To Zoey. Your bravery is my inspiration.

To all those who need some magic in these troubled times, this is for you.

Contents

The Shattered Empire series

Map caption

Map Left

Map Right

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE: TROUBLE IS COMING

CHAPTER TWO: STAGGERING NEWS

CHAPTER THREE: A LOST FRIEND

CHAPTER FOUR: UNDER ATTACK

CHAPTER FIVE: SNATCHED

CHAPTER SIX: THE SPIES

CHAPTER SEVEN: THE PRE-DAWN RAID

CHAPTER EIGHT: THE RUINED CASTLE

CHAPTER NINE: THE SENTENCE

CHAPTER TEN: FRIENDS AND FOES

CHAPTER ELEVEN: INTRUDERS

CHAPTER TWELVE: UNDER THE BLOOD MOON

CHAPTER THIRTEEN: DARKNESS AND LIGHT

CHAPTER FOURTEEN: THE LIVING DEAD

CHAPTER FIFTEEN: LANFARETH’S REVENGE

CHAPTER SIXTEEN: IN THE DRAGONS’ LAIR

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN: CRUSHED

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN: THE DISCOVERY

CHAPTER NINETEEN: ELVEN MAGIC

CHAPTER TWENTY: THE WHOLE TRUTH

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE: ON THE RAMPARTS OF CAHES

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO: BORN UNDER A SIEGE

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE: THE RAID

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR: TO KILL TWO FLIES

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE: THE GIFT

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX: CAGED

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN: A FATAL MISTAKE

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT: VOICE FROM THE TOMB

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE: UNEXPECTED ALLIES

CHAPTER THIRTY: THE DEAD AND THE LIVING

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE: AFTER THE DARKSIDE

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO: THE ARRIVAL

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE: THE BROKEN WING

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR: THE BATTLE FOR GANDRE

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE: REVENGE

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX: THE SIGIL

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN: THE ELVEN LADY

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT: THE INVASION

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE: AT THE CIRCLE’S PALACE

CHAPTER FORTY: THE BATTLE FOR TARROTH

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE: THE MAP

Thank you! Please read!

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Also by P.C. Darkcliff

Acknowledgments

GLOSSARY

The Shattered Empire series

Realm of Steel and Fire (prequel)

Of Ashes and Blood

Of Chaos and Doom

Of Echoes and Flames

If you haven't read Realm of Steel and Fire, the prequel novella to Shattered Empire, I encourage you to do so. It will make you understand why the principal antagonist, Lanfareth, longs to destroy the main character, Derrik Thon, and his friends and family.

You can grab a FREE digital copy by signing up for my VIP reader club at: www.pcdarkcliff.com/subscribe

There is a split map on the following two pages. To see a full, high-resolution map, visit my website at: https://pcdarkcliff.com/map-of-the-magic-circle/

PROLOGUE

The earth trembled under Torsum’s boots when the last monster fell. The impact unleashed a cloud of snow dust that swirled in freezing wind. As the clang of steel and savage roars subsided, a mortal groan echoed across the battlefield.

The metallic tang of blood filled Torsum’s nostrils as he kneeled by his younger brother. His mind struggled to deny what was happening. A few moments ago, Egar had been on his feet, grasping a sword and helping to fend off the Daemorcs and Corpsentinels that had ambushed their group. Now he sprawled on his back, his blood turning the snow into crimson sludge.

“You can’t die now, curse you!” Torsum groaned, his throat tightening. “Not now that we’ve almost reached our destination. Not now that we’ve conquered the monsters.” In the back of his head, he knew he should say something reassuring, yet the words would not come.

Egar opened his eyes, a flicker of recognition in their depths. “Torsum.” His voice was a hoarse whisper. “The fate of the world… rests on your shoulders. Promise…”

“Don’t talk, Egar,” Torsum pleaded. “Preserve your strength.”

Like fading embers, Egar’s pupils shone in defiance of approaching death. “Promise me…”

“Don’t talk, Brother, and let me heal you.” Torsum cringed as he unbuttoned Egar’s fur-trimmed coat and woolen doublet and undershirt, all slashed and drenched with sticky blood. A jagged gash ran across Egar’s abdomen, steaming like a gory cauldron. The wound oozed puss, festering from unclean Corpsentinel steel.

Egar’s eyelids fluttered as he struggled to keep his eyes open. When he tried to speak, only a moan escaped from his mouth, along with a few droplets of bright red blood. The gore stained his forked, brown beard, which was slashed with white, though much less than Torsum’s. Torsum feared that his brother would be denied the right of every man, to grow old and gray.

No! Torsum screamed in his head. I can’t allow that!

He put both hands above the gash, summoned the image of a wave that cleared his mind, and used his Might to draw blood into his brain. His fingers and toes began to grow numb, but his face felt as if it were inside a blazing oven. He created an image of a spark, which soon turned into a twisting flame.

“Karhed maredim,” he whispered. Fire flow.

The magical heat of the imaginary flame poured toward the wound to cauterize it. The flesh knitted together, a blackened scab closed the wound, and the bleeding stopped. When Torsum looked up at his brother’s face, though, Egar’s eyes were half-closed yet staring at the cloudless sky with the terrible intensity of a corpse. Torsum groaned deep in his throat and blinked away tears. His younger brother, his flesh and blood over whose crib Torsum had stood on tiptoes as a child… was gone.

Torsum lifted his head as if to plead with someone to tell him it was not true. There were very few survivors among the Magic Circle, though. Most mages and guards were as dead as Egar.

He glared at the corpses of the monsters that also littered the snow around him. Twice the height of a man, the Daemorcs were armed with enormous, curved horns and dressed in nothing but loincloths. The Corpsentinels looked nearly human in their crimson surcoats and black breastplates, but hideous fanged maws and wide antlers marked them as creatures of the Darkside. The blood that had spilled from their wounds was black as tar.

A bout of fury made Torsum want to unsheathe his sword and hack the corpses into pieces, but he forced himself to calm down. He closed his brother’s eyes and stood, staggering with exhaustion. It had been a long battle, at the end of a long day of traveling over frozen, windswept wilderness. He had lost count of how many such days there had been since they had left Renekah.

He lifted his head to Awar, his black destrier, which nervously pawed the snow a few paces away. An ornamented iron haft stuck from the saddlebag, just like before the ambush, and Torsum sighed in relief. At least, Tarroth was still safe. He shuddered when he imagined what would happen if the monsters had managed to steal the magical artifact. The world he knew, the world Egar had died to protect, would unravel. All humans, elves, and dwarfs would be enslaved or destroyed, the whole of the Lightside snuffed out by encroaching shadows. It would mean that his brother had died in vain.

His brother… An assault of remorse nearly sent Torsum to his knees. He had not been able to protect his younger brother. He survived while Egar had died.

One of the survivors, a mage called Heram, sheathed her sword and walked to Torsum, the snow crunching under her riding boots. She had not seen more than twenty summers, yet the air around her seemed to crackle with her barely contained Might. The pale, midwinter sun glistened on her bronze chain of a magical apprentice; the biting wind made her auburn hair flap around her gentle yet haggard face. Her eyes swam with tears as she briefly hugged Torsum.

“Your brother died the most honorable of all deaths,” Heram said in a quivering voice. “He died protecting Tarroth.”

Torsum nodded, fighting tears. One day, that notion would surely fill him with pride. But now, only grief, sorrow, and rage gnawed at his entrails. “Thank you, Heram,” he forced through a lump in his throat. She nodded and gave him a sad yet encouraging smile.

Heram was the only mage who had survived the ambush, apart from Torsum. The other survivors were three guards. They still breathed hard as they cleaned their bloody swords in the snow. Black gore stained their battered breastplates. Their blue cloaks billowed in the wind, the frosted fabric making loud snapping sounds.

The guards gathered around Torsum and Heram, their sharp eyes watching Torsum in expectation under burnished halfhelms. He was the High Mage; he had to speak first. And try not to bawl.

“We’ve suffered terrible losses today, my friends,” Torsum said. He clenched his teeth and blinked away tears as he glanced at his dead brother and the other human casualties, five mages and four guards that lay on the gory plain. He screamed in anguish, but only in his head.

Taking a deep breath of the frigid air, he continued. “The monsters ambushed us treacherously but we were able to protect Tarroth.” Again he glanced at the iron haft sticking from his saddlebag. “However, we are not safe yet. Although only a few dozen miles separate us from Dar Kahar, other warriors of the Darkside might attack us on the way. And not even when we pass the city gates will Tarroth be safe. The monsters will never stop trying to pry Tarroth from our hands to destroy the world and enslave the Lightside.

“A few months ago, we won a great battle and banished the monsters. But now, the humans are fighting each other, waging a senseless civil war—and the Darkside is watching. We are small in numbers, so we must be strong in unity. Back in Renekah, we swore a solemn oath to protect Tarroth to the end of our days. Let us seal the oath above the bodies of our brethren. Let us seal it with our blood.”

The High Mage drew his dagger and cut the palm of his hand, finding the stinging pain surprisingly soothing. His blood flowed from the cut and dribbled onto the trampled snow. A gust of wind carried a few drops toward Egar.

Heram and the three guards followed suit without hesitation, grim determination on their faces. As they took turns clasping their slashed, bleeding hands, they swore they would rather die than relinquish Tarroth.

Torsum knew the oath would mark their fate again and again, with the black blood of their enemies. And with their own.

CHAPTER ONE: TROUBLE IS COMING

Eighteen years later.

Derrik swirled through yet another sword form, his blade a blur against his father’s unwavering defense. A warm breeze, thick with the scent of wildflowers, carried the rhythmic clang of steel through the back garden. Sparrows chittered in the crown of a large maple tree by the wooden fence. They seemed to argue, as if placing bets on the winner.

Sweat trickled down Derrik’s neck under the thick mantle of his fair hair, making him wish he had tied it back. His thighs burned as he shifted his stance, but he welcomed the ache as a sign of growing strength. His grip tightened around the worn leather of the hilt. In these moments, as steel rang against steel, he was not just a village bumpkin; he was a warrior, the protector of the weak.

A shared grin flashed between Derrik and Baard as their swords clashed. Although the edges of their blades were blunted and the points sawed off, they always bruised each other like drunkards behind an alehouse. And yet, it bonded them more strongly than the hours they spent together logging in the woods.

Baard parried with practiced flicks of his wrist, the moves so swift they were almost imperceptible. Although he grunted with exertion, his smile encouraged his son to press the attack. Derrik decided it was time for Bark floating in a white river a form he had invented. He whirled like a leaf caught in a sudden gust, jabbing, sweeping, and thrusting, and occasionally grasping the hilt with both hands to slash with a greater force. But his father parried easily, never receding an inch.

As Baard deflected the last slash, father and son circled each other like antagonized tomcats, arching their backs and hefting their swords. Baard grinned, visibly trying not to appear to be out of breath.

A distressed chirping mixed with the frantic beating of wings made Derrik glance at the tall maple leaf. “Hold on, Dad,” he muttered as he sheathed his practice blade and rushed to the tree. Among the maple’s gnarled roots, he found a small fledging sparrow with downy feathers, fallen from the nest. Two adult birds fluttered about, their cries sharp with alarm.

“Don’t worry, little one,” Derrik murmured as he gently scooped up the frightened fledgling. He glanced at the nest high in the branches. “I’ll get you back home.”

He winced as he placed the soft, trembling bird in the pocket of his roughspun tunic, hoping he would not hurt it. He began to climb, nodding when his father called at him to be careful. The parent birds followed him, flying around his head, and chirping in agitation. Having reached the nest, Derrik placed the frightened bird among its five or six siblings. The adult birds sat on a nearby branch, chittering as if to thank him and tell him off at the same time. Derrik chuckled, shook his head, and climbed down.

As Derrik returned to the sparing field, Baard said, “Maybe your heart is too soft to be a warrior, my boy.” Despite the words, a large, proud grin split his face. Baard had a wide mouth, and Derrik had taken after him. His friend, Glen, often teased Derrik that when he smiled, he showed more teeth than a cornered wolfhound. That was why Derrik tried not to grin too widely around girls.

The sun had rolled over its zenith and hung above the Al’Rayleh Mountains, which separated the world of humans from the Elven Kingdoms. Father stood with his back to the sun, and the sunlight created a nimbus around him, making his long hair look ablaze. Baard’s hair was as fair as Derrik’s but his beard was much darker, almost brown, yet heavily slashed with white. Derrik’s beard was still blond, and fluffy like dandelion seeds, to his chagrin.

“Anyway, that form you battered me with wasn’t too bad,” Father said. “Did you invent it?”

“I did, Dad!” Derrik said proudly as he drew his sword. “I invented it last night, and I practiced in the woods when you fell asleep after lunch.”

As Father nodded, something made Derrik glance toward the kitchen window. Mother stood there, watching them, and he smiled when he saw pride and affection brightening her large, dark eyes; she had probably seen him rescuing the fledging. Diara had long dark hair streaked with white and a swarthy face that was a little puffed with age, but people still said she was beautiful.

Derrik nodded to her and hefted his blade, ready for another bout. Father lurched and thrust his sword at Derrik’s chest. Derrik lifted his sword hand to deflect the strike at the last moment, opening his guard. Instinctively, he knew it was a mistake. Baard whirled around and suddenly, terrible pain seared through Derrik’s belly, kicking all wind from his lungs. He dropped the sword and fell to all fours, dry-heaving and gasping for air.

“Derrik!” Mother shouted from the window. She left the house and rushed to them, and they helped Derrik to his feet.

“Are you all right, Son?” she asked, her eyes filling with anxiety. She was tough as an old hide, and he had seen her cauterize a deep gash in her finger with fire, but she was overprotective over her only child.

“I’m fine, Mom,” Derrik said as soon as he caught his breath, a bit more impatiently than he had intended. If he wanted to become a warrior and fight the Darkside, he could not have his mother fretting over him.

Diara turned to Father with a frown. “You’re such a brute, Baard,” she said, anger touching her voice.

“I thought he would deflect it,” Baard said, defensively, glancing at Derrik with guilt and concern in his eyes.

“I told you I’m fine,” Derrik said. He hated it when his parents fought, which fortunately happened very seldom. Besides, Baard was no brute. In fact, he was the gentlest man Derrik had ever seen. Except when they converted their garden into a sparring court.

Baard’s large, calloused hand rubbed Derrik’s shoulder. “I’m sorry, my boy.”

Derrik tried to produce a smile, despite the pain. “It’s fine. No wonder you always beat me; you spar like somebody who’s been in a war,” he said, giving his parents a quizzing look.

Father truly fought like an old warrior, and since vicious scars crisscrossed his chest, Derrik often wondered whether Baard had been in the war on the Darkside. Unfortunately, his father would never speak about his past, just like everyone else in the village of New Thorstorm. Diara also had a sword, and she practiced her forms whenever she thought nobody was looking. She was as skillful as Father—and as secretive.

Mother looked away to avoid his gaze, suddenly looking nervous, and Baard bent over for Derrik’s sword without saying a word. Derrik cursed under his breath. Maybe when he completed the Passage and officially became a man, they would stop treating him like a snotty boy and tell him their secrets. The Passage would come soon. He only hoped he would survive it.

“Anyway, the blow wouldn’t hurt so much if I wore a chainmail shirt,” Derrik said, annoyance creeping into his voice. Glen, who was a blacksmith’s apprentice, had promised to make one for Derrik over a year ago, and he still had not. “I’ll go to the smithy and ask when I’ll finally have one.”

Baard laughed. “Good luck, Son.” Everyone in the village knew how unreliable and scatterbrained Glen was. Still, he was Derrik’s best friend, along with Broose. Although sometimes Derrik wanted to smack him to smarten up.

As the pain faded, Derrik walked to a chestnut tree and took a belt with his real sword, which he had hung from the lowest bough. Glen often made fun of him for walking around the village with the blade, but civil war plagued the empire—or what was left of it—and their kingdom of Gaaltor was at war with Ag-Hur, an enormous realm only two hundred miles away. Besides, the Elven Kingdoms were just behind the mountains, and behind them, there lay the Daemorc-infested wasteland called The Chasm. Beyond The Chasm spread the Wrathlands, the stronghold of the Darkside. It was only logical to be armed.

Derrik buckled on the sword, said goodbye to his parents, and walked around the house and down a path that led to the main road. Their house, while made of oak logs and quite simple, had two stories, and it cast a long shadow over the path. The swordplay had made Derrik sweat, and he shuddered when a gust of fresh wind pressed against his damp tunic and leggings. He rushed toward the wide, sunlit throughway.

It was two days after Midspring Feast, and the sun grew a bit stronger every day. Birds seemed to have gone mad, and treetops echoed with a chorus of chirping, tweeting, and whistling. The pink and white blossoms on the apple trees perfumed the air, and flowers made the gardens burst with a kaleidoscope of colors. Bees buzzed around buttercups, daisies, and lilacs. Derrik beamed as he absorbed the smells and sights. After the long, dreary winter, he could not have enough of them.

New Thorstorm was a large village of over a thousand denizens. All the older folk were refugees from Thorstorm, an island in the north of the empire, which had been overridden by Daemorcs. The houses on the outskirts were mostly wooden and thatched like his but surrounded by gardens with apple, pear, and plum trees and vast vegetable patches. On the four roads that led to the square, and on the square itself, the houses were large, stone, and shingled, but with only tiny back gardens. Derrik liked living away from the throughways, and from the rattling of carts and the noises and smells coming from workshops.

The smithy stood on Eastern Road, about a hundred paces from the square. It was tucked between Grude Tanner’s workshop and the store of Errin Butcher. The former reeked of cow urine while the other smelled of blood, and the blend was terrible. Derrik imagined that was how the Wrathlands smelled.

Glen lay on the smithy’s sunlit porch, his chest heaving, slight snoring coming from his half-open mouth. He was almost a head shorter than Derrik, but sinewy and broad-shouldered like a boulder. He had pale skin and fair hair spiked with chalk, which made Glen’s father, Artuk Hammersmith, call him a ‘dumb hedgehog’. As usual, he wore an unlaced shirt and leather pants. No shoes burdened his not overly clean feet.

With a grin, Derrik picked up a small pebble and tossed it at his friend. Glen twitched when the pebble landed on his belly. He opened his eyes, lifted his head, and yawned. “What gives, Derrik?” he exclaimed good-naturedly, sitting up. “Why don’t you let a man rest after a day of hard labor in the smithy?”

“Hard labor?” Derrik chortled. “Your shirt isn’t even stained with sweat. I’m sure you let your dad do everything, and that you just loitered the whole day as usual.”

Glen chuckled and shrugged. “The old man has no patience to teach me the craft.” Then a shadow of sadness passed his normally bright, mischievous eyes, and his smile faded. Derrik knew that look. Glen’s mother had died earlier that year, and Glen and his father seemed to drift apart. Glen often said that in a way, he had lost both parents.

“Anyway, what about my mail shirt?” Derrik said. He never knew how to console his friend, so he decided to change the topic.

Glen cleared his throat and scratched his cheek as he stood up. “Yeah, yeah, I’m working on it, Brother.”

Derrik sighed. “Come on, man, that’s what you’ve been saying for ages. A warrior needs a mail shirt!”

Glen snorted. “Yeah, a warrior does.” His mood seemed to improve.

Before Derrik could retort, footsteps sounded behind him. He turned around to see Anega, the thatcher’s daughter. She was about nineteen summers, a bit older than Derrik and Glen, and pretty with red hair and freckles, and a nice figure accentuated by a tight woolen dress. She headed from the well on the square, carrying a pail full of water.

“Hello, Derrik,” she said in a husky yet pleasant voice, giving him a wide smile that brightened her green eyes.

Derrik felt his cheeks burn. “Umm… yes,” he said, immediately wincing. Yes? Yes? He felt as if he had stuck his head into a blazing oven, and he knew his face was red like a beet.

Anega gave him a strange look and walked on.

Glen laughed. “You surely are suave with the ladies, my warrior friend!”

“Shut up,” Derrik murmured. But he knew that Glen was right. Hilts and blades! he thought. Why do I always act like a sawdust-headed idiot when I speak to girls?

Glen descended the steps from the porch. “What are you waiting for, man?” he asked, his eyes gliding toward the departing girl. “Why don’t you go and help her with that pail?”

Derrik shrugged. “I don’t think she needs my help.” Although he would not at all mind helping her, he did not know how to tell her. “I don’t want to bother her.”

Glen chuckled and shook his head. “Does a girl have to climb through a window to your bedchamber to make you realize that she likes you?” He looked down the street. Anega was already about fifty paces away. “Wait here. I’ll show you how it’s done!” He rushed after the girl, running his large hand over his hair to make sure it was still properly spiked.

Derrik frowned when he saw his friend taking the pail from Anega’s hand and saying something that made her laugh. This dumb hedgehog is so annoying, Derrik thought as he sat on the porch. I wish I had a way with girls like he does, though. But then, he thinks of nothing but girls. Apart from ale and liquor.

The sun hid behind a light sheet of clouds, and a raw breeze from the mountains almost made him wish he had taken a cloak. That would have made him look unmanly, though; what kind of a warrior would wear a cloak in mid-spring? The elders said that springs used to be much warmer, especially inland, but that everything had changed during the war on the Darkside, due to the curse of the Dark Overlord. That was about all they ever said about the old times.

White-haired Arold Baker passed the smithy on a cart driven by a spirited mule, nodding to Derrik as he puffed on a long-stemmed pipe. The cart was loaded with heaps of bread whose smell overpowered the stench of blood and urine and brought saliva to Derrik’s mouth. As the creaking of the cart’s wheels faded, a door opened in a nearby house, and a stout housemaid called Harua stepped out to pour a pailful of refuse onto the dirt road. She gave Derrik a wave before she disappeared back into the house. Howling came from the woods, making all the dogs in the village bark. Derrik wondered whether it was his friend, Silverbolt, or some other wolf that had howled.

The wait was getting boring, and Derrik played with the hilt of his sword, tempted to practice his forms. People often laughed or got angry when he swung the blade on the street, though, so he decided against it. Fortunately, he soon spotted Glen hurrying back.

“What a girl, that Anega!” Glen exclaimed with a wide grin as he stood by the porch. “She wanted to drag me to her chamber, can you believe it? I resisted, though, because I knew you were waiting.”

Derrik smirked. “Yeah, right!” Everybody knew that Glen had a wild imagination when it came to his amorous conquests.

Glen swatted at a fly that buzzed around him and said, “Say, why don’t we go to the mill to see Broose?”

Broose, Glen, and Derrik had been like brothers since they were little. Nevertheless, Derrik suspected that who Glen really wanted to see was Broose’s younger sister, Leya. Derrik could not tease him about that, though, for he liked Broose’s twin sister, Eriana.

“Sure, let’s go,” Derrik said. “The three of us can spar with quarterstaffs. Or do some archery!”

Glen shrugged, his enthusiasm waning. “Maybe.”

“Come on, man,” Derrik said, feeling annoyed. “How can we complete the Passage if you guys never prepare?”

The Passage was a task each lad of eighteen summers had to complete to officially become a man. It was different each year, and it was up to the mayor to decide what the boys had to do. The problem was that the mayor hated Derrik’s father, who had been the mayor before him, and to whom most people still went for advice. Mayor Vahash was to announce the task tomorrow. Derrik worried it would be tough. To complicate things, Glen and Broose would be also coming along. They were his best friends… and the worst possible companions on such a perilous mission.

“All you do the whole day is chase girls and try to sneak your father’s plum brandy, Glen,” Derrik said. “And Broose only sits around with his nose buried in a book, and his mouth full of apple pie. How can I pass the test with a bookworm and a careless lunatic tagging along?”

Glen laughed and shook his head. “Now you sound like my father. Come on, old man, let’s go already!”

They crossed the village and entered the fields. Brown and lifeless only a month ago, the fields were now lush with bright green oat leaves. The breeze ruffled the waist-high wheat, making the field look like a stormy sea. A roe deer dashed across a grassy plain beyond which the mill stood on a hillock.

“Look, Derrik!” Glen exclaimed. “The Horsepeople are back!”

Indeed, about a dozen colorfully painted wagons stood haphazardly on a meadow that stretched beyond the western fields, along a small creek. Nearly twenty other wagons were just pulling up beside them. Black-haired, suntanned people poured from the wagons to unharness the horses, sporting clothes that were even more flamboyant than the wagons. Most women wore headscarves that could make you go blind, copper discs and trinkets sparkling on their linen dresses. The men wore colorful vests and baggy trousers, and most of them smoked pipes. Wild-haired children rushed to the creek, yelling with joy and shock as they splashed each other with icy water. The sturdy, dappled horses kept snorting and shaking their heads as they were watering.

The nomadic Horsepeople, or Tik’Haaney in the Ancient Tongue of the stone-ax elves, were a usual sight in New Thorstorm. They came about twice a year, offering to sharpen knives, repair tools, and sell wicker baskets, wooden dishes, and cutlery. Loud and cheerful, they loved dancing and playing fiddles, flutes, and tambourines, and their presence always filled the village with a festive mood. But something was different today. They seemed strangely quiet and subdued, as if something worried them. Only the children kept splashing in the creek with glee.

Glen did not seem to notice, his attention drawn to two girls. They were beautiful and dark, with wildflowers braided into their waist-long hair. Their skirts swirled with bright colors as they gathered brushwood by a line of trees that separated the meadow from the fields.

“The Tik’Haaney girls are stunning,” Glen said dreamily. “Their eyes are hypnotizing!”

Derrik chuckled. “And the Tik’Haaney boys are jealous. And their blades are quick.”

Glen slapped Derrik’s back. “Luckily, I have nothing to fear with a warrior by my side.”

Derrik scowled. “This warrior will let them kick your ass if you don’t shut up.”

Glen chuckled and shook his head.

They crossed the plain and headed for the hillock. While the windmill crowned its crest, Broose’s family’s homestead stood about halfway up the steep, grassy slope. A flock of sheep usually grazed by the fence along the path to the homestead, but now the jingling of their bells came from the other side of the hillock.

“I’d bet a silver mark that Broose is sitting in the kitchen, stuffing his face with an apple pie,” Glen said as they climbed up the rocky path toward the two-story, black-striped cabin with a thatched roof.

“I think it might be a plum pie this time,” Derrik said, and they laughed.

They truly found their friend at the kitchen table, chewing noisily while reading a large, leather-bound tome. But the smell told them that today, his mother, Mardok, had made mince pie. Broose used to be skinny as a little boy, but now he was getting plump. Straight, light brown hair framed his podgy, pasty face and fell over his beefy shoulders. He had a snub nose and very light eyelashes, and a beard that was nearly as fluffy as Derrik’s. As usual, he wore a leather jerkin with an enormous side pocket, where he could carry his books whenever his father called him to work in the mill or the homestead.

Although Derrik had expected Broose to be sitting and reading, the sight vexed him. Broose was obviously unprepared for the Passage—and he did not seem to care, either, for his head was always in the clouds. His biggest dream was to go to Rugu or Renekah and become a scholar and librarian.

The kitchen was pleasantly warm, and the smell of pie made Derrik’s mouth water. The ceiling was black from soot, but the flagstone floor was meticulously scrubbed. Mardok was crouching by the stove, sweeping out ashes. She was thin as a broomstick, and her lips always looked parched as if she were running a fever. Her black hair was streaked with gray, but she had huge dark eyes, just like her older daughter, Eriana. While Broose hardly lifted his head from his book, his mother stood and welcomed them with a wide smile.

“Whoa, what a beautiful smell,” Glen said, eyes shining as he grinned at her. “You truly are a wonderful housekeeper, Mardok. If you weren’t married, I would ask you for your hand right away!”

Mardok chuckled and shook her head, then she turned back to the stove.

“If my father heard you, he’d rip you a few more assholes with a pitchfork,” Broose said as he turned the page. He never lifted his head because he always read the first paragraph of the new page before he could concentrate on anything else.

Broose had been obsessed with books as long as Derrik could remember. When he was little, Broose had furtively bartered his own pony for twenty books from a peddler who had visited New Thorstorm. His parents had been so angry with him that they had let him eat only five times a day for a week. Now they brought him plenty of books whenever they visited Rugu, perhaps out of fear that he would exchange the roof above their heads for something to read.

At last, Broose marked the page with a leather strip and closed the book. He shoved the last piece of pie in his mouth and rubbed his greasy fingers together. A mischievous grin spread over his face as he said, “So, what brings you fine gentleman to this place, apart from disturbing me from my reading and—surely—ogling my sisters?”

Glen laughed. “Where are your sisters?” he asked, his eyes gliding around the kitchen as if he hoped they were playfully hiding.

“Where do you think?” Broose replied with a shrug.

It was not hard to guess. Eriana was an apprentice to Ruah Soothsayer, and Leya was always near Eriana. They were surely at the soothsayer’s dwelling in an oak grove beyond the village, making potions or talking magic, which, to Derrik, seemed a waste of time.

“Come on, boys, sit down and have some pie,” Mardok said as she brought two wooden plates and put them on the table. She had always treated Derrik and Glen as if they were her nephews. After all, she was best friends with Baard and Diara. And Glen was always around Derrik.

Broose gave his mother a hurt look. “They disturb me from reading, and now they’re going to devour my pie,” he grumbled. He was a great, loyal friend but not overly generous when it came to food.

The door swung open and Broose’s father, Ufi, barged in. He was skinny but sinewy, and his eyes sparkled with their usual manic energy. Although he was older than Derrik’s father, no white marked his longish brown hair. With his perpetual grin, he would look like a street urchin rather than a man pushing forty… if it was not for his bald pate.

“I’ve just come from the pigsty, and Lady Baconieta really seems to be pregnant,” Ufi exclaimed. He always seemed to shout rather than speak, as if the people he addressed were miles away. He had given his pigs regal names, saying that, since he did not like nobility, he would not feel so sorry while butchering them.

Ufi said, “I wonder which boar is the proud father.” He twisted to Mardok. “Do you think it’s Lord Lardolph or Count Salamius, my dear aging girl?”

“Sure, Ufi,” Mardok said absentmindedly. Her mind often seemed to go blank during his bursts of excitement. Broose said it was her way of shielding herself from insanity. Although Derrik loved Ufi as if the man were his uncle, he guessed that one could go crazy living with him under one roof. That was probably why Broose read so much and Eriana and Leya spent so much time with Ruah Soothsayer.

Ufi would not give up. “What about you boys, what do you think? Lardolph or Salamius?”

“Salamius sounds more like a ladies’ hog, so I’d bet my silver mark on him,” Glen said with a grin.

Ufi laughed and slapped his shoulder. “I think so, too, lad! Now let’s celebrate with some pie!”

Mardok served Ufi and gave Broose a second helping, making them beam. She also took a small piece and sat with them at the large oak table. Between mouthfuls, Ufi kept telling them about their livestock and about how many sacks of flour he had made, and Derrik’s mind floated to the Tik’Haaney. What could have made them so subdued? He guessed he would find out soon; the news of their arrival would spread throughout the village in no time, and the elders would surely assault the Horsepeople with a barrage of questions.

Glen had suddenly grown pensive, and Derrik wondered whether his friend had noticed the Horsepeople’s strange mood, after all. Then he realized it was something else. Glen kept looking at Mardok, Broose, and Ufi, nostalgia filling his eyes. This was a happy home, as Glen’s had once been, and Derrik guessed his friend was thinking of his late mother. The tears that suddenly glistened in Glen’s eyes confirmed that.

As Derrik wondered how to console him, hoofs thudded outside. A look through the window revealed about eight soldiers on enormous warhorses. Their faces were grimy and unshaven. Their surcoats were tattered and stained with dry blood. Their horses snorted and nickered as they struggled past the house toward the mill.

Ufi cursed as he leaped to his feet. “There will be trouble.”

