for them to see everything in great detail: Vonotar had no need to use his magical abilities to conquer the blinkers of night. Many of the creatures that made up Zagarna's army could likewise see in darkness: the torches were there for the benefit of the few. The entire plain was a mass of moving figures -- giaks, kraan, zlanbeast, crypt spawn, gourgaz, xaghash, doomwolves, helghast, vordaks, other monstrous


creations that no one had ever thought to name. The flying beasts were being fitted with harnesses and saddles in preparation for the attack. They came to the ground in waves to be accoutred, then returned to the sky where their shrill cackles combined to assault those below with something approaching a physical force. Their excitement was so great that sometimes they would kill each other, and a body would fall flutteringly to the earth; whenever this happened, the corpse would be instantly surrounded by giaks, who would rip it limb from limb and eagerly devour its flesh. The whole process took less than a minute; when the giaks had finished their feast there would be no trace left at all of the hapless creature, not even a dark spatter of ichor on the surface of the dust. "How many of them are there?" asked Vonotar. "Of giaks and kraan, perhaps half a million each," bubbled the Darklord, "maybe a little more. There are several thousand drakkarim as well, and they'll be riding on the zlanbeast: you and I shall ride on imperial zlanbeast, of course. Of the helghast and vordaks -- well, it's always difficult to tell about them, but I should think we have plenty." The Darklord turned to look at the magician. "Sorcerer, we have no need to worry about numbers. The troops are underarmed, but we can afford to lose a thousand for every Kai Lord that dies. Even if it's a question of the last of the giaks killing the last of the Kai, we can always create more giaks. Indeed, it seems easier these days to get the fools at Helgedad to spawn more giaks than to smelt ore for weapons." Zagarna shone a pale, leaden colour in the shadows where they stood. The flames that were Vonotar's eyes were red and hungry-looking. "Zagarna," said the magician, "could any of the Kai kill you, or are you immortal?" "Nothing can kill me." "Nothing?" "Nothing at all." "Vashna was killed. He too thought that nothing could kill him." "He was a fool. I don't like the way you're talking. It makes me think of treason, and my punishments for treachery are very harsh." "I'm no longer a normal mortal, Zagarna." "What do you mean?" "I think you would have difficulty punishing me in any way. Your slaves are powerless against me. I can resist even yourself." The Darklord glowed angrily. "Vonotar," he said. "you've been useful to me so far, but don't


overstep the mark. You are becoming insolent." "I'm not threatening you at all," said the magician. "Far from it. We're partners now. It's in our mutual interest that we both survive to rule over Magnamund. I was merely offering to use my Nadziranim abilities, coupled with all the strength I've retained from my earlier life among the Brotherhood of the Crystal Star, in order to protect you in the morning's conflict." "I assumed you would, sorcerer." "No, it's not as easy as that. I can't protect you unless you make the deliberate decision to allow me to." "What do you mean?" "You'll have to let me into your mind for a little while, so that I can match it with my own." "But how could I trust you?" The Darklord was unused to dealing with other beings on equal terms, and he suddenly began to suspect that Vonotar might have been sent here by his Guild as a spy. The suspicions crossed his face, and Vonotar saw them as clearly as if they were printed words. "You can trust me because I have to trust you," he said. "Besides, haven't I given you so much already? We're tied together, you and I. If you should die, then my death is likely to follow not far behind. If I die, then it may be that you will never conquer Sommerlund -- indeed, that you'll be driven from this world." "But I've nothing to fear from the Kai." "Vashna had nothing to fear from the Kai, either. But where is Vashna now? He was once the most powerful of the Darklords, but now he's . . . he's a vacuum." "As I said, he was a fool." Zagarna flicked a claw in dismissal. "But he died. The Kai King Ulnar slew him with the Sommerswerd. You, too, could die unless my strength is allied with yours." They were interrupted by a helghast. It had taken the form of a Sommlending, and Vonotar was startled. Then he felt the cold blankness of its mind and realized this was no creature born of man and woman. "Sire," it said, bowing so that its forehead almost touched the ground. "Yes?" "There is a shortage of giak oil for the torches." "Then start burning giaks instead. Why bother me with such trivia?" The helghast bowed again and beckoned to one of the kraan fluttering nearby. It mounted the winged creature and spurred it over the parapet and


down towards the plain. There was a silence between Vonotar and Zagarna. "All right," said the Darklord suddenly, "I'll let you come into my mind. But be warned: you may achieve nothing but your own madness." "I think not. As I told you, I'm far more powerful now than you seem to think." Vonotar spoke without any trace of boastfulness: it was a simple statement of fact. "But I'll know should you try in any way to alter what you find there." "I must alter some things if I'm to effect the link between us." "Of course. But no more than that, wizard." Then Zagarna allowed his mind to blossom open, and Vonotar's own mind plunged into it. This time he again saw all of Aon through the Darklord's eyes, and a part of him was appalled by what he saw. The creatures of all the infinite worlds of the polycosmos, the universe of universes, were nothing more than flesh -- flesh to be used, devoured, tormented . . . The Darklords, like their master, Naar, fed on soulstuff. They drew their energies from agony and misery. All over Aon, untold billions of creatures from the newborn to the aged, were being put to unspeakable deaths so that the denizens of Darkness could continue in the path of Evil. Vonotar felt as if he could see everything in Aon at the same time. Yet, whereas before the effect on him had been to drive him to the shores of madness, now he found it pleasurable -- even exciting. As the two of them stood there, their minds interlocked, he could sense his breath coming in rapid little gasps. And now he saw the great fascination, the glorious ecstasy, of absolute Evil. The screams of tortured human beings thrilled every cell of his body. He directed his mind into Zagarna's intellect, but there he found a tunnel of total emptiness. His mind plunged down into this, powerless to halt its descent, and he realized that he was falling into the black soul of the King of the Darkness, Naar. He could see swirling motes of diamond-sharp lights in the blankness, occasionally lit up by lightning-like flashes of deep purple and an angry electric blue. He had the sensation of being alone at the centre of a motionless vastness, a place where there was nothing but those fleeting lights. And then there was a sound as well. "Vonotar," said a voice that filled all of the huge space, "you have travelled far in such a short space of time. I could punish you for your foolhardiness, but instead I choose to reward you for your boldness. I have


united you with Zagarna: the link is indissoluble. Go, now, both of you, and serve me well as my Champions of Darkness." And then Vonotar's mind was his own once more. He stood there shaking, one hand clutching the cold stone of the parapet to support himself. He felt sick, but with some difficulty controlled his nausea. He had been in the presence of the soul of Naar, and had felt the waves of implacable Evil welling from it. He looked out of the corner of his eye at Zagarna, and wondered if the Darklord knew -- knew that, while he had a mind of his own, his intellect was a pocket of vacuum where there was only the soulstuff of the King of the Darkness. The Darklord was just a marionette, totally controlled by Naar. He would always be evil, because there was nothing but an infinite concentration of Evil in his intellect. "It's done," breathed Vonotar. "Our minds are linked." 3 There was enough moonlight for Silent Wolf to be able to see his breath clouding around him as he crept from the gate of the Monastery. In order to get away from his nightmare he felt he had also to put a reassuring thickness of stone between himself and his rumpled bed. He tousled his hair and looked around him. The wind was rocking the trees of the woods ahead; two branches were sawing together with solemn, mindless monotony. In counterpoint there were the washing sound of the leaves and the rushing of the river's waters. It was as if a composer had created a concerto for percussion and strings. Silent Wolf remembered how, the day before, he had swum the river and walked like a savage amid the forest on the far side. His lips pulled back into a mirthless smile of satisfaction, revealing his teeth. His senses seemed unusually sharp this morning: he breathed deeply, and savoured the tangy smell of the air. The coldness was something he could almost clutch between his fingers. On the many days when Storm Hawk had sent him out in the pre-dawn hours to collect wood as a punishment he had found himself revelling in the sensation of being a part of the elements, and it was no different now. He picked his way carefully, prompted more by force of habit than by anything else, down the little path that led to the woods. Through the thin leather of his shoes he could feel pebbles and gnarled dead roots, and he flexed his feet against them appreciatively, luxuriating in their roughness.