CHAPTER TWO: STAGGERING NEWS

Ufi dashed to the adjacent room and reappeared a moment later with a sword in his hand. Mardok also got a sword, to Derrik’s surprise, and they all rushed from the house. The soldiers trotted toward the mill, heeling their horses as they struggled up the hillock. They dismounted and rushed inside the mill, a round building of timber and stone, its four arms held still by an array of ropes. Derrik and his companions ran after them and caught up with them just as they brought out sacks of flour.

“Hey, Cousins, what in the Wrathlands do you think you’re doing?” Ufi shouted, brandishing his sword. Derrik also drew his blade, his heart pounding. He had never used steel for anything else but practice. He stepped in front of Broose and Glen, who were unarmed.

“None of your business, you maggot,” the oldest soldier snarled. He had a brown, square-cut beard and waist-long brown hair in a messy, bristling braid. A pink, puckered scar ran diagonally across his ruddy face, splitting his nose and lips.

The other soldiers glared, their swords half-drawn. They wore crimson surcoats over mailed shirts, high boots, and leather leggings, all grimy and dusty from long journeys. They wore the colors of Gaaltor, which meant they were supposed to protect this kingdom, including New Thorstorm. That did not seem to be their intention, though. They looked like outlaws rather than soldiers. And that’s what they might have become.

“None of my business?” Ufi sounded incredulous and even a little amused. “This happens to be my mill!”

The oldest soldier laughed. His voice was so rough, either from shouting or from liquor—and probably from both—that the laughter sounded like the wheezy barking of an old dog. “Nobody’s taking away your mill… yet.” He unsheathed his sword. “But we’re confiscating the flour in the name of King Hazzar.”

Derrik had never heard that name before.

Mardok stepped forward, hefting her blade. Gusts of wind swept the hillock and ruffled her hair and made her brown, woolen dress billow. She grabbed a lock of her hair and yanked it behind her ear with a nervous movement. “I don’t care whichever rogue dragonlord has proclaimed himself king of Gaaltor this month,” she snapped. “You’re not taking our flour.”

The man smirked and spat on the ground. That made Derrik’s blood boil. According to the legends Broose had read and retold them, a warrior never let an insult to a lady go unpunished. Derrik stepped forward, brandishing his sword.

The man laughed. “Put away that toy or you’ll get hurt, boy. And get lost!”

Derrik hefted the sword. His heart pounded with fear, and yet his pride would not let him step back.

Broose stepped forth to stand beside Derrik. “I protest!”

The soldier gave him an incredulous look. “You do what, brat?” he snapped.

“I protest against the rude treatment of my mother,” Broose said, his voice brimming with indignation. “And I protest against your taking our flour. Show me the king’s order. According to the laws of Gaaltor, an order to confiscate private property for war purposes must be in writing and signed by the king himself. Where is the document?”

The man hefted his sword. “Piss off, you little rotter, or I’ll skewer you like the fat piglet you are.”

“If you speak to my son like that again, I’ll make you cut off your own balls,” Mardok snapped, her voice brimming with anger. Despite his agitation, Derrik gave her a surprised look. He had never heard her as much as raise her voice, let alone threaten someone like this. He had never seen her grasping a sword, either. But it looked natural in her hand.

Glen laughed with glee as he exclaimed, “Well said, Mardok!”

The scarred man also looked surprised. He was about to retort when the rattling of wheels made everyone turn around. Two bay horses trotted uphill, dragging an empty cart. The bald, bearded man on the box had a shirt of rusty ringmail over boiled black leather. He had to be the soldiers’ accomplice, coming for the sacks.

As the cart was passing by, Glen skipped forward and tried to grab the bridle of the nearest horse, but the bay nickered and moved to bite him, so he yanked his hand away. The soldiers laughed. The driver circled the mill to turn the horses around, halting by the sacks the soldiers had brought outside.

A tall, stocky soldier with a droopy mustache bent for a sack and swung it over his shoulder, turning to the cart.

“Did the wax in your ears prevent you from hearing my wife, Cousin?” Ufi asked, calmly yet dangerously, hefting his sword. “You’re not taking our flour.”

The soldier ignored him and stepped toward the cart.

Broose rushed at him, surprising Derrik with his speed. He hooked his arm around the soldier’s neck and tried to pull him down. The soldier dropped the sack and elbowed Broose’s belly. As Broose swayed and let go of him, the soldier twirled around and kicked the feet from under him. Broose fell to the ground with a loud thud, and the soldier wrenched his sword from the scabbard. Ufi rushed at him with a wild roar while Mardok leaped to the scarred man to keep him in check. Derrik grasped his sword in a trembling hand, wondering what to do.

“Sheathe your weapons or I will curse you!”

The screech made everybody twist around.

Ruah Soothsayer was coming, leaning on a gnarled walking stick, her free hand raised, the first three fingers lifted. Derrik guessed it was some kind of magic sign. She had a very youthful face, pale but free of wrinkles, incongruous with the white hair that hung over her bent back down to her waist. Her eyes were large and set so deep that they resembled two cavern mouths. As usual, she wore a black gown with a wide leather belt with a dirk in an ornamented scabbard.

“Sheathe your weapons or I will curse you,” Ruah repeated, sneering maliciously. Derrik doubted she could curse anybody because she had always used her Might for healing or predicting the future. But she played her part of a malignant witch wonderfully. Broose’s sisters trailed behind her, but for once, Derrik paid them no attention, not even to Eriana.

“I will curse you to illness, sadness, and impotency,” Ruah said, still lifting three fingers. She scowled so much that one would say that she walked the Darkside. “I will curse you to a miserable life and an early death. I will curse your families and everyone you hold dear.”

Nobody said anything for long moments, and only the whistling of the wind, the chirping of birds on the mill’s thatched rooftop, and the snorting and nickering of the horses disturbed the sudden silence. Ufi was the first to sheathe his sword, and when he was sure the soldiers were not looking, he gave Ruah a wink. Derrik followed suit. The soldier who had raised his sword at Broose did not sheathe his weapon, but he lowered it and stepped back. So did the man with the scar. Letting her steel slide into the scabbard, Mardok stepped to her son and her husband. Ufi helped Broose to his feet.

“I don’t believe in curses and witchcraft, old woman,” the man with the scar said, glaring at Ruah. Although he obviously tried to fortify his voice with derision, he sounded uncertain.

Ruah uttered a croaking laugh. She was much more convincing than he was.

The scarred man said, “We are at war, and the army needs to eat. The monsters are on the march once again, and they have burned all the mills along the main roads. This the only mill around.”

Derrik frowned. The monsters are on the march again? What was that man talking about?

The soldier continued, “Judging from your accent, you’re obviously not from Gaaltor. We could confiscate the whole mill and chase you away, and nobody would lift a finger to help you. Nobody likes outlanders.”

Ufi exclaimed, “We came from Thorstorm to fight—”

Mardok elbowed his ribs to silence him. Derrik wondered why.

Grass rustled behind Derrik and made him spin around in fear that a soldier was creeping at him. But it was Silverbolt. He was a magnificent wolf, much larger than the biggest Aganopean Mastiff, with strong legs and a muscular body covered by thick, gray fur. The long, wavy mane on his neck made him look regal. Although he officially belonged to Ufi, for he was the grandson of a wolf Ufi had brought up, Silverbolt often accompanied Derrik and Baard when they went logging. Derrik often secretly thought of him as his pet.

Silverbolt padded forward, hackles rising, and Derrik noticed he was limping. His snout was covered with dark blood. The wolf pulled back his lips to display sinister fangs. A growl slithered from his throat. His fiery yellow eyes flashed dangerously as he glared at the soldiers.

The soldiers’ horses snorted and nickered, stomping their massive feet. Ruah still kept her hand raised and her fingers outstretched.

“Look!” a short soldier with a wide mouth full of rotting, crooked teeth said, pointing toward the village.

Derrik turned his head, and he grinned when he saw the Horsepeople coming, about a hundred men carrying knives, axes, and clubs. They obviously had no love for soldiers, especially rogue ones.

Cursing, the scarred man sheathed his sword, walked to his horse, and mounted. The other soldiers followed his lead, leaving the sacks of flour on the ground.

“We will come back one day soon and burn this bloody mill down,” the man said.

“You do that,” Ruah replied. “If you want to die in pain, covered in sores.”

The man spat and rammed his heels in his horse’s flanks, making the beast rear and trot down the hill. The soldiers followed, and the empty cart rattled behind them.

“We got them!” Glen yelled, making Silverbolt howl.

“We stood up for justice and prevailed, just like the knights of the old times!” Broose said, beaming.

“I bet those rotters won’t be coming back, ever!” Ufi shouted, grabbing Mardok’s hands and spinning her in a wild dance.

Derrik’s heart pounded with glee. He longed to spin Eriana around, but he would not dare. In fact, he barely dared glance at her out of fear that he would blush. She wore a black dress to match her long, braided hair and large eyes, and she looked irresistible. Glen always said that he liked Leya more because Eriana was too thin and that her cheeks were too hollow, but Derrik did not mind. Leya was also pretty, with light brown hair twisted in two braids, and large greenish-blue eyes staring from a smooth, innocent face. Derrik had always had a weakness for dark girls, though, another thing he had inherited from his father.

When everyone stopped cheering, Ruah said, “The soldiers are gone, but they might come back. Besides, there are other troubles.” She looked unusually solemn.

“What do you mean, Ruah?” Eriana asked, her ravishing eyes shining with admiration as she addressed the soothsayer.

Ruah pointed to the wolf. “Just look at the color of the blood on Silverbolt’s snout.”

Derrik winced when he noticed that it was black. Not dark with oxidation. But black as tar.

“This can only mean that Silverbolt has had a brush-up with a creature of the Wrathlands,” Ruah said, shaking her head. “That awful soldier might have been speaking the truth. The Darkside is on the march.”

The news of the Horsepeople’s arrival had spread, and the next day, large crowds flocked to New Thorstorm and gathered in the meadow beyond the fields. Derrik recognized most people as the denizens of the surrounding villages, but he also spotted a few strangers. Most of them had the healthy yet weathered looks and simple woolen or linen clothes of peasants.

Some people had brought their tools to be repaired, or their knives to be sharpened, and some were already heading home with new wicker baskets, or with charms to protect them from all evil. But most people seemed to have come to hear Tik’Haaney music or to get their future read. The crafty ones had brought their own wares to sell, to the Horsepeople’s evident annoyance. Roham Innkeeper and his family had rolled barrels of ale, mead, and wine into the meadow.

The Tik’Haaney put on a show, playing loud, jolly music, singing in the Old Tongue, and dancing. And yet, they still seemed subdued, and Derrik had overheard them speaking about Daemorcs. As the day advanced, the murmured rumors had become official; a Daemorc, or a whole group of them, was roaming the woods. There were even rumors of Corpsentinels being spotted. That made many outlanders rush back to their villages, while some locals went home to hide behind barred doors and shuttered windows. By the late afternoon, the meadow was half empty.

Derrik knew of Daemorcs and Corpsentinels from legends, but he had never thought that one of them would pose a threat to the village. On the other hand, New Thorstorm was one of the human dwellings closest to the Wrathlands.

Mayor Vahash was to hold a meeting tonight in the inn’s common room to address the problem—and to announce the task which Derrik, Glen, and Broose were to complete during the Passage. Although Derrik awaited the announcement with trepidation, Broose seemed indifferent, as he probably thought about something he had read—and Glen was unlikely to remember the announcement on the following day. He had been drinking ale the whole day, staggering around the meadow, grinning stupidly at Tik’Haaney girls, and drawing murderous looks from their sweethearts.

Derrik and Broose had been trailing their silly friend throughout the afternoon, not enjoying the fair, but making sure he did not get knifed by a jealous Tik’Haaney man. They tried to convince him to go home and get some sleep, but Glen would not hear of it. Derrik felt like ripping the tankard from Glen’s hand and dipping his spiked head in the creek, and even Broose was getting annoyed. They were to set off for the Passage tomorrow morning. And they wondered if Glen would be able to get out of bed.

Derrik and Broose exchanged a suffering look as Glen staggered toward a band of dancers and musicians. Six black-haired men in brightly painted vests played flutes, fiddles, and dulcimers while two girls danced and played tambourines, their flamboyant skirts swirling in a blinding splash of colors. Glen staggered forth as if to dance with them, and Derrik and Broose skipped to him and dragged him away.

Derrik snapped, “What do you think you’re doing you sawdust-headed hedgehog?”

Glen laughed and shook his head. Then he said, “Look, Broose, it’s your father.”

Surrounded by a large crowd, Ufi juggled six wooden balls, making them swirl in blurry circles. Derrik knew that Ufi was incredibly agile, and he had seen the man climb trees just because he had too much energy, but he had never seen him juggle. Ufi made it look incredibly easy, grinning and occasionally pursing his lips to whistle a tune. As he finished his performance, people cheered and threw coins into a kerchief spread in front of him. Ufi grinned as he bowed and thanked them.

Silverbolt padded toward Ufi, making the spectators stagger backward to make way for him. The large wolf stood in front of Ufi, tilting his head as if wondering why people made such a fuss over his master. Ruah had cured the wolf’s leg with herbs and ointments, and he hardly limped.

The people—especially outlanders—kept giving Silverbolt nervous looks, so Derrik stepped to him and scratched his head to show that the wolf was tame. Silverbolt wagged his tail and ran his rough, wet tongue over Derrik’s hand.

As the crowd dispersed, Ufi picked up the kerchief and poured the coins into a hat in front of a swarthy man who was about to swallow a blazing torch. The man nearly burned his beard as he gave Ufi a thankful nod. Glen hollered with drunken laughter. Derrik was tempted to flatten the spikes on his head.

“That was fun, boys!” Ufi exclaimed as he joined them. “I hadn’t juggled for years! Can you believe that once, it was my bread and butter?” Derrik had not known that. Now that he thought of that, he knew surprisingly little about the man who was like his uncle. But then, he knew surprisingly little about his own parents.

With a look at the sun setting beyond the Al’Rayleh Mountains, Ufi said, “Why don’t we go to the inn, boys? I’m sure that rotter, Master Mayor, will soon announce your task. Your parents might be there already.”

As they walked to the village, Ufi told them stories of his times as a royal jester in Thorstorm. Although his words were slightly slurred, for he had also frequented Roham Innkeeper’s barrels, he often hesitated, as if he did not know how much to reveal. Derrik did not understand why all the older folk in this village had to be so secretive.

The sun set, and twilight brought cold wind from the mountains. Derrik shuddered in his light linen tunic, wishing he had listened to his mother and taken a cloak. Cloaks might be unmanly, but so were goosebumps. He was glad that at least he wore woolen leggings.

The streets were almost empty, and hardly a light flickered beyond the windows, but noises were coming from the inn’s common room. Silverbolt had padded alongside them, but now he twisted and trotted away, for he disliked closed spaces and human noise. As he watched him head for the shadowed woods, Derrik hoped the wolf would not run into another monster.

The inn was the largest building in the village, its two floors made entirely of stone, and with ten bedchambers upstairs under a shingled roof. Derrik guessed the chambers would be full tonight, as many outlanders would not dare to leave the village at night and face a Daemorc. He took a deep breath as he followed Ufi and his friends inside. He was about to hear about the Passage.

Long tables stood along the common room, as haphazardly as the Tik’Haaney wagons. The whitewashed walls were nearly black from pipe smoke, but the straw on the floor looked fresh, and the fires roaring in twin hearths kept the room pleasantly warm. Only about half of the benches were occupied; some people were still in the meadow while others preferred to stay home tonight.

Mardok, Diara, and Baard were sitting near a fire that roared under a hanging cauldron. As Derrik and his companions greeted them and sat at their table, Broose stared at the cauldron and licked his lips like a hungry mastiff while Glen’s bloodshot eyes kept gliding around the room. Derrik wondered whether he was looking for his father or for Leya. In any case, neither Artuk Hammersmith nor Broose’s younger sister was there. Eriana was not there either, and Derrik felt a pang of disappointment. The sisters were surely in Ruah’s dwelling.

Mardok looked nervous, and he guessed she fretted over the girls now that the woods could teem with monsters. He wanted to go and bring them here, but Eriana would think he was annoying. That was what she seemed to think of him anyway, although he hardly ever dared speak to her.

Roham Innkeeper and his children were still in the meadows, overseeing their barrels, and it was Roham’s mother, Old Megg, who served in the common room tonight. She brought a large tray with tankards of ale and mead, moving with surprising energy for a grandmother. She gave them a toothless smile as she placed the tankards on the table. “Here you go, darlingsh,” she said. “The mutton shtew will be sherved shoon.”

Reaching for a tankard as if he had drunk nothing the whole day, Glen took a deep gulp and smacked his lips. Broose glared at the cauldron as if to make its contents boil faster. Then he sighed, pulled a book from the enormous pocket of his jerkin, opened it, tilted it toward a flickering candle, and started to read. The others spoke about the fair and about the monsters, just like everybody else in the room.

A moment later, Mayor Vahash stood on a chair and called for quiet. He was a thin, sickly-looking man with a receding hairline and limp, gray hair falling to sloping shoulders. His sunken eyes peered over a hooked nose and thin lips. His skin was ashy, and older people often said he resembled a Gravelacker. Derrik had never seen those living dead—and hoped that he never would. Especially if they were as nasty as the mayor.

“Good evening, everyone,” Vahash said in a thin yet forcible voice, pulling at the lapels of his velvet doublet. “A Daemorc, or a whole horde of them, is roaming our woods, and you all expect me to deal with them. Also, three of the village boys have nearly reached adulthood, and you expect me to give them a task.” The man puffed with self-importance as he said, “And I’ve decided to kill two birds with one stone.”

Derrik tilted his head, wondering what was to come. Vahash inhaled to speak when the door squeaked open. The mayor harrumphed as he glared at the latecomers. Derrik twisted in the chair to see Ruah and Broose’s sisters. He paid little attention to the soothsayer or Leya. His heartbeat quickened at the sight of Eriana, though, stunning as she was in a short black tunic, leather leggings, and a crimson cloak.

Someone else came along with them, a short, slim man with fair hair that fell in tangled strands to his waist. When he peered through the sheet of pipe smoke, Derrik recognized Al’Anark, the chieftain of Thorstormian elves. Al’Anark visited the village about once a year, for he was great friends with Derrik’s and Broose’s parents.

“Greetings, my human pals,” the chieftain exclaimed, drawing another harrumph from the mayor.

As usual, the elf wore a gray woolen tunic, gray leggings, and leather turnshoes with drawstrings. A sword dangled at his wide leather belt. Although he was said to be centuries old, his face was so smooth and gentle it would be effeminate if he did not have a large, bulbous nose. His left ear protruded from the tangled masses of hair, twitching as always when he was excited, but the other ear looked almost human, for the point had been cut off. Whenever asked about it, Al’Anark only said it was an old war injury and quickly changed the subject. That was another mystery Derrik hoped to crack one day.

“Sit down and let me finish my speech,” Mayor Vahash said testily.

“What a self-important ass,” Ufi said, loudly enough for most people in the room to hear.

Al’Anark chuckled as he shook his friends’ hands and took a seat, along with Ruah and the girls. Eriana had lined her eyes with ashes, which made her almost hypnotizing—but her eyes stared at nothing but the elf. Derrik frowned, wondering what was happening. Then he forced himself to focus on the mayor.

“As I said, I’m going to kill two birds with one stone,” Vahash said pompously. “I’m going to get rid of the Daemorc and give the boys a task that will test their bravery.” He turned to their table. “Derrik Thon, Broose Erstrog, and Glen Hammersmith, stand up.”

Derrik complied, elbowing his friends; Broose was too immersed in his book to realize the mayor had spoken, and Glen had managed to fall into a drunken stupor. Broose stood with a frown at being interrupted. Glen hiccupped and staggered, peering stupidly around him.

The mayor gave the boys a vicious look. “Your task is,” he said, “to bring me a Daemorc’s ear. Kill that monster, cut off its ear, and bring it to me. Don’t come back without it, do you hear?”

A murmur rose around the tables.

“Do you realize that you might be sending our sons to death?” Baard called, his face red with anger.

“I am the mayor,” Vahash snapped. “And it’s my decision. Nobody ever questioned you when you were the mayor, although I found many of your decisions questionable.”

Baard inhaled to reply, but Diara put her hand on his forearm and shook her head. “There’s no point in arguing with that spiteful, envious man,” she said, loudly enough for everyone to hear. A few people at the nearest tables laughed.

Vahash ignored her and addressed the boys, “You’ll leave that pet wolf of yours at home, understood? It must be only the three of you hunting the Daemorc.” With a smirk, the mayor added, “That’s all for now.”

The mayor stepped down from the chair, and agitated murmuring filled the common room. Everyone at the table looked troubled, except Glen, who leered at Leya for a few moments before his head dropped and he started to snore. Broose stared at his book as if he wondered whether to read some more. Then he sighed and closed it.

A blend of contrasting feelings made Derrik’s breath hitch. Fear flickered in a dark corner of his mind, but excitement prevailed. He had always dreamed of fighting the Darkside, and now he had the opportunity to do so! Nobody would laugh at him anymore for practicing with his sword and carrying the blade around. His fighting skills would keep the village safe.

He looked at Eriana to see whether she noticed how bravely he faced the task. But she was still staring at Al’Anark. She seemed to be besotted with that ancient elf. Derrik hoped that the only reason was that she was fascinated by magic, and elves had very strong Mights. She surely could not be in love with a creature that was a hundred times older than she?

Ruah took a sip from a tankard of mead and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. “This is certainly troubling, but it’s not the only thing to worry about,” the soothsayer said. In the candlelight, her deep-set eyes were nearly invisible, giving her a ghoulish look. “Our friend Al’Anark has confirmed something I’ve feared for some time. And it’s worse than what I thought.”

Everybody turned to the elf, who rubbed the stump of his ear, his good ear twitching with agitation. “The monsters have invaded the territories of the Lightside, human pals,” he said in a nasal yet pleasant voice. “They must have been stirred by the new Dark Overlord, that putrid Saitaan. They’ve left the Wrathlands and crossed The Chasm. A lot of elven tribes fell upon them as they crossed the Elven Kingdoms, and killed scores of those rotters. But many others managed to cross into Gaaltor. And they are marching in enormous throngs eastward.”

“It’s a good thing that they did not find our village,” Ruah said with a shudder.

Everybody nodded. Suddenly, one or two Daemorcs roaming the nearby woods did not seem that bad. They were probably just stragglers of a giant, murderous army who strayed to these woods by accident. And Derrik was determined to deal with them.

“Those damned soldiers did say that the monsters were on the move, but I thought they were full of crap,” Broose said, his fingers drumming on the leather cover of his book.

“Still, they had no right to take our flour,” Mardok said, firmly.

“Well said, my dear aging girl!” Ufi exclaimed, planting a smacking kiss on Mardok’s cheek. She sighed and shook her head, but her eyes told her that his affection pleased her.

“Where do you think the monsters are headed, Al’Anark?” Baard asked.

The chieftain shrugged his lean shoulders. “If my gut feeling is right, they are going to Dar Kahar.”

Derrik tilted his head. Dar Kahar was a city at the other end of the continent, the stronghold of a society of mages called the Magic Circle. Were the monsters going to wage war on the mages?

“What do you think they want in there, my elven brother?” Ufi asked.

A troubled frown darkened Al’Anark’s smooth, gentle face. He scratched his head as he said, “I believe that they are after Tarroth.”

Everybody around the table gasped and exchanged worried looks. Tarroth was a magic battleax that had summoned warriors and mages—dead and alive—to the Great Battle. The battle had taken place months before Derrik was born and resulted in the death of the old Dark Overlord, Atropeth. At that time, the Lightside had called the combat ‘the Ultimate Battle’, for the monsters had retreated to the Wrathlands. Yet it was not ultimate at all: humans started to wage a brutal civil war shortly afterward.

“That battleax can be potentially dangerous, right?” Eriana asked.

She still stared at Al’Anark, but it was Broose who answered. “It can be deadly, in the wrong hands. The battleax was created eons ago by Adrix Blastblade, the first Battle Wizard of Aganopea, who endowed the weapon with gold-level magic. According to legends, only the Archmage of the Circle—or a mage called the Warrior-Summoner—can use the battleax. If anyone else strikes the ground with its prong and blades, even by accident, terrible catastrophes will be unleashed. In fact, the artifact could easily destroy the whole world.”

Eriana said, “If the Darkside possessed Tarroth, that would be the end of all of us. And I also feel that the monsters are after the battleax.”

Derrik was unsure whether her Might was strong enough to sense it. But her dark eyes filled with so much anxiety that he said, “Perhaps Tarroth isn’t as dangerous as the legends say.”

Diara shook her head. “We’ve experienced it first-hand, Son. I was still in Thorstorm, thousands of miles from here, when a mage called Paatyn stole and used the battleax. The catastrophes reached us all the way there. A giant tidal wave destroyed the whole coast.”

“And we were already here, and we all nearly died in a terrible earthquake,” Ufi said. “And we chased the rotter—”

Mardok elbowed his ribs to silence him, and she blurted, “Anyway, the destruction can still be seen at many places of the empire, even eighteen years later. The danger is all too real.”

Al’Anark nodded. “My troops are pursuing the monsters, and since we have stopped in these woods for the night, I decided to come visit you and give you the news. Tomorrow morning, we’ll resume our march. I hope to catch up with the hordes and attack their rear in a few days.”

Eriana bit her lower lip and gave the elf a nervous look. Derrik frowned. Did she fear for that ancient, earless elf? He had always liked Al’Anark and saw him as a second uncle, besides Ufi. But now he almost wished the elf had not come.

Eriana’s gaze changed from worried to dazzled, as if she admired the elf for his bravery. That gave Derrik an idea. “I’ll go with you, Al’Anark,” he said. “I’ll march along and—”

“No!” Baard’s shout was loud enough to stop the conversations at the surrounding tables and make Derrik twitch.

“You’re not going anywhere, do you hear?” Baard snapped at Derrik. “I didn’t raise you and fret for you for nearly eighteen summers to lose you in battle.”

Derrik gulped. He had never seen his father so angry, not even when Derrik had accidentally set fire to the stable. Did not Father realize that this was the opportunity Derrik had been waiting for his whole life, the opportunity to become a warrior against the Darkside? “But, Father, I—”

“No buts!” Baard said, his voice uncompromising. “This is not our battle, Son. The kingdoms have enough troops to stop the hordes. And if they don’t, one village boy will make no difference. I only let you carry a sword and train you in case our village is invaded. I don’t do that so you can go and get yourself killed in a war.”

Derrik wanted to gulp again, but his throat had dried up. He felt as if his face was on fire. Somehow, he felt ashamed of his father. And angry. Very angry.

To make things worse, Eriana looked at him the way she would look at a child who had just been sent off to bed without a dessert.

Diara put her hand on top of Derrik’s. “In any case, you cannot leave before you complete your Passage.” With a deep sigh she added, “Come back unscathed first, Derrik. Then we will see.”

Baard crossed his arms and frowned into his tankard. Derrik wanted to ask why he should chase a lone Daemorc through the woods to please the mayor if he could join a real battle. Then he noticed deep sadness gathering in Mother’s eyes, so he sighed and kept silent.

“Please don’t fight tonight,” Diara said, her eyes gliding from Derrik to Baard. “In such dangerous times, who knows whether we will ever get to sit all together like this again.”

CHAPTER THREE: A LOST FRIEND

Derrik skulked along a deer track, grasping a half-drawn longbow. The Wolfhide Forest echoed with the chirping of birds, and sap perfumed the cold air. Pines, spruces, oaks, and beech trees loomed above him, and ferns and blueberry bushes lined the track, their leaves trembling in the breeze in the dappled sunlight.

He felt happy, as he always did when he was in the woods. Happy but hungry. He, Broose, and Glen had left the village at dawn, and they had been in the woods the whole day. They had not seen a sign of a Daemorc, and as they had not eaten either, they had decided to split and try to get something for dinner before nightfall.

The sun already stood low on the horizon, its weakening light shining nearly horizontally in Derrik’s eyes, and nothing bigger than a grasshopper had crossed his path. Suddenly, wings fluttered above him. As he glanced up, he saw a bird with a long tail and feathers nearly as colorful as the clothes of the Tik’Haaney. An Aganopean pheasant.

Derrik drew the bowstring and loosed, but the arrow missed the bird by a hand’s breadth and glided into a raspberry bush. Cursing under his breath, he re-nocked and loosed another arrow. This time, the arrowhead sank into its target. The bird cartwheeled and fell a few feet away from him, the shaft sticking through the feathered body.

Derrik whooped as he rushed to the bird and picked it up, nearly losing his eye to the twig of a low-hanging branch. The pheasant was quite heavy, and it could easily feed the three of them—well, he was not sure about the insatiable Broose—in case his friends had no luck. He pulled the arrow out, added it to the quiver, tied the bird to his belt, and looked for his other arrow. He twisted around as he heard something crash through the bushes.

Broose barreled forth, his eyes open wide, his plump cheeks flushed. “A bear,” he wheezed out. “A giant bear.”

“Where?” Derrik asked.

“About a hundred paces from here,” Broose replied, trying to catch his breath. “I saw it in the distance, and among trees, but it was giant. Fortunately, it seemed to be asleep.”

“Are you sure it wasn’t a Daemorc?” Derrik asked, his heart drumming with excitement.

Broose smirked. “Daemorc have horns, my uncultured friend. I didn’t see any horns on that one.”

A noise behind them made them twitch. But it was only Glen.

“What’s going on, fellas?” he asked cheerfully. He had hiccupped, burped, and dry-heaved as they had set off in the morning, but the march through the woods had helped him battle his hangover.

“Broose has seen a bear,” Derrik replied, tossing his head toward the place their friend had come from. “Let’s try to hunt it down.”

“Hunt it down?” Broose looked appalled. “According to Lavirun’s Anatomy of Aganopean Fauna, bears are five times stronger than humans, and they can kill a man with a single swipe of their paw.”

“And according to me, we should at least take a look at the beast,” Glen said. “The girls would go crazy if we came back with coats made of bear hide and collars made of bear fangs.”

“You’d look ridiculous,” Broose replied. “Especially in combination with your hedgehog spikes.”

Glen chuckled and ran his hand over his spiked hair.

“I’m with Glen,” Derrik said. “We should at least go and take a peek. It will be a good exercise before we tackle a Daemorc.”

Without waiting for a reply, he turned and followed the track of broken twigs and trampled blueberry bushes which Broose had made while running from the bear. Derrik had tracked animals since he was little, and he easily followed the trail. Glen brushed past him and walked ahead of him, to Derrik’s chagrin. The rustling sounds behind him told him that Broose followed.

Suddenly, Glen started to holler with laughter.

“Shut up, you idiot,” Broose hissed over Derrik’s shoulder. “You’ll piss that beast off.”

That made Glen laugh even harder. “That beast,” he exclaimed, “is quite harmless.”

Derrik stepped forward, craned his neck, and peered among the trees. Then he also started to laugh. “I think your sight is a bit damaged by all the reading, my friend,” Derrik said, good-naturedly as he turned to Broose. “Your bear is… a boulder.”

Broose pushed Derrik aside, stomped forth, and stared at the moss-covered sandstone boulder. It did not even resemble a bear. “I’ll be damned…” he murmured, twisting his fluffy beard.

Remembering Broose’s earlier remark, Derrik said, “Bears aren’t usually made of stone, my uncultured friend. But you were right; this thing has no horns.”

Broose lowered his hand, and Derrik chuckled and grabbed him around his beefy shoulders.

Glen ran to the boulder, climbed up, and yelled, “Behold the bear king!”

“What a dumbass,” Broose murmured as he turned around and strode away. He did not say a word as they walked to the stream where they had left their bedrolls, but Glen would not stop making fun. In the end, Derrik wished that Glen would be hungover—and quiet—for a little longer.

The sun set before they reached the stream, and the shadows of the trees grew and thickened. Derrik chopped up a dry log while his friends kindled a fire and plucked the pheasant. Derrik was disappointed because the bird looked as small as a chicken without the feathers. Broose also scrutinized it with an injured look.

As the pheasant roasted on a makeshift spit, Broose produced a book and tried reading in the firelight, but then he gave up and stared at the bird. The skin turned golden, and the meat smelled delicious. Broose gulped and licked his lips as he watched the fat dripping into the fire.

Derrik found himself staring into the flames as if they hypnotized him. He had been fascinated with fire for as long as he could remember, which was another thing he had inherited from his father, apart from the wide grin and the weakness for dark girls. The two of them could sit in silence and watch a bonfire for hours.

Glen produced a flask and took a swig. “My father’s plum brandy,” he said, smacking his lips. He offered the flask to the others but they shook their heads. Derrik would not mind a pint of ale, but he was not too keen on liquor. And Broose could obviously think of nothing but dinner. He pierced the meat with his knife to see whether it was soft so often that the poor bird soon looked like a colander.

When the dinner was ready at last, and they tucked in, Glen kept drinking from the flask, and soon his eyes started to shine drunkenly in the firelight.

“Do us a favor and don’t get shitfaced so we can set off early tomorrow morning,” Broose said.

“No worries, bear hunter,” Glen replied, grinning. Then he took another swig.

Broose scowled and shook his head. Then he bit into a drumstick.

“It’s true that we should set off at dawn and get farther from the village to look for that Daemorc,” Derrik said. “I hope that when we bring that monster’s ear, Father will let me go to war.”

“Technically, when you bring that ear—if you bring that ear—you’ll officially become a man, and your father won’t be able to order you around,” Broose said, throwing the picked bone into the fire. “But you need to think what is the right thing to do. Your father is right; it’s not really our war. And as Horigodth the Philosopher said, War is humanity’s deadliest blight.”

“But you said it yourself that, in the wrong hands, Tarroth could destroy the continent, including our village,” Derrik replied. “It is our war.”

Broose shrugged. “And your father said that one man will make no difference. It is true, though, that if everybody thought like that, the monsters would roll right over us.”

“Exactly!” replied Derrik.

A gust of frigid wind slammed into them and made the fire roar, and Derrik stretched his hands toward the flames. Cold crept from the ground and spread over his back. The moon came out and shone through the trees. An owl hooted above their heads. Glen took another swig from the flask. Broose finished the last of the meat and rubbed his fingers together, suddenly looking despondent.

The fire was starting to wane, and everything dimmed. Glen leaned sideways and groped the ground for firewood. He tossed something that looked like a large board into the fire. Suddenly, the cold air filled with the smell of burning leather.

Derrik wrinkled his nose, wondering what was happening. Then Broose leaped up and screamed, “My book!”

He jumped toward the fire and kicked the leather-bound book outside. He dropped to his knees and examined the book, hissing as it singed his fingers. Derrik leaned forth and peered at the book, shielding his eyes from the fire. The flames had eaten large holes in the cover and scorched the edges of most of the pages.

“You drunken dumbass!” Broose snapped at Glen. “See what you’ve done?”

Glen scratched his spiked head. “I thought it was a board.”

“A board?” Broose shouted. “A board?”

“Come on, Brother,” Glen said, his speech slurred. “Confusing a book with a board in the dark is not much worse than confusing a boulder with—”

“At least, shut your mouth!” Broose yelled, his cheeks jiggling with indignation.

“Calm down, Broose,” Derrik said. “It was an accident. It’s just a book.”

“Just a book?” Broose yelled. “Just a book? You guys are stupid. All this Passage is stupid. I’m out of here. I don’t care if they call me ‘lad’ for the rest of my life. Anyway, I won’t stay in that stupid village. I’ll go to Rugu and become a librarian. I’m sure they don’t have such stupid rituals in the capital.”

He rammed the damaged book into the enormous pocket of his jerkin, snatched his shoulder bag, and stomped off.

The next day, Derrik and Glen walked through the woods, squinting in the dappled light of the midday sun, their eyes gliding around for signs of Broose. Large dewdrops still covered the ferns and grass like pearls. A giant spiderweb shone in the sunlight, looking as if it were made with a thread of gold. A hare dashed past them. Birds chirped hysterically above their heads, but they quieted when a hawk glided above the trees.

Derrik sweated as he walked, bending slightly under his burden. He had his sword at his belt, and a longbow and his woodsman’s ax strapped to his back, along with his bedroll and cloak. What weighed him down much more, though, was his worry about Broose.

They had tried to find Broose last night, but he had disappeared into the darkness and would not answer when they called his name. They had spent a mostly sleepless night tossing in their bedrolls, and set off before dawn, roaming the woods and calling him. At times, they found his track. It always led away from the village.

“Where is that silly man?” Glen murmured, his voice full of worry. The spikes lay limp against his head, like the ears of a startled horse, and the lack of sleep had reddened his eyes. Using his spear as a walking stick, he rammed the butt end into twigs on the ground to make them snap.

“That madman seems to be really heading for the nearest library,” Derrik said. But there was no mirth in his voice.

A monster crashed from the forest a few paces away from them. It towered over them, twice their height, its enormous horns jutting horizontally from its temples. A ridge of small, wickedly sharp horns crowned its head, making it look as if it had spiked its hair like Glen. The giant wore nothing but a fur loincloth, and masses of corded muscle rippled and twitched on its square, hairless body.

The Daemorc roared in rage at the sight of them, and Derrik gasped and staggered. Although it was unarmed, the monster could easily break their skulls with its giant fist. Or gore them with its horns. Although it looked slow and dumb with a puffed lower lip and a receding chin, its eyes glowered with malice and murderous alertness.

As Derrik wrenched his sword from the scabbard, Glen lobbed his spear. The spearhead crashed into the monster’s chest and tore through the tough, leathery skin, but did not reach the flesh. Blood oozed from the wound, as black as a moonless night, but the monster did not seem to notice. As the spear fell to the Daemorc’s giant feet, the monster picked it up, broke it over its knee, and hurled the butt end at Glen. The wooden shaft swished as it rotated, slamming into Glen’s head. Glen dropped like a broken rag doll. Blood gushed from his forehead.

The Daemorc stomped toward Glen. Derrik rushed forth and swung his sword, ripping the skin on the monster’s side, just above the loincloth. The monster twisted toward him, surprisingly fast, and Derrik ducked under the swing of the giant’s fist at the last moment. The Daemorc bent its head to gore him with its horn like a bull. Derrik staggered backward, brandishing his sword, and wondering how he could ever reach the giant’s skin and flesh. Even a longsword, hauberk or a lance might have proven too short. His heart pounded so hard he thought it might shatter against his ribs. Cold sweat drenched him like an autumn downpour.

The Daemorc stopped and straightened its back. A vicious grin split its face, and Derrik wondered what idea had hatched in that giant, evil head. The monster twisted around and rushed to Glen, who still lay unconscious, blood gushing from his head. The monster bent over Glen, grabbed him by the ankles, lifted him, and turned to Derrik.

Derrik gasped as the monster raised its hand and started to swing Glen around as if he were a cudgel. Stepping closer and closer, the Daemorc obviously intended to beat Derrik to death with Glen’s limp body. And since Derrik could not defend himself without cutting his friend to pieces, all he could do was run.

As he twisted around to escape, a horrified scream came from behind the Daemorc. Derrik recognized the voice of Broose. The next moment, Broose crashed from the bushes and rushed at the monster, grasping his sword.

The Daemorc began to turn, blocking Derrik’s view of Broose. Then the monster roared with pain and dropped Glen. A moment later, Derrik realized that Broose’s blade had slashed its hamstrings. Broose stumbled and staggered away from the giant’s reach. As the monster swayed, Derrik charged, leaped over Glen, and swept his blade at its shinbone. He thought he heard the bone snap to the monster’s agonized howl.

Derrik yanked on the sword to dislodge it and deal another blow, but the blade got stuck in the shinbone. Cursing, he let go of the hilt, ducked, and rushed aside. Twisting around, he watched the Daemorc.

The monster swayed, staring stupidly at the steel stuck under its knee. Glen lay only a few feet away, but the Daemorc paid him no attention. The monster seemed to be about to fall and crush Glen under its weight. Broose crept around it, dashed to Glen, scooped him up, and threw him over his shoulder as if Glen were a sack of flour. The monster balled its hand into a giant fist to break Broose’s skull. Broose ducked, leaped forth, and carried Glen to safety.

Derrik unstrapped his ax. His heart pounded as he wondered whether the Daemorc would attack again. He breathed in relief when the monster swayed and fell to its knees. The sword got stuck deeper in its shin, and the giant lifted its head and roared, exposing its neck. Derrik screamed as he rushed forth and swept his ax. A geyser of black blood peppered his face. When he blinked the blood away, he saw that the blade had ripped out the monster’s throat.

Bucketfuls of blood gushed from the gash in black waves, and a gurgling groan escaped the giant’s lips. Its eyes bulged terribly. It reached for Derrik, but he staggered out of its reach. Then it fell face down on the gory, trampled grass.

Derrik dropped the bloodied ax, feeling so dizzy and spent that he wanted to lie beside the giant and sleep for the rest of the day. Then a rush of excitement suffused his mind and made him raise his hands and scream in victory. He did it! He killed a Daemorc! He laughed madly as he stared at the fallen giant, feeling like climbing it and dancing on its back. Then he remembered Glen.

He turned and rushed to his friends. To his relief, Glen was sitting up, holding his bleeding head. Broose kneeled beside him, his beefy arm around Glen’s shoulders.

“You were amazing, Derrik,” Glen said, sounding groggy but attempting a smile. He must have come around in time to see Derrik slay the monster.

“So were you, my friend,” Derrik said as he kneeled beside Glen and patted him on the back. “You drew the first blood! And so was Broose, who hamstrung the rotter.”

“Anyway, I’m glad we’re friends again,” Glen said, giving them a wide grin.

“We are more than that,” said Derrik. “We often call ourselves brothers, and now it rings truer than ever before.”

Broose shook his head, and Derrik worried he was still mad over his scorched book. Then Broose said, “We’ve fought to save each other’s lives, which has created a bond stronger than blood. In many stories, blood brothers stab each other’s back if the price is right. But we… we will surely never betray one another.”

Derrik smiled and squeezed Broose’s shoulder. “Well said! Besides, we’ve got that Daemorc! Let’s cut off its ear and go home.”

Broose nodded and licked his lips. “If we hurry, we’ll get there tomorrow at lunchtime.”

CHAPTER FOUR: UNDER ATTACK

As the sun set beyond the mountains, shadows started to creep along the oak grove beyond Ruah’s dwelling. The wind howled among the majestic trees, and the branches swayed in the growing dusk. Eriana absently walked around the grove, collecting brushwood and bringing it to a large firepit in preparation for a rite.

She could not stop thinking of Al’Anark. And her thoughts were beyond confused.

Eriana had admired that mystical creature ever since she was a little girl, and the admiration had grown into something yet more powerful. She did not know when exactly she had begun to feel that way, or why, but then, Ruah always said that the heart was the most mysterious of all organs. Still, Eriana could hardly imagine herself living by his side. Although she was centuries younger, she would, in a few decades, look older than him. On the other hand, since he was so ancient, he probably would not mind, while she would enjoy flaunting a youthful husband until the day she died.

She smiled and shook her head at her foolishness. Such thoughts were for older folks, not for her. Besides, she did not know whether Al’Anark would ever be her husband.

During his short visit to New Thorstorm, he had often glanced at her with admiration gleaming in his eyes, and she knew he was flattered by her interest—but that was about it. He did not seem to be in love with her, but she might turn him around. A man’s mind was a woman’s plaything, as the old Gaaltorian saying went. She guessed it also went for elven minds.

She knew that Derrik was besotted with her, and he was a good boy, loyal and hardworking… although she found his strutting around with his sword silly and annoying. Deep down, she knew that Derrik would make a better husband than an ancient creature that lived in a wooden cabin in the wild Elven Kingdoms. But her affection for Al’Anark was stronger than reason.

“That’s enough firewood, girls.”

Ruah’s voice stirred her from her reverie, and Eriana hoped that the soothsayer would not notice her absentmindedness.

With a kind smile, Ruah nodded to Eriana’s younger sister. Leya bent over the firepit to start a fire with a flint and steel. Although they had not discovered any Might in Leya, they let her assist with their rites. She was always around, in any case.

Leya looked like a doll with her soft skin, large greenish-blue eyes, and light brown hair twisted in two braids. Eriana knew that Leya revered her, and it flattered her, but sometimes she found it annoying. Eriana was Ruah’s apprentice. Could not she ever be alone with her teacher? While she loved Leya, Eriana wished her younger sister had found friends to spend time with instead of trailing behind her. But Leya was too shy for that.

The flames grew, their fiery tongues nearly licking an iron hook that hung from an iron, spit-like contraption about a yard above the ground. Ruah reached under her cloak, produced a leather-bound bundle, and placed it on the grass by the bonfire. She pulled back the cover to reveal a bronze pin and a flat black bone the size of a plate, with sharp edges and a small hole drilled in the middle. It was a fragment of the left cheekbone of a dragon, a ritual object the soothsayer had brought from Thorstorm.

Eriana’s soul filled with admiration as she watched Ruah hold the bone and gaze into the flames. The firelight made Ruah’s white hair look like threads of gold, but it never seemed to reach Ruah’s sunken eyes, giving her the appearance of a magical being. Eriana wished her own eyes were as deep-set as Ruah’s.

“Let’s start the rite,” Ruah said. “Let’s pull back the curtain of time and space and try to see how Broose, Derrik, and Glen are faring.”

The boys had not returned yet, and everybody was getting worried about them. Eriana’s Might told her that they were well, and Ruah confirmed the feeling, but neither understood why the boys were taking so long to come back from their quest. If the ritual was successful, they could peek through the boys’ eyes to see where they were and what they were doing.

Ruah turned to Leya. “If you please, child.”

Leya reached into a canvas bag and took out a bronze pin and a jar containing a mandrake-based potion. Ruah hooked the bone by the small hole drilled in its center. A slight burning smell told Eriana that the fire had singed the fine hairs on the back of Ruah’s hand; the soothsayer did not wince.

The fire roared angrily and twisted under the bone, which glowed as if it were made of bronze. Ruah picked up the pin and pricked the skin on her forefinger with its sharp point. A drop of blood swelled from the wound. Leya held the jar under Ruah’s hand. Squeezing her finger between the thumb and the forefinger of her other hand, Ruah let a few drops of her blood drip into the jar. Its contents belched a yellowish steam.

The soothsayer turned to Eriana, who stretched her hand to the soothsayer, palm up. “This will hurt a little, dear,” Ruah said.

Eriana nodded. After all, it was not the first time she had gone through this procedure. They had done quite a few such rituals, usually to predict the success of the harvest, or find out the gender of a woman’s unborn child. Today, the sighting would be much more important. She hardly winced as Ruah pricked her forefinger, and the burning pain quickly faded.

Ruah turned Eriana’s hand over and squeezed her forefinger to add a few drops of her blood to the potion. She swirled the jar and splashed the steaming contents over the bone while muttering an incantation in the Ancient Tongue. “Tehler kormad eronig hardum acaralig…”

The arcane words slithered through the night and intertwined in Eriana’s head. The potion dripped from the bone into the fire, and the flames roared as if the jar had contained oil. A volley of sparks swirled toward the blackening sky and fell on their heads. Leya gasped and stepped back. Black smoke billowed from the flames and enveloped them like fog from the Wrathlands. Then the fire quieted and the breeze chased the smoke away. The bone grew transparent like a glass pane.

Eriana took a deep breath. Soon, the bone would reveal what lay behind a curve of time and space. Ruah peered at the bone as she kept reciting the formula. Leya also stared at the bone, although she did not have any Might, and the bone would reveal nothing to her.

The bone began to shine, and everything around it blurred. Eriana felt Ruah’s hand searching hers. Intertwining her fingers with the soothsayer’s, Eriana bent the last digit of her forefinger while keeping the rest of the finger—and the other fingers—perfectly straight; that was a way to help mages concentrate on spells. Then she summoned a mental wave to flush away all her thoughts and feelings and make room for magic.

The wind seemed to have died, and the cold ceased to bother her. Her hands seemed to go numb, and she no longer felt Ruah’s hand. The crackling of the fire faded. The smoke stopped tickling her nose. A dizzy spell made her sway. She felt as if her mind was detached from her body, ready to soar into magical realms.

“Orbherigum aretornard ehmeron etoreharuk…” Ruah’s words seemed to fade, as if Eriana had fallen asleep.

The bone glowed more and more strongly. Something started moving on its surface. Then the bone seemed to grow and grow, its surface wrapping itself around Eriana. Suddenly, she saw an enormous army of monsters rushing over a shallow moat toward a towering city fortification.

Some of the monsters were incredibly tall and muscular, with two large horns veering from their heads, and their midsections wrapped in loincloths. Others had wide antlers and eyes that looked like two slanted black gashes, but they were dressed in crimson surcoats over mailed shirts that reached the tops of their riding boots.

The image was so vivid that Eriana thought she had screamed in fright, but she could not be sure; her ears filled with the guttural roaring of the horned monsters and the hissing and clicking of the antlered ones. The horned ones had to be Daemorcs and the others Corpsentinels. The Daemorcs tried to scale the fortification while the Corpsentinels hacked at the large, ironbound gates with swords and battleaxes. Up on the ramparts, humans in blue-and-green surcoats were loosing bolts and arrows to defend the city.

She seemed to be watching the monsters from high above, and her Might told her that she saw them through the eyes of Al’Anark. Her mind must have floated toward the elf while she was supposed to be concentrating on her brother and his friends.

Al’Anark seemed to be standing on the top of a hill. The image shifted as if he had moved his head. Eriana saw an enormous horde of elves, their green eyes glaring at the monsters from their gentle faces, their long ears twitching in agitation, their hands clasping swords and spears.

The image shifted back to the monsters, and suddenly, everything started to blur and shake in front of Eriana’s eyes. Al’Anark was running at the enemy to attack their rear.

The backs of the monsters were getting closer and closer. Some monsters turned around to face the elves, brandishing their weapons. A hand rose in front of her and she guessed it was Al’Anark’s hand. A fireball blasted from the palm and whizzed at the nearest Corpsentinel. It exploded against its hideous face, making the monster stagger and fall. The fire twisted on its face, reducing it to ashes in a few moments.

Other fireballs screeched by as the other elves assaulted the monsters. The fireballs resembled large, shooting stars with long tails of smoke. Al’Anark loosed a few more spheres of flames, charring flesh and melting breastplates. Then a black blade dashed in front of Eriana’s eyes as he drew his sword. She found herself facing—through the eyes of Al’Anark—a Corpsentinel with black blood gushing down its face. She saw it clearly enough to discern the skull under its thin, translucent skin. The Corpsentinel swung its sword, and she saw Al’Anark parry. The clash of steel nearly deafened her.

Everything blurred again, but this time not due to Al’Anark’s movement. In the back of her mind, Eriana felt that she was about to pass out. She instinctively feared falling into the fire, but there was nothing she could do to prevent it. Everything spun round and round in a blurry mass. The clashing of steel, grunting of the elves, and roaring and clicking and hissing of the monsters echoed through her mind like through an unfurnished hall.

An angered hiss erupted just behind her, and she thought that it was Ruah’s cat. A moment later, she realized it was a Corpsentinel creeping up on Al’Anark from behind. A terrible pain pierced Eriana’s lower back. Then everything went black.

She heard a scream, the voice familiar. And she realized it was she who had screamed. As the din of the battle faded, she heard the fire humming beside her. The smell of smoke filled her nostrils.

“Eriana!” She recognized her sister’s voice. It brimmed with distress.

Eriana opened her eyes and saw Leya and Ruah above her. She felt the wet grass underneath her back; she must have collapsed. The pain in her lower back eased when Leya helped her sit up, and she realized that she had fallen on a sharp twig that had dug into her skin.

“Are you all right, Sister?” Leya asked, her firelit eyes swimming with worry.

Eriana nodded. “How long was I out?” she asked.

“Only a few moments, dear,” Ruah replied.

“But as you staggered, I feared you’d fall into the fire and burn yourself,” Leya said. She sounded and looked so distraught that Eriana wanted to hug her.

They helped Eriana to her feet, and she smoothed her dress and glanced about, as if to make sure that none of the monsters from her vision prowled through the night. The fire was dying and the bone had lost its transparency. The treetops showed like black shadows against the dark gray of the cloudy sky. They swayed in the wind, resembling angered giants shaking their fists.

Ruah unhooked the bone and handed it to Leya, who wrapped it in the furs. “I saw the boys in the woods, unscathed,” the soothsayer said. “And I believe they have succeeded in conquering a Daemorc.”

Leya beamed and clapped her hands, but then she blushed and lowered her head. Relief and happiness suffused Eriana. Her brother could be pedantic at times, but she loved him. And although she thought that Derrik was silly, for he did nothing but strut around the village with his sword, and Glen was annoying because he did nothing but drink and ogle girls, she had known them all her life and nearly saw them as her family. Her parents would surely rejoice, as would Baard and Diara, who were in the homestead, waiting for news about the boys. Eriana blushed with shame about focusing on an old elf rather than on her twin brother and the two boys she had grown up with.

Although she feared that Ruah would want her to confirm the vision, the soothsayer said, “I’ve sensed something else, and it’s troubling.” She rubbed her chin with long, gaunt fingers. “I believe those soldiers from the other day are coming to steal the flour. And to torch the mill, as they threatened to do.”

Leya gasped and Eriana frowned. Something was telling her that Ruah was right. The soothsayer had a powerful Might and her prophecies always came true. And Eriana’s own Might was strong enough to sense if Ruah made a mistake.

“Let us rush to the homestead and warn everybody,” Ruah said. “It’s a good thing that Baard and Diara are there. They will help us fend off the soldiers.”

Leya took a burning twig from the fire to light a candle in a lantern. They left the dying fire and hurried through the grove. The lantern bobbed in Leya’s hand, casting leaping shadows all around them. Eriana kept replaying the vision she’d had during the ritual, and she realized, to her shame, that she worried more about Al’Anark than about their mill. She could not tell whether she had truly seen those images in the bone before she had passed out, or whether she had fainted at the beginning of the rite and had a bizarre, unconscious dream.

Had she truly foreseen Al’Anark’s death? Had she felt his pain? Her imagination was terribly vivid, and as she had been clairvoyant since she was very little, she often could not tell a dream from precognition. She prayed that her vision was wrong.

Ruah bade them wait by her cabin while she left the dragon bone and got a shoulder bag with ointments, herbs, and bandages. As they went on, the soothsayer murmured that she hoped she would not need them tonight. Ruah and Leya kept talking about the soldiers and the mill, but Eriana only replied in absentminded grunts, still thinking of what she had seen during the rite. Ruah walked slowly, leaning on her walking stick, and Leya looked restless, as if she wanted to run ahead of them.

The darkness deepened as they reached their hillock. Only the western sky was still dark gray rather than black, showing the ragged outline of the Al’Rayleh Mountains, and thousands of stars glimmered above their heads. The mill crowned the hillock, its arms raised as if calling for help. The moon rose behind them to help the flickering candle show them the way to their house. As the moon rose, the stars around it slowly vanished.

Ufi and Mardok were sitting at the kitchen table by a candlelight, along with Baard and Diara. They leaped up and asked about the rite, their eyes full of worry and expectation, and they cheered when Ruah told them about her vision of the boys being successful and unharmed. Ufi grabbed Mardok and spun her around, causing her to bump into Diara, who staggered into Baard’s arms. But their joy faded as soon as they heard of the soldiers.

“That was to be expected,” Mardok said, tugging at a lock of her hair and yanking it behind her ear, as she always did when nervous. “People like them never fear anything, not even a curse, not for long anyway, as their lust for revenge is bigger than anything else.”

“Well said, aging girl!” Ufi exclaimed. “Let’s arm ourselves and go get those rotters.”

Mardok rushed to the drawing room and brought two swords, while Ufi grabbed the lantern and ran upstairs. Eriana was surprised when he appeared with two more blades. She had not known they had so many weapons, and she wondered where such a stash had come from. Her parents each kept a sword and handed the other blades to Baard and Diara. Although they wore tunics and cloaks rather than mail shirts and breastplates, they somehow resembled weathered warriors, the steel looking natural in their grasp.

Ruah put her shoulder bag on the table and started taking out the bandages and medicine. “I could perhaps crack a skull with my walking stick, but I think I’ll be more useful here,” she said, sitting heavily on the nearest chair.

“You girls will stay here with Ruah,” Mardok said as she hefted her sword.

Yeah, right, Eriana thought. She was not eager to join the combat, but she hated being ordered around. After all, she was already eighteen summers old! When was Mother going to stop perceiving her like a little girl?

Ruah narrowed her deep-set eyes in concentration. “I believe the soldiers are already near, climbing the hillock from the other side, through the pastures.” The alarmed bleating of sheep confirmed her words a moment later.

“Let’s get them!” Ufi exclaimed, brandishing his blade.

As her parents, Baard, and Diara rushed from the house, Eriana twisted to the kitchen counter and picked up a knife. Dashing to the door, she twisted her head to Leya. “You stay here with Ruah!”

Eriana ran outside and tiptoed after the other defenders, whose moonlit outlines already moved halfway between the house and the mill. Then she heard Leya’s footsteps behind her.

Eriana swirled to Leya and snapped in an angry whisper, “You were supposed to stay at home.”

“So were you,” said Leya in a defiant voice. She held an iron fire poker that looked too big and heavy for her to wield.

Eriana guessed she could not tell Leya off. What am I going to do with that girl, though? she thought.

“Girls, come back!” Ruah’s voice came from the front porch.

Eriana bit her lower lip, wondering what to do, when an angered shouting and the clashing of blades came from the mill. Eriana cursed and rushed up the hillock, driven by the fear that her parents would get hurt. She groaned when she heard Leya following her. That girl was as stubborn as a sore-foot mule. Eriana hoped her younger sister would not come to harm.

As she reached the top of the hill, blades clashed in the moonlight, and the black forms of the combatants blurred and spilled into a large mass of moving limbs. Sometimes, a pair of fighters plunged into the shadows of the mill that swallowed them like a monstrous mouth.

Eriana stopped, hesitating. She had never used a knife for anything but cutting vegetables, and she wondered how she would fare against weathered warriors with long blades and mail shirts. She twitched when her younger sister rushed past her.

“Let’s go help them!” Leya called, running forth. Eriana cursed as she dashed after her. Leya was shy and taciturn, but she certainly had a pluck. Too much of it.

An armored shadow rushed at Leya, brandishing his sword. Leya screamed and staggered backward, not even lifting the poker to defend herself. Eriana screeched and ran at the attacker, swinging her knife. The man turned to her with a derisive laugh. The moonlight fell on his face and revealed a horrible scar; it was the man who had done all the speaking the other day, likely the band’s captain.

“Leave them alone, maggot!”

Mardok’s voice cut through the night, much louder than the grunting of the combatants and the clashing of steel on steel. The scarred man twisted to her and attacked, and they exchanged a flurry of furious blows. The man was over a head taller than Mardok, and his shoulders twice as wide as hers. And yet, she held her own very well against him, especially since he kept glancing over his shoulder to make sure that Eriana and Leya would not attack him. Eriana had seen her mother spar against Ufi and Broose a few times, with wooden practice swords. But she did not know that Mother was this good.

Eriana stepped forth and yelled to distract the man. As he twisted his head to her, Mardok leaped forth and shattered his hip with a sideways sweep. The man roared like a wounded animal and fell to his knees. But he would not give up. He lifted his hand and grabbed the hem of Mardok’s cloak, yanking on it to pull her down, while he raised his sword as if to hamstring her.

Mardok lifted her foot and slammed her knee into the man’s face. A moment later, her blade sank deep into the side of the man’s neck just above the collar of his mail shirt.

Eriana gasped and staggered. Her mother had just killed a man in a swordfight. And the girl sensed that it had not been the first time.

As the man fell, a soldier called in an alarmed voice, “The captain is down!”

Eriana’s heart fluttered with hope. Did it mean that the soldiers would abandon their fight? They surely had to realize that petty revenge and a few sacks of flour were not worth getting killed.

Mardok turned to her and Leya. Although she was skinny, she looked menacing with the gory blade. “You girls must return imme—”

She trailed off and twisted around when the breeze brought a cry of agony from the mill’s shadows. Eriana recognized the voice of Baard. Then Diara shrieked in distress. Ufi screamed and cursed. The smell of fire tickled Eriana’s nose.

CHAPTER FIVE: SNATCHED

It had drizzled since early morning, but the clouds were thin, and the sun occasionally burned through them to flood New Thorstorm with golden threads. Birds screeched in the tall elm trees that lined Northern Road, and an earthy smell hung heavily in the warm air.

Derrik and his friends joked and laughed as they entered their village. Glen’s head was bandaged after it had been cracked by the Daemorc, and they shuffled, aching from the long hike and the fight against the monster. But the feeling of victory and accomplishment overpowered their fatigue and soreness.

Despite that, the fight had temporarily cured Derrik of his appetite for adventure. They would soon be pronounced men, and Derrik could go to the war if he wanted to—but he secretly hoped that everyone had forgotten about his wish to do so. He might still go, one day, but he wanted a few quiet days at home before he could even start thinking of the future. All he wanted now was a warm bath, a hot meal, and a long sleep in his bed.

The sun stood right above their heads, and the streets were empty. Only a few hens foraged on the main street, and a small dog trotted by, barely glancing at the boys. The clinking of cutlery and the smell of food slithered through open windows, and Broose began sniffing and licking his lips. It almost looked like he would leap through an open window to devour everything he could reach.

Glen saw him and laughed, then he hissed, winced, and raised his hand to his bandaged head.

“Serves you right,” Broose murmured. More loudly he said, “Why don’t we go home and have lunch before we go to see the putrid mayor?”

Derrik shook his head. “Now it’s the best time to see that rotter.”

They had guessed that the mayor would be having lunch in the inn’s common room, as usual, and decided to go there first to tell him that they had fulfilled the task. They had drawn straws, and Derrik had won the honor of delivering the ear. And making a little prank of it.

Broose shrugged, and they crossed the empty square to the inn. As they entered the common room, Derrik chuckled and rubbed his hands. He despised the mayor, mostly because Vahash hated Derrik’s father, and he could not wait to see the man’s reaction to seeing them. Only a few tables were occupied, and most of the patrons were already enjoying a pipe, their feet stretched out under the tables, empty plates in front of them. Dark gray smoke filled the room and made Derrik wince. After days in the clean woods, he had already grown unaccustomed to the unpleasant smell of tabac.

Mayor Vahash sat alone in the back of the room, eating soup or broth from a large pewter bowl. The three friends walked straight toward him. The patrons straightened their backs and craned their necks, eyeing them with curiosity. The mayor took a spoonful, swallowed, and frowned. He glared at them like a vulture over his thin, hooked nose.

Derrik reached into his shoulder bag and produced the Daemorc ear, a nasty thing as large as a man’s hand, its tip covered by coarse dark fur. “Here’s that ear you needed so badly,” he said, loudly for everyone to hear, as he tossed it at the table.

The mayor yelped in fright and disgust as the ear landed just beside his bowl. While he leaned back in his chair and glared, everybody else stood to take a better look. Some people laughed and cheered.

Derrik spun around and walked back to the door, beaming with thrill. Seeing the shock on the mayor’s mean face felt better than killing that Daemorc. Chuckling, his friends followed. As they passed the counter, Old Megg Innkeeper gave them a toothless grin, her small, light blue eyes shining with approval. Her oldest son, Roham exclaimed, “Great job, boys, err, men! Come, have a drink. It’s on me today!”

While Glen nodded eagerly and rushed to the counter, Broose said, “Later, maybe, Roham. I want to see my family first.”

Derrik nodded. “Yes, I’ll go see my parents, too.”

Roham gave them a strange, nervous look. “You haven’t seen them yet?” he asked as he knuckled his bristling black beard, which fell to his considerable belly. “You haven’t seen the mill?”