At the edge of the woods he found an old tree-stump and he dropped himself down onto it. How many times had he been here in the early hours, just sitting and thinking or, more often, just sitting? He'd long ago lost count. He heard the familiar squeaks and scrabblings as small animals moved about in the undergrowth, set on their own tasks or fighting their tiny battles. He put his chin in his hands and felt content. But . . . No. This morning he didn't feel content -- not entirely. There was something wrong, and he couldn't identify what it was. He held his breath and listened carefully. Was there something jarring in the sounds that clustered around him? Some discordant note, perhaps? No. All seemed well. Still, he felt as if he were being threatened in some way, as if somewhere out there in the darkness there was a massive . . . a massive presence. Something cold and calculating, waiting to pounce upon him. This is irrational, he thought. And then he changed his mind. Although he hadn't been the best of students, it was possible that more of Storm Hawk's teachings had worn off on him than either of them had realized. Perhaps his sixth sense was at work, as he had thought it might have been last night? And then a curious thing happened. All of a sudden a great wave of placidness swept through him. It was rather as if he had been a quaking child, screaming in terror at imagined night monsters, and then his mother had come into the bedroom to soothe away his fears with warm caresses. He smiled at himself. I've been imagining things, he thought. A Kai warrior doesn't scare himself with chimeras. Yes, said a voice in his mind, you're right. You've been letting your dreams get the better of you. You're safe out here. There's nothing to worry about, nothing at all. Honest. He leaned back a little. The sensation that there was a comforting arm around his shoulders was intense. When he suddenly felt an impudent kiss on his forehead he was so relaxed that it was a moment or two before he jumped to his feet, staring about him. But there was no one there. He could see more clearly now. The light had changed from the silveriness of the moonshine to the pale pink of the early moments of dawn. He looked up through the tangled branches above his head and saw the full


moon beginning to lose its brilliance as the sun's stronger light started to creep across the sky. Something flew across the face of the moon. It looked to him like a bat, but the silhouette vanished so swiftly that he hardly had time to take it in. He gave it not a moment's thought. Lost for something to do, he began, in a desultory way, to collect wood. After all, the Monastery would presumably need fuel in the days to come. 4 Thelda's accident had slowed them considerably. Banedon's first reaction, when she fell off the pony, had been to join in with Daron's shout of laughter, but almost immediately he had noticed that the girl's face was screwed up with pain. She sat up on the road and nursed her wrist. Clearly she was making a considerable effort not to cry. Banedon had pulled Nina to a halt and the little horse had snorted in irritation. Within moments Banedon was by Thelda's side, letting her rest her head on the cushion of his armpit. His earlier confidence in himself evaporated. "Hey, there, have you hurt yourself?" He felt her nod. She was biting her lower lip. Daron was slithering down from Bobin's back, his face now concerned. He was too young to be able to conceive of what other people's pain might really be like, but he could see that his sister was in misery. Banedon's powers of healing were limited, yet he touched the wrist, which was already beginning to swell and blacken, and he tried to pour all his curative magic into it. It had been a long time since he'd tried to use this particular ability, however, and he knew even as he formed it that the shape of his thought was wrong. Nevertheless he asked her: "Does that feel better?" This time she shook her head. The motion shifted her wrist slightly, and he could feel the grate of the broken ends of bone rasping against each other. If he couldn't mend the fracture, perhaps he could at least alleviate the pain. Again he shaped a thought, and tried to put all the power of his mind behind it. And again it was the wrong thought, and Thelda was still in agony. Banedon cursed all the times he had played vtovlry rather than practise what he had been taught. This child, of whom he had become very


fond during their brief acquaintance, was suffering because he was incapable of performing the very lowly feats of magic of which even the humblest pupil of the Brotherhood of the Crystal Star should be capable. "I thought you were a magician," said Daron accusingly. "So did I," said Banedon, "so did I. But it seems I'm only a Journeyman." He looked around them. There was a hedge along one side of the road, and beyond it there was a broken tree. "Come here, Daron," he said. "Come and hold your sister like I'm doing." The boy obeyed, rather clumsily. She was bigger than he was, and he had difficulty coping with her weight. "I'll only be a minute," Banedon said. Moving quickly, he drew lengths of creeping stem from the hedge. He tried to break them with his hands, but they were too tough and so in the end he resorted to using his teeth. The taste of the sap was bitter in his mouth. Once he felt he had collected enough, he forced his way through the hedge and gathered a couple of reasonably straight sticks from the litter of wood around the dead tree. They seemed ominously light to him, but when he tested their strength across his knee they bent rather than broke: they would probably be all right. Returning to the road, he fashioned a crude splint for the girl's wrist. In order to do so, he had to move her hand, and for the first time she let out a shriek. "I'm trying to be gentle," he said apologetically, more to her brother than to her. Once the final knot had been tied he looked gloomily at the horses. He had done his best with the splint, but the jerking of either Bobin's or Nina's bumping gait would be extremely painful for Thelda. Besides, she might be unable to ride at all. Daron wasn't big enough to manage the pony at the same time as holding her in place, and Banedon himself wasn't much of a horseman. They would have to walk the rest of the way to Searsby -- unless they could find a house near the road whose occupants might be better able to deal with Thelda's broken bones. The chances were slight: Searsby was the next place of any size. If there were villages along their route, Banedon had never heard of them. He asked the children, who knew the road, and they sadly concurred: Searsby was the nearest settlement, unless they turned back to their uncle's village. Banedon hardly relished the idea of explaining to Petrea and Tym that, having been entrusted with the safekeeping of their nephew and niece, he


had allowed this accident to happen. He was relieved when both the children argued in favour of pressing on. Progress was slow. Thelda was faint from the pain. Banedon dug in the pockets of his robe and produced a small quantity of a root which, when chewed, dulled the nerves. The girl obediently took some, and it helped her a little, he could see, but not a great deal. The horses ambled along behind them. Daron, now that the immediate crisis was over, became infuriatingly irrepressible. He kept darting ahead, hiding behind boulders, and jumping out in an attempt to startle the other two. If he wasn't doing that he was lagging behind, complaining that his feet and his back were hurting, and couldn't they just rest for a little while . . .? The day passed interminably by. The sun crawled to the zenith and then took even longer crawling back down to the horizon. Fortunately Tym had given them a bag of food and a couple of flasks of water, so at least they didn't have to contend with hunger and thirst. Indeed Banedon, had it not been for his guilt concerning Thelda's pain, might thoroughly have enjoyed the walk. The day was beautifully sunny, warm enough for pleasure yet cool enough that the exercise of strolling easily along didn't tire one out too much. Nevertheless, the time they spent between each pair of mileposts seemed to be getting longer and longer. When dusk had fully settled he determined to call a halt. "We can camp out in the field over there," he said. "I've got an extra robe in my saddlepack. The two of you can sleep in that." They ate, talked for a while, and then the children climbed into Banedon's spare robe. He told them a bedtime story -- of how Agarash had slain Nyxator -- but before he was more than halfway through he could tell from the rhythm of their breathing that he was speaking to deaf ears. He himself had considerably more difficulty in getting off to sleep. The night was very cold. He lay on his back, looking up at the crisp stars and the rising moon, his hands behind his head. The size of the sky was a wonder to him. Sometimes Daron whimpered gently, and Banedon realized the boy was having a bad dream. He was glad that sleep had come to Thelda, easing the pain of her broken wrist for at least a few hours. He slept fitfully for a while -- he didn't know how long. When next he looked up at the sky the moon was directly overhead. Tonight was the eve of Fehmarn, and he should reach the Kai Monastery about noon tomorrow. Of course, all the gathered Kai Lords would be busy celebrating this holiest dawn of the year, so it might be a day