A strange premonition hollowed a pit in Derrik’s stomach. He said, “No, we came from the other side. What happened?”

Roham opened his mouth as if to speak, but then he lowered his eyes.

“You better shee for yourshelvesh, boysh,” Old Megg said, her grin gone.

Impatient, Derrik rushed from the tavern. He hardly noticed Broose running after him and telling him he was going home. Derrik dashed across the square and turned onto the path that led to the outskirts. His feet splashed through puddles and slid on mud but he ran as fast as he could and barged through the front door to the kitchen.

To his surprise, Father was sleeping on a bench by the table while Mother was kneading bread at the counter. A fire crackled contentedly in the stove, its light dancing on the rough-hewn timbers that formed the walls. But the room seemed strangely cheerless.

Diara turned to him and sighed in relief. “Ruah told us you were well and on your way home,” she whispered. “And until now I did not fully dare hope that it was true.” Although she smiled, her large, dark eyes were sad. She moved as if to go to him and hug him, but then she turned her head slightly away from him. Her graying black hair was loose, which was strange, for she usually braided it or tied it back when she worked in the kitchen.

“We killed a Daemorc,” Derrik said; that sentence had been roaring through his head since the previous day. “But… why is Father sleeping in the kitchen?”

He noticed that Baard’s face was terribly pale and drawn as if he had aged years since Derrik had last seen him. Sweat plastered his hair to his head and to the sides of his face. He lay on his side, propped by pillows and covered by a cloak, despite the heat of the blazing fire.

Derrik recalled Roham’s and Megg’s nervous looks, and his heart beat in alarm. “Is he sick?”

“He is too weak to go up and down the stairs,” Diara said carefully. “Besides, he wants to be with me while I cook, and keep an eye on the front door in case somebody breaks in.”

“But what happened?” Derrik asked impatiently.

She sighed. “Those soldiers who had tried to steal from the mill came back last night. We forced them into rout but they injured your father.”

“What did they do to him?” Derrik asked, feeling that he might sick up.

Tears sparkled in Diara’s eyes. “One of those cowards stabbed him in the back. Ruah healed him the best she could. She says he is going to survive, but that he will take a long time to recover. He insisted he wanted to go home, and we had to bring him here in Ufi’s wagon as if he were a sack of flour.”

“Did you kill those bastards?” Derrik asked, rage making his blood boil.

Diara shook her head. “Only three of them. The others ran away.”

“How many escaped?”

Diara shrugged. “Three or four.” She kept turning her head away from him as she spoke.

Fueled by a horrible premonition, Derrik hurried to his mother and leaned to her to look at the hidden side of her face. A huge, ugly gash grinned there, stretching from her temple down to her chin, narrowly missing her eye. It was so deep that he was sure she would wear a scar there forever.

“It’s nothing, Derrik,” she said, giving him a weak smile.

Derrik gulped, his mind awash with fury and sadness. He wanted to tell her that she was still pretty, but he thought it would sound strange, so he asked, “Who else got injured?”

Diara said, “Ufi and Mardok are fine; apart from a few cuts and bruises. The girls are unscathed.” She hesitated as if she wanted to say something else.

“What is it?” asked Derrik.

She sighed. “The soldiers burned the mill, Son. And while we were fighting them, one of them broke into Ufi’s house, knocked out poor Ruah, and stole everything valuable.”

Derrik clenched his hands into fists and inhaled through clenched teeth. He wanted to ask whether Ruah was fine, but she had to be since she had cured Father. A sudden hatred for the men made him feverish. He wanted to seek them and kill them. Ufi often said that soldiers and legislators always got away with their crimes, although they should be punished twice as severely for betraying people’s trust. Derrik felt it was up to him to make those rotters pay for the attack.

“I must go and find them to avenge your injuries and retrieve what they stole,” Derrik said. “It’s my duty as a man and warrior.”

A shadow of pain passed over Mother’s eyes. She looked as if she wanted to protest, but then she just sighed. “I understand, Son.” That was all she said, and she said it so quietly he hardly heard her.

“I’ll tell Broose and Glen to go with me,” Derrik said. “I’ll be right back.”

Diara nodded and turned her head away from him, and he guessed that this time, it was not the scar she wanted to hide. He sighed as he walked out of the house.

Derrik used the back door to re-enter his house and sneak up to his room to pack. He wanted to avoid seeing Mother in tears. There would be enough time for that later.

Broose and Glen had decided to go with him after the soldiers, and they had agreed to pack, say goodbye to their parents, and meet at the square as soon as they could. Ufi had wanted to go with them, but then he decided to stay to protect the house in case the soldiers came back for more, and to repair the partly-burned mill. But he promised to lend each boy a horse.

As he stuffed his belongings into a shoulder bag, Derrik glanced around the room, feeling strangely nostalgic. He smiled and shook his head when he saw the chip on the timber wall, which he had accidentally made while practicing with his sword. A pile of smooth, river-worn pebbles reminded him of the times when he was little, and when he and his friends had competed who would have a bigger and more beautiful collection of stones. As he glanced at his pallet of dry rushes, he wondered where he would sleep tonight.

Although he thought it was a shame that he would leave the village before he was officially named a man, he decided it did not matter. Everyone in New Thorstorm would soon know about their feat, so who needed Vahash’s sanctions? He regretted leaving without telling Eriana how he felt about her, but he would never dare do that anyway. With a sigh and one last look at his chamber, he put the bag over his shoulder and went downstairs.

Father was awake, and judging by the angry look in his bloodshot eyes, he had heard of Derrik’s plan. “Where do you think you are going?” Baard asked in a weak yet vexed voice. He lifted his head to Derrik, straightened his back, and grunted in pain.

“To seek the soldiers and punish them,” Derrik replied, trying to sound bold. “And to get back the things they stole.”

“No!” Father said. The word sounded more like another grunt. “I won’t let you leave the safety of the village… the relative safety of the village for revenge. I forbid it.”

“Come on, Baard,” Diara said from the kitchen counter, where she was putting pieces of sweetbread from a tray on a checkered dishcloth. “Derrik is now a man, and if he wants to go, you must let him.”

“But it’s so dangerous out there!” Baard snapped.

Derrik shook his head. Despite the battle-scars and great fighting skills, his father seemed to be a little cowardly. That notion filled Derrik with shame and bitterness. Every boy saw his father as a hero. But some of them were disappointed as they grew up.

Father groaned as he tried to sit. Normally, Derrik would rush to help him. Now he did not move.

“Good thing I baked yesterday,” Diara said as she put the last piece of sweetbread on the dishcloth and tied the corners. Her dark eyes suddenly filled with tears, and she wiped them with the back of her hand.

“Don’t let Broose eat all of them, Derrik,” she said with a weak smile as she tied the bundle to a drawstring of his bag. She kept blinking away new tears.

“I won’t,” Derrik said, his heart pounding with affection for his mother. He knew he would miss her badly. He wanted to tell her but he was suddenly ashamed.

She wrapped her hands around his waist and put her face against his chest. He had overgrown her over three years ago, and she seemed so little and fragile that his determination to go started to melt. Then he remembered that she was braver and tougher than most men in the village. He embraced her, his heart filling with sorrow. But the gash on her face made him all the more determined to go.

“Think of us sometimes, my dear son,” Diara said. “We’ll think of you all the time. And be careful. Come back as soon as you can. We will wait.”

“I will, Mom,” he said. His eyes suddenly stung, but it was surely from the smoke, for real men never cried. A lump formed in his throat and made it hard to breathe.

Diara let go of him, making him experience a sense of loss. Her voice trembled as she said, “May the Goddess Aganope keep you safe, Son.”

That surprised Derrik, because he never thought she was religious. He nodded, wondering what to say. He wanted to tell her that he loved her and that he would miss her, but he feared it would make her cry harder, so he only gave her an awkward grin.

“I have something else for you, my dear boy,” she said as she walked to the cooling fireplace and grabbed a fire poker.

What is she doing? Derrik thought. He glanced at Father, who sat on the bench, his arms crossed and frowning like a god of thunder.

Ramming the poker between two stones of the fireplace floor, Diara pried one loose. She squatted, reached under the stone, and produced a small leather pouch. Dropping the poker, she walked to Derrik and pressed the pouch into his hand. It was full of coins.

“I wish I could give you more, but this must do,” she said, her voice shaking.

“Thank you, Mother,” Derrik said. He had not known his parents had this secret stash. He hugged her again, and when they broke the embrace, Diara turned to Baard. “Won’t you say anything to your son?” she asked.

“Yes,” Baard said. “The passage of right is a tradition, so I let you go. But this is absolutely unnecessary. No silly vendetta will help us heal faster. I forbid you from going. And that’s final.”

Suddenly, anger boiled in Derrik. “You can no longer forbid anything!” he snapped. “I killed a Daemorc and became a man!”

Father scowled and Derrik thought he would yell. But his voice was surprisingly calm as he said, “I don’t care about the Passage. I worry about you because I’m still your father. I worry you would get killed for a senseless cause. And I forbid you to go.”

Somehow, that made Derrik even angrier. You worry about everything because you’re a coward! he thought.

Diara’s horrified gasp and Baard’s wounded, stunned look told Derrik that, in his rage, he had said the thought aloud. He stood still in the middle of the kitchen, breathing hard. He thought of apologizing, but then he just twisted around and rushed from the house.

Only a few people milled around their front gardens in the suburbs, cutting wood, checking their fruit trees for mites, and weeding their vegetable patches. Old Marrod turned over piles of hay so it would dry, and Derrik wanted to sneeze. The sun had come out and shone on his face, but he felt miserable. The main road and the square were almost empty. Cows mooed hungrily from Errin Butcher’s barn, and a few dogs chased each other around the common well.

Broose stood near the well, a large bag hanging from his beefy shoulder, an impatient scowl on his podgy face. He was chewing something and rubbing his greasy fingers together. To his surprise, Derrik saw no book sticking from the giant pocket of his leather jerkin.

“You surely took your time, man,” Broose said as he swallowed the mouthful.

“My parents kept me,” Derrik said. And I said something horrible to my father.

Broose shrugged. “My father is still getting the horses ready. Anyway, I went to the smithy, and Glen wasn’t there. I hope he didn’t chicken out.”

“Come on Broose,” Derrik said. “Glen is scatterbrained, but not a coward.” The last word stung his tongue. He could not believe he had called Father that.

Broose scratched his forehead. “I know. In fact, he’s the bravest man I know, apart from you. It’s just… Where in the Wrathlands can he be? I hope he didn’t go back to the inn. Perhaps he’s gone to say goodbye to his mother?”

Derrik said, “That could be. Let’s go and see.”

They crossed the village and took a throughway that led to Ranig, the westernmost town of Gaaltor. A few hundred yards beyond the last houses, a high stone wall ran around a large cemetery. They passed the gate and walked down an overgrown path, past graves with granite tombstones.

Glen stood by his mother’s grave, a large leather bag at his feet. Derrik would have waited for Glen to say his goodbyes alone, but Broose walked on, and Derrik followed.

They approached Glen just as he said in a broken voice, “Goodbye for now, Mama. I’ll visit you as soon as I come back.”

Glen twitched and turned around when he heard them, tears streaming down his face. When he saw his friends, he quickly wiped his face with the sleeve of his shirt and produced a grin. “Well, let’s go on that adventure,” he said, trying to sound cheerful.

Derrik took him around his broad shoulders. “Yes, Brother,” he said, gently. “Let’s go on that adventure.”

On the following night, Eriana lay in bed, staring at the restless candlelight dance on the rafters, thinking about the events of the past days. The memory of the battle haunted her, the flames licking the mill, Diara’s anguish when Ufi carried the bleeding Baard on his back to be healed, and the horrifying sight of Ruah lying unconscious in their ransacked kitchen. She often wondered how Broose and his friends were faring, and whether they would ever find the soldiers. Then her thoughts always twisted around and rushed to Al’Anark.

The flashes of the images from the ritual always dried her throat. Would Al’Anark die during a battle against the Darkside? Could she prevent it? There was only one way to find out.

Taking a deep breath as if she were going to dive, she rose, put on her leather boots, and pulled the warmest gown over her shift. Then she walked around her bedchamber, pulling clothes from the wardrobe and the chest of drawers and throwing them on the bed. She rolled everything into her blanket and tied it with a scarf, making one loop loose enough so she could carry it over her shoulder. She had saved some money she had been given by her parents over the years, and she tied the pouch to her belt, thankful that the soldier who had broken into their house had not found it.

She was going east to save Al’Anark. Deep down, she had made the decision a long time ago, perhaps as soon as she had come around after passing out during the rite. Now she cursed herself for not acting upon it sooner.

She tiptoed to Broose’s chamber, sat at his desk, and found a blank sheet of vellum to write a note to her parents. Her hand shook as she dipped the quill in the inkwell. She wrote that she would come back soon—and she feared she was probably lying.

Having returned to her bedchamber for the bundle and the lantern, Eriana paused in the hallway, longing to take one more peek at her parents and Leya. But she did not want to risk waking them. If her twin brother was officially a man and was allowed to leave with his friends to chase those soldiers, that meant she was a woman, and nobody could prevent her from going after Al’Anark. There would surely be lots of tears and supplications, though, which would undermine her determination to go. She felt sorry for her parents and for Leya, who were already worried about Broose. Now she would add to their worries.

She loved her home and family, and she wished she could stay and learn more magic from Ruah. But she sensed that she had to go, that perhaps she could save Al’Anark’s life. Sending her family a quiet farewell and an apology, Eriana snuck out of the house.

As she descended the hillock, she wished she could take her horse, but her father now locked the stables against thieves, and she did not know where he kept the key. She would have to walk, then. Reason was telling her to wait for dawn, talk with her family, and get her palfrey; heart drove her forth into the night. After all, the elves also traveled on foot.

The waxing moon was rising in the dark sky, shrouding everything in silvery webs. Eriana headed toward the light the way a moth would fly toward a fire. She hoped that her Might would eventually lead her to Al’Anark, but for now, she had to head east. The easiest and safest way was to follow Eastern Road, which led to Renekah, Cahes, and eventually to Dar Kahar. The road crossed the village square, but if she went there, she would surely wake up all the dogs—some of which were not kept behind a fence—so she decided to take a shortcut through the woods.

Circumventing Ruah’s cabin and the grove of oaks, she rushed toward the Wolfhide Forest, hoping that the soothsayer was deep asleep and would not divine her presence. Blackness swallowed Eriana as she plunged among the trees, and she prayed the candle would last. A pack of wolves or wild dogs began to howl a few miles to the north, and she hoped they would not scent her. Suddenly, taking that shortcut did not seem such a great idea.

Vahash’s large bloodhound or the small yet vicious mongrel of Morand Mason were harmless puppies compared with wolves. But then, she would not be much safer on the high road either. She had seen wolf tracks there every winter, and there could be bears and outlaws and… Eriana began to sweat, wishing that Silverbolt was there to keep her safe—and wondering whether to return.

Suddenly, the idea of crossing the war-ravaged empire alone and on foot seemed insane and ridiculous. Broose said that Dar Kahar was some two thousand miles away, and she could not even imagine how long it would take her. Although the elves also traveled on foot, they could trot as fast and relentlessly as horses whilst she could not.

The darkness deepened, and the candle got smaller and smaller. As Eriana wondered whether to find a shelter for the night or rush back home, her Might told her that somebody pursued her. The sensation of fear blasted into her mind and made her stomach roil. Then she realized it was Leya.

“Damn that girl,” Eriana cursed. Her sister must have heard her leaving the house, and decided to trail along.

“Leya!” Eriana called, spinning around. “Where are you?”

The nickering of a horse came in answer. Then came a horrid hissing and clicking… followed by Leya’s frightened scream.

Eriana moaned in terror as she rushed toward the sounds. The hissing and clicking had surely come from the fanged mouth of a Corpsentinel. The lantern swung wildly in her hand as she ran, and her shadow kept leaping forth as if her soul had left her body and dashed ahead of her. Her overwrought mind turned every moving shadow into a charging monster. She thought she heard heavy hoofs pummeling the ground.

She reached a place where a blizzard had uprooted and toppled several trees, and where the moon poured leprous, silvery rays onto the scene of devastation. She screamed in fright when she saw a black outline of an antlered monster dragging Leya by her hair toward a giant warhorse. Her sister looked to be unconscious. Or dead.

Something crashed behind Eriana. As she twisted around, she saw another shadow, with even larger antlers. The shadow hefted its sword with a menacing hiss. And she did not even have that knife she had taken to the battle with the soldiers.

A growl came from the woods. A spark of hope flared in the blackness of her fear when she sensed that it was Silverbolt. The warhorse snorted and nickered, stomping a massive foot.

As she inhaled to call the wolf, the antlered shadow leaped toward her in a black blur, brandishing the sword. She staggered backward and nearly tripped over a fallen branch. The shadow took another step, and the moonlight revealed two slanted black gashes staring from a cruel, translucent face. Something blurry moved behind it, and the Corpsentinel collapsed with a hiss of agony. Sensing that Silverbolt had hamstrung the monster, she twisted around to her sister.

She screeched when she saw the Corpsentinel in the saddle of the warhorse, slinging Leya over the horse’s back in front of him. Eriana rushed toward him, and the Corpsentinel heeled the horse, making it rear and dash into the shadows. As she followed them, screaming in despair, she heard Silverbolt yelp in agony. The hamstrung Corpsentinel must have managed to slash him, but she had no time to help the wolf. She had to save her sister.

Her mind raced, and one thought chased another in a mad whirl. Should she go back for help, or should she go on? Her Might drew her forth, and she decided to obey. She dashed through the black woods after the kidnapper, skipped over a moonlit creek, and reached the main road. A groan of despair escaped from her mouth when she heard the warhorse’s hoofs beating the road’s gravel. The Corpsentinel was taking Leya away. They headed east, rather than west toward the Wrathlands, but that was of little consolation.

Eriana twisted toward the village, wondering whether she should dash there and raise the alarm. Then her instincts told her to turn eastward and run. She complied, dropping the lantern to run faster down the wide, moonlit road. Soon she saw another warhorse, tied to a tree by the ditch. It must have belonged to the hamstrung Corpsentinel.

Taking a deep breath, she approached the giant beast. It was saddled and tacked, and if she managed to mount it, she could go after her sister. The mount was way taller than any horse she had ever ridden, though, and it was no ordinary warhorse but a beast of the Wrathlands. Luckily, Ruah had taught her to heal injured animals, and Eriana had learned to calm them and gain their trust with magic. She hoped the technique would work on that unclean beast.

Eriana approached the warhorse, summoning her Might and sending tendrils of calming energy into its mind. It was a hard task, for her heart pounded hard enough to bruise her ribs. “Easy there,” she said, wincing at the tremor in her voice. “Easy now.”

She lifted a trembling hand to pat the horse’s twitching neck. The horse snorted menacingly and moved its head as if to bite her, and she yanked her hand back. Then the mount lowered its head to graze, and she untied it, stepped toward its side, and reached for the leather saddle horn. The horse sidestepped and barreled into her, and she staggered a few steps back.

“Easy, easy,” Eriana said as she reached for the horn again, keeping the tendrils of calming magic pouring into the horse’s mind.

The horse pawed and snorted but stood still, and she grabbed the horn. She lifted her foot, kicked it into the stirrup, and swung herself onto the horse’s back. As she grasped the reins, the horse tossed its head and reared. She clenched its sides with her knees and managed to stay in the saddle.

She cringed as she heeled the horse’s flanks, afraid that the beast would unseat her. The mount must have found the jab familiar, though, for it calmed and started to walk. She heeled it a little harder, and the horse broke into a trot. Grasping the reins in trembling hands, Eriana hurried in pursuit of her kidnapped sister.

CHAPTER SIX: THE SPIES

Puffy, white clouds glided lazily across the light-blue sky, and the sun shone brightly above their heads as Derrik, Broose, and Glen emerged from the woods. They followed a wide dirt path through beautiful meadows full of wildflowers and fresh green grass. The breeze was pleasant and scented with honey. It seemed to be a perfect spring day. But Derrik scowled and fidgeted with the reins, shifting in the saddle and trying to get comfortable.

After a week on horseback, his inner thighs were skinned raw, and his unaccustomed body hurt as if his roan gelding had trampled him. He had not known that being an adventurer could be so tough… and they had not even crossed swords with the enemy yet. In fact, they had not even seen a sign of the soldiers. Only occasionally had they come across tracks that might have been theirs.

The horses were sturdy and short-legged, made for field work and pulling carts full of sacks of flour. They were quite slow but had lots of stamina, and Derrik guessed they had covered over two hundred miles and reached the easternmost part of Gaaltor. Broose said they had to be close to the border with Araton, and that Ag-Hur was probably also near, somewhere to the north. They had decided that, if they did not find the soldiers before reaching the border, they would turn back and keep searching throughout Gaaltor; it was unlikely the soldiers would leave the kingdom.

The three friends had been mostly crossing woods, following merchant paths whenever possible, and in every village they passed, they asked about the soldiers. Nobody had ever seen them—or they were scared to tell. Now that the meadow gave way to long fields, Derrik guessed they were nearing a large town. Indeed, they soon spotted a low hill dotted with houses and crowned by a stone watchtower.

As they reached a wide, gravel road that led to the hill, Broose pulled the reins. “I’m not sure it’s a good idea to approach that town, Brothers,” he said.

“Why not?” Derrik asked. “We might still be in Gaaltor, and even if we’ve already reached Araton, we should be fine. There’s no war between our kingdoms, and remember the Aratonese merchants and peddlers who sometimes come to New Thorstorm? They have similar clothes and accents, so nobody might even notice we’re outlanders. If we don’t find the soldiers there, we’ll turn back.”

“That makes sense,” Glen said. “It looks like a large town, and I’m sure it’s got an inn, with beer, liquor, food, and serving girls.” He licked his lips and ran his hand over his spiked head.

Broose perked at the mention of food, but he still looked unsure. “I think we’ve been going northeast rather than east. The town ahead could be in Araton, but it could also be in Ag-Hur. I don’t think we’re at war with Araton, right now, that’s true. But Ag-Hurians could give us trouble. According to Avilet’s Nations of Northwestern Aganopea, they are extremely hostile to outlanders. And Avilet wrote that before the civil war.”

“Avilet my sore butt cheeks,” Glen murmured as he kept riding.

After a short hesitation, Derrik nudged his roan to walk. The vision of a hot meal, a steaming bath, and a soft bed dispersed worries about their safety. They had been sleeping in bedrolls in the cold woods, and eating whatever they had hunted, for too long. He was dying to dig his teeth into a piece of meat that had been salted and spiced.

Broose grumbled about sawdust-headed fools, but he also followed. A little later, Glen pulled the reins by a large cherry tree. “We’ve got a free appetizer!” he exclaimed, eyeing the large red cherries that weighed down the twigs. “It’s the first cherries I’ve seen this year!”

The tree stood by the path, its branches hanging over a ditch, so they ate the cherries right from their horses’ backs. The cherries were sweet, plump, and juicy, and Derrik half-closed his eyes with pleasure as he filled his mouth with the fruit, realizing he had not drunk since that morning. Then an angered shout made him twitch.

A two-horse cart approached them from the town, with the strangest man sitting on the box. He was fat and had a very round head adorned with black hair shaved into a spiked crest. To make him look even more bizarre, long, polished bone fragments stuck from his nose and ears. He scowled with fury.

“An Ag-Hurian,” Broose said, fidgeting with the reins. “I told you we were in Ag-Hur. Let’s get away from the tree or there’ll be trouble.”

Spitting out the pips, they guided the horses a few steps from the tree to show the man they were done eating Ag-Hurian cherries. The man pulled the reins and started to shout in a strange, guttural tongue, his voice full of rage. He raised the whip as if he wanted to lash them. Derrik clasped the hilt of his sword and gave the man what he hoped was a dangerous look. The man spat and whipped the horses to urge them on.

“That Avilet of yours was right,” Glen said to Broose as the cart rattled by. “They are assholes.”

“And their hairstyle is a bit similar to yours,” Derrik said with a chuckle, giving Glen’s spikes a pointed look.

Glen laughed. “They are assholes with a great style. Anyway, one bad apple doesn’t poison a whole basket, as the old folk say. Let’s go and see if the others are friendlier. They might well be, especially if we show them that we’ve got some coins.”

Broose looked over his beefy shoulder as if to make sure the man was not coming back. “They can be friendly enough to cut our throats to get the coins.”

Derrik thought it possible, but his hunger and exhaustion were stronger than his worry. “We have swords to defend ourselves if needed. We managed a Daemorc, we’ll manage those freaks, too. And who knows? Maybe somebody has seen the soldiers.”

“Unlike us, the soldiers probably aren’t stupid enough to enter Ag-Hur,” Broose said. He twisted his fluffy beard and thought. “All right, let’s go ask about the soldiers and have a meal there. I don’t want to spend the night in Ag-Hur, though, no matter how comfortable the beds are.”

Derrik nodded. “Deal. If we fail to find the soldiers there, we’ll turn around and try to find their trail again. Right after lunch, that is.”

As they started to climb the hill toward the first houses, Glen asked, “Hey, how come we couldn’t understand that rotter, anyway?”

Broose rolled his eyes. “You’re old enough to know that the empire—or what’s left of it—has many nations, Glen. And that, while in Renekah, Araton, Toldor, and the Northeast Kingdom, people speak Aganopean, others furiously cling to their tongues. Even in Southern Gaaltor, they speak a language that’s more similar to Dwarfish than to Aganopean, as they do in Al’Tarin. Many elven tribes still speak their language, which is loosely based on the Ancient Tongue of the primordial stone-ax elves. And the Tik’Ereeny, or desert nomads, have their own tongue as well. However, Ag-Hurian is considered the empire’s oldest language, older than the Ancient Tongue. That’s why it’s so rough and guttural.”

Broose looked at Glen as if to see whether he was impressed, but Glen had obviously lost concentration halfway through the speech, and he yawned and fiddled with the reins. Broose harumphed and shook his head. Derrik smirked, and Broose gave him a dirty look.

They soon reached the first dwellings, mostly sagging hovels pieced together from rotting boards of wood, with reeking hides or tattered blankets instead of roofs. Hordes of rats rushed back and forth, making the horses snort and sidestep, and flies buzzed around Derrik’s head. The locals sat idly in the sun in front of their houses, staring at them with a bizarre blend of apathy, distrust, and hatred. People of both sexes and all ages had their hair shaved into spiked crests, and their noses and ears pierced with long, polished bone fragments. Their clothes were so filthy Derrik could not tell their original color and material.

“Those folk look like pirates or cannibals,” Glen said.

“Hush!” Broose hissed, glancing around with worry. “Some of them surely understand Aganopean.”

A filthy boy of about ten called and waved to them. As Derrik raised his hand to wave back, the boy spat on the ground and yelled something in a jeering voice. The adults who were nearby laughed.

Derrik and his friends looked at each other as if wondering whether to turn back. When Derrik looked over his shoulder, he saw a few people standing in the middle of the road, arms crossed and staring. The riders went on.

“We’ll have to find another way out of town,” Broose said.

Higher up the hill, the houses began to look similar to those of New Thorstorm, made of sturdy logs and thatched, but, as far as Derrik could see, the gardens were unkept and overgrown. The road was cleaner but full of potholes. Although a few dogs barked at them behind tall fences, making the horses snort and shake their heads, the boys did not see any people on that street.

They reached a crossroads with a wooden arrow with a sign. Although they could not understand the lettering, the picture of a tankard was clear enough. Glen smacked his lips and steered the way the arrow showed, his friends in tow. The houses got bigger on that street, and while some of them were shingled, the only stone building was that watchtower on the top of the hill. Derrik felt that they were riding through an enormous village rather than a town.

A few people milled around the street, sporting the same crests and bone fragments. They mostly wore leather jerkins and baggy trousers tucked into high boots, all of them reasonably clean. The people froze and watched the boys with crossed arms and mistrustful glares. They resembled large fish, or birds of prey, for they only stared in silence, and never seemed to blink. Derrik wondered whether to attempt a smile and nod greetings, but then he just stared straight ahead and nudged his gelding to walk faster.

They reached a large wooden house surrounded by a lot that looked more like a wild prairie rather than a garden, and with the same sign with the tankard creaking above the door in the warm breeze. The house looked clean enough, and the smell of stew slithered through the open windows, making Derrik’s mouth water.

“Should we go in?” Broose asked, licking his lips yet giving the place a mistrustful look.

“Why not?” Glen asked as he dismounted.

Derrik shrugged. “We’ve already decided to have lunch in this town.”

As Derrik and Broose dismounted, two men emerged from the stables. They were tall and burly, with aggressive, angular faces. Without a word, they stretched out their large, calloused hands.

Each boy had got a money pouch from their parents, but Broose’s was the largest, so he sighed and took out two silver dukaats. The men pocketed the coins, grabbed the horses’ reins, and led them to the stables.

Glen rolled his eyes and said, “I hope they won’t kill the horses for sausages. Now let’s go in. I’m so thirsty I could drink from a filthy sock!”

With a worried look at their mounts, they headed for the tavern. Wincing in pain, Derrik spread his legs as he walked so his skinned inner thighs would not rub together.

“Man, you walk as if you’ve crapped yourself,” Glen said with a laugh. But he did not walk much better.

The tavern swam in a putrid haze of tabac smoke which nearly obscured the smeared, whitewashed walls. The straw on the floor was nearly brown. All the patrons sported the same hairstyles and grisly ornaments, but their clothes seemed to be made of finer cut and material. They sat at long, roughly hewn tables, pewter tankards and cups in their hands.

The taverner had three or four chins, all covered with coarse white hairs. An incredibly dirty apron stretched to a ripping point over his enormous gut. He was just dipping wooden cups into a barrel, filling them with beer and passing them to a haggard-looking serving girl, but he froze and stared at the newcomers. A moment later, the half-drunken hubbub faded, and everybody glared at the boys, mostly with mistrust or animosity.

Broose turned to Glen. “Just don’t say anything stupid,” he hissed. “What would earn you a punch in Gaaltor can get you killed here.”

Glen grinned and waved his hand as he walked to the taverner. Derrik and Broose reluctantly followed. “Hey there, my friend,” Glen said, jovially. “Would you happen to see a few soldiers without bones sticking from their faces?”

The taverner crossed his hefty arms, a growl forming in his throat. Glen was not taken aback, though. “Not much of a talker, huh?” he asked with a grin. “Well, give us something to eat and drink first, and we can chat later. Three large tankards and three bowls of that nice-smelling stew would do. Oh, and lots of bread, freshly baked!”

“We not like mans foreigns here,” the taverner growled, his accent so strong that Derrik could hardly understand him. It was plain that Aganopean was not his first language.

Broose leaned to Derrik and whispered, “Not only their manners and appearance but also their grammar and word order are atrocious.”

Glen gave the taverner a wide grin. “My friend here has a lot of coins foreigns which you might like just fine,” he said, pointing to Broose.

Broose rolled his eyes and produced a few more silver dukaats. The taverner’s eyes shone just like the polished coins, but he kept frowning. “Very well. But, there no is table free here. Go there.” He tossed his head to an overturned barrel that stood at the end of the counter.

As they walked to the barrel, Derrik’s instinct told him to look to his left. He did so just as a man at a nearby table whispered something to a small boy while glaring at them. The boy nodded and rushed from the tavern. The man’s eyes shifted when he saw Derrik looking.

I don’t like this, Derrik thought, feeling sweat bursting through the palms of his hands. I don’t like this one bit.

They stood around the barrel, and the serving girl brought them three mugs of beer. Bone fragments stuck from her nose and ears, and her crest was greasy, and not even Glen paid her much attention.

Derrik said, “Nobody will be telling us about the soldiers here. I think we should go soon, and leave this weird town as far behind as we can before nightfall.”

Glen looked disappointed but, when he noticed how everybody stared at them, he nodded. “I guess you’re right, Brother. But we can drink a few mugs, can’t we?”

“And have some of that stew, since I’ve paid for it,” Broose said with a slight frown. He turned to the cauldron, inhaled the smell of the stew, licked his lips, and gulped.

Derrik winced when he took a swig of the ale. It was stale and slightly sour.

Glen spat. “This thing tastes like Daemorc’s drool!”

The frown on the faces of the men around them deepened. “I told you not to say anything stupid,” Broose hissed.

Glen chuckled and waved his hand.

The taverner helped the serving girl bring their bowls of stew. “Peoples be unhappy very much with you here,” he growled, his chins jiggling. “Eat food very rapid and go!”

Before anyone could reply, the door flew open and four or five soldiers in ringmail over boiled leather marched into the tavern. Although round steel halfhelms covered their hair, they were surely Ag-Hurians, for bones stuck from their noses and ears.

The soldiers looked around the tavern and strode toward the boys, drawing their swords. Derrik’s heart pounded as he reached for his blade. For most of his life, he had wanted the opportunity to fight enemy soldiers and show what a warrior he was. But now he was so scared that his hand trembled.

As Derrik began to draw his sword, Broose grasped his forearm and gave it a hard squeeze. “Don’t be stupid,” Broose hissed. “If we fight, we’ll fight against everyone in this putrid tavern. We must run. Let’s disperse and meet at night by the large cherry tree.”

“What about the horses?” Glen asked. But Broose was already running.

The soldiers blocked the exit, so Broose dashed for the nearest window on the right while Glen rushed to the window on the left. The soldiers split and charged after them, but two went for Derrik. The patrons stood and shouted.

Derrik twisted around and sprinted to the back of the room. He kicked open a rickety back door and rushed down a badly-lit hallway. A gaunt stairway opened on his left, and he climbed the stairs two at a time, stumbling in semi-darkness. He heard shouting and footsteps behind him.

Having reached the top of the stairs, he dashed down another hallway, past doors that probably led to the sleeping quarters. At its end, there was a tall ladder, which he assumed led to a hayloft. He climbed the ladder and looked around. Weak light limped in through a grimy, round window, illuminating heaps of hay. Dry herbs hung upside down from rafters, along with filthy cobwebs.

Hearing voices downstairs, he dashed to the window. It was too narrow for him to climb through, though, so he ran to the back of the loft. He burrowed into a heap of hay, startling a rat and making it dash away with an irritated squeal. The voices were coming from quite near. His pursuers had entered the loft. And he wanted to sneeze.

In a panic, Derrik plugged his nose, and the urge to sneeze seemed to pass. He lay still, wondering how his friends were faring. Had the portly Broose managed to squeeze through that window?

The voices quieted, but hay rustled under someone’s feet. Derrik heard sounds that reminded him of a stomping hedgehog. Then he realized it was the pounding of his own heart. Hilts and blades! he thought. How could I have fallen into such a cesspool?

He raised his head to the soldiers, his hand reaching for the sword. Two armored men walked through the loft, occasionally poking their swords into the hay to see if somebody was hiding there. Then they turned around to leave, and Derrik sighed in relief.

Then he sneezed.

The men rushed back and started poking their swords all around him. “Where you be, bastard?” one of them exclaimed. The other spoke in Ag-Hurian; it sounded like a series of growls.

Derrik cringed when one of them nearly stepped on his head. Shooting out his hand, Derrik grabbed the man’s ankle and yanked his hand sideways. The man fell with an alarmed grunt. Derrik leaped up and ripped his sword from the scabbard. The soldier was getting up, and Derrik raised the blade at him. He could not bring himself to hack a man who was on all fours, though, so he kicked his face to fell him.

The hay rustled behind Derrik. He spun around just as the other soldier thrust his sword at Derrik’s belly. Derrik parried with a powerful upward stroke—and the tip of his sword got stuck in a rafter above his head.

This can’t be happening! Derrik thought, yanking on the sword in a panic.

Before he could dislodge the blade, the soldier brought the point of his sword under Derrik’s chin, nicking his skin. “Let go of sword, bastard!” the man shouted.

Derrik cursed as he let go of the hilt. His first real combat had lasted only an eyeblink and ended in a disaster. As he had always sparred outside, he had never thought of making sure that he had enough space to swing his sword.

The other soldier got up and approached, blood gushing from his nose and staining the bone fragments and his reddish beard. Scowling, he moved as if to stab Derrik, but the other man snapped at him in that foreign tongue, making him stop.

Then the uninjured soldier turned to Derrik. “You and friends come and make questions very strange,” he snarled, pressing the point of his steel against Derrik’s skin. “You be spies foreign! And now you kick and bleed soldier royal. We take you to tribunal.” With a sneer, he added. “And you hang!”

CHAPTER SEVEN: THE PRE-DAWN RAID

As he reclined on his bedroll, Al’Anark yawned so hard that his jaws nearly cracked. The sky was black like coal and spotted by a myriad of stars. Some campfires were dying, and many elves of his regiment were already asleep. Others whetted their swords and battleaxes, or roasted hares, rabbits, and boarlets they had hunted along their march that day.

Al’Anark turned on his side and cleared his mind as if he were to cast a spell. They had been on the march the whole day, as usual, and he needed to get some sleep before tonight’s battle against the Darkside.

The monsters seemed to march in scattered units rather than all together, and the elven spies had reported that a regiment of Corpsentinel stragglers camped about two miles away, near a small city. It was unsure whether they were simply taking a rest after their journey from the Wrathlands, or whether they were getting ready to attack the city, perhaps to deplete its armory. In any case, the elves had decided to attack them at dawn. This would be their second battle this week; a few days ago, they had battled an enormous horde of Daemorcs that had ambushed them in a swamp in eastern Gaaltor.

An owl hooted to the crackling of fire and the loud snoring of some elves and the hushed conversations of others. Then all sounds and noises faded as Al’Anark’s mind drifted away. In the sudden silence, he heard a voice that belonged to a female human. And which he found familiar.

A gaunt yet beautiful face with large dark eyes framed by black hair appeared in the blackness of the chieftain’s slumber. The face of Eriana from New Thorstorm. Her face was crumpled with worry, and her eyes were wet. Her mouth moved as she spoke, and although he caught snippets of her speech, he could not understand. But she sounded frantic.

Al’Anark woke up with a twitch and a gasp. The sounds of the campsite rushed back to his ears. As he squinted into the glowing embers of his bonfire, the chieftain tried to focus on that dream. A premonition made him sit up. Eriana seemed to have entered his dream on purpose through a ritual, to warn him about something or ask him for help. The elves had gotten very far from New Thorstorm. It was strange that her Might, strong as it was, could reach him here.

The elf cleared his mind and poured his Might toward the human girl. He thought he would not reach her due to the sheer distance between them—and he was surprised to realize that she was not too far away. He focused all his magic power on her, trying to probe her mind.

That crazy girl seemed to have left New Thorstorm to pursue him, out of fear that she might never see him again lest he died in a battle. Her younger sister, Leya, had tagged along—and fell into a Corpsentinel captivity. That would be troubling enough, but as he focused on Leya, he sensed that somebody had sent the Corpsentinels after the girls on purpose. Somebody very, very dangerous.

Al’Anark sprang to his feet and hurried through the darkened forest, fidgeting with agitation. Most of the elves were asleep, but he knew there would be no more sleep for him tonight. He had to find Canir’al, the commander of the First Elven Banner, which had been traveling alongside his tribe while the seven other banners followed different routes toward Dar Kahar. He had to tell her he would be away for a while to look for the girls. Luckily, while Eriana and Leya seemed to be separated, neither of them appeared to be more than a hundred miles away.

As he walked through Canir’al’s encampment and looked for the chieftess, he idly thought this would be an impossible task for humans, even in daylight. To humans, all elves looked the same with their long ears protruding from masses of tangled fair hair, their gentle faces, green eyes, and bulbous noses, and with their woolen tunics and leggings. He knew that many humans could only tell female elves from males by the swell of their breasts. Everybody recognized him, though, as he was taller than most elves. Oh and because of that missing ear.

He found the commander in the middle of her encampment, sitting by a bonfire, roasting a rabbit on a sharpened stick. Canir’al was one of the very few elves still awake in the camp. She had to be at least a millennium old, for her hair fell to her waist in limp, graying tangles, and her eyes were so sunken they looked like two hollows in the firelight. Her face was still somewhat youthful, though, although crisscrossed by creases.

Canir’al noticed him and nodded. “Hargo’oden Al’Anark,” she said formally in the Ancient Tongue. “Dai’lard karhed se tvo’ird karhed. My fire is your fire.

“Hello, there, pal,” Al’Anark said as he sat on a tree trunk. He had never had time for formality and stuffiness, and especially not tonight. Ignoring the other commander’s disapproving frown, he told her about his premonition and his decision to leave.

“No way!” Canir’al snapped, raising the stick as if she wanted to skewer Al’Anark along with the rabbit. “I forbid it.”

Al’Anark chuckled. “Easy, there, pal. You can’t forbid a crap.” Canir’al was his equal, although the First Elven Banner was much bigger than Al’Anark’s Thorstormian squad.

Canir’al scowled and stared into the fire. She put the stick with the rabbit on the grass beside her as if she had lost her appetite. “But we’re supposed to battle the putrid Corpsentinels at dawn, and we’ve lost many warriors in the battle against the Daemorcs. We can’t afford to lose you, too.”

Al’Anark frowned. “The spies say that we still outnumber the Corpsentinels, so I’m sure you’ll manage without me. I have to save Eriana and Leya.” As he said that, he started to feel selfish, and it vexed him.

“It almost feels like you are trying to get out of the battle,” Canir’al said, giving Al’Anark a challenging look.

That made Al’Anark’s blood boil, for elves hated being accused of cowardice. But he sensed it was merely Canir’al’s way to provoke him. “That’s not going to work, pal,” Al’Anark said. “I don’t need to prove my bravery to anyone.”

Canir’al scowled and said nothing, staring at the crackling, twisting flames. Then she changed tactics. “I meant no offense, Brother. You’ve proved your bravery more than once, and I have deep respect for you. That is the reason why I need you in the battle. We can’t afford another delay and setback. After two weeks of journeying, we should be already marching through the realm of Araton. And yet, we are barely on its border.”

Al’Anark nervously scratched the stump of his ear. He had to admit that was true. The elves did not ride horses because they saw all creatures inhabiting the lands of the Lightside as their equals, and they perceived horse riding as a type of enslavement. They could trot as fast and tirelessly as the finest stallions, though, and they should have gotten much closer to Dar Kahar. However, many elves had gotten injured in the battle against the Daemorcs, and the others had had to wait for them to recover.

Al’Anark had been vexed by the delay just as Canir’al, but now he was glad; if it had not been for the Daemorcs, the elves would have gone too far from the girls, and Eriana’s Might would not have reached him. And even if it had, he would have been too far to help the girls. This way, there was still a chance to save them.

“Why don’t we wage the battle as we’ve planned, Brother?” Canir’al asked. “We have agreed to follow the monsters and attack them whenever we can to cut down their numbers before they reach Dar Kahar, did we not? This will be our first combat against Corpsentinels since the Great Battle! You worry about two human girls. But if the monsters break into Dar Kahar and get their claws on Tarroth, we all might die!”

Al’Anark nervously scratched the stump of his ear, wondering what to say. He had to admit that the other elf had a point.

The chieftess said, “My spies have reported that the Corpsentinels were checking their horses’ tacks and polishing their weapons. It could only mean that they are going to set off soon, probably to raid the city. We cannot let them do that.”

Al’Anark frowned as he stared into the flames, wondering what to say. He rubbed his ear so hard that he nearly set it afire. A small bat fluttered around and nearly hit Al’Anark’s head before it soared. An elf coughed nearby and spat in his bonfire.

“Come on, Brother,” the chieftess said. “It’s just a few hours, after all.”

After a short hesitation, Al’Anark nodded. Although he had shrugged off Canir’al’s remark about his trying to get out of the battle, he would feel like a coward if he had left the troops now. “You have a deal, pal.”

Canir’al nodded, visibly relieved. She picked up the stick and raised the rabbit above the flames. “So, tell me more about those sisters and the danger, Brother.”

Al’Anark shrugged. “I couldn’t divine everything, but I sense that the one who’s sent the Corpsentinels after the girls is a human, probably a powerful mage walking the Darkside.”

Canir’al’s firelit face creased with a scowl. “A human traitor? That’s bad, Brother. Human mages of the Darkside are often more vicious, cold-blooded, and dangerous than Corpsentinels. Or Wrathlords.”

Al’Anark sighed. “I know.” He started to regret his decision to stay.

“Why would the traitor send the Corpsentinels after that Leya, though?” Canir’al asked.

“I think the traitor sent the monsters after both girls, pal,” Al’Anark said. “And probably after their brother and his best friend, Derrik, due to their parents’ involvement in the Great Battle.”

The other elf nodded, for Al’Anark had told her about the Thorstormians distinguishing themselves during the war on the Darkside.

The small bat returned, and an owl hooted above their heads. A pack of wolves howled a few miles in the distance. Most elves had gone to sleep, snoring in their bedrolls.

“Do you love that girl?” Canir’al suddenly asked. “That Eriana? Your voice always shakes when you say her name.”

Al’Anark raised his eyebrows in surprise. He would never expect that old, stuffy elf to ask him such a personal question. Canir’al leaned to him and gave him a searching gaze that made her look like a village gossip rather than the chieftess of a tribe of elven warriors.

“That’s a good question, pal,” he said. Eriana was beautiful, in a strange way, but beautiful, and her affection had warmed his ancient heart. He felt young when he was with her, young and happy, and yes, perhaps he was a little besotted. But as he had known her since she was born, it would feel beyond wrong to become her lover. Besides, he knew that Derrik had feelings for her, and Derrik was the son of Baard, Al’Anark’s best human pal.

Al’Anark shook his head. Stop this, you old fool, he berated himself. You’re thinking like an adolescent sapling. Save that girl and her sister. That’s all you need to worry about now.

“It’s never advisable for an elf to fall in love with a human,” Canir’al said, although Al’Anark had not truly answered her question. “You know how short a human life is, and how vulnerable. You would have a few happy years, and then you would cry at her funeral.”

Al’Anark sighed and nodded. He had fallen for a human before, Baard’s sister, and her death still made him feel that something was missing in his life and soul, even twenty years later.

He said, “That may be so, pal, but I don’t want to cry at her funeral yet. I must save her and Leya. I’m leaving as soon as the battle is over. Now we should try to get some sleep.”

He stood, nodded to the other commander, and left.

The two elven banners followed a moonlit river that flowed lazily through a grassy plain. The eastern sky was only starting to turn from black to gray, but the first birds already began their morning concert. Al’Anark noticed lights gleaming in the river. A little later, he realized it was the bellies of trout flashing in the moonlight.

More and more birds began to chirp, and the sky ahead of them brightened, revealing the outlines of the enormous oak trees that lined the river. The Corpsentinels would be stirring soon. The elves could see in the darkness better than wolves, and it would have been easier to storm the camp while the Corpsentinels were still in their bedrolls. However, attacking a sleeping enemy was against the elven code of honor. Tonight, Al’Anark wondered about the code’s wisdom.

While the chieftain hoped that the battle would be over soon so he could start looking for the girls, he knew that victory might not come fast and easily… if it came at all. The spies’ updated report had elevated the estimate of the enemy’s strength to about a thousand warriors. Al’Anark’s banner only had two hundred tribespeople while the First Elven Banner counted with five hundred or so elves.

At least, the spies reported there were no Wrathlords in the camp, and Al’Anark prayed that they were right. Wrathlords were Saitaan’s high commanders, and nearly indestructible. They were immune to fireballs—as long as the flames did not hit their eyes—and they could cripple entire armies with debilitating spells. Al’Anark had whetted his black sword, Dhra’ackenhernd, with the Dragon’s Eye, a magical emerald that made the blade deadly for Wrathlords. But he hoped that during the upcoming battle, the precaution would prove unnecessary.

Al’Anark trotted at the head of his squad while Canir’al led hers. But as they had covered about a mile, the old commander steered toward him. “We’ll soon reach the monsters’ encampment, Brother,” she said. Despite her age, she was hardly out of breath as she kept trotting. “Once we get there, who should give the command to attack?”

Al’Anark rolled his eyes. The elven commanders of the empire always did that. They would ask him who should give the sign to attack—and they would look offended when he offered to do it. He was not in the mood today.

“As if it really mattered, pal,” Al’Anark said. Elves disdained authority, and they usually attacked as soon as they saw the enemy, no matter whether they got an order.

Canir’al harumphed as if she had expected a better answer.

Al’Anark sighed. “If you think it’s important, you do it, pal.”

“Oh, no, Brother,” Canir’al said. “I’ll let you do it as a sign of how much I appreciate you’re here.”

Al’Anark rolled his eyes again. “All right, then. I’ll do it.”

Canir’al nodded, patted his shoulder, and hurried back to the front of her army. Al’Anark chuckled and shook his head. The Aganopean elves were bizarre.

A little later, the Corpsentinel encampment came into view, spreading wide and long along the riverbank and extending into the nearby meadow. No smell of smoke had alerted the elves, for Corpsentinels needed fire neither to cook nor to see. No birds chirped nearby, for they hated the creatures of the Wrathlands as much as other beings of the Lightside did.

The monsters were already up, resembling a large bloody stain in their crimson surcoats, rolling up their tents, saddling their warhorses, and stuffing the saddlebags.

Al’Anark was almost surprised by the scene. Whenever he had come across Corpsentinels before, they immediately tried to kill him, and he found it strange to see them doing such mundane tasks. If it was not for their wide antlers and the horrid, cruel faces with translucent skin that showed their skulls, they would look almost harmless.

The Corpsentinel sentries must have spotted the elves, and agitated hissing and clicking slithered along the meadow. All the monsters twisted toward the elves. The time has come for the signal. Al’Anark raised his hands, pointed the palms to the brightening sky, and unleashed two fireballs, using currents of magic to make them collide and burst about a hundred feet above his head. But his warriors were already pushing past him, charging at the monsters.

Elven archers loosed arrows, and the snapping of hundreds of bowstrings made it sound as if a large flock of pigeons flew by. The arrows darted at the enemy, making the monsters fall and their warhorses rear. Charging under the flying arrows, Al’Anark and the other elves raised their hands, the palms up. Hundreds of fireballs screeched through the air, making the monsters’ crimson surcoats go up in flames, and melting steel to skin. The stench of unclean, charred flesh permeated the air.

Al’Anark roared as he reached the monsters’ camp and drew Dhra’ackenhernd. A Corpsentinel rushed to meet him, hissing and clicking in fury. Its left antler was broken off, the stump charred from a fireball, but that only made the monster look more formidable. Its eyes were nothing but two black slits, yet they seemed to pour forth venom.

The sight of the Corpsentinel suffused Al’Anark with instinctive hatred. The elf skipped aside to avoid the monster’s thrust, then he whirled and swept Dhra’ackenhernd sideways in Dust swirling in the breeze, one of the first forms he had learned, centuries ago. He had aimed at the back of the monster’s neck, but the Corpsentinel moved, and Al’Anark’s steel crashed into the collar of its breastplate.

The Corpsentinel hissed and slashed at the elf’s steel, making Al’Anark stumble. But the chieftain took advantage of the momentum to ram his shoulder into the monster’s breastplate. Dull pain spread through his arm, but he made the monster stagger backward.

Al’Anark lurched at the monster with Frog leaping off a lotus leaf, a furious slash at the side of its head. The monster raised its sword hand to parry but, unbalanced as it was, it let Al’Anark’s blade slice through its forearm.

Black blood flowed from the wound and poured onto the trampled grass. The monster hissed and dropped the sword. Then it lowered its head to gore Al’Anark with its antlers—as if it had forgotten it had lost one of them. Al’Anark leaned away from the charred stump and split the Corpsentinel’s skull with a downward sweep, unleashing a surge of gooey black substance, the monster’s brain.

Letting out the breath he had been holding for who knew how long, the chieftain looked around. The Corpsentinels seemed to be receding, and a few were even rushing for their warhorses as if they wanted to escape. Without a Wrathlord to lead them, those monsters were usually badly disciplined. The elves were pushing forth, darting around the encampment and wreaking havoc with their steel. New volleys of fireballs screeched through the mayhem.

Al’Anark rushed at a Corpsentinel that had just brought down an elf. The monster whirled to the chieftain and slashed. Al’Anark parried, and the blades collided with a deafening clang. The monster stepped back, and then it attacked with something resembling Whirlwind on a raging river, making Al’Anark recede and parry the furious barrage of jabs, thrusts, and sweeps.

As the chieftain took a deep breath and poised himself for a counterattack, his Might told him that another monster was sneaking up on him from behind. He raised his left hand and discharged a fireball, charring his opponent’s hideous face. Then he whirled and slashed blindly with Dhra’ackenhernd in a wide side sweep. The sword clanged against the monster’s blade.

The monster yanked its sword hand back and brought its blade on Al’Anark’s head in one fluid motion. Al’Anark ducked and raised his sword. The steel clashed an inch above his head. The monster pirouetted and jabbed at Al’Anark’s belly, but the elf swatted the thrust away with a downward blow. The monster lost its balance and staggered, and the elf leaped up and kicked it in the face. Another monster rushed him, and Al’Anark roasted its head with a fireball.

The other monster quickly recovered from the kick, and it charged, hissing and clicking and holding its sword in both hands. Al’Anark leaped aside and thrust with his blade. He had learned to avoid the monsters’ breastplates, aiming either at the neck or the underbelly, and the fact that all Corpsentinels were about the same stature helped him master it. He grinned as the blade slid deep into the monster’s side. As he wrenched the blade free, the monster staggered and fell.

When Al’Anark glanced around, the battle was nearly over. Heaps of Corpsentinels covered the ground, and the survivors were rushing to their warhorses. The elves blocked their way, attacking them with steel, scorching them with fireballs, or hamstringing their mounts.

Al’Anark rushed after a group of Corpsentinels who had just mounted and heeled their horses. Sheathing his sword, he raised his hands and started discharging fireballs. At first, he aimed at the Corpsentinels, but as they got farther, it was hard to hit them, so he aimed at their enormous mounts. He had little love or compassion for the Corpsentinels’ warhorses; just like their riders, they were unclean beasts from the Wrathlands.

The chieftain kept discharging fireballs, sending riders and horses to the ground, until he depleted his internal heat and only plumes of smoke rose from the palms of his hands. He unsheathed his sword and cast about, but there were no more monsters to fight. The only Corpsentinels he saw were lying in a morass of black blood. The camp smelled of gore and smoke, but the fresh wind quickly cleared the air.

The elves were already roaring with victory, shooting fireballs into the air. Others kneeled by their fallen comrades. Luckily there was only a handful of those. The elves had won the battle, despite being outnumbered.

Al’Anark sighed in relief as he sheathed his sword. Now he could go and help the girls. But he suddenly did not know where they were.

When he focused on them to pinpoint their location, his mind crashed into a black wall. He tried to battle it down—and failed. The treacherous mage must have sensed Eriana’s plea for help. And erected a barrier to prevent Al’Anark from finding the girls.

CHAPTER EIGHT: THE RUINED CASTLE

In the frigid morning air, Eriana’s breath curled like thin smoke. Strong winds chased gray clouds across the sky and tried to sneak under her clothes, making the skirt of her gown flap and snap around her ankles. She huddled in her mantle as she walked through the woods. She was footsore, hungry, and despondent.

The Corpsentinel warhorse had escaped on the third or fourth night, and she had been walking for over a week. She had spent one night in a warm, comfortable inn on the main road… and in the morning she realized that her money pouch was gone. It must have been stolen by one of the five women who had shared her sleeping quarters. All of them had left before she had woken up, though, and the innkeeper claimed to know nothing about them.

As she had no money, Eriana had to sleep in the cold, damp, haunted woods that lined the main road, and to hunt and forage. She had managed to catch an injured hare, and a few times she had speared a trout or a sturgeon in a ford. However, most days she had to sustain herself on berries, nuts, mushrooms, and tiny eggs found in birds’ nests. It had rained almost every other day, and her shoes were sloshing wet. She no longer bothered to pierce the blisters that covered her feet.

That was not the worst, though.

Eriana had not seen a sign of Leya, and she feared that the Corpsentinel had killed her. She had managed to reach out with her Might to Al’Anark to ask him for help, but the connection had been suddenly severed as if someone had slashed the tendrils of magic she had extended toward him. She sensed that Ruah and her parents were rushing to help her find Leya, for Ruah had divined what was happening. However, Eriana could not connect with the soothsayer either. There was only one explanation.

She had long suspected that her parents had fought in the Great Battle. And somebody was now taking revenge on their children, perhaps because the Darkside was on the march again.

Another thing that added to her anguish was the feeling that Broose and his friends were also in trouble. She sensed a dark shadow cast over them, the shadow of death. Something was telling her that they had been captured somewhere in that horrible realm of Ag-Hur. Right after the Wrathlands, it seemed to be the worst place on earth to be taken prisoner.

Eriana often cried herself asleep with fear for her siblings, and tears stood in her eyes now as well. Wincing and hissing when she broke yet another blister, she thought of sitting down. A moment later, she got angry at herself for being so weak.

“You’ve only set off an hour ago, so keep going,” Eriana murmured. She had taken to speaking to herself so she would not go mad… although she sometimes thought that this habit would hurl her toward insanity. “It’s your fault that poor Leya got captured. She would have stayed at home if you had. So focus on trying to find her.”

The trouble was, she only vaguely sensed that her sister was somewhere ahead. And the sensation could have been induced by whoever had been severing her connection with Al’Anark and Ruah.

Eriana cried as she left the forest and reached the edge of a large, grassy valley. A wide river rushed through the valley, and beyond the other bank, high, crenelated walls embraced a sprawling hill and ran toward the western horizon. Hundreds of spires reared behind the fortification. A large castle crowned the hill beyond a curtain wall.

This was the largest city she had ever seen, but something was wrong. Even from that far, Eriana could see that most of the spires were blackened by fire and that the castle crumbled.

She sensed that it had not been monsters but humans who had razed the city. “How awful that people can do such things to each other,” she murmured. “And just because they happened to be born in different regions of the empire.” All wars were horrid and senseless, but civil wars were the worst of all. And the current civil war had started even before she was born.

As she scanned the ruined city, Eriana wondered where she was. She guessed she had left Gaaltor, which was—apart from the southern city of Rugu—mostly wilderness dotted by small villages like New Thorstorm. She had probably reached Araton, then. But as she had been going north, she could as well be in Ag-Hur.

Something made her look left. To her surprise, she saw a woman in a blue cloak and woolen leggings heading for the river, about five hundred paces away. She was on foot but led a sturdy dappled horse by the bridle. A small fallow deer was slung over the horse’s back. The woman had long, black hair, similar to Eriana’s, and Eriana guessed she was not in Ag-Hur after all; she recalled Broose saying that all Ag-Hurians had their hair shaved into spiked crests.

The woman took off her boots, rolled up her leggings, gathered the skirts of her cloak, and started to ford the river. The horse tossed its head as it walked beside her. And Eriana suddenly sensed that the woman could know something about Leya.

Eriana rushed down the valley and toward the ford. The woman had reached the other bank and sat down to put on her boots. As Eriana reached the grassy bank, the woman stood and turned around to look at her.

Eriana waved and called, “Please, wait for me.”

The woman nodded, and Eriana took off her shoes, gathered up her skirts, and waded into the river. The water reached her knees, and it was so cold that the veins on her feet contracted. She felt as if thousands of tiny needles pierced her calves, but it soothed the sore soles of her feet. Near the middle of the ford, the current got so strong she thought it would kick the feet from underneath her. The frigid water spumed and bubbled furiously around her knees. The woman stood on the other bank, watching. For some reason, her stare unnerved Eriana so much that she nearly slipped and fell.

At last, Eriana reached the bank and scrambled up, her feet sinking into mud.

“You made it!” the woman exclaimed with a wide smile. She had a foreign accent, but her voice was soft and pleasant.

Eriana had thought there was something striking about the woman’s face, and now she could see what it was. The woman had black hair and olive skin, but her eyes were enormous and strikingly light blue, which made her look hypnotizing. She was probably almost forty, but her face was youthful and her body lean and muscular. Her charm was almost magnetic.

“There used to be a wooden bridge,” the woman said. “But the rotten Ag-Hurians burned it down. They razed the city and killed my family, about two years ago. I live alone in that castle.” She tossed her head toward the crumbling keep crowning the hill.

Eriana nodded, but all she cared about was Leya.

The woman gave her a long look. “I don’t know what it is, but you look like a healer. Maybe you could help me heal that girl I found last night.”

Eriana’s heart fluttered like a startled sparrow. “Is it a girl of about sixteen with light brown hair?” she asked.

The woman nodded. “Yes.”

“That’s my sister!” Eriana exclaimed, so loudly that the dappled horse tossed his head. “What happened to her?”

She cringed as she awaited the woman’s answer. Her throat dried and tightened so much she felt as if it had filled with sand.

The woman said. “She’s unconscious and has a bit of a fever. I found her in the woods and brought her to the castle, but I’m not sure what to do with her.”

A storm of emotions made Eriana sway. At last, she had found her sister, and she was alive! Alive but unconscious, that poor thing, she thought, pain clenching her stomach. By the Sleeping Goddess, what has that putrid Corpsentinel done to her? And where was it now?

Eriana shook her head and made herself focus. She blurted, “Please lead the way and I’ll heal her!” I hope…

The woman nodded. “Follow me without fear. There are no enemies in the town. In fact, I’m the only denizen left.”

“Oh, thank you. I’m Eriana, by the way.”

The woman nodded—and frowned as if she wondered whether to introduce herself. Then she said, “I’m Lanfareth. Now let’s go.”

Lanfareth turned around and walked up a narrow path in high grass, leading the dappled horse by the bridle. Eriana put on her shoes and rushed after her. They walked without a word, and the beat of the horse’s hoofs was all to be heard. Despite her agitation at the prospect of seeing Leya, Eriana kept wondering why the woman had hesitated to give her name. A thin yet frantic voice in the back of her head warned Eriana about this Lanfareth.

Eriana paused when she started to feel that all this had been arranged, and that she had not come across this woman by chance. It seemed bizarre, but she had learned to rely on her instincts. The notion that she would soon see her little sister dispersed her misgivings, though, and she found herself hurrying after Lanfareth as if she feared that the woman would disappear.

Lanfareth never looked back as she led the way toward the city walls. They passed a crumbling gateway with the charred remnants of an ironbound wooden gate. The horse’s hoofs clapped loudly on the cobblestone as they took the main throughway toward the castle. The houses loomed around them, charred, gutted, and crumbling, their empty windows staring like dead eyes. Deathly silence ruled inside them as even rats had abandoned this city. Only occasionally did Eriana hear a bird singing in an overgrown garden, but it did little to ease the feeling of utter desolation. She wondered why Lanfareth would stay in this terrible place. If the castle truly was her home.

Lanfareth led the way up a steep staircase chiseled into the rock. The horse snorted and tossed his head as he struggled up the steps. The staircase took them to a massive pile of stone blocks that must have once formed the castle’s gatehouse.

They crossed a narrow stone bridge that arched like a wildcat’s back over an overgrown moat and walked to the castle’s age-darkened curtain wall. Having passed the gateless entrance, Eriana saw that the enemy had torched most of the castle. Charred logs stuck from high piles of debris all around the bailey, among tufts of tall, coarse grass. The crumbling, blackened walls of the keep leaned accusingly north toward Ag-Hug.

Lanfareth walked to a long, grassy mound. When they got closer, Eriana saw a staircase that led below the ground and realized that the mound was actually the arched roof of a vault. The woman tied the horse to the charred skeleton of a tree and pulled the deer off the horse’s back. Something drew Eriana’s attention to the carcass. A few moments later, she realized what it was; there were no wounds or dry blood. The animal’s coat was unblemished.