or two before Banedon could deliver his message. He had no doubt, though, that he would be provided with a welcome and with board and lodging for as long as need be. Perhaps there would be some people of around his own age. He wondered if they played vtovlry . . . . . . all the gathered Kai Lords . . . Oh, no! Vonotar must by now be with Zagarna. If the Darklord's forces were sufficiently prepared, and if Vonotar had told them of the Kai's annual ritual ... What better time to strike than at the feast of Fehmarn? And he, Banedon, the trusted Journeyman, had been dallying on the way! How could he have been so stupid as not to have thought of this before? How could the Guildmaster have been so . . .? He leapt to his feet and woke the children. Thelda gave a little squeal of pain as she came to consciousness. Banedon explained in as few words as possible that he must leave them, that they weren't far from home, and that it would soon be dawn. "I'll maybe come and see you some time in Searsby," he assured the girl, who was showing the same signs of insecurity as she had when leaving her uncle's home. He left them his spare robe and sprinted to Nina. "Blast you, you run-down nag!" he swore, struggling up into the saddle. "It's time to run like you've never run before." He dug his heels forcefully into her side. She whinnied in protest, but obediently moved to a canter. Behind him, Thelda dropped off to sleep once more, but Daron was fully awake. The boy lay snuggling close to his sister, nestling against her for warmth. He felt very lonely and frightened now that Banedon had left them. Still, Thelda was here, and she would protect him like she always did. Although of course Thelda had a broken wrist . . . Dawn came, and Daron could no longer stay where he was. Being careful not to wake his sister, he crept out from under the robe and relieved himself in the shelter of a thorny bush. It was after he had finished that the whole landscape became suddenly darker. Sucking in his breath in fear he looked around him. The sun was now well above the horizon, but its light was almost blotted out by a huge host of flying creatures. He could hear them, too. Their high cackles grew louder and louder. There were so many of them that his mind was barely capable of understanding that there could be such a large number of anything.


He had no idea of what they could be, but he had a vague, unfocused knowledge that they were evil. He ran to shake his sister awake. "Wha -- what's --?" she began. Daron's only response was to scream. She followed the line of his gaze and then she, too, screamed. A small detachment of the fliers divorced itself from the major party and circled down towards them. As they came closer, the children could see their great, clawed batlike wings, and their evilly cruel beaks, and their long, hooked talons. Astride the neck of each rode a dwarfish hideous thing -- a parody of a human being -clasping a serrated sword. The noise was deafening. The children were screaming in panic; the giaks and the kraan were screaming with the exhilaration of unbridled bloodlust. Thelda died instantly, a great fountain of blood leaping from her chest as a kraan struck into her heart with its horny beak. The scattering of blood over Daron's body gave sudden strength to his muscles. He turned and ran, zigzag fashion, across the field. He didn't get more than fifty yards before he was caught. A kraan raked its eager talon across his back, and the shock threw him to the ground. He lay there, sobbing in pain and fear. Oh, Kai and Ishir, save me now. The giaks were disappointed that Thelda had died so quickly, and they beat and berated the kraan responsible. With Daron they took a while longer. 5 Silent Wolf had collected quite a reasonable stack of dead wood by the time the sun was fully up. He looked at it, slightly puffed but pleased with himself. He'd have to make several trips carrying it all up to the kitchens. His hands were filthy, covered in mud and moss and dark sap, and there was a small tear in his jerkin, but his pleasure in his minor achievement was such that he didn't much care about the mess he was in. Probably somebody would tick him off, but he was perfectly well accustomed to that. He still had a strange, almost artificial, veneer of well-being covering the surface of his mind. Had he been in an introspective mood he would have noticed that there were dreads and fears beneath that surface, but he


was too flushed from the joy of straightforward physical exercise. The cold light was suddenly obliterated, and the balloon of his contentment burst. He turned and looked towards the sun. Millions of them, it seemed. Zlanbeast and kraan. Even from this distance he could identify their grotesque forms. They were like a cloud of predatory insects. Every now and then smaller contingents would separate from the rest, swooping down to wreak who knew what havoc upon the ground below. It was as if there were a second night spreading across the sky. He was frozen for a moment, and then he began to run back towards the Monastery, snaking agilely between the trees. He could hear shouts from high up on the roof of the Monastery. The night-watch had been, as always, facing towards the west, whence the threat of the Darklords came. But the flock had -- somehow -- come from the east. As always, Silent Wolf had his axe with him. As he ran, he pulled it from his belt. He found that he was shouting with eagerness to be at the heart of the battle -- to avenge the death of Storm Hawk. In the dull light ahead of him, a low branch suddenly appeared. He ducked automatically, but nonetheless it hit his forehead with colossal force. He staggered backwards. He was used to the woods; he was as surefooted and nimble as anyone could be. Nothing like this had ever happened before. At this moment, of all times! He dropped his axe and clutched his forehead, feeling the blood oozing between his fingers. That branch had seemed to appear out of nowhere. Almost as if someone had put it there deliberately, he thought, his mind for an instant dispassionately logical. Then he crumpled at the knees and there was nothing but the bliss of oblivion. 6 Vonotar had guided Zagarna and the host of fighting spawn over the Durncrag Mountains well to the north of the Monastery. They had circled in a wide arc to attack from the east, passing over Toran and other, more minor, habitations. Everywhere there was a sign of life another detachment of giaks and kraan would be despatched to slaughter whatever was there. Toran alone was spared: Vonotar stayed Zagarna's hand, realizing that even his own enhanced powers could hardly hope to compete with the massed minds of


the Guild. He had persuaded the Darklord that their sole chance of victory over the Guild was to mount a secondary expedition later. Far beneath the carpet of wings, flames leapt up as outlying farms were swiftly put to the torch. Vonotar tuned himself in to the minds of their luckless occupants, and felt glee surge through him as his inner ear heard the cries of agony and terror begin. He rode with Zagarna at the head of the mighty army. They were both astride imperial zlanbeast, the largest of their kind; Carag held on grimly behind Vonotar. The Darklord was shouting with enthusiasm, his mouth slavering. His head was encased in a bubble of glass, and on his back he bore dim bottles of sulphurous air from the Darklands: the air of Sommerlund was poison to him. He lashed his mount furiously with his horny hand. Behind them there was an ocean of noise -- the beating of millions of wings, the excited cacklings of the kraan and the giaks, all the sounds of Evil. The fields flew by beneath them. The small harrying parties receded with the swiftness of a dropped stone. Vonotar's heart sang. There was very little in him now but the anticipation of forthcoming massacre. His hair and his ears were pulled back by the force of the wind, but he could feel no pain. His face was a hideous mask of hatred. Now that he had seen Aon through the Darklord's eyes, not just once but twice, he was addicted to the joys of Darkness. He wished there were someone nearby whom he could kill himself. He wanted to see bright blood, to revel in the final fear and despondent misery a person shows when they know that death is inevitable, to laugh at someone's pain. It never occurred to him that, only days before, he had been leading a life devoted to the triumph of Good. His memory was becoming an unreliable thing now. He recalled his guilt over the death of Loren as a time of deep spiritual happiness. He flexed the palm of his right hand, carefully shaped a Nadziranim thought, and watched as a smallholding beneath was reduced to a dry and fetid powder. Soon the Monastery was in sight. The Kai had seen their approach. Tiny figures were scurrying all over the battlements, like a nest of termites whose mound has been kicked over. Vonotar smiled. The fools probably thought they could hope to resist not just this army of killers but also his own stupendous magical abilities. Then the smile left his face.


There was something there that shouldn't be there. He didn't know what it was, but its presence was very clear to him. He cast his gaze to his right to see if Zagarna had sensed anything, but the Darklord was in an ecstasy of bloodlust, his head thrown back and his great jaw wide open, his gargantuan teeth seeming to maul the wind. Vonotar had become a mass of foreboding. He didn't know how, but he detected that somewhere in or around the Monastery there was a source of power greater even than his own. For a while his ears were deaf to all the noises around him. It couldn't be one of the Kai, he thought, because their magic is so . . . rudimentary. And I can't believe that all of the Guild have travelled here. Besides, this isn't anything like Left Hand magic -- or even like Nadziranim magic, come to that. This is something . . . different. He flinched. The conviction was growing in him that this might not, after all, be the war to end all wars. Who -- or, more likely, what -- was this powerful entity? Had the great god Kai himself come to defend his adherents? But no: here on Magnamund the gods always kept their distance, leaving mortals to fight out the struggle between Good and Evil. He turned and tried to shout something of this to Zagarna, but the din of the flying army was too great. Vonotar tried to touch minds with Zagarna, but the attempt was futile. Who are you? he thought despairingly in the direction of the entity. Why, don't you know? said a voice in his mind. We've spoken before. 7 Nina was galloping through the early hours of day as if there were wings attached to her hooves. Banedon could hardly believe that the little horse was capable of such speed. He hung on to the reins with some difficulty, trying to move his body in order to compensate every time she hurtled round a corner or accelerated along the straight. The insides of his thighs were blistered from the friction. Then darkness fell. Grappling at the saddle's pommel, he swung his head around to look behind him. The sun was eclipsed by a horrendous horde of flying creatures. Clearly he had been right; his half-formulated idea, that Vonotar might encourage Zagarna to attack on this day, had been tragically accurate. A platoon of kraan sped from the skies towards him. Now he could


see some of them individually. He spurred Nina on to even greater efforts. There was a sparse area of forest ahead of them. Banedon knew that his duty was to ride ahead to warn the Kai at the Monastery of the attack, but by now it was too late, and anyway . . . well, he could hardly take the message to them if he was dead. He recognized his cowardice as one might recognize an old friend. He steered Nina in among the trees. Twigs whipped his face. She slowed her pace, picking her steps carefully as she moved through the gloom. Her sides and her head were covered with thick, glistening white sweat. After only a few minutes of treading through the ever-thickening foliage she collapsed beneath him. He tumbled forward into a soft bed of weeds and last year's mouldering leaves. When he cradled Nina's head in his hands he realized instantly that the" little horse was dead. He swatted away the tears that threatened to blind him and, seizing the few items he had tied to her saddle, set off as fast as he could manage through the cloying, rank undergrowth. His feet seemed to be made of heavy stone. Overhead he could hear the chattering of the kraan and the giaks as they searched for him. He was in a marsh before he realized it, and his progress slowed even further. He pulled himself through it with long, exaggerated steps, the mud clinging to his boots. There was an area of lightness up ahead, and he dragged himself towards it as quickly as he could. His lips were moving convulsively as he forced himself not to fall to the ground and weep, not to give up his life because it was no longer worth saving. The brightness he had seen was because a trail had been cut through the forest, many years before. Cautiously he ran across it, and then turned back to see where it might lead. He crawled out from beneath the cover of the trees and -- expecting any moment to feel the cruel impact of a kraan's talons in his neck -- looked swiftly to left and right. Then he reversed hastily back into the shading woods. To his left, the trail led to a group of dilapidated huts. To the right he could see it leading all the way to the hills. He could carry on deeper into the forest, but that way lay inevitable death. However laboriously he hid himself, the rampaging giaks would inevitably flush him out. Hills or huts? The peace of the hills was tempting, but he knew that before long in the open


he would be plucked from the ground and savaged by one of the kraan. His only option seemed to be to head towards the huts. He kept close in under the trees, moving warily, his eyes as often on the skies above as on the way ahead of him. Several times he tripped and would have fallen flat had he not caught himself just in time. The huts proved to be the nucleus of a primitive village. The peasants who lived there were fighting off a patrol of giaks as best they could, armed only with pitchforks and scythes. There might have been fifty of the countryfolk; there were only six of the giaks, but their ferocity and their superior weaponry were sufficient to win them the day. Banedon turned away and vomited at the sight of the pitiless slaughter. After he had recovered himself, he sprang forward -- amazed at his own sudden spurt of courage -- to help the peasants. Now that death was so close at hand, his mind was filled with all the Left Hand knowledge which he had in his earlier years of training treated so cavalierly. He directed his gaze at a giak, and it dropped where it stood. He swung his hand through the air to point at another, and its eyes erupted; it staggered slowly away, then fell, twitching, its life slowly leaking from its body. He hurled a word at one of the remaining giaks, and the force of the syllables cleaved its head from its shoulders. He . . . But then he heard the fluttering of wings overhead. The peasants fled into the forest, as did the surviving giaks. A good half-dozen kraan hovered over Banedon, their glassy red eyes examining him as if he were nothing more than a slab of meat to be devoured. He ran back along the forest track. Giaks were easy to kill when they were battling with Sommlending, but he had little chance of fighting off a platoon of kraan. One of the winged beasts dropped down onto the trail in front of him, and three giaks toppled from its back. They regained their balance in moments, drawing their swords. Banedon killed the kraan and one of the giaks with a single gesture, but the agony of performing magic was now beginning to sap him. Cursing in his pain, he staggered off the track and back into the soothing gloom of the forest. He fought his way through the deep mat of bracken and decaying plants. His breath was coming in loud gasps. The remaining two giaks were following him. He could hear them crashing stupidly into bushes and trees. Banedon hid in a clump of dense shrubbery. His brain was beginning to work properly once more. He could feel the Left Hand magic pouring


through him. He tried to detect the minds of the two giaks, but failed. Then one of them came stumbling through the undergrowth towards him. It saw Banedon at the same time as he saw it. It raised its sword and started to charge forward, a thin shriek of joy hissing from its fleshless lips. Banedon shaped a thought he'd believed he had long forgotten and the giak became as thin as a sheet of paper. Then it became even thinner, and melted away into transparency before his eyes. Its narrow feet still trudged through the bracken, though, and Banedon realized that even the invisible are dangerous. He cracked his finger and thumb, and the giak went up in flames like a sheet of parchment. Now that there was only one giak left to hunt him he turned on the offensive, and began to stalk it. It was easy enough to hear the sound of its progress, for it was extremely clumsy. Finally it found itself in a glade, and looked around nervously. Banedon was silently watching the glade. He formed his fingers into a cone, through which he blew in the direction of the giak. The small figure was hurled high into the air overhead, tumbling and turning, screaming in a pitch too high for Banedon to hear. But it wasn't too high for the kraan to hear. Acting out of sheer instinct, one of them dived from the sky and caught the giak in its strong beak. Its talons wrenched the little body asunder, and it began to feast. Another kraan dropped from the sky to dispute the prey, and the two beasts drifted slowly out of Banedon's vision, clutching and clawing at each other. The Journeyman was now lost. Because the sky was so unnaturally dark, he had little idea of where the sun was, and so couldn't guess the direction in which he was moving. The cackles of the circling kraan were a constant reminder to him that his life was almost certainly forfeit, yet he wanted more than anything to escape from their vigilance and reach the Kai Monastery. He didn't know why he felt this: earlier he'd been only too keen to save his own skin. There was a change coming over him. Perhaps it was the fact that he had proved himself: he had killed the marauders using skills he'd forgotten he'd possessed. His body was a mess of fatigue and pain from the energy he had poured into the spells he had used. Had there been anything left in his stomach he would have vomited again; as it was, he retched drily several times, and felt little better for it. He pressed on and soon found himself nearing the forest's edge. Once more, he began to move more cautiously as he reached the open.


Ahead of him was a lake. Small brown birds paddled easily through the water, oblivious to the carnage going on all around them. The wind had blown up wavelets on the water's surface. The sun, higher in the sky than when he had last seen it, reflected yellowly from the water. On the far side of the lake Banedon spotted a low hill, and beyond that he could just see the tip of a tower and the Kai banner flying freely. Surely that must be the Monastery? Between where he hid and the lakeside, however, a large group of giaks and drakkarim were forming themselves into military units. The drakkarim were moving proudly, directing the giaks hither and thither. They were much like human beings, the drakkarim, but if anything more handsome. They had the heady appearance of the most beautiful of the Sommlending. Yet there was something in the cast of their faces which marked them apart. Banedon recognized them immediately as Evil. He didn't know why he knew this, but he did. Perhaps it was the very fact of their beauty: human beings couldn't naturally be so graceful, so elegant, so easily mobile. There was a brutality visible in the smoothness of their every action. The forest extended all around the lake to within twenty or thirty yards of its shore. The undergrowth was not especially thick, but he reckoned that if he kept well back from the edge of the trees he might be able to slip around the lake unnoticed. He retreated carefully back into the shadows, then very cautiously began to move parallel to the shore, picking his way between dead branches that might crack underfoot and thereby betray his position. For some while he was successful. He was recovering from the pain of the magic he had performed, and the problem of moving silently -especially when hampered by his robe -- was coming to be almost like a fascinating game. By rights he should have been dead by now, but somehow he had struggled through. His faith in himself had never been great before, but now it was slowly, almost reluctantly, increasing. A spiky bush scratched his leg, but he hardly noticed. A little cloud of insects buzzed around his head, distracting his concentration, but he decided against waving them away in case the movement might be seen by the spawn drilling on the lakeside. He realized that he was becoming overconfident. About one second too late. He had come to a small clearing -- only a couple of yards wide. Earlier, he would have carefully skirted it, but now he decided to take a