Eriana’s eyes darted to the woman. Lanfareth had no weapons, as far as she could see, and no bow hung from the pommel of the saddle. Hilts and blades! Eriana thought in alarm. How did that deer die?

Her suspicions returned like a roaring tidal wave. She sensed that the woman had a powerful Might but had not discovered it—or that she was trying to hide it. Again, Eriana had the feeling that Lanfareth had planned to take her here. And keep her here. Just as she had been keeping Leya.

Eriana rushed at the woman to force her to release Leya, but suddenly she stumbled and fell. As she tried to get up, Eriana’s knees gave in and she found herself rolling on the cold grass. Again she tried to rise, but suddenly she felt so weak she could hardly move. It was as if profound exhaustion or protracted illness had turned all her muscles into lard. Her blood roared in her ears. But even over the noise, she could hear Lanfareth laugh.

Lanfareth shouted, and a Corpsentinel emerged from the vault, hauling Leya behind him. She was conscious, and her eyes stared with fear from a grimy face. Her braids were undone and her hair was full of pine needles. Her hands were tied behind her back and her mouth gagged.

The antlered monster dragged her to Eriana and pushed her, causing her to fall. Leya’s eyes filled with hope when she saw her older sister. That look felt like a stab, for Eriana was as helpless as Leya, her body limp as a wet rag. But at least, they were alive. For now.

“Leya, I’m so sorry…” Eriana said, feeling that she would cry. She wanted to crawl to her and press herself against her to give her some comfort when Lanfareth sauntered toward them.

The woman no longer had to hide her powers, and Eriana could feel tendrils of her Might rippling all around her. She had to be a silver-level mage walking the Darkside. Her blue eyes brimmed with malice as she stood over them.

“So the sisters are reunited at last,” Lanfareth said with a sneer. Eriana could not understand how she could, less than an hour ago, have found that woman’s voice pleasant.

“It was you who sent the two Corpsentinels to New Thorstorm,” Eriana ground through her teeth, her rage momentarily overpowering her fear.

Lanfareth smirked. “Just as I sent the Daemorc, but the brats seemed to have overcome him. But they will yet get their due.”

Eriana gasped when she realized that the woman meant Broose and his friends. “Why are you doing this to us?” she asked.

“Why?” Lanfareth said in an icy voice, bending over her until the ends of her black hair nearly tickled Eriana’s face. “Why?” Her eyes flashed with fury and hatred. That short, slim, unarmed woman scared Eriana much more than the Corpsentinel.

Leya uttered a muffled groan through the rag. She must have been in Lanfareth’s captivity for days and had tasted the woman’s wrath. The sheer terror in Leya’s eyes bruised Eriana’s heart. She wished she could console her, but her own soul trembled.

Lanfareth turned to Leya, and her features suddenly softened at the sight of the girl’s fear. Her lower lip quivered, and her eyes misted as she rolled them up and stared into oblivion. “She would be the same age if she ever got to be born,” Lanfareth murmured, softly as if she were talking to herself. “Or was it a boy?”

To Eriana’s surprise, tears sparkled in the woman’s eyes. Her anguish was so genuine that Eriana sensed Lanfareth had miscarried, at about the same time Leya had been born.

Growling in her throat, Lanfareth blinked away her tears and scowled as if she were mad at herself for displaying such weakness. Eriana began to wonder whether she was mad. Had losing the baby thrown her over the edge? But it would not explain why she had turned to the Darkside. And why she wanted to kill all the youths from New Thorstorm.

“I was hoping to get your chubby brother and his friends as well for the big night,” Lanfareth said. “But you two will do. Your blood will make a wonderful present.”

A present? Eriana thought with a shudder. For whom? She feared that she knew.

She screamed when two horned giants stomped toward them. Although they towered twice as tall as Lanfareth, their height accentuated by enormous horns, the woman showed no fear of them. The giants were clad in nothing but fur loincloths, and enormous muscles rippled under their leathery skin. Their receding chins and fat lower lips made them look stupid. But their eyes were cruel and cunning.

Eriana knew they were Daemorcs. It seemed nearly impossible that Broose and his friends had conquered one, and she wished the boys were here. They were far away, though, and perhaps in even deeper peril than she and Leya. If that was possible.

“I’m afraid that I wasn’t completely honest with you,” Lanfareth said mockingly, her eyes boring into Eriana’s. “I live very far, actually, and these fellows carry me around on a palanquin. That always makes them terribly hungry.”

Leya groaned, and Eriana felt bile surging into her throat.

Lanfareth’s eyes filled with yet deeper malice as she said, “As you may know, Daemorcs crave human flesh. I’ll serve you to them, both of you. Right after I sacrifice you to the Dark Overlord.”

CHAPTER NINE: THE SENTENCE

The cart rattled over a rough, potholed road, and Derrik clenched the wooden bars, feeling that the shaking would force his soul from his body. Broose and Glen also held on so they would not go rolling. Their faces played with fading bruises. The soldiers had caught the boys as they climbed through the windows of the Ag-Hurian inn and thrashed them when they tried to escape.

The three friends had been thrown in this wheeled cage and hauled across Ag-Hur for a trial in the capital city of Balabor. They had been on the way for four or five days, traveling like circus bears. They had hardly any food, and they slept in the cage at night, exposed to wind and rain.

Despite all that, Derrik wished the journey would never end—but the city walls of Balabor were already looming in the distance. And somewhere behind them, a royal tribunal where they would be likely sentenced to death as foreign spies.

The road smoothened, and Derrik unclenched the bars and shielded his face from the strong midday sun that poured through the barred roof.

“I hope they give us something decent to eat before the trial,” Broose said as he also let go of the wooden bars. “I’m so hungry I could eat a horse’s hoof. According to Robiur’s Curiosities of the Human Body and Mind, people can survive over a month without food, but I think it’s bullcrap. Robiur claims to have based his theories on examining one thousand people. I’m sure he didn’t examine normal, hearty eaters like me, though.”

“Normal, hearty eaters?” Glen said with a chuckle. He poked Broose in his considerable gut. “I think you could do with a few more days of fasting, buddy.”

Derrik inhaled to tell Glen to shut up, but Broose did not seem to mind, his eyes gliding toward oblivion. Broose was often absent-minded, and when they asked him what he was thinking about, he replied he was composing an epic poem about their adventures. Derrik guessed that, if Broose stuck to the truth, the poem would be much shorter and less glamorous than they would have liked. All they had done was to get arrested in a tavern. And all they would do was to hang, unless a miracle helped them.

Glen said they would swing before Broose found a quill and parchment to write the poem, and Derrik often feared he was right. Broose kept telling them not to lose faith, though; according to a book he had read, the Ag-Hurians, although brutish, nationalistic, and violent, had a very strong sense of fairness, and their justice system was exemplary. The six mounted soldiers who accompanied them seemed certain that the boys would hang, as they said on many occasions. And yet, Broose’s words about fairness and justice rang in Derrik’s head and filled him with a flicker of hope.

They rode into the cool, sprawling shade of the fortification and neared the gateway. The merlons were broken, and black holes marked the wall. The heavy, oak, ironbound gate had an array of dents, as if a giant had engraved it with ancient runes.

“Balabor was besieged during the war that led to the Great Battle,” Broose said. “But suddenly, the monsters turned south and marched on Renekah. It is believed that—”

A stone slammed into the wooden bar just beside Derrik, making him flinch. He looked the way the stone had flown from and saw a man picking up another stone to throw at them. He stood by a mule harnessed to a two-wheel cart full of empty crates and baskets, and Derrik assumed he was a produce seller returning to his homestead from a city market. He had a spiked crest and pierced nose like every other Ag-Hurian. And he probably wanted to stone them because they were outlanders.

The soldiers who escorted them shouted at the man and flanked the wheeled cage so nobody could see or hurt the prisoners. Derrik did not think the soldiers would mind if the denizens broke the captives’ skulls. But they probably had orders to bring him and his friends alive… so they could be murdered by the wonderful justice system.

The wheeled cage passed through the gateway and entered the city. The soldiers blocked his view, so Derrik could only see the tops of the buildings. At first, he hardly saw anything but smoking chimneys and ridges of thatched roofs, but as they went on, the buildings got higher. They were mostly ugly and square, made of roughly chiseled bricks.

Glen chuckled and said, “The Ag-Hurian barbers are excellent, but their architects stink.” He had kept cracking jokes throughout the journey as if he often forgot that they were rattling toward death. But Derrik always remembered.

“I’m not going to let them hang me,” he suddenly said. “A warrior must die honorably, on a battlefield not on the gallows.”

“What are you thinking of doing, Brother?” Broose asked, his eyes gliding to the soldiers to make sure they were not listening.

Derrik ran his grimy hand over his beard, frowning in thought. “If they sentence us to death, I’ll wrestle the sword from the nearest guard and try to fight my way outside,” he said, quietly so the soldiers would not hear him. “I’ll fail, most likely. But I want to die by steel, not by rope.”

Glen shrugged his wide, hammersmith’s shoulders. “That makes sense,” he said matter-of-factly. “I’m with you.”

Broose nodded. “If you two do it, so will I. I still hope that justice will prevail and that we will convince the judge and jury that we are not foreign spies. But we should be ready for any alternative.” He took a deep breath. “I’m with you, my brothers. If they pronounce a death sentence over us, we’ll rush the guards and try to get out.”

Broose stretched out his hand, and Glen grinned and clasped it. Derrik wrapped his fingers over theirs.

Broose’s forehead wrinkled in thought. “Such pacts should be sealed by blood, but they took away all our blades. We are more than brothers, though, and we can trust each other without any blood ceremonies.”

The cart rattled over cobblestone, and the buildings became prettier, made of large slabs of stone and flaunting high spires, ornamented gables, and flying buttresses. As if anybody could ever wonder where they were, the red and black banners of Ag-Hur flapped on high poles by almost every building. Broose had said the city was built on the coast, and Derrik thought he could smell the salty air of the ocean. He had always wanted to see it, and now he might die without having the chance, only a few miles away from the shore.

He screamed in his mind to banish such thoughts. Think positively, you sawdust-headed fool, he admonished himself. There is still hope!

The cart passed through an open, gilded door, followed a marble colonnade, and stopped in front of a vast building of age-darkened stone.

“This must be the Royal Court of Justice,” Broose said, twisting his beard. “The place where our fates will be decided.”

To Derrik, the building looked more like a castle, with an enormous arched doorway, gables with rose windows, and a rearing clock tower.

The soldiers who escorted them dismounted and exchanged a few words with the guards who manned the entrance. The soldiers then unbarred the wheeled cage, swung the door open, and hauled the boys out at sword point, preventing their escape. To Derrik’s dismay, the soldiers shackled them before they pushed them through the gateway.

“We’re toast,” Glen murmured.

“Not necessarily,” Broose whispered. “It’s customary for prisoners to have their shackles removed as they stand before the Lord Justiciar.”

“Let’s hope the Ag-Hurians still keep that custom,” Derrik whispered back.

The soldiers pushed them into an enormous hall with an incredibly high groin vault ceiling. Large red and black banners hung between tall, arched windows. Thick, marble columns reared everywhere, making Derrik feel as if he were in a stone forest. He had always dreamed of exploring capital cities and their greatest buildings. But the dreams never included cages and shackles.

A podgy old man with a thin, white crest sat on a high chair on a dais in the middle of the hall, and Derrik guessed it was the man who would decide their fate. Even the Lord Justiciar looked like a savage cannibal with his nose and ears pierced with polished fragments of bones that were as long as a forefinger. But he wore a cloak made of the finest purple damask.

Two men sat on the man’s left, and two women sat on his right. They were clad in the same cloaks, but their chairs were lower. In front of the dais, some thirty people waited in line. Some were accompanied by guards in red-and-black cloaks or soldiers wearing round steel halfhelms and ringmail over boiled black leather, and Derrik guessed they were defendants, just like them. Those who stood there alone were probably petitioners. Some wore velvet and damask while others coarse linen or roughspun but they all sported those bizarre hairstyles and ornaments. And they started at Derrik, Broose, and Glen as if they were freaks.

The soldiers motioned the boys to sit on a bench by the wall. They did not remove their shackles. One soldier left the group, approached the dais, and bowed. The Lord Justiciar beckoned him, and the soldiers spoke to him for about a minute, pointing at the boys. The Lord Justiciar craned his wrinkled neck to get a close look at them, and Derrik had the impression he was observed by a vulture. The Lord Justiciar nodded, and the soldier bowed and walked back to them.

“What’s happening, man?” Glen asked, but the soldier ignored him. Instead, he spoke to the other soldiers in Ag-Hurian.

“Rotter,” Glen murmured.

Derrik stared at the Lord Justiciar, trying to guess what kind of a person he was. The man had stern features and often frowned with impatience. He did listen carefully to the defendants or petitioners, though, and leaned left and right to consult with his counsels before he spoke. His word truly seemed to be the law, because as soon as he spoke, the defendants and petitioners alike bowed and turned to leave.

A very short man with soft features, a dark brown crest, and tired, squinty eyes approached the boys. “I’m Lord Defender Deuno, and I was instructed to be at your service today,” he said in a high-pitched voice. He looked so young that Derrik doubted he had finished his law studies. At least, his accent was comprehensible, and he spoke proper Aganopean.

Puffing with pride and self-importance, Deuno said, “In our justice system very advanced, those who are poor very much and cannot afford a defender get one for free.” He almost spoke proper Aganopean.

“We could have afforded it if the rotters didn’t take our pouches,” Glen said, nodding to their escort, who still stood all around them. The soldiers ignored him.

“But even so, we do thank you,” Broose quickly put in.

“Yes, we appreciate it,” Derrik said, shooting Glen a dirty look.

Deuno bowed formally. He was so short and youthful that he looked like a boy about to recite a poem to his parents. “Your case is important very much, so the Lord Justiciar might take you soon. Tell me quickly why you got arrested.”

Broose told him about their quest to find the soldiers who had attacked his parents’ mill, and about how they strayed to Ag-Hur and got arrested as foreign spies.

Deuno started to frown halfway through the account, and he glared when Broose finished. “That won’t do,” he said, rubbing his hairless chin with podgy fingers. “The Lord Justiciar likes stories more exciting.”

“More exciting?” Broose said. “What do you—?”

A guard rushed toward them and called.

“It’s our turn,” Deuno said. “Just leave it to me. I have a plan excellent.”

They stood and let the soldiers lead them to the dais. Derrik was relieved when they removed their shackles. But he watched Deuno with mistrust.

“Lord Justiciar Horemod Arkaiz,” Deuno said with a bow. “It is an honor such great to stand in front of you. If you excuse me, since my clients are men foreign, I won’t be addressing you in our language very beautiful but in the language of the old empire.”

Arkaiz scowled but nodded.

Deuno waved to the defendants. “These boys are heroes very great, Lord Justiciar, and they were arrested unfairly. Their village was razed by Corpsentinels and their parents were killed. On top of that, each boy had many siblings, and they were all devoured by Daemorcs. But they did not fall into despair.”

Deuno paused and looked at the boys with admiration. He even wiped his eye as if their tragic fate had made him tear up.

What is he doing? Derrik thought. Why is he making things up?

“This guy should be a bard,” Glen whispered with a chuckle.

“His tales might damage our credibility,” Broose said with a frown.

“These boys, Lord Justiciar,” Deuno continued, “These boys buried their relatives dead, left their village ruined, and set to avenge them. It was only a chance very unfortunate that led them into our kingdom. They are heroes, not criminals.”

The man sitting just beside the Lord Justiciar began to speak in Ag-Hurian, dark eyes glaring at Derrik and his friends from under bushy gray eyebrows.

“Lord Procurator,” Deuno said, sternly. “For the benefit of the defendants, I’d ask you to speak in the language Aganopean.”

The man frowned but said in accented Aganopean, “I don’t believe a word of the story so absurd of the Lord Defender. As we heard from the captain who arrested them, they were asking questions very suspicious in a tavern, and they tried to escape from the soldiers, injuring them. These boys are spies foreign. And they should hang.”

Deuno began to shout, his soft face turning red. Consumed by fury, he forgot he had asked everyone to speak in Aganopean, and he shouted in that guttural language of Ag-Hur. That made him sound like a raging Daemorc, despite his high-pitched voice. The Lord Justiciar and the four people around him replied in the same language and angered tones. Derrik felt as if he were facing a pack of rabid wolves.

Then the Lord Justiciar rose, and everybody quieted. He started to speak in Ag-Hurian, and Derrik would have cut off his little finger for the ability to understand him.

The man spoke for about three minutes, in a growling yet solemn and ceremonious voice, and then he sat and leaned back in his chair, looking exhausted, as if the shouting match and his speech had sapped his energy. Deuno scowled like a god of thunder, and the Lord Prosecutor sneered. So did the soldiers who had accompanied the boys. Derrik gulped as if a rope already tightened around his neck. He guessed they had lost.

Deuno bowed to the Lord Justiciar and turned to Derrik, Glen, and Broose. “I’m sorry, my boys dear. I tried my best but—”

Derrik leaped toward the nearest guard and shot his hand for his sword. From the corner of his eye, he saw his friends doing the same. He managed to grasp the hilt and yank the blade halfway from the scabbard, but then a fist landed on the back of his head, and he saw blackness and stars. Two soldiers fell on him, punching him in the head and kicking the feet from underneath him.

They made him lie face down on the mosaic floor, yanked his hands behind his back, so hard that he cried out in pain, and screwed the shackles back on. When he turned his head, he saw that his friends had met the same fate. Blood dripped from Broose’s nose on the floor; Glen had added a black eye to the collection of his bruises.

The soldiers dragged them to their feet and hauled them from the hall. Deuno ran to catch up with them. “I will appeal against this ruling very unjust!” Deuno said as he walked along with them. “But your foolishness has made commutation almost impossible.”

CHAPTER TEN: FRIENDS AND FOES

One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, turn; one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, turn; one, two, three…

Derrik strode around the prison cell, counting his steps in his mind. Despair and anxiety often made him want to scream and rattle the iron bars of their cell, and walking and counting was the only thing that calmed him.

One, two, three, four…

He passed the hole in the ground that served as their latrine.

One, two, three, four…

He passed the pallets and the snoring Glen.

One, two, three, four…

He passed the barred door to their cell.

One, two, three, four…

He passed Broose, who was scraping on the wall with a spoon.

Derrik wondered how many miles he had covered inside this small chamber beneath the Royal Court of Justice. Sometimes he thought that, had he walked straight west, he might have already been back home. The part of the cell where the latrine yawned was made of stone, while the other parts were beaten earth, and his boots alternatively clapped on the flagstones and padded on dirt. Whenever he passed the latrine, he thought he heard a faint sound of rushing water.

The torches blazing in the hallway barely lit the cell, and the lack of daylight prevented him from telling how long they had spent in this small chamber with a low, arched ceiling. He only guessed it by his itching neck.

Derrik had never paid much attention to his appearance, a bit like Broose and unlike Glen, and he only shaved his neck every fortnight or so when it began to itch. Now it itched like the Wrathlands. They had spent about five days in the wheeled cage on their way to Balabor, and he had shaved in the woods about two days before they got caught. That meant they must have been here about a week. It could have been longer, though; Glen’s hair hung limply over his eyes and down his neck because he had no chalk to spike it. And Broose seemed to have lost some weight.

While Derrik always paced along the cell like a caged beast, Glen usually whiled away the time napping or stretching lazily on his pallet. He mostly looked content as if he were on the sunlit porch of his father’s smithy. Sometimes, though, he sighed and covered his eyes, and Derrik guessed he was thinking of his mother. Or his death.

Broose had found a broken spoon and spent the days chiseling his epic poem into the wall. It was too dark to see what he had carved, but he was convinced that it would be legible to whoever found it one day. At least he said so. He was obsessed with what seemed to Derrik as a senseless labor, but it seemed to keep him sane, just like the endless walking calmed Derrik. When Broose paused to speak, he only complained about his hunger pains, as if he forced his mind away from the looming death sentence.

The clapping of footsteps in the hallway told Derrik that someone was coming. Derrik walked to the door, squinting into the light of the blazing torch to see who it was. Broose hid the spoon under his grimy shirt and joined him by the door. Glen got up and lazily shuffled to them.

Derrik clenched the bars, praying that it was the Lord Defender Deuno with the news that their death sentence had been commuted. But it was the jailer. He was an ugly man with a beak-like nose and large, owlish eyes, and his brown crest accentuated his birdlike look. With the bones sticking from his nose and ears, he could pass for a feasting vulture.

They’d had a thin porridge a few hours ago, and now he brought them a loaf of dark bread.

“This place you people run is pretty crappy,” Glen said as he took the loaf the jailer passed through the bar. “What about some liquor and meat next time?”

The jailer scowled and lifted his pike. “Shut up, or me skewer you.”

“Threatening an unarmed man with a weapon is considered pathetic,” Broose said.

“That’s right!” Derrik exclaimed. “Let me out and we can talk like men!”

The jailer sneered. “You boys be cocky very much. But you hang very soon.” He spat on the filthy ground, spun around, and left. As his footsteps faded, silence shrouded the cell.

The jailer had probably just tried to scare them; they had got a letter from Deuno two days ago that he had appealed the decision and that it would take at least two weeks before the case got before the Lord Justiciar again. And yet, the word ‘hang’ seemed to cast a long shadow over the three friends.

They sat on the ground and shared the bread. It was stale and tasteless. Derrik expected Glen to comment on that, but his friend was strangely silent, staring at the grimy floor as he chewed. Then he said in a grave voice, “You, Broose, what do your philosophers say about the afterlife? Do you think I’ll get to meet my mom out there?”

We’re not hanging yet! Derrik thought, but he said nothing out loud.

Broose said, “The afterlife is one of the few things all philosophers agree on. They say that human life is like a river that rushes toward the Sea of Oblivion. Once the soul reaches the Sea, it finds an eternal peace, floating around in everlasting semiconsciousness. And yes, many philosophers claim that the soul can feel the presence of their loved ones who are also floating there, which contributes to their peace and calm.”

Glen sighed and nodded. “Thank you, Brother,” he said, squeezing Broose’s shoulder. His wet eyes glistened in the weak torchlight. “It’s good to hear.”

Broose smiled and patted Glen’s back.

Glen still looked pensive as he chewed the last of his bread, but then his face split with his usual optimistic grin. “Anyway, we might still get out of this. I feel that the river of my life is going to pass lots of beautiful girls and cozy taverns before it reaches that damned Sea of Oblivion!”

Broose shrugged. “I wouldn’t be so sure, especially if our lives are in the hands of that lunatic Deuno. If there’s another hearing, I’ll defend us myself.”

The boys passed around a jug of warm, suspiciously smelling water to wash down the stale bread, and Broose returned to his epic poem while Glen reclined on the pallet. Derrik suddenly wanted to rush at the iron door, leap up, and hang from the highest bar until exhaustion sent him down. The lack of hard physical activity filled him with restless, roaring energy. The lack of daylight and fresh air shredded his soul. He would give anything for a few barefooted steps through soft grass, with the sun caressing his face.

As he resumed striding around, he wondered what time it could be—and suddenly, he was sure it was nighttime. Although he could not tell where this certainty had come from, he was absolutely convinced. He briefly wondered why they would give them bread at night. He guessed that it was out of wickedness; they waited for the bread to go stale before they gave it to them. Or that they had forgotten about them until a few minutes ago.

He kept walking, wondering how he could have divined the time if he had never shown any signs of the Might. Something made him stop near the hole that served as their latrine. And he sensed that the flagstone he was standing on could help them escape.

He stepped away from the stone, kneeled, and pushed against it. It moved nearly an inch. “Broose, Glen!” he whispered urgently. “Come help me!”

His friends came over and kneeled beside him. “This stone is loose,” he said. “And if we pull it up, we can escape.”

Glen pushed against the flagstone and nodded.

Broose frowned in thought, the grimace nearly invisible in the gloom, but then he clenched his spoon in his fist and started stabbing at the gaps between their flagstone and the surrounding stones to loosen it some more. “Let’s try to lift it,” he said.

They stuck their fingers into the gap. Glancing over his shoulder to make sure that the jailor was not near, Derrik whispered, “Now!” They pulled the stone up, revealing a hole blacker than the shadowed flagstones. The noise of rushing water erupted from the hole, the same noise Derrik had heard whenever he passed the latrine, but much louder. They put the loosened flagstone down and listened.

“There must be a water channel underneath us, perhaps to wash away the crap from the latrines,” Broose said.

“Let’s see where it takes us!” Glen whispered as he moved to lower himself into the blackened hole.

Broose grasped his forearm to stay him. Then he turned to Derrik. His eyes stared from his shadowed face with doubt. “How did you find out that the stone was loose? And why do you think it can take us to freedom?”

“I have no idea,” Derrik admitted. “I guess it’s a survival instinct.”

Broose shook his head. “I don’t believe in instincts, my friend. Some people, like Ruah and Eriana, have the Might, but it’s extremely rare. And if you haven’t shown any powers of divination in the past eighteen summers of your life, I’m very skeptical that you’ve suddenly discovered them now. There are cases of the Might being discovered in adults or even old folk, but never without magical teaching.”

“Who cares what it is,” Glen said. “Derrik was right about the loose stone, so he might be right about the way out.”

“I care,” Broose said. “There are mages powerful enough to probe human minds at a distance, and suggest to them ideas that could save them—or kill them. I doubt that Ruah or Eriana, or Al’Anark, have enough power to lead us to freedom. And they are the only beings with the Might we know.”

Derrik shrugged, but he had to admit that Broose was making sense.

Broose continued, “We are outlanders in a war-torn kingdom where almost everybody sees us as the enemy. Chances are that a hostile, nationalistic wizard or a malefic witch has reached out to you to lead us into the channel and get us killed.”

“That seems a little far-fetched,” Derrik said. “We’re sentenced to death in any case. Why would anybody bother with us?”

“There are hundreds of traitors among the mages, human beasts who walk the Darkside and enjoy killing fellow human beings,” Broose said. “Perhaps someone thinks that we can’t die soon enough. Or they fear that the sentence could be commuted, after all. Or they simply want to kill us by themselves.”

“It can’t be that dangerous,” Glen said, staring into the blackness of the hole. “How could we get killed? The worst thing I can think of is that someone craps on our heads while we swim under the latrines.”

“We could drown, for one,” Broose said, impatiently. “Or the channel could take us to a watermill where we get shredded for flour.”

Glen shrugged. “As much as I’d hate ending up on someone’s plate, I don’t think we have much to lose.” He turned to Derrik. “What do you think, Brother?”

Derrik shook his head. “I’m too confused to think about this clearly,” he admitted. “My brain is refusing to accept that this is happening. You decide.”

Something rustled behind them. Derrik twitched, afraid that the jailer was coming, and that he would see them sitting around the hole. The hallway was empty, though, and the rustling had probably come from a rat. But the scare made him realize that he wanted to try to escape. The notion that the hole would be discovered, and that they would be moved to another cell, flushed him with cold sweat.

“You know what?” he said. “I think we should try. Waiting for the sentence and hoping for Ag-Hurian mercy is killing me. Even drowning under a latrine is more honorable than hanging, as long as we drown while trying to regain our freedom.”

Broose shrugged. “Then so be it. If we die, at least we spite that horrid jailor.”

Glen grinned. “I’d love to see the surprise on his stupid, ugly mug when he sees the cell empty.” He scratched his head. “Actually, I wouldn’t! I’m going first.”

Glen swung his legs over the hole and lowered himself into the shadowed channel. Derrik could hear water bubbling around his friend’s chest, but Glen’s head and broad shoulders stuck from the hole. “Hilts and blades, it’s freezing,” Glen said, his voice strained. “Which way should I head?”

“Against the current,” Derrik said without thinking. Although he had no idea who or what had made him say so, he had never been surer about anything in his life.

Glen nodded, took a deep breath, and plunged under the rushing water.

“Who’s next?” Derrik asked when their friend disappeared into the shadows.

“You go, Brother,” Broose replied, patting his belly. “If I get stuck somewhere ahead of you, you’re dead.”

Derrik chuckled and eased himself into the hole. The water’s freezing embrace made him gasp. The current was so cold and driving he felt as if he was up to his chest in the middle of a wild river. “Good luck, Brother,” he said to Broose. “Don’t get stuck anywhere.”

Broose gave him an uneasy smile. “You too, my friend. I’ll see you on the other side.”

Derrik nodded, hoping that ‘the other side’ did not mean the Sea of Oblivion. He inhaled as much air as he could and ducked under water. He crawled against the flow, using the side walls for support, and trying to go as fast as the current allowed. The walls were slimy, as was the floor, and his hands and feet often slipped. After a few moments, his lungs started to burn.

The channel seemed to have no end, and he felt like he had been struggling against the water and through the darkness for hours. Agony seared through his lungs, and he desperately needed to take a breath. In a panic, he tried to lift his head to gasp for air, but he banged his head against the ceiling, and the water still reached above his nose. He kept crawling, too fast, and he burned the remnants of air in his lungs. He knew that any second, he would have to give up and open his mouth, letting it fill with water. Now he believed it was an evil mage who had lured him here.

Derrik felt as if his chest would explode. His whole torso blazed and cramped. He struggled to keep his mouth closed, despite the urge to open it and scream. His head hummed, and he felt as if he were about to pass out. In the back of his mind, he knew it would be for the better. He wondered whether to keep crawling after Glen, or whether to return and warn Broose to turn around. He felt he could do neither.

Just as he stopped crawling and prepared to die, the water suddenly ebbed, its level dropping to his shoulders. He gasped for air with a ragged groan and kept crawling, fast and desperately in case the water rose again. Then he relaxed, for he sensed that the water had ebbed by magic. It was a good mage who had given him the idea of escape, after all. He briefly wondered who it could be, then he focused on getting out of the channel.

At last, a silvery light shone weakly ahead of him. He reached the light and stood, hungrily gasping for air. His lungs burned, and his back and shoulders cramped, and aches clenched his temples and forehead, but he was alive, alive!

As he glanced around, he realized he was in a ditch that ran through a sprawling, moonlit park. The fresh breeze pressed against his drenched clothes and made him shudder, and yet it felt wonderful. He kept gulping it as if he feared it would turn foul.

Glen was sitting on the bank, dripping wet and shivering, but grinning like a madman. “We made it!” he said, a little too loudly. Then he retched as if he had swallowed water.

“We did!” Derrik replied as he half-sat, half-collapsed beside him on the bank. He was surprised he could speak.

Broose crawled out a few moments later, gasping, his face so crimson it looked nearly black in the moonlight.

As Glen rose to help Broose out of the ditch, Derrik scanned their surroundings. The black outlines of trees loomed like shadowed sentinels all around. Behind the trees, a giant shadow of a building with flying buttresses, numerous gables, and a high tower reared toward the black sky. Derrik guessed it was the back of the Royal Court of Justice, the place they had just escaped. To his relief, no lights flickered behind the windows.

A man emerged from the shadows of the nearest trees and walked toward them. Derrik flinched but calmed somewhat when he saw that he was not Ag-Hurian. The man was about sixty, tall and slim but with a belly that stretched his black doublet. He had a brown mustache, incongruous with a bushy white beard that fell over his chest. His gray hair was lush and wavy. His eyes were very dark, just like his eyebrows. He wore a blue cloak and a thick silver chain around his neck.

“A High Mage of the Magic Circle,” Broose whispered, awe filling his voice.

The man nodded.

Derrik had heard about the Magic Circle, a society of mages that had chapters and palaces throughout the continent. The Archmage, who resided in Dar Kahar, practiced gold-level magic which made him as powerful as the Dark Overlord. The silver-level mages had powers comparable to Wrathlords, while bronze-level apprentices wielded lesser magic, like Ruah and Eriana. Each chapter had its High Mage. And one was now standing in front of them.

“I’m glad you lads are well,” the man said. He had a sing-song accent and a pleasant, deep, and melodious voice. “Come with me.”

As the mage turned around, Derrik saw that his hair was braided, and that the braid reached his waist. His blue cloak was embroidered with a golden dragon with three braided tails, breathing fire and holding a sword and a scroll.

“That’s ahritaal,” Broose whispered, staring at the dragon. “The ancient symbol of the Magic Circle.”

The man led them down a narrow, paved path lined by black outlines of trees, hedges, and columns. Derrik wanted to keep to the shadows, looking back all the time to make sure nobody was following them. The boys’ drenched shoes squeaked, and he feared that the sound would carry to the palace. And yet, the mage walked calmly in the moonlight as if he were on a stroll.

“He must have cast a spell of non-detection over us,” Broose whispered. “That’s why he is so unafraid. As long as we stick with him, we have nothing to fear either.”

They reached a tall, crenelated wall with an arched iron gate. The mage put his hand on the lock, and the gate swung open.

“Good show!” Glen exclaimed. “How did you do it?”

The man gave him a faint smile. “Your friend said I was a mage, and he was right, lad.” His smile widened as he added, “And, believe it or not, mages do magic.”

Glen shrugged and chuckled. “I guess.”

They walked through the gate, and the mage whistled. Four black stallions emerged from the night and trotted forth, coming to a rearing halt in front of them. They were magnificent beasts with long, thick manes, proud necks, and long legs. Their coats shone in the moonlight like black gold, nearly as brightly as their spirited eyes.

“This one is mine.” The mage patted the twitching neck of the nearest horse. “And you can each choose one.”

“They are beautiful,” Derrik said, stroking the forehead of the horse closest to him. The horse snorted as he sniffed Derrik’s hand. “Thank you!”

“And thank you for saving us, mage,” Broose said. “It was you who made the water ebb, wasn’t it?”

The man nodded. “It was nothing, but you are very welcome. I just don’t understand why you decided to risk your life in that channel. If I had sensed you there a few moments later, you would have drowned.”

Derrik titled his head. “Didn’t you give me the idea to use the channel to leave the prison cell?”

The mage gave him a strange look. “I certainly did not, Derrik. I was going to open all the doors and gates I needed by magic and walk you lads out, under a spell of non-detection. But as I was near, I sensed, to my surprise, you were drowning underground like blind kittens.”

“Who gave us the idea, then?” Derrik asked. He also wondered how the mage knew his name, but the first question was more urgent.

The mage thought for a while, stroking his brown mustache. “It had to be someone who had sensed that I was coming to rescue you. And who was not happy about it.” He gave Derrik a long look. “You have a very powerful enemy, lad.”

Derrik staggered. “I? Why would I have a personal enemy? And why would you come to rescue us? And how do you know my name? What’s going on?” Hilts and blades, I’m just a country bumpkin, the son of a logger. Or not?

“You’ll learn all in its good time, lad,” the man said.

Derrik cursed under his breath, for he hated secrets. “At least, tell us who you are.”

The man gave a small bow. “I’m Torsum Adramen, the High Mage of the Magic Circle of Araton. I see your frustration about the secrecy, but I can promise you lads will learn everything soon. We have a long journey ahead of us, and plenty of time to talk.”

“A journey?” Glen asked. “Where?”

“To Dar Kahar,” the High Mage replied.

Derrik said, “I suppose that you rescued us because you think that we can somehow help you with the war on the Darkside. We will never forget that, although I can’t imagine what made you think we can be useful. I don’t think I can join you right now, though. I am on a quest to avenge my parents, who…” He sighed. “I don’t want to sound like an ungrateful brat, Master Torsum, but…”

He knew that their chances to find the rogue soldiers had grown negligible. But he still wanted to try.

For a few moments, Torsum looked disappointed, but then he smiled and nodded. “You’re a very bright and determined lad, Derrik. I guess I should have divined that you’d react like this, but even the most powerful mages are often wrong about matters of the heart. At least, now I’m sure you’re the man I hoped you would be.”

As Derrik tried to process Torsum’s words, the High Mage nodded toward the stallions. “They are still yours, and you’ll find some coins and supplies in the saddlebags. The swords hanging there are yours, too.”

“That’s so generous!” Glen exclaimed, moving toward Torsum. Derrik feared that Glen would slap the High Mage’s back with his giant hand as if Torsum were a fellow hammersmith. Luckily, he did not.

“We are truly grateful, High Mage,” Derrik said. “But won’t you tell us everything now? Is it something connected to our parents and the Great Battle?”

Torsum gave him a mysterious smile. “All in good time, lad,” he said. “All in good time. At least, the three of you will have an incentive to seek me out. In the meantime, take good care of yourself, lads. I hope I will soon see you galloping through the gates of Dar Kahar.”

Broose stretched out his hand. “We promise that we will, High Mage Torsum,” he said in a solemn voice. “As soon as we complete our mission.”

Torsum nodded and shook Broose’s hand. Then he frowned, his moonlit eyes narrowing in concentration. “I believe you should abandon your quest for revenge and try to find your sisters, lad,” he told Broose, still holding his hand.

Broose gulped. “Find my sisters?”

Torsum’s moonlit forehead creased. He let go of Broose’s hand and pursed his lips in concentration as if listening to some inner voice. “Don’t you have two sisters, one of whom has the Might?”

Broose nodded. “That I do,” he said in a thin voice. “Are they… Are they in trouble?”

Torsum sighed. “Yes, lad. I’m afraid that they might be in the captivity of a traitor, a mage walking the Darkside, probably the same one who tried to drown you.”

Fear hollowed Derrik’s stomach. An evil mage had captured Eriana and Leya? How could that be possible?

Broose swayed and ran his hand over his face. “But I thought they were at home. Have they left to…? No matter! Please, come with us and save them.” He moved as if he wanted to kneel in front of the High Mage.

Torsum shook his head. “I cannot do that, lad. Years ago, I swore a solemn oath to dedicate my life to saving Tarroth. I swore the oath along with four others, a young mage and three guards of the Circle, and I’m the last one alive. I must hurry to Dar Kahar, and the girls seem to be way out of my path, somewhere near the border of Gaaltor, Ag-Hur, and Araton.”

Broose hung his head, looking dejected and miserable. “Please,” he whispered.

Torsum squeezed Broose’s shoulder. “I cannot accompany you, but I will lead you to them, lad. And I might be able to help them without being there. Silver-level magic finds no boundaries.”

Before Broose could react or respond, Torsum twisted toward his stallion and swung himself into the saddle, as fast and effortlessly as if he were a lad of eighteen. The High Mage heeled the horse, and rider and mount soon disappeared into the night.

CHAPTER ELEVEN: INTRUDERS

As he saw the inn at the crossroads, Al’Anark steered there without thinking. As an elf, he was not too keen on human company, at least the company of humans he did not know. He preferred to hunt and eat in the woods than wait to be served food in a stuffy common room. Today, though, today he could use a drink. Or two.

He sensed that Eriana had also fallen into the hands of the evil mage, and was held along with Leya. He had been searching the area where he had felt the girls’ presence, but he could not find them. Their captor, whoever that was, had erected a barrier he could not batter down. To make things even worse, tonight would bring the Blood Moon, the time when traitors committed crimes and sacrificed their victims to the Dark Overlord. If the mage wanted to kill the girls, tonight was the tonight. And since the elf could not help them, he wanted to get drunk.

As he walked toward the inn, Al’Anark was surprised to see no carts and coaches. The inn stood at the crossroads of two high roads, one of which probably led to Balabor, and the other to Cahes, which were both capital cities. It was a large, three-story stone building, and it was strange there were no travelers there, even though the civil war had disrupted trade and traffic. Perhaps there was a big stable yard behind the inn, and that was where the horses and vehicles were.

The sign above the door said, The Dusty Wheel: The finest inn all around. It was also the only one. In fact, Al’Anark could not see any other houses, let alone inns, apart from a lonely homestead about a mile away. There were only woods and meadows, and a wide river rushing alongside the Cahes road.

The chieftain hesitated before he reached for the doorknob. Elves were a common sight in Gaaltor and Ag-Hur, the two realms that neighbored the Elven Kingdoms, but now he was most likely in Araton, where his kin might not be welcome. Elves had fought alongside humans during the Great Battle, and most people had been friendly with them. Things might have changed, though, especially since the empire had fallen apart and dragonlords kept proclaiming themselves kings and attacking their neighbors.

His sharp ears detected noise coming from inside, and he realized that all the voices were female. That was quite unusual. His Might was telling him that somebody inside the inn could help him save the sisters, so he took a deep breath and opened the door.

The noises from the inside rushed forth, raucous laughter and shouting, all coming from women’s throats. He walked in and saw seven or eight women dressed in short black tunics with the sign of an open eye embroidered on the back. Their heads were shaved into a topknot. Their faces were tattooed with three wide red, diagonal stripes that looked like the gory gashes inflicted by the claws of a giant beast. Al’Anark recognized warrior nuns, or sisters-at-arms, a religious order dedicated to fighting the Darkside.

The women were the only people he saw in the large room. They stood near the counter and threw knives at a large wooden post that supported the ceiling. That surprised Al’Anark, for the warrior nuns—at least in Thorstorm—were not allowed to touch weapons other than bows and arrows. Those women might have left the order; the hair on the sides of their heads was about half an inch long, which told him they had not shaved it for almost a month.

A woman took her position by a line etched on the floor. She was obviously drunk because she swayed as she put the tip of her knife between her thumb and forefinger. She missed the pole, and the knife flew behind the counter, breaking a few clay bowls that were stacked on a shelf. The woman cursed, and the others erupted in a jeering laughter.

A man barreled from the back room. He was about forty, with short, graying hair, a ruddy face, and a bulbous nose with large nostrils. Judging by the stained apron covering his large gut, he was the innkeeper. “Again?” the man shouted in a distressed voice. “You’ll break all the pottery I’ve got!”

A woman turned to him and raised her knife as if to throw it at him, and the man yelped, spun, and rushed to the back room. The nuns laughed and jeered.

Al’Anark walked to a table nearest to the back room, hoping that the man would dare back soon to serve him a drink. The nuns noticed him and stared.

“Look, an elf,” the woman who had raised her knife at the innkeeper called in a drunken voice. She was short but very stocky and so broad-shouldered she reminded him of Glen. She had a fluffy mustache and side whiskers. He guessed she was from Al’Tarin, and that some dwarfish blood roared in her veins along with the liquor. By her demeanor, she was the group’s leader.

Staring at the stump of his ear, the woman called, “Do you want me to cut off your other ear so you don’t look so lopsided?” The other nuns laughed.

“I thought you have sworn to be cutting down the creatures of the Wrathlands, Sister,” Al’Anark replied.

“Watch your tongue, elf!” she said, threateningly.

Al’Anark scoffed and sat down. He was in no mood to argue, especially with drunks.

“We might have a chat later, elf,” the woman snarled. “And it won’t be pleasant for you.”

Al’Anark sighed and shook his head. Don’t make me roast your silly topknot with a fireball, he thought. The woman gave him a threatening glare, and the nuns turned back to the knife-throwing contest.

The innkeeper scurried from his hideout and walked to Al’Anark. “What would you desire?” he asked, his worried eyes gliding toward the nuns.

“A tumbler of plum brandy would be nice, human pal,” the elf replied.

The man bowed and rushed to the counter, ducking and cringing as if he expected a knife blade in his back. He snatched a bottle from the shelf, along with a wooden cup, and rushed back to Al’Anark. As the man filled the tumbler, the elf said, “Thank you, pal,” and passed him a copper mark.

“And I thank you for being so courteous… for a wild beast from the forest,” the innkeeper said.

Al’Anark chuckled and shook his head. It did not happen often that he was praised and offended in the same sentence. Humans were a weird bunch.

The man nodded to the nuns and whispered. “Those are the real beasts. They’ve driven away all my serving girls and all my other guests. They keep saying they will pay me, eventually, but all they do is drink and sleep here for free, and break this place apart. They’ve been here for three days already, drinking all the time!”

Al’Anark gave him a sympathetic smile as he took a sip from the tumbler. He felt sorry for the man, but he had his own worries. He might have to deal with the nuns, eventually. But first, he wanted to relax and enjoy the drink.

The innkeeper turned around and left, as if angry that the elf would not help him throw the women out. Al’Anark took another sip and tried to focus on Eriana and Leya. He expected his mind to crash against that looming barrier again, but suddenly, his Might rushed straight to them. He perked up when he sensed that they were trapped in some kind of a catacomb, perhaps in a castle. And that they were quite near, only a few miles away.

Al’Anark detected that the girls’ captor was still trying to prevent his mind from reaching them, but that another mage had battered down the barrier. He thanked that mage, whoever it was.

His instincts were telling him that the captor truly planned to sacrifice the sisters to Saitaan. And that it would happen tonight, under the Blood Moon.

Al’Anark downed the tumbler, ready to rush to the castle. He was sure that now that he had reached the girls, his instincts would lead him there. He would follow his Might the way a wolf followed the scent of his prey. He regretted not taking a few of his tribespeople along with him. The captor seemed to be a very powerful mage. Besides, the castle probably teemed with Daemorcs and Corpsentinels.

As he stood, Al’Anark recalled his earlier sensation that somebody inside the inn would help him rescue the girls. He took a good look at the nuns. They were drunk and rowdy, but when he focused on them, he felt deep sadness and a sense of loss emitting from them. They must have lost many of their sisters to the Darkside. Now they were trying to drown their sorrows in ale and liquor.

On impulse, he walked to them and stood in front of the stocky half-bred dwarf. “Do you think you can sober up before sunset, Sister?” he asked. “I could use your help rescuing two human girls from the Darkside.”

The woman gave him a challenging look. Her eyes were round and bloodshot, and she kept licking her lips drunkenly. “Piss off, elf,” she snarled. “We have no intentions to sober up.”

Al’Anark inhaled, forcing himself to be patient. “And why is that?”

“It’s none of your business,” she snapped.

He crossed his arms and faced her without a word. Summoning his Might, he embraced the woman’s mind and willed her to speak. She looked as if she wanted to bowl him over, but then she said, “If you need to know, our temple-fortress was razed by Wrathlords. Hundreds of our sisters were slain. And we have nowhere to go. Our order is finished, so—”

“So you just give up,” Al’Anark said, scornfully. “So you keep getting drunk and terrorizing this poor man over there. That way, you let the monsters win, and that’s beyond cowardly. In my native Thorstorm, warrior nuns were among the bravest and fiercest fighters. It’s a shame that in the empire, it’s the exact opposite.”

He paused to let his words sink. The nuns gathered around him. At first, they smirked but then they started to glare. Some of them looked ashamed. The others angry.

“Watch your tongue, elf, or it will meet the same fate as your right ear,” the leader snarled.

Al’Anark stared into her eyes to calm her, the way he would lock his eyes on a rabid she-wolf. After a few moments, his gaze made her fidget. “What do you want from us, elf?” she snapped. She sounded irritated but intrigued.

“I want you to be the warriors you swore to be when you joined the order,” Al’Anark said. “I want you to help me rescue two human girls who are trapped in a ruined castle, in the captivity of a human traitor and a bunch of monsters. And who are going to be sacrificed in the name of Saitaan unless we help them.”

The nun tilted her head and crossed her muscular arms. “And what’s it in for us?”

Al’Anark asked. “Have you ever heard of an elven treasure?”

The woman shook her head but her bloodshot eyes glowed. “I haven’t.”

The elf chuckled. “Me neither.”

The nun scowled but then she chortled. “You got me there, elf.”

Al’Anark said, “Look, the girls are the daughters of one of my best human pals. I’ve known them since they were born, and I need to rescue them from a terrible death and perhaps eternal damnation.” He noticed a touch of fear and despair in his voice, but he did not think it was a bad thing. Perhaps his anguish would chisel away some of the ice that seemed to envelop the woman’s heart.

“I can’t rescue them without you,” he said. “And I can’t offer you any reward, apart from my eternal gratitude.”

The woman scoffed. “You can’t really buy much with that.” But he could tell that the tone in his voice had gotten to her. She nodded to the wooden pole. “Tell you what, elf. If you beat me at knife-throwing, we’ll go with you and help you.”

Al’Anark shrugged and nodded. “All right.”

The nun grinned as she took a knife. “You see that knot over there?” She pointed to the middle of the pole. “That’s our bull’s eye.” Placing the tip of the blade between her thumb and forefinger, she narrowed her eyes and aimed. She threw it with a swift flick of her wrist. The knife rotated a few times as it flew at the pole. The tip bit deep into the middle of the knot.

“Dead on!” a nun said as she examined the pole. “You can’t beat that one, elf.” She was about to yank the knife out, but Al’Anark said, “Leave it in!”

Snatching a knife from the table, he raised it and threw it in one swift movement. The tip of the blade bit into the wooden hilt of the other knife. The nuns murmured their approval.

Their leader looked Al’Anark up and down and said, “You didn’t beat me, really, but I like the idea of having an adventure and killing a traitor and a few monsters.” She turned to the nuns. “Finish your drinks, Sisters. We’re leaving!”

In the windswept bailey of the ruined castle, halfway between the torched keep and the vault where she held the captives, Lanfareth watched the skies. In the west, a reddish nimbus showed where the sun had just set. The moon swung above the eastern battlements of the ruined city. Full and bright like a giant yolk, it chased away the starlight. Soon, a shadow would creep over the moon’s paling face, signalizing the arrival of the Blood Moon. And she would bring her master a treat.

Having set his mind on Tarroth, Saitaan had ordered all his worshippers to destroy anybody who could prevent him from possessing it. While the other mages of the Darkside hunted important members of the Circle, she went after the children of those who played an important role in the Great Battle. And who may well decide to follow in their parents’ footsteps.

When she had sent her servants to New Thorstorm, Lanfareth had hoped that the Daemorc would kill Derrik Thon and Broose Erstrog, and that the two Corpsentinels would kidnap Broose’s sisters so she could sacrifice them. She had underestimated those little rotters.

The boys had managed to kill the Daemorc, probably with the help of some other brat, and only one Corpsentinel had returned, and only with the younger sister, who had no Might on top of that. Luckily, the older sister had stumbled into Lanfareth’s claws soon afterward. Those boys would get their due as well—despite the protection of a very powerful mage. Lanfareth could well guess who had rescued them from the drowning death she had plotted for them. That meddlesome silver-level maggot would soon meet a terrible death. So would the boys.

Tonight, though, tonight she had to focus on the girls. Tonight, everything had to be perfect—especially since she sensed that the Dark Overlord was displeased.

With one last look at the rising moon, Lanfareth turned and walked toward the vault. Two patrolling Corpsentinels crossed her path, bowing as they hissed and clicked a greeting, but she ignored them. Descending a flight of worn, moss-covered stairs, she walked toward a high fire that blazed in the middle of the vault.

The smoke curled upward, slithered along the ceiling, and escaped through a large ventilation hole. A large stone altar stood under the hole. The castle’s old owners had dedicated this vault to the worship of the Goddess Aganope. However, Lanfareth had washed the altar with enough human gore to cleanse it from any traces of that false goddess. Once the Blood Moon had reached its zenith and shone through the hole, she would slit the girls’ throats in the name of Saitaan.

The girls crouched near the altar, their hands bound behind their backs, their mouths gagged. Two Daemorcs stood above them, grasping enormous hauberks. They kept their heads lowered so their horns would not scrap the ceiling.

When the captives saw her, they squirmed and uttered muffled supplications through the gags. Lanfareth had no pity for Eriana, for she was already a woman. In fact, Lanfareth hated her, for she had the Might and posed a threat to the Darkside. But the terror glistening in Leya’s firelit eyes made Lanfareth wince.

Her child would be Leya’s age had it ever got to be born. She had often thought of letting Leya go and killing Eriana only. But her master would surely torture her if she did.

“Your ordeal would soon be over,” Lanfareth said, hoping that her voice did not tremble. “Soon, your lives will be given to the Dark Overlord Saitaan. Your death will be swift and nearly painless. It is an honor to die in the name of the overlord of the Darkside.”

Through her gag, Leya screeched like a wounded animal. A muffled scream rose from Eriana’s mouth.

Ripping her gaze from Leya’s greenish-blue eyes, Lanfareth clapped her hands. A Corpsentinel emerged from a black recess of the vault and brought a black, satin cloak. A horned raven with a snake’s tail was embroidered in gold on the back, the insignia of the Dark Overlord. As she donned the cloak, another Corpsentinel brought a belt with a dagger in an ornamented sheath. Lanfareth buckled the belt on and drew the dagger. The golden hilt was carved into the shape of a snake’s head; two blades curved slightly like two fangs. The girls screamed again.

As she sheathed the dagger, Lanfareth thought of walking outside to see how far the moon had risen. Then her Might alerted her of danger.

She cursed when she realized that somebody was climbing toward the castle to rescue the girls. At first, she thought it was that meddlesome mage who had rescued the boys from the canal. She sensed that he was involved, somehow, but that someone else was coming. An elf and a horde of warrior nuns. The elf must have smashed through her barrier and detected the girls, thanks to the meddlesome mage.

“That maggot,” Lanfareth growled under her breath, clenching and unclenching her fists. “I’ll flay him and make him watch as I feed his own skin to my Daemorcs.” She was unsure whether she meant the elf or the mage. She wanted to torture both of them.

She sensed that, during the Great Battle, the elf had been one of the leaders of the Lightside. He would die tonight, along with the nuns, along with the captured girls. Lanfareth would bring a very special treat to Saitaan, after all.

She knew that a fight against the elf could prove deadly, for elves could wield magic and shoot fireballs. She would have to fight the intruders with her Might, under the spell of non-detection. The spell would likely let her sneak up on the warrior nuns in the dark and attack them. How well it would work on the elf, though, she could not tell.

Things could go very badly for her tonight, and she wondered whether to slay the girls right away. Then she decided against it. She had enough time and warriors to annihilate the intruders, one by one, and go on with the rite as planned.

Lanfareth turned to the Corpsentinels. Although they did not speak any human language, she had taught them to understand her mental commands. Intruders are coming, she sent into their minds. Mobilize your brethren and prepare to attack. Then wait for my instructions. Be careful, though; one of the intruders is an elf.

The Corpsentinels hissed and clicked in agreement, and rushed outside. Lanfareth turned to the nearest Daemorc. Be especially alert! If I give you a sign, slay the girls immediately. The Daemorc bowed and grunted.

She turned to the other giant. Follow me. She turned and ran after the Corpsentinels, the Daemorc stomping behind her. The moon rose, growing paler and shrouding the bailey in silvery light. Her heart pounded when she saw that a black shadow started to nibble at the moon’s left edge. The Blood Moon was coming.

Drawing blood into her head, Lanfareth summoned her Might and shielded herself with a spell of non-detection. She would leave the warrior nuns to the Corpsentinels and prevent the elf from reaching the vault. She would have to wait in ambush, far enough from him to stay undetected, yet near enough to strike when the opportunity arose.

Her heart pounded as she drew the dagger. Killing the elf on the night of the Blood Moon would be her greatest feat—and the hardest thing she had ever done. She would accept the challenge, though. It would take all her Might, cunning, and intelligence, but it was doable with the help of her warriors.

Under the silvery moon, Lanfareth and the horned behemoth crept across the bailey.

CHAPTER TWELVE: UNDER THE BLOOD MOON

The umbral shadow kept eating away at the moon. The part of the moon that was still visible shone more brightly and turned red, like the sun on a hot summer evening.

As Al’Anark and the warrior nuns passed through the crumbling gateway and emerged onto the bailey, the moonlight wrapped them in bloody hues and made the nuns’ tattoos glisten like deep wounds. Their daggers, spearheads, and arrowheads appeared to be red, as if they had already drawn blood. The elven chieftain was glad the women had left the order and could use other weapons apart from bows and arrows. He hoped they were as good with their blades as they boasted to be.

Al’Anark turned to Rasfera, the nun’s leader. “The two girls are somewhere near,” he whispered. “I sense there are several Corpsentinels around, and some Daemorcs. That human who is keeping the girls in captivity must be a very strong mage. I sense she is a woman walking the Darkside.”

“You already told me all that, a few times, elf,” Rasfera said, testily. Her eyes shone red, either from the moon or the hangover.

“I did, human pal,” Al’Anark admitted. But I wasn’t sure you remembered it. His sharp nose still smelled liquor on her breath, but she and the other nuns had sobered during the long hike toward the castle. At least, he hoped so.

“The mage surely has a few dirty tricks up her sleeve, so I should go after her,” Al’Anark said. “Do you think you can take care of the monsters?”

“Of course we can, one-eared creature!” Rasfera snapped. “We’re the warrior nuns.”

Al’Anark sighed. I really don’t like you, he thought. But I need you.

Sensing the monsters creeping toward them, he let his sharp eyes glide over the moonlit bailey. Six Corpsentinels moved along a broken colonnade about a thousand feet away. “Over there!” Al’Anark pointed to the monsters, which skulked to hide in the shadows of a crumbling building that might have once been a palace. “There’s your enemy.”

Rasfera raised her spear and waved it in the air for the other nuns to follow her. Clinging to the shadows of trees, shrubs, and piles of debris, the eight women crept toward the ruined palace.

Al’Anark narrowed his eyes in concentration and focused on Eriana and Leya. His mind kept floating toward the towering keep, as did his gaze. As he rushed there, the clashing of steel and the furious roaring of the warrior nuns came, along with the angered hissing and clicking of the Corpsentinels. The battle had started.

The keep’s ironbound oak door was locked, but he blasted the lock with a fireball and kicked it open. The smell of cold, wet stone greeted him as he entered. His instincts alerted him of danger and made him twist to the right. A Corpsentinel leaped up from behind a heap of broken masonry and hurled a lance. Al’Anark leaped aside, and the lance crashed into the wall behind him.

The monster rushed forth, reaching for its sword. Before it could rip the blade halfway from the scabbard, Al’Anark raised his hand and threw a fireball. The monster staggered and fell as the screeching red sphere exploded against its face. Sparks rained. Smoke rose. The smell of unclean, charred flesh poisoned the air.

Al’Anark exhaled and listened. The sounds of battle had grown fainter, and he guessed that the nuns had made the Corpsentinels recede. Or was it the other way around? The evil mage had surely heard or sensed the nuns, and he wondered what she was up to. He sensed that the mage was upstairs, and although he was unsure whether the girls were there as well, his Might urged him to climb the winding staircase. After a moment’s hesitation, he obeyed.

Debris covered the stairs and crunched under his feet, making him wince. The sound seemed to echo throughout the keep. But the traitor had probably long found out about him in any case.

The keep had several levels, and ironbound doors stood on each side of the landings. He ignored them, feeling there was nothing but dust behind them, and kept climbing. His hands sweated, and the heavy thudding of his heart echoed behind his ears. Taking a deep breath, he forced himself to calm down. His blood roared in his ears, and he channeled all his Might toward the traitor. She was shielding herself from him, but he knew she was near.

At last, he reached the top of the keep. Only one door was there, heavy and armed with vicious spikes. It was ajar, and the bloody moonlight seeped through the gap. It either led onto a gallery, or into a chamber whose roof had been gutted by flames.

As he reached for the door, his Might told him to leap aside. He obeyed and pressed his back against the wall just as the door slammed open and a Daemorc barreled onto the landing, grasping a giant hauberk. Had it not been for the elf’s instincts, he would have been now hanging lifeless from the weapon’s enormous prong.

The Daemorc twisted to the elf and slashed at him. Al’Anark deflected the blow with Dhra’ackenhernd and raised his free hand. The fireball hit the Daemorc in the midsection, and the keep filled with the sickening stench of ripped, roasting guts. The monster doubled over with an agonized growl, and Al’Anark rammed the point of his sword into its throat. He yanked the sword out just as the Daemorc staggered backward. Black blood gushed forth with a loud gurgling sound. The monster grabbed for Al’Anark to take him down, but the elf slammed its hand away. The monster rolled down the stairs with a terrible noise that echoed against the walls.

Al’Anark exhaled and stepped through the door, hefting his gory sword. The chamber was empty. The eerily crimson moonlight poured inside through an enormous hole some twenty feet above his head. Heavy beams littered the floor among heaps of broken shingles. Charred and splintered, the beams must have fallen during the conflagration. Only a few beams still supported the remnants of the roof and ceiling, casting black shadows over the floor.

On impulse, he looked up just as something large plummeted and crashed into him, making him stagger. A sharp pain spread through his shoulder. As he fell to his knees, he saw a woman crashing to the floor. She leaped up a moment later, hefting a bloodied dagger with a double blade. She wore a black cloak that matched her hair, and her eyes were strikingly blue, shining like large, polished gemstones in the moonlight. It took him a second or two to realize that she had been hiding atop a beam on the ceiling, leaped down on him, and stabbed his shoulder.

The woman rushed at him with an angered screech, swinging the dagger. Al’Anark threw himself on the floor, rolled out of her reach, and leaped up, his sword still in his hand. The woman growled in her throat as she approached him, a rabid beast about to pounce.

“Where are the girls?” Al’Anark demanded, hefting his sword. “What did you do to them?”

The woman sneered. “You must be Al’Anark, the hero of the Great Battle.”

“Where are they?” he repeated. He was little surprised that she had divined his name. He could feel her unbridled Might simmering all around her. She was so powerful she could be a High Mage had she not walked the Darkside.

Now he was sure the girls were not in the keep; the woman had lured him into a trap. But the trap might yet swallow her. He had never killed a female, be it human, elf, or dwarf, and the very notion repulsed him. But the thing standing in front of him was no longer human but an evil beast of the Darkside.

“You don’t need to worry about those little whores, you maggot,” she said. “They are dead.”

Al’Anark felt sickness creeping up to his throat. “You lie!” he screamed as she raised his hand and blasted a fireball.

The woman deflected it with a magic current with an impatient wave of her hand, and the fireball exploded against the wall behind her. Stone dust and pieces of chipped masonry rained on the floor. The elf cursed under his breath. The woman’s Might was stronger than he had thought. Much stronger than his own.

He rushed at her, raising the sword, and suddenly, he felt that the hilt started to freeze. He summoned elven heat to combat her spell before the frozen metal stuck to his skin. The hilt regained its normal temperature, but he had lost his concentration. The woman lunged at him, swinging her dagger at his face.

Yanking his head backward to avoid the double blade, he made a few quick steps back. As soon as he regained his balance, he rushed on her. When he tried to swing his sword, though, his arm would not move. He used his Might to batter the spell, but she had gotten out of his reach, sneering. The two stab wounds in his shoulder burned and throbbed, and he felt blood gushing over his back and chest. Numbness slowly spread through his torso, not through her magic but due to the loss of blood. He had to get rid of the traitor fast so he could cauterize the wound.

The human raised her hand and he guessed she was going to blast him with another spell. Her Might made the air around her tremble, and tendrils of malefic magic rippled toward him. He severed the tendrils and loosed another fireball, but again she deflected it. The fireball screeched and exploded against the wall. A shower of sparks burst forth and landed on the beams on the floor. That gave him an idea.

He twisted around and blasted a beam at his feet with a fireball. The sphere of fire exploded against the wood, burning a deep hole. The elf stirred a gust of air to fan the flames. The fire roared and spread fast along the beam, leaping at the beams that crossed it, licking the wood with famished, fiery tongues. The air filled with dark smoke and the smell of tar.

To his satisfaction, he saw fear on the woman’s firelit face. An elf would not die in flames, but a human would, no matter how strong her Might was. She waved her hand as if to extinguish the flames with magic, but all she did was to fan them and make them twist, roar, and devour even more furiously. In a moment, the whole floor was on fire. The smoke rolled around the chamber before it billowed through the hole in the roof toward the eerily lit sky.

While the heat and smoke hardly caused Al’Anark any discomfort, the human coughed and retched, tears streaming from her eyes. Her cloak caught on fire, and she shed it with a petrified screech. Al’Anark lurched at her with his sword, but she blasted him with a spell that kicked the feet from underneath him and made him roll among the flames. The next moment, she dashed for the doorway. Before he could get up, she leaped onto the landing, and the heavy door slammed shut behind her.