chance. He crossed it in a couple of strides, but the movement was enough to attract the attention of a kraan patrolling the shore. The beast screamed to its fellows and, folding its wings about its body, scuttled towards him. Banedon lost his presence of mind. Crashing and stumbling, he fled into the forest. 8 Led by the Darklord himself, Zagarna's vast host descended upon the Monastery. They were greeted by a shower of arrows. Giaks and kraan screamed as the arrows found their mark. A dead kraan plummeted groundwards almost directly in front of Vonotar, and he had to tug on his zlanbeast's neck in order to avoid a collision. The giak astride the dead kraan had drawn back his lips in a silent yell as the rocks beneath shot towards him. More arrows poured through the air, and more of Zagarna's troops met their deaths. The shrieks of agony mingled with the great rushing wind of flapping wings and the incessant chattering of the kraan. Ichor splattered Vonotar as those around him were struck. But the Kai were doomed. Inexorably the tide of darkness came on. Kraan landed all around and all over the Monastery, and giaks tumbled from their backs. Now the black arrows of the giaks filled the air, and the warriors on the battlements fell as if they had been scythed. Inside the Monastery, the courtyard was a scene of carnage. Kai swords flew, but there were more giaks arriving every moment. Their serrated blades slashed and hacked at mortal flesh. Here a head spun from its shoulders; there a warrior screamed as he was impaled, but still, in his final moments, struck a giak a mortal blow. A young novice, barely more than ten years old, stood with his back against the outer wall of the armoury, flailing his axe at the advancing wall of giaks; he slew a dozen or more of them before a black arrow appeared in his eye out of nowhere and he crumpled to the ground. A wave of warriors tumbled from the dormitories, wielding swords, axes, quarterstaffs and spears, shouting their aggression. A young woman, still in her night attire, sank her spear deep into the body of a kraan and immediately pulled it out again to slash across the throat of a giak. A dagger plunged into her back and, her mouth in a great "O" of shock, she fell


forward onto a stack of the spawn she had slain. A child of no more than eight, too young to carry a sword, sat on the roof of the baths, a small collection of throwing knives by his side. These he used with devastating accuracy until a kraan swooped from the sky and carried him aloft. From high above the scene of slaughter it dropped his screaming form. There were giaks swarming all over the battlements now. The replacement guards on the Durncrag Tower put up a noble fight, but the force of numbers was too great for them. They slipped and tripped in the blood of their dead fellows and soon succumbed to the giak's lightning-swift swords. Zagarna himself landed in the courtyard and revealed the full spectacle of his presence. Had the Darklord's visage not been shielded by the glass of his helmet, even the Kai Masters would have lost their minds. The lower ranks were immediately stricken with madness: blood poured from their mouths and ears and they ran amok, hitting out at friend and foe alike. A pair of crypt spawn threw fire into the dungeons, and the flames spread across the straw floor. The prisoners confined there battled with the bars, but their gaolers had long before gone out to help defend the Monastery. The lucky ones were those who suffocated in the thick yellow smoke. Others lived until the metal bars against which they struggled grew red hot. They staggered back, agony in their hands and their nostrils filled with the stench of their own scorched flesh, collapsing to the floor where the flames eagerly licked around their bodies. Red Dawn led a brave platoon of kitchen helpers. Although it was early, pots of water and of broth had been bubbling over the fires, and these were thrown over the forces of Darkness. Giaks shrieked as the sticky boiling liquid covered their eyes, and they let their weapons clatter to the ground as they pawed at the heat. More helpers emerged from the kitchens, carrying burning brands snatched from the great fires. These they dashed into the faces of the attackers. They sacrificed their lives to do so, for the crypt spawn were circling above them, and with cackles of hunger pounced upon them. It seemed that some of the Kai were slaughtering their own fellows, for the helghast had adopted the disguise of Kai Lords -- as, indeed, had the drakkarim. The confusion was so great that many of Zagarna's troops killed each other in the melee, but it was a matter of little concern: there were hundreds of thousands more to take their places. Stabbing and chopping with their great battleaxes, a group of gourgaz


had broken into the Grand Hall. A huge blond Kai warrior armed with a mighty two-handed sword, his face twisted into a mask of fury and determination, hewed at them as they advanced across the heaped corpses of his allies. Three of them died, but then an axe whistled downwards and divided his head neatly in two. Inexorably the gourgaz continued upwards to the three Lore Halls, slaying everything they encountered. 9 Standing on top of the Tower of the Sun, a single Kai looked at the devastation below and shrugged. Even she could do so little. She could kill a million giaks -- easy peasy -- but all that would do would be to delay the inevitable. She might even, at that moment, have killed Zagarna, had it not been for the fact that the mass of the already-existing future had an inertia that was too great for her to counter. She could make small changes that might affect it, but the death of a Darklord would too radically alter the course of history. Besides, she had more important work to do. She had a single life to save. She looked skywards at a dark mote that hovered high above. There was the enemy whom she must fight. He was very powerful, and she knew she could not defeat him utterly -- at least, not now. But she might be able to obstruct him. She threw back her arms and dissolved into nothingness.


10 In the Skies 1 Vonotar had dispensed with the services of his imperial zlanbeast and was holding himself aloft through his own powers. Carag was one of the countless giaks far below, putting the Monastery to the sword. The magician soared among the clouds, occasionally glancing down, down to where the mass of fighting creatures seemed so small as to be merely a spider wriggling on the land. Up here the sun was a sullen presence on the horizon, regarding him with undisguised hostility. Vonotar didn't even notice it. Yet he was deeply disturbed. The presence he had felt as the hordes approached the Monastery . . . it was something he had never come across before. He had known the ways of Left Hand magic and now knew those of the Nadziranim, as well as the extraordinary result when the two were fused together, as they were within him, but the emanations he had felt from the unknown entity were not just seemingly more powerful than the magic he possessed -- much more powerful -- they were also of a completely different nature. His magic was learned. He sensed that the abilities of this entity were innate to it, that it had always possessed such powers. Always is a very long time, said a voice in his head. You! thought Vonotar. Instantly he recognized the cadences of the words. This was the same intruder that had invaded his mind not long after he had entered Kaag. Who else? said the voice. Who are you? Who do you think I could be? Don't talk in riddles to me! I have powers enough to smite you from the sky, to devastate all of Sommerlund. I could . . . You could try, admitted the hated voice, but I think that I could stop you. Rage rose in Vonotar. He was so furious that for a moment he forgot to maintain his levitation charm, and dropped a few hundred feet, dizzyingly, towards the distant ground. How could anyone believe that they could stand against the might of Zagarna and myself? I have more force in my fingertips than the greatest of the demigods can muster. Perhaps I could even duel with a god! You overestimate your powers, said the voice softly. I am far from


godhood, yet I challenge you to combat. You may choose your weapons. Show yourself to me, thought Vonotar. Show me yourself and I will choose weapons. In the dreamy sky in front of him there appeared a young woman, barely sixteen or seventeen years old. She was dressed in ragged trousers and a skimpy jerkin. Her hair was rusty red, and cropped close to her head. Her face was too thin for real beauty, but her eyes were alive with wit and her eyebrows were elegant arcs. Apart from anything else, Vonotar, said the voice, my jokes are better than yours. Vonotar permitted himself a smile. This entity, whatever it was, was as nothing in the face of his ferocity. Without any effort he launched a hissing blue bolt of lightning at the girl's slim figure. She seemed hardly to move, yet the bolt passed sweetly over her shoulder, disturbing not a single hair on her head. To the sorcerer's indignation, she grinned at him. You're being literal, Vonotar. I said that you could choose your weapons. I didn't say that you could choose mine, you know. In that instant she was gone from his sight. But still he felt her presence, surrounding him, enclosing him, restricting him. Her power made the air around him incandescent with light. He struggled weakly against it for a moment. Then it dawned on him that her challenge was based not in the physical but in the spiritual plane. He drew upon the deepest reserves of his remaining Left Hand magic and the lore given to him by the Nadziranim, and like her he flashed out of normal existence, becoming an elemental. Neither of them could see each other. Vision was no longer one of their senses. All around both of them were patterns of mental energy which their minds interpreted as bands of shifting colours and sombre musical chords. The presence of Vonotar was a mass of throbbing violets and reds or, if sensed another way, of discordant clashes of adjacent semitones. He recognized Alyss as a shifting panorama of blues and greens, bringing a coolness to his mind, to which was added the frivolity of flickering yellow. He directed towards her a burst of intense hatred. It sped between them, shimmering through the colours like a thin sheen of mica . . . and then melded easily with the cool tones of her presence. She giggled, infuriating him. He drew closer to her, in this space that was no-space, and sent her an


arrow of grief. He felt her flinch, as if the arrow had penetrated her shoulder, but he knew as soon as the arrow had been loosed that it could inflict nothing more than a minor flesh-wound. He had, however, succeeded in arousing her anger. Never would he be able to describe what it was that struck him immediately afterwards. It almost extinguished his soul, but somehow he was able to draw on the Darkness within him to absorb the blow. The colours which were the very essence of Vonotar shrank and deepened with the exquisite pain. But only moments passed before he recovered himself. I think, said the voice of Alyss, we should remove our conflict to more conventional arenas. Her hues absorbed an angry red which Vonotar had directed at them. You're a fool, she thought to him. Every minion of the forces of Darkness is really just that: a fool. You think you're so powerful and so mighty -- so strong in your Evil -- and yet what have you achieved? A very significant amount of nothing. I can play your game for all eternity, if I want to. I may never be able to defeat you entirely, but you will never be able to inflict upon me anything more than the most trivial injury. You're a stinging insect attacking a zlanbeast: a mere nuisance. Alyss was lying, but then she often did that. Vonotar could, she knew, damage her severely. But she had the advantage of knowing that this was the case, and he didn't. She could sense the way that, even out here in the timelessness of no-space, he was drawing his magical powers around himself in a protective shell. She flared briefly in the emotionless darkness and he withdrew further into himself. We've tried to fight out here, said the voice in Vonotar's mind. He struggled to reject the silent words, but couldn't. He hadn't been vain enough to believe that his powers were infinite, but he had hardly expected to be defeated with such ease by an entity that appeared to be little more than a child. Let's, thought Alyss, try somewhere else. 2 They were wild carnivores approaching each other on the flats of a sandy, stubbly plain. The sun was a harsh red blazing directly into Vonotar's eyes. His foe was a swiftly creeping creature which moved easily through the sparse grass, her body swaying lithely, almost provocatively, as she chose


the point from which she wished to mount her attack. Predatory birds hooped and swirled far above them. She held herself in a crouching position, ready to pounce. The smooth muscles of her body were firmly delineated beneath the short red hairs of her skin. A dry wind blew across the plain, sending sand into Vonotar's slitted eyes. He felt power in his limbs. Like his adversary he adopted the stalking position and, his stomach scraping against the rough grasses and dried soil, he crept forward. I told you I would choose my own weapons, thought Alyss in his feral mind. He paid the voice no attention. He was here to effect the kill: nothing else. The smell of aridity filled his nostrils. He was aware that in this world there were no moving creatures but himself and his foe and, of course, the birds circling above them, waiting to feast on the flesh of whichever creature succumbed in this battle. Vonotar was disorientated. It seemed that only seconds ago he had been high in the skies above the doomed Monastery, and now here he was crawling on his stomach like the lowliest of beasts, waiting to initiate a purely physical attack. But most of his mind was no longer his own: the part that had once upon a time been a magician member of the Brotherhood of the Crystal Star was now only a single facet of his consciousness. The essence of him was a predator confronted by another whose cruelty was at least equal to his own. He snarled threateningly, but the noise sounded thin even m his own ears. Above them, the mouth of the moon crept across the dawning sun. Despite the eclipse, the light around them seemed as intense as ever. Alyss sprang first, her furry underbelly an obvious target for his sharp claws. Instinctively he turned on his back, so that he could rake her softness, but she twisted in the air and landed beside him, laying one of her great paws on his chest. She let huge claws creep out onto his flesh, making it plain to him that, if he moved at all, he would be ripped open from throat to tail. The birds, high above, looked on with expectant interest. Vonotar, said that maddening voice in his mind, I cannot kill your


soul, but it would be easy for me now to kill your body. Do you concede defeat? No! his mind shouted. Then we must battle in another way, said Alyss. Perhaps this time you would like to choose? Vonotar chose. 3 They were upon the surface of a small world where there was little but darkness. Above them the stars were sharp pinpoints, but their light was too feeble to cast a shadow. The dead sands beneath them were even darker than the blackness above. The horizon was only a few hundred yards away. The hills which cut sharply up above it were no more than twenty feet high. The chill clutched at them. It was the coldness of the soul of Naar. The nothingness of where they were penetrated deep into Vonotar's consciousness. His mind drank deeply at this source of oblivion and he drew from it strength to direct undiluted Evil at Alyss. They were crawling machines. Never on Magnamund could an engineer have created machines like these. Instead of feet they had creeping treads, driven by toothed wheels; where their fuel sources should have been there were instead metal minds, clinical and cold. Alyss was aware that these minds had been constructed in such a remote past that it had been before even her own birth; the creatures responsible had long since vanished from Aon, perhaps driven out by Naar or perhaps just succumbing to the wilderness of time. The darkness oppressed her. She conjured up a small sun to attend this bleak and tiny world. Vonotar instantly extinguished it. The machine which was Vonotar bristled with weapons of power. It was huge and squat and massive. It held itself upon the cindery dust like an insect, secure in the strength of its carapace. Probosces waved almost at random in the darkness. The machine had no colour; it seemed to absorb even the faint starlight that fell upon it. It radiated darkness. Are you going to fight me now? said Alyss's voice to the cybernetic core of the device that was Vonotar. Yes, he replied, of course I am. You can fight whatever you want to, but I should just mention that I'm nowhere near the machine you're eyeing with such enmity. That machine is a


foe you've created in your own mind -- nowhere else. You've brought yourself to the emptiness of your own thoughts. Remember, this is where you chose to do battle with me -- on the barrenness of a far planetoid where your powers are revealed for what they are, Vonotar: a mere mechanism. Would you like to fight me again? 4 Once again they were high in the skies above Sommerlund. Far below them the Kai were being massacred, but up here they could hear only thin shrieks, all but drowned by the shrill chattering of the attackers. They circled warily about each other. Then Alyss became the season of summer, spreading its warmth across all Sommerlund. She threw pastel shades over the land, her very being drawing the ripe corn from its shy planting. The trees were rich with blinding green. Bright flowers burst from the ground to wave their gaudiness in the hot summer air. Children laughed and lazed in the sun, or kicked a ball around a lush field. She laid her shoulder on the land, and the land became bountiful. Her eyebrows were the richness of the brown earth. But then the illusion began to fall apart. Blight struck the trees, and their leaves wrinkled and died, falling to form a soft and poisonous mulch on ground that was become barren. Glaciers slid from the mountains, invading the lowlands and grinding everything in their path into shattered debris. The crops perished, and the children clutched their distended stomachs and wailed in their starvation. The sun was small and distant, and its weak rays were unable to penetrate the almost perpetual cloud cover. All of Sommerlund was a bleak grey. You hold me at bay, sorcerer, Alyss conceded. But you cannot defeat me. As if she had rubbed a cloth over the canvas on which they had both been painting, the colours merged and ran. The rivulets of paint reformed themselves into new patterns until slowly there emerged a picture of a high mountain peak, where the wind blew the loose snow into great clouds of coldness. The sun and the moon hung together in the icy sky. There were two people in the picture, standing on the peak and leaning with difficulty into the gale. One was a raggedly clad young girl, the other a tall, strong man dressed in the star-studded blue robe of the Brotherhood of the Crystal Star. Vonotar recognized himself. Rime filled his


beard and his hair, so that he looked as if he were in the last years of his life. And then he himself was there on the mountaintop. He fell forward, and his fingers were frozen as they scrabbled in the snow. He raised his head and his eyes were fathomless depths of blackness as he directed his stare towards the girl. He conjured all of his fury and his vengefulness and wove them together into an idea, an idea of terrible darkness and power. This idea he shaped using the knowledge he had gained from the Nadziranim. Once it was ready he launched it with deadly speed from those cavernous eyes. But as he did so he gave a great moan of despair. For Alyss was no longer standing there in front of his gaze. He turned his head and saw her, sitting unconcernedly on an ice-encrusted rock, rubbing her hands together to keep them warm. No, she thought, while his mind was still in confusion, it's not that I moved. I've been sitting here all the time. I didn't even have to create an illusion. You did that yourself. You believe too much in yourself. When your mind creates a false reality, it never occurs to you to question it in any way. If I'd called your attention to where I'm sitting, you'd have heard nothing and seen nothing. That's a lie. Vonotar's thought hissed and spat through the wild air between them. Yes, you've caught me out again, thought Alyss with a shrug. You see, I can change the future just a little, far less than I would wish to, but I can also change the past. Not very much and not very often. But you were right when you saw me standing over there -- she pointed -- because I was there in the past that might have been. Only I've changed that past now. It never existed. In the past that I've created I've been sitting here ever since we came to this mountaintop. The rock beneath her cracked angrily asunder, and she leapt aside hastily. Vonotar, our battle is over. Never! Not until you die! Oh, you're the one who's going to die, but not for a very long while yet. You may be powerful, but you're not invulnerable. What I meant was that this battle of ours is over for now, and that I've won. I don't believe you. Yes, I know. But it's true. Zagarna and his hordes have left the


Monastery now. Its proud walls are nothing more than heaps of rubble, and the flames are consuming its heart. The bodies of the Kai are gutted monstrosities scattered among the ruins, twisted with those of the giaks and the kraan and all the other beasts you led into Sommerlund. Even now your foul allies are combing through the surrounding countryside, slaughtering any Sommlending they find. Zagarna is among them. Vonotar's thoughts were whirling, like those of a child unexpectedly thwarted. And what of it? Surely this means that victory is mine? No, Vonotar, because you have given me a very useful gift. Just a little time. As I said, I can't change the future very much, but with your help -- and whether you know it or not you've been helping me -- I can alter it just very slightly more. Enough to ensure that, by the time you return to the reality which belongs to Magnamund, it will be too late for you to do something which I don't want you to do. What? Take a single life -- a very important life. And whose life might that be? The life of a boy. Which boy? I think I've told you enough. But I thank you for the gift you've given to me, and I'd like to give you a gift in return. The air howled around them. I do not trust your gifts, woman! But I've already given it to you. Don't be so ungracious. Look at yourself, Vonotar. A mirror appeared in the snow in front of him and in it he saw the reflection of his own face. His beard, his hair and his eyebrows were white from the ice, and his face was cold and pinched in the searing cold. His back was buckled with the weight of years. His eyes had withdrawn deep into their sockets, and the light in them was feeble. His cheeks were sunken and his lips thin. There were wrinkles in his tall brow. In this infernal freezing place his face looked like that of an old man. That's right, Vonotar. It is the face of an old man. Because the gift I've given you is age. And it's a present that you'll never be able to give away, I'm afraid, because I was so sure you'd like it that I locked it into your very soul. Woman, I'll not rest until I laugh at your screams as you meet your slow destruction. Then you'll never rest at all, Vonotar.


Alyss trudged through the snow to stand over him, and as if in an afterthought leant down to pat him on the head, rather as she might have patted a pet dog. 5 Vonotar was among the clouds, and now he was alone. He reached out exhausted mental probes, searching for Alyss's presence, but there was nothing. Fatigue filled every cell of his body, but this was as nothing to the fatigue that filled his mind. It was all that he could do to hold himself aloft. He looked at his hand. It was lined and creased, the fingers twisted claws. Its back was covered with liver-spots. He turned it over, and saw the leatheriness of his palm. He ran his tongue around his teeth, and found that many of them were missing. The daylight seemed dimmer than it had before, but he knew this had nothing to do with the passage of the hours. No, his eyes were now the weak eyes of a man in the twilight of his years. He had received Alyss's gift, and he knew completely that it was one of which he could never rid himself. He had the power to make himself virtually immortal, yes. But forever he would be old.


11 Dawn of Darkness 1 Banedon ran as fast as he could through the thick forest, whiplike branches lashing at his face and legs. The light was strangely musty in here, as if it had been filtered through black muslin. It made it hard for him accurately to judge distances, and so more than once he ran straight into a tree trunk. The taut roots of creepers tugged at his ankles. He could hear kraan and giaks thrashing through the foliage to the rear. If anything, they were moving even more clumsily than he was. The thought gave him renewed hope as he struggled onwards. He had no idea which way he was headed. For all he knew, he could be running directly away from the Monastery. But the fulfilment of his mission was now the last thing on his mind: all he was concerned about was self-preservation. There was a cackle of triumph above him. He looked up. A kraan hovered on the breeze, its rotting eyes staring directly into his own from a distance of no more than forty feet. He raised his hands as if to protect himself, but in fact he was shaping a thought. He clapped his palms together and the smoking body of the headless kraan floated away sideways to land with a crash among the high branches. It was a minor victory, Banedon knew. The death of the beast could do nothing but draw attention to him. But at least his life would last a few minutes longer. Also, now that he had faith in his own magical abilities, he would be better able to fight off his attackers. He made his way more slowly, but much more quietly, further into the forest. There was a clearing ahead. His first instinct was to shun it: it was in clearings that he was at his most vulnerable from the overhead squadrons of kraan. Still, it drew him forward. For the last few yards before the trees ended he crawled, placing his hands and knees carefully so as not even to risk rustling the low-lying scrub. He saw the ruins of an ancient temple, left behind by some longforgotten civilization. Stones were tumbled upon each other in grotesque disarray. Moss covered areas that had once been mosaic floors. One of the walls had fallen flat in its entirety, and was now perfectly preserved but horizontal, the blankness of its windows staring eyelessly up at the sky.


Here was a possible hiding place. The last spot the forces of Darkness would think he might try to conceal himself was in a clearing, yet there was plenty of shelter among the fallen masonry. The decision was forced upon him. The woods were suddenly filled with the gruntings of giaks as they fought with the branches which obstructed them. The sounds were very close -- at best a few hundred feet away. He found difficulty in moving. His body was tired not only from his physical exertions but also from the unremitting anguish of his magical performances. Death seemed almost an attractive idea, but he banished this thought from his mind: the deaths inflicted by the troops of the Darklords were often prolonged and cruel. Better to die swiftly in combat than to be captured and . . . He ran as swiftly as he could to the protection of a fallen pillar. He forced his body under it, pressed between the ancient stone and the moist, odoriferous, mossy earth. He tried not to breathe in case his hoarse panting might draw the spawn's attention to him. He lay there for almost an hour, until eventually it seemed that the giaks and kraan had given up the chase, for he could hear nothing from the forest except the movements of the branches and the fidgeting of the leaves. The pain was leaving him now, and he was breathing easily. But he couldn't lie here forever. Sooner or later the squadrons of Zagarna would come across him as they scoured the forest. He had to move. But which way? He was completely lost. It was obvious that he was now behind the lines of the advancing army. Wherever he went, he would still be in danger. Toran was an obvious goal, but for all he knew Toran, too, had fallen to the enemy. Still, going in any direction was a better option than staying here. The one advantage that he had, apart from his magic, was that he was mobile: the more he moved about, the less likely the giaks were to be able to pinpoint his position. As quietly as he could, he slithered snakewise out from beneath the pillar. He was just pulling himself to his feet when he heard the sound of a steel-shod boot clipping a stone. A voice said: "Zazgog rek okaka." Spinning around, Banedon found himself facing an armed patrol of giaks. For a full second they didn't notice him, or perhaps they couldn't


credit the evidence of their eyes. Then one of them cried, seemingly in accusation, "Orgadak!" All heads turned towards him, and weapons were hefted threateningly. Banedon felt his heart pumping wildly. There were too many of them. His stocks of magical energy were sorely depleted. Still, he raised his palms. A sharp blade of blue light neatly decapitated one of his attackers. Take as many of them with me as I can . . . ran his fragmented thoughts. An arrow sailed over his shoulder and made a brittle clink as it fractured against a gargoyle. 2 Consciousness came slowly to Silent Wolf. He was a small child, lying in his parents' bed in the morning, having crawled in there for a time of huggings and caressings before the day properly began. He was a hawk circling high over the land, with a fat pigeon flying leisurely below him, oblivious to his presence. He was a mystic hermit, dwelling in solitude in a cave high on a bleak mountainside, fed by the wild animals, which would bring him foods and then hurry away. He was . . . It came to him that he was none of these things. He was a youth lying on the forest floor, his head aching from a swelling bruise. The smells of grass and the dead leaves of the previous autumn were strong in his nostrils. Something dreadful had happened, but he couldn't remember what it was. Something to do with the sun dying in the sky. Something to do with the great beating of a million wings. Then memories came rushing cruelly back. He could see the darkening of the sky as the vast flight of kraan descended pitilessly upon the Monastery. How long ago had it been? A few seconds, said a part of his mind. An eternity, said another part. He heard and smelled all the dismal signals of destruction, but still he couldn't pull himself up off the comfortable, grassy couch where he lay. This was surely a dream. But what if it's not a dream? someone said to him. Then, he thought, then it must really have happened. Exactly. But that must mean that everyone I care for is dead! I can't believe it.


This must be a nightmare. I sent you a nightmare once before, but this is no nightmare. This is as near to truth as reality ever approaches. It's important you understand this, and very quickly. You must take your memories of what has happened to the King at Holmgard, and you must offer yourself as his servant. Silent Wolf dragged himself to his hands and knees. He knew that whoever it was who was venturing into his mind was speaking the truth. Was it somebody from outside him, or was it simply the part of his mind that retained its full sanity? He didn't know, and the question was irrelevant. The important point was simply that the words the voice spoke were true ones. The Monastery, when he reached it, was an abattoir, a spectacle of slaughter. Even after the very last of the Kai had been butchered, the Darklord Zagarna had ordered his troops to go on a further orgy of destruction. Massed forces of giaks and kraan had come together to push down the strong walls, and then even to attack the rubble with swords and axes, so that not a single stone remained mortared to another. Their bestial treatment of the corpses of the Kai -- whether they be men, women or children -- had been even more extreme. When Silent Wolf came across the body of a beautiful young woman, of roughly the same age as himself, he gagged. She had died, clearly, when a spear had transfixed her throat. But some creature had with glee eaten out her heart. Her groin was a pool of blood. He fell to his knees and retched. There were noises around him -- not just the crackling of the flames which even now were eating out the insides of the Monastery's debris. Although the main force of the invaders had departed, it was only too c!ear that many of them had been left behind, to seek out any Sommlending who might survive in the area. His main objective might be to reach Holmgard, as the inner voice had told him, but his first priority was to leave this place. He thought of the river. Always before, when life had felt bad, he had resorted to swimming in the river. The forest beyond was the place that soothed him in times of personal misery. He knew the quiet ways there better than anyone else. It was his own personal kingdom, the place where he could walk unafraid. The woods on this bank of the river were like a best friend, but those on the far side had a closer relationship even than that: they were a second mother. The forest seemed to him, right now, the only place where he could feel any sense of security. He wiped the tears from his eyes. His mouth tasted stale and acid from


his vomit. He'd picked up his own axe on recovering consciousness; now, muttering incongruously formal thanks to t he corpses he raided, he added to his weaponry a broadsword and a short but deadly sharp dagger, tucking both of them into his belt. Lying on the bloodstained grass was a map, its edges charred; without quite knowing why, he picked it up and stuffed it clumsily into his pocket. Taking these things from the dead seemed like sacrilege, but at the same time he knew it was necessary. It was only too obvious to him that he was the last of the Kai. Scuttling from bush to boulder, he headed warily for the river. 3 One of the giaks was slightly taller than the rest, and obviously their leader. It was dressed from head to foot in black chain mail, and it grinned evilly as it moved towards Banedon. Its cat-o'-nine-tails swished wickedly in the air as it advanced. Banedon retreated towards the forest's edge. He summoned up still further magical energy from his scant resources, and the giak's limbs slowly came adrift from its body so that, with an expression of total surprise, it collapsed in pieces onto the grassy flatness that had once been the temple's floor. Funny, thought Banedon, that now I'm staring death directly in the face I'm no longer frightened of it. The remaining giaks stalked towards him. They exchanged words he couldn't properly understand, but he was able to gather that, even leaderless, they reckoned he was easy prey. An archer shot another arrow at him and he deflected its flight only with difficulty. His reserves were practically exhausted by now. He could make one more arrow veer away from him, perhaps, but it was unlikely that he could slay a giak. He sensed rather than saw a figure burst from the undergrowth behind him. This is it, he thought, with a calmness that surprised him. He turned to meet his fate. The figure that met his eyes was that of a young man, clad in a green tunic and trousers, and in a green cape. He was soaked from head to foot. His face was knotted in grim intensity. He carried an axe from whose blades ichor dripped. He snarled at the giaks and at once they began to retreat: without a leader they were incapable of standing up to any enemy that might


carry the attack to them. They held for a moment, and then fled crashingly into the forest. Once the giaks had gone the two youths stood, half bent over, breathing heavily. The sun was directly overhead, illuminating everything in the clearing with a strange, unnatural light. "I thank you," said Banedon, recovering his breath. "There's no need to thank me. Driving off the creatures of Darkness is reward enough in itself." "You're from the Kai Monastery," continued Banedon, recognizing the style of the tunic. "Are you out hunting, or --?" "There's no Kai Monastery any longer." "But I have a message for your Grand Master," Banedon protested uselessly, fumbling in the pockets of his robes. "There are no Kai any more. Except me." "Then I suppose my Guildmaster would want me to give the message to you," said Banedon. He realized that the exercise was pointless, but felt he had to go through with it nevertheless. He held out the scroll which the Guildmaster had given him a hundred years ago -- no, it had been only a couple of days. The youth in green opened it and read for a few moments. 4 "It's too late . . . far too late," said Silent Wolf eventually. "Magician, Journeyman, call yourself what you will -- the Kai are no more, and Sommerlund is doomed." "Together, perhaps, we could . . ." "Even together, what could we hope to do against the forces of the Darkness? They're all around us, and sooner or later they're bound to find us." "Well, we can try. I've a friend who might help us. But she's . . . well, strange. I can't really guarantee that she will." "Who is this 'friend'?" "She's called Alyss . . . and my name is Banedon. What's yours?" "A good question." Silent Wolf looked up at the green leaves dancing in the rays of the bright sun. He saw the innocent insects buzzing industriously around the fecund blossoms and he felt the ground beneath his feet. There was just the slightest of chances that he and this halfwit amateur magician might make


their way through the countryside to Holmgard. A sough of wind caressed his cheek. He felt miserable in his wet clothing. Yet the discovery of even a single ally, however useless and ineffectual the boy seemed to be, brought some warmth to his shivering body. He looked directly at the sun, and he felt its strength flow into him. For the second time in his life, he sloughed off one name and took to himself a new one. "Lone Wolf," he said. "Yes, that's my name. Lone Wolf."

Eclipse Of The Kai

The Cave of Kai

Kai Meyer

Kai Meyer

Eclipse of the heart

Eclipse of the Heart

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Eclipse Of The Kai

The Cave of Kai

Kai Meyer

Kai Meyer

Eclipse of the heart

Eclipse of the Heart

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Eclipse

Eclipse

Eclipse

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