He rushed to the door and slammed his shoulder into the hard oak. An agony spread through his back and chest; he had forgotten about the stab wounds. The heavy door did not budge. The traitor must have sealed it with magic from the other side. Al’Anark tried blasting it with a few fireballs, but the door was heavily bound by iron, and made to withstand an attack of a Wrathlord. He cursed as he stood among the twisting flames, wondering what to do.

First, he had to take care of his injury. He sheathed Dhra’ackenhernd and pressed his hand on the wounds to cauterize them with elven magic. The holes were so deep he nearly depleted his internal heat to seal them. Had she stabbed him in the back, out of the reach of his hands, he would have bled to death.

Having given the unyielding door a challenging glare, he looked up. The hole in the roof was the only way out. Through a screen of wallowing smoke, he climbed up the wall, using the gaps between the stones for footing. He reached the top of the wall and sat on a gargoyle.

The eerie, crimson moonlight shone on the bailey and made it look like a gory battlefield. A thin cloud floated over the moon’s blushing face, turning red before disappearing into the blackness of the sky. The sounds of battle still echoed behind the ruined palace.

Al’Anark looked down and winced. The keep was perfectly vertical. A human could not have climbed down but an elf could. Perhaps. He could also plummet to death. In any case, he had to try. He had to finish off that traitor and save Eriana and her little sister. If they were still alive.

Inside the vault, the fire was starting to die, and black shadows crept over the stone walls and arched ceiling. The Daemorc stomped to the fire and threw a few boards to the flames. Then it looked at Eriana and Leya, who sat on the cold floor by the altar, and it grinned stupidly, brandishing its hauberk. The weapon loomed above them, a monstrous blade encrusted with blood that reflected the flickering firelight. The razor-sharp edges glinted menacingly.

Eriana recoiled and Leya uttered a muffled shriek, her greenish-blue eyes filling with terror. Her nostrils flared as she took shallow, frantic breaths through her nose. The poor girl seemed to shrink against the stone slab of the altar. The Daemorc and its weapon also petrified Eriana—but not as much as Lanfareth did.

Sensing that the horrid, insane woman had left because somebody had come to the girls’ rescue, a flicker of hope stirred within Eriana. Her Might was telling her that it was Al’Anark who had come to fight Lanfareth.

While Eriana’s heart fluttered at the thought that she could soon see him, she feared the elf would have a hard time overcoming that evil mage The woman’s Might was stronger than the elf’s, and he could easily lose his life on this horrid night. Eriana had to take matters into her own hands; she had been working on it the whole day.

The Daemorc turned around and stomped to the stairway, its horns scraping against the ceiling although it kept its head down. It put its enormous, filthy foot on the first step, craned its neck, and stared outside. Its ears twitched and it uttered a low, guttural roar. Eriana thought she heard the faint sounds of fighting in the distance.

Making sure the monster was not watching them, Eriana pressed her bound hands against the corner of the altar and started moving them up and down to fray the rope. She had been doing it the whole day, shielding herself behind a spell of non-detection so perhaps not even Leya had noticed, and she sensed that the rope was close to snapping. Eriana felt blood trickle from her wrist and down her hand, and she summoned her Might to help her overcome the pain.

She tugged on the rope, and gasped with thrill when it snapped. The Daemorc twisted its head and glanced her way, then it looked outside again. Carefully, she reached behind Leya’s back and touched the rope that tied her sister’s hands. Leya stared at her, her eyes filling with surprise, but then she quickly looked away so that the Daemorc would not suspect anything.

The Daemorc started to pace around the vault, growling softly yet nearly constantly. It kept stomping to the stairs and staring outside, and Eriana wondered what was happening. She sensed there were other humans in the bailey, and that they were attacking the Corpsentinels. The noises of battle occasionally came over the crackling of the fire, and they suffused her with hope. Leya’s eyes glided to Eriana whenever the Daemorc turned its back on them. They sparkled with expectation.

When the Daemorc craned its neck to look outside, Eriana turned to Leya, who leaned forward so Eriana could untie the knot. Eriana dug her fingernails into the knot and tried to loosen it. A muffled warning from Leya told her to yank her hands behind her back and sit straight.

The Daemorc turned to them, a look of suspicion shadowing its eyes. A warning growl escaped its throat, and Eriana recoiled, wondering how strong Daemorcs’ instincts were. The giant turned back to the stairway, and Eriana inhaled sharply through her nose to calm down. Having waited for a few seconds, she turned back to her sister. She hissed when she broke a nail, but at last, she managed to untie the knot. The girls pulled the gags from their mouths.

“Thank you!” Leya whispered fervently. It was one of the few things she had said since they had been reunited in this horrid castle. They had only been ungagged at meal times when they exchanged a few forced, doubt-filled assurances that they would get out of the captivity.

“Let’s flee through there,” Eriana whispered, nodding toward the ventilation hole above the altar.

Suddenly, the Daemorc twisted around and roared in rage. It stomped toward them, raising the hauberk.

“Climb the altar and escape,” Eriana shouted as both sisters leaped up. “I’ll go right after you.”

Leya turned to the altar and started climbing it. The Daemorc rushed at her. Eriana screamed to distract it, but the Daemorc thrust its hauberk at Leya. The girl heaved herself onto the altar, and the hauberk’s prong crashed into the altar’s wall, at the spot where Leya had been a second ago. The Daemorc reached for her, but she leaped up, grabbed onto the edges of the hole, and pulled herself out. The monster’s enormous hand grasped empty air.

Eriana cheered, and the monster rounded upon her, roaring in fury. Eriana screamed and recoiled. The Daemorc moved to block both the altar and the exit with its giant body. It raised the hauberk.

Eriana dashed to the blackness behind the altar, stumbling as the light of the fire no longer lit the way. She knew that silver-level mages could use their Might to help them see in the darkness, but she had not learned the technique, and she cursed as she stumbled. Although she hoped to find a stairway that would take her to a catacomb where she could hide, she crashed into the back wall.

The Daemorc’s massive feet stomped behind her, closer and closer. She twisted around and stared in horror at its backlit outline. The vault was narrower toward its end, and the monster’s shoulders nearly touched the walls. The horns scraped the ceiling as he hurried after her.

She sensed that the Daemorc could see in the dark, like all beasts and monsters from the Wrathlands, but that its eyes would take a moment to adjust to the sudden blackness. Eriana lunged forward, dived between its legs, and scrambled on all fours underneath the monster. Then she rose and dashed to the exit. The monster roared. Judging by the sound, he had turned around to pursue her.

Eriana rushed past the altar and the dying fire. The monster’s naked feet thudded inches behind her. She glanced over her shoulder just as the Daemorc hefted the hauberk and pulled back his arm to decapitate her with a sideways sweep. She screeched and spurted toward the exit. She rejoiced when she heard the hauberk crashing into stone; the monster must have misjudged the proximity of the wall and swung the weapon too widely. Then a powerful tug made her stagger backward; the Daemorc had reached for her with its free hand and grabbed her by the hair.

“Let me go!” she screamed in a panic, twisting halfway toward him and digging her fingernails into the tough skin on its wrist. Vomit filled her mouth when the monster pulled her toward it. She uttered a gurgling screech of terror.

A shadow moved by the entrance, a feminine figure, and Eriana thought it was Lanfareth. Something swished above Eriana’s head. The Daemorc roared in agony. Eriana looked up and saw an arrow sticking from its eye.

By the entrance, a victorious scream rose from a female throat. The Daemorc slammed Eriana against the wall and rushed at the attacker. Eriana’s head crashed into the stone. For a few moments, she saw only blackness sparkled with flashing stars. When her vision came back, the vault was empty. The Daemorc had left to chase the archer.

Eriana rushed up the stairs and out of the vault. She twisted her head, breathing hard and squinting in the eerily crimson moonlight. The Daemorc was stomping after a woman in a short tunic. The monster often stumbled, and Eriana hoped it would fall and never rise again. She turned and saw her sister crouching by the hole through which she had escaped, peering in. Eriana rushed to her.

Leya lifted her head to her, and relief spread over her moonlit face. Then the girl stood and spread her arms. The sisters embraced.

Eriana glanced over Leya’s shoulder and scanned the bailey. Nothing moved among the trees and the heaps of stone and timber. “You were supposed to run away,” she whispered.

Leya broke the embrace, and an incredulous look spread over her face. “How could I run if you were still inside? That would be dishonorable.”

Eriana chuckled and kissed her forehead. “You sound like Broose.” Then she turned serious and glanced around. “We must get out of here before Lanfareth finds us.”

The woman’s name filled Leya’s eyes with terror. She gulped and nodded. They rushed across the bailey, trying to keep to the shadows of broken masonry. The top of the keep glowed, and black smoke obscured the moonlit sky. Eriana sensed that Al’Anark was near. But so was Lanfareth.

They passed the keep and rushed toward the gateway. As they passed a grove of pine trees, a Corpsentinel crashed from the shadows, brandishing a sword. The girls screamed. The Corpsentinel rushed at them, clicking monstrously, but suddenly, something flew at its antlered head. A hideous crash echoed through the bailey. As the monster staggered and fell, it hissed as if its unclean soul had rushed from its body.

A shaft of a spear protruded between the antlers, still vibrating and making the monster’s head tremble slightly. The spearhead was wedged too deep to be seen. A woman dashed toward them. She was short but stocky, with three slanting, red lines tattooed on her face and her head shaved into a topknot.

The woman stepped onto the Corpsentinel’s face and wrenched the spear from the monster’s skull. Black blood spilled over the horrid face and dripped onto the trodden grass.

Giving the monster’s smashed head a vicious kick, the woman turned to the girls. “Follow me!” she said in a gruff voice, turning toward the gateway. Looking over her shoulder, she said, “There are a few of my sisters waiting there. We’ll take you to safety.” She sounded so authoritative that Eriana hurried after her without thinking, Leya running beside her.

As they passed the crumbled gateway, Eriana’s thoughts floated toward Al’Anark. She wanted to twist around and go look for him, but then she glanced at Leya and fought down the urge. First, she had to make sure her little sister was safe. Then she would find the elf.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN: DARKNESS AND LIGHT

Al’Anark could not hold on. He had scaled down more than two-thirds of the keep, but he doubted he would have the strength to climb the rest. Elves were much more agile than humans, and had much more stamina, but he had lost a bucketful of blood. Besides, the keep was perfectly vertical and offered too few footholds.

His fingertips were bleeding, and all his muscles hurt. His hands and knees trembled with exhaustion. The windows had no ledges where he could rest, and he often had to hang for long moments, his feet scraping the smooth blocks of stone to find a crevice. He felt terribly exposed. The umbral shadow kept creeping over the face of the moon, leaving only a sliver left, but the sliver blazed like dragonfire, painting everything in crimson hues.

Gritting his teeth, the elf kept scaling, sticking his bleeding fingertips into crevices and pressing the soles of his turnshoes against the cold stones. Only about thirty yards separated him from the hard, rocky ground below, but he could not go on. So he leaped off. The crimson world blurred, and a second later, a terrible pain shot through his legs.

Grunting, he scrambled up and pressed his sweaty back against the keep. His Might told him that the evil mage was still in the castle, but he did not sense Eriana and Leya anywhere near. He hoped that the warrior nuns had taken them to safety.

His instincts drew him toward the back of the bailey. He walked with a limp, and exhaustion made his head spin. His bleeding fingers cramped as he drew Dhra’ackenhernd. His chance of conquering that incredibly powerful mage had grown slim. But he could not let her live and keep causing evil in the name of Saitaan.

He spotted the woman by the entrance to what looked like a vault. He sensed that Eriana and Leya had been imprisoned there, but that they had escaped. The furious scowl on the woman’s moonlit face confirmed that.

She noticed him and screamed, “You! The little whores escaped because of you!” She drew that double-bladed dagger and strode toward him. “And you’ll pay for that.”

He shot a fireball, but she waved it aside as if it were a leaf, and the fireball burst against a heap of broken stone, unleashing a cloud of stone dust. Then she lifted her hand. Suddenly, his head started to spin more wildly, and blood burst from his nose. A spasm clenched his stomach. The woman laughed.

Al’Anark battered down the spell, but the echoes of the headache and dizziness remained. The blood that had gushed from his nose filled his mouth with a metallic taste.

The moon was now nearly invisible, only a razor-thin sliver shining furiously and painting everything gory red, making the bailey look as if it were bathing in a summer sunset. But it would soon change.

During his long life, Al’Anark had seen enough Blood Moons to know that soon, the shadow would stretch all the way across the moon, and that the world would plunge into total blackness. That was when he would attack this insane woman. He had to do it before she could summon her Might to help her see in the dark.

A few moments still separated them from total darkness. He had to distract her. “Why are you doing all this?” he shouted as he walked to her. “Why did you kidnap those girls? Why do you worship that rotter Saitaan?”

Instead of a reply, she raised her hand as if to blast him with another spell. Then the shadow swallowed the moon, and the world turned black. Al’Anark started to run.

He knew that she could see and deflect a fireball, so he rushed at her with his sword. He saw her narrowing her eyes in concentration to summon her Might, either to attain nocturnal vision or to detect him—but he was already upon her, plunging the sword deep into her belly. She screamed and fell just as the bailey turned red anew. The blade slid from her body. The moon vanished for a few moments, but now it started to shine again, creating a gory nimbus around the black, circular shadow.

An unseen force blasted into him and made him stagger backward. The woman’s blue eyes were open, and she had lifted her hand. He cursed; she was still alive. And strong enough to wield evil magic. Then the woman’s hand dropped, and her eyes began to close.

As Al’Anark approached her to deliver the fatal blow, another spasm nearly sent him to his knees. The woman still had enough Might left, after all. He fought the spell and raised his blade when a roar made him twitch. A Daemorc suddenly rushed at him. It was missing an eye and had no weapon, but it charged at a surprising speed. It lowered its head as if to gore the elf.

Al’Anark leaped backward to avoid the horns. He poised himself to repel an attack, but the monster suddenly twisted to the woman, scooped her up, and rushed away with her. Al’Anark threw a fireball, which exploded against the monster’s horn, breaking off the tip and making the monster stagger. But the Daemorc regained his balance and dashed on.

Al’Anark tried to throw another fireball, but only a puff of smoke rose from his palm; that putrid woman would not give up.

He moved to go after them, but then he turned to the vault. “Eriana, Leya!” he shouted. “Are you there?” Only silence ensued, along with the certainty that the girls had left the castle.

The red moonlight suddenly dimmed. A thin crescent appeared on the moon’s left side as the shadow began to recede. Al’Anark turned and limped after the Daemorc, determined to destroy that woman before she recovered and went after the girls again.

The insane moon finally set, and the bright sun swung over the horizon. Having emerged from the forest where they had slept, Derrik and his friends trotted down a wide road that led from Ag-Hur to Western Araton.

Derrik guessed they looked like three young noblemen on the backs of their black stallions. Not even after a few days in the saddle could he believe that the horses were theirs. His mount, which he called Blackwind, was much more splendid than the gelding Ufi had lent him, a noble beast with a shiny black coat, long legs, and a buoyant mane. And he was as spirited and tireless as he was beautiful.

The three friends wore blue satin shirts and black breeches of fine, crisp linen, which they had found in the saddlebags to replace their bloodied, prison-stained clothes. Torsum had also given them swords, and Derrik truly felt like a warrior, for the first time in his life. His dream was coming true.

Despite that, he kept wondering why the High Mage had given them all those things and urged them to join the war against the Darkside. Derrik hoped they would find Eriana and Leya soon so they could go to Dar Kahar and learn the whole truth. But he was unsure whether they would ever find the girls.

Whenever they reached a crossroad, they immediately agreed on where to turn, as if Torsum was helping them decide on the right direction. They had only followed high roads, though. They often worried that if the girls were in deep woods, they would not find them.

Broose fidgeted with the reins and kept biting his lips as he fretted over his sisters. He often said he worried especially about Leya, for she was so young and had no Might. Although Derrik fancied Eriana, his fear for Leya was also greater. He often saw her in his nightmares hacked to pieces by Corpsentinels and devoured by Daemorcs.

Glen whistled and patted his thigh as he rode his stallion, carefree as if he were on a pleasure ride on a feastday. His bruises had faded, and as he had spiked his hair with dry clay, he looked the way he had back in New Thorstorm. Except that back home, he had usually walked.

Although the morning was cool, Glen unlaced his shirt as if he hoped they would meet girls to admire his chest. His whistling was getting on Derrik’s nerves, and Derrik could tell that it drove the agitated Broose into a frenzy. Derrik wondered what to say to make Glen speak rather than whistle. The only things Glen cared about were girls and liquor, though, and they had not seen any in several days.

Just as Broose twisted his head to Glen as if to snap at him to shut up, Derrik said, “Say, Broose, what do you miss the most about home?”

He had improvised, but it seemed to be a good question. Broose pursed his lips as if to consider it, and Glen finally stopped whistling and watched them with some interest.

Broose said, “I definitely miss my books. Oh, and the warmth and the scent of the kitchen. And my mom’s pies. And you, Derrik?”

Derrik wanted to say that he missed his parents, but the boys could tease him about it, so he said, “I miss sparring with my father. Oh, and the hills around the village. The woods here are nice, but they are too flat.” He turned to Glen. “What about you, Brother?”

Glen frowned in thought, and for a second there was only the clapping of the hoofs to be heard. When Glen opened his mouth, Derrik expected him to say that he missed chasing girls or sneaking his father’s brandy. But he said, “You fellas might laugh, but I miss watching a little blue jay hopping around our back garden.”

Derrik and Broose exchanged a bewildered look.

Glen sighed. “I like to think that the bird is the reincarnation of my mom. I don’t even know how I got the idea. Maybe because the bird appeared in our garden shortly after Mom’s funeral and never left.” He shook his head and sighed again. “I know it’s stupid.”

Derrik leaned sideways in the saddle and patted Glen’s forearm. “It’s not stupid, my friend.”

“Derrik is right, Brother,” Broose said, gravely. “It’s not stupid. It’s noble. It shows that despite your tough muscles and spiked head, you have a gentle soul. That’s a very good personality trait. But—what is that?”

Although they had seen no houses since leaving the woods, a large stone building suddenly appeared in front of them. It stood near the intersection with another high road, and it had three stories but little yard, so it could only be an inn.

Glen chuckled, his melancholy suddenly gone from his eyes and voice. “I can’t believe we slept in the damp woods under that terrible moon when there was an inn just a mile away! We could have slept in a bed, with our bellies full of meat and liquor. Well, we can still have breakfast!”

Broose frowned. “We’ll have a quick breakfast, ask about my sisters, and go on,” he said.

Quick breakfast? Derrik thought. Hilts and blades, Broose must really fret about the girls!

Glen nodded and steered his horse toward the inn. The three of them led their horses around the building and to the stables. Although they called, nobody came out to take care of the horses, so they tied them to a pole. Derrik hoped that nobody would steal the mounts, which probably cost more than all the houses in their village put together.

They walked under a sign that said, The Dusty Wheel: The finest inn all around, entered the inn, and glanced about. Nobody was in the large common room, and Derrik said, “Let’s sit by the back window so we can keep an eye on the horses.” They walked across the room and sat by a large window that gave on to the stable yard.

A short, middle-aged man walked from the back room. He had graying hair, a ruddy face, and a bulbous nose with large nostrils. “What can I do for you, young travelers?” he asked, wiping his hands into a dirty apron that stretched over his protruding belly. He was almost as wide as he was tall.

Glen opened his mouth but before he could speak, Broose put in, “Just weak ale and some bread and cheese, my friend.” Giving Glen a meaningful look, he added, “We’re in a hurry.”

Both Glen and the innkeeper looked disappointed, for they had probably hoped that a big feast would be ordered, with lots of liquor. Neither protested, though.

As the innkeeper turned for the back room, promising to return “in an eyeblink”, Broose said, “I really hope that High Mage Torsum kept his word and helped to keep my sisters safe.” He sighed. “I can’t stand the thought that something happened to them.”

“I’m sure he did, Brother,” Glen said, nonchalantly. “And we’ll soon find them.”

Broose looked skeptical but said nothing.

The innkeeper came, carrying a tray with three mugs, a loaf of dark bread, a large wedge of cheese, and slices of onion.

They thanked him and Broose asked, “Have you seen two girls, one about eighteen and—”

“Two girls?” the innkeeper exclaimed. Suddenly he looked exasperated. “Two girls? Ha! All I have seen for days were those damned warrior nuns. Those crazy women drove all my guests away, and all my serving girls. If it hadn’t been for that one-eared elf, they would have reduced this place to a pile of splinters.”

“One-eared elf?” Broose asked, perking up. The other boys leaned in. The man had surely meant Al’Anark.

“Yes, a one-eared elf,” the innkeeper said. “He won a knife-throwing contest and took the crazy nuns away, thank the Sleeping Goddess.”

The boys looked at each other in bewilderment. “You’re not making much sense, old friend,” Glen said. “Where did he take them?”

The innkeeper nervously wiped his hands into his apron. “The elf kept talking about a ruined castle. He said there were two girls in captiv—” he gasped and paused, frowning in thought. “Maybe it’s the two girls you asked about?”

Broose leaped up and exclaimed, “Yes, that must be them!”

Glen also stood and Derrik followed suit, his heart fluttering. Derrik and Broose towered over the innkeeper, and even Glen was several inches taller, and the man took a step back, his eyes filling with apprehension.

Broose must have noticed it, for he said, “Let’s all sit down and speak.” He sat and pulled back a chair for the innkeeper. “The girls are my sisters, so please tell me everything, my friend. What else did the elf say?”

Everybody took seats and the innkeeper scratched his head. “What else…? Oh yes, that elf said the girls were held prisoners by monsters and a human traitor. He said they were the daughters of one of his best human pals. And he convinced the crazy nuns to go with him and help them.”

The three friends leaned forward and stared at the innkeeper, waiting for details, and the man suddenly looked nervous again. “Not that I was eavesdropping, young travelers, I would never do that. But this room has wonderful audibility, you see?”

“Never mind that,” Broose said impatiently. “Do you know where the castle is? Do you know which way they went?”

The man nodded. “That I do. Not that I was spying on them, you see, my young travelers, but I accidentally saw them through the window. They turned east when they left the inn and took the high road toward Cahes. There is a ruined city about ten miles from here, and it’s got a castle, so it’s probably it. The city is on a hill beyond a valley, so you’ll see it if you keep looking to your right. The road has long been overgrown, but you might find a path to the castle.”

“I thank you, good man!” Broose said as he reached into his pouch and dropped a few coins on the table. He stuck the bread under his shirt, took a deep gulp of ale, stuffed a chunk of cheese in his mouth, and rushed outside.

Derrik and Glen downed their ale and dashed after him. They mounted and cantered from the stable yard and down the road the innkeeper had indicated. Riding such a magnificent beast suffused Derrik with the usual thrill, but his excitement about seeing Eriana was even bigger. He dreaded he might see her injured, though. Or in the arms of Al’Anark.

A few miles later, the horses began to spume at their mouths, and the riders slowed to a trot. A grassy valley opened on their right, with a wide river rushing through. Beyond the valley reared a large hill with crenelated walls, hundreds of spires poking out behind them. Derrik’s heart quickened at the sight of the crumbling castle that crowned the hill.

Broose pointed to a path that was wide for two carts but so overgrown by grass, shrubs, and even young, waist-high trees, that it was hardly discernible. “This must be the way to the city.”

They turned onto the path and entered a forest that hid the view of the valley and the town.

“Isn’t it strange?” Glen said. “An hour ago, I thought we might never find the girls. And now we’re so close!”

“We haven’t found them yet,” Broose said, grimly. He heeled his horse to a faster trot, making the stallion stomp the long grass and brush past young trees.

Glen waved his hand and said, “I’m sure Al’Anark rescued them.” He leaned to Derrik. “Do you think that Leya will give me a nice kiss when she sees me?”

Derrik chuckled. “She’ll probably run away from you, as usual.”

“I’d like to remind you that I’m right here, that you’re talking about my sister, Glen,” Broose snapped. “And that I have a sword that can rip you a second crap-hole.”

Glen laughed and said, “Come on, Broose. We’re brothers, aren’t we? Wouldn’t you like us to be brothers-in-law as well?”

“I wouldn’t mind too much, actually,” Broose said with a shrug. “But I’m afraid my sister’s taste is too exquisite for…” He trailed off and leaned forward in the saddle as if he had heard something.

Derrik focused and heard an angered shouting. The voices were all female, and he thought he recognized Eriana’s among them. Broose kicked his horse and cantered forward. His friends followed and soon reached the crossroads of two overgrown paths. What Derrik saw there made him gasp.

Eriana and Leya stood there, surrounded by four women with short tunics, tattooed faces, and heads shaved into topknots. Although filthy and disheveled, the sisters seemed unscathed. But the strange women held them at spearpoints.

The three friends pulled the reins and dismounted. “What in the Wrathlands is happening!” Broose boomed at the women, his podgy face turning crimson like the Blood Moon. “What are you doing to my sisters?”

“Don’t get any closer or I’ll spear those little vermin!” shouted one of the women, brandishing her spear. She was the shortest of all, even shorter than Leya, but she was very stocky and broad-shouldered. A fluffy mustache and side whiskers indicated dwarfish heritage. And there was no joking with dwarfs, as the old saying went.

“They saved us from our kidnappers,” Eriana called. “But when we wanted to split to look for Al’Anark, they started threatening us and telling us they wouldn’t let us go.”

Leya added, “They want us to become warrior nuns like them!”

Broose clenched the hilt of his sheathed sword and snapped at the woman with the side whiskers. “Let them go, or I’ll cut you up, women or not.”

The warrior nun sneered. “We’ve decided to rebuild our order, and we need recruits. These wenches were saved by warrior nuns, and so we claim them for the order. It’s only fair because we lost four sisters during the battle last night.” She lifted her spear until the wickedly sharp iron point nearly touched Leya’s neck. “And there’s nothing you can—”

Glen suddenly leaped toward her, hooked his muscular arm around her neck, and threw her on the ground. Behind him, his horse snorted and sidestepped. Glen stepped on the woman’s chest and drew his sword. “Let the girls alone, you crazy freaks!”

A nun stepped forth until her spearpoint nearly touched Eriana’s belly. Derrik rushed at her with a scream of alarm. He wrenched his sword from the scabbard, stood in front of Eriana, and swatted the spear away with the blade. Leveling the sword at the nun’s chest, Derrik glanced around to see what was happening.

Another nun moved toward Leya, but Broose skipped to her and started wrestling the spear from her hands. She screeched and would not go. She was shorter than Broose by more than a head but surprisingly strong. Leya and Eriana moved forth as if to pounce on her.

The fourth nun twisted to Glen, brandishing her spear. He leaned forth, slashed at the spear with his blade, and broke the haft in half. He howled and staggered when the woman with the side whiskers slammed the butt-end of her spear into his crotch. The woman laughed as she scrambled to her feet.

The woman with the broken spear leaped on Glen and made him stagger toward his stallion, which had turned around as if to run away. The horse nickered and kicked up his hind legs.

A hoof hit Glen square in the small of his back. Derrik would have sworn that he had heard Glen’s spine break. Glen screamed like a wounded animal and dropped. The woman fell on top of him, making him scream even more loudly. The horse trotted a few yards aside, tossing his head.

“I can’t move my legs!” Glen shouted, his voice ringing with pain and despair. “I can’t move my putrid legs!”

A terrible stillness fell on the fighters. The nuns lowered their spears, looking bewildered. The woman who had leaped on Glen stood and said in a quiet voice, “I didn’t want this to happen.”

The dwarfish-looking nun nodded. “We never kill or maim human beings, apart from traitors. It wasn’t… it was that rotten horse.” She cleared her throat and looked at the other nuns. “Sisters, let us go.” She turned around and walked away, the other nuns in tow.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN: THE LIVING DEAD

As the nuns disappeared, everybody kneeled around Glen. He stared at them with a petrified look in his eyes, his breathing labored. “I can’t feel my legs!” he groaned. “I can’t feel them at all!”

Derrik cursed under his breath. This could not be happening. How could his best friend be suddenly paralyzed? He had been on his feet just a few moments ago.

Glen’s eyes landed on Eriana. “You’ve learned healing from Ruah. Help me!”

“This is way beyond my Might or knowledge,” she said in a thin voice, tugging a lock of her black hair behind her ear. “Only a truly Mighty silver-level mage can help you. Or an elf. If it’s done soon.”

Glen closed his eyes, his face a grimace of mental suffering. Nobody said anything for a long time. A fly buzzed around them and Broose absentmindedly swatted it away. A squirrel chittered and birds sang in treetops. The stallions started to graze as if nothing had happened. It was colder now, and Derrik realized that a white sheet of cloud covered the sky.

Suddenly, Leya burst into tears. She put her hands on Glen’s cheeks. “I’m sorry you got so badly injured because of us.”

“It was worth it,” Glen said, trying to smile. But his eyes still swam in misery.

Broose said, “We met a wizard, High Mage Torsum, who was heading to Dar Kahar. We must take Glen and find him.”

“Yes, Torsum can help me, right?” Glen asked, his eyes filling with hope. Leya wiped her tears and perked up.

Eriana nodded. “A High Mage surely wields enough silver-level magic to help. But as I said, he must do it soon, or the damage will become permanent and uncurable.” She paused in thought. “Al’Anark could help, too, I’m sure, for elves have an inner heat that can heal. And he can’t be far.”

Normally, Derrik would have frowned at hearing the elf’s name from Eriana’s lips. But his concern for Glen made him push his jealousy aside.

Broose asked, “Where do you think Al’Anark is? Why isn’t he here? Didn’t he help save you?”

Eriana said, “He led the warrior nuns to the castle to save us. I believe that he wounded Lanfareth, that evil mage who kidnapped us, and that he’s now pursuing her. We should go after him so he can heal Glen.”

“But what if we never find him?” Derrik asked. “If he’s chasing somebody, he can get far away pretty quickly.”

Broose looked at him and nodded. “I think you’re right. It could be safer to go straight to Dar Kahar. It’s far away, but we can be almost sure that we’ll find Torsum there. Or, rather, that Torsum will find us.”

Eriana shook her head. “Dar Kahar is too far, and Glen can be beyond help when you finally get there.”

“I still think it’s a better bet,” Glen said, struggling with the words as if speaking hurt him. He winced as he gasped for air. Broose and Derrik nodded. The mage had deeply impressed Derrik, and he was sure that Torsum could help, even weeks later.

Eriana frowned in thought, and her large dark eyes seemed to get a shade darker. The wind picked up, and gentle raindrops started to drum into the leaves above them. Some drops fell on Eriana’s black hair, making it shine.

“Why don’t we split, then?” Eriana asked. “Leya and I can go after Al’Anark, and you boys can go to Dar Kahar. When we find Al’Anark, I’ll use my Might to find you.”

Broose nodded. “That sounds like a good idea.”

Leya had only stared at Glen, sniveling quietly. Now she said, “Glen needs someone to look after him, and Broose and Derrik are too rough for that.” With a slight blush, she added, “He needs a woman’s gentle hand. Besides, I’ve learned some healing from Ruah. I think I should stay with him.”

They all looked at her quizzingly. Derrik wondered at how mature she suddenly sounded. Whenever he had seen her around New Thorstorm, she was half-hiding behind her big sister’s skirt, and when she spoke, she sounded like a startled bird, lowering her head and blushing. It was strange for a girl of sixteen to call herself a woman, and yet she did sound like one. Although she still looked more like a doll with her short, slim figure and soft skin, and her light brown hair twisted in two braids.

Glen gulped and gave her a thankful nod. He opened his mouth as if to say something but then he closed it again.

Eriana frowned. “Now it will look like I want to be alone with Al’Anark. But I do think that I can make him reach Glen before the mage does, and I do think I should go and look for him.” Her dark eyes narrowed in concentration. “I can’t reach him with my Might because he’s too focused on Lanfareth. But it might change soon. Very soon.”

Derrik wanted to offer to go with her to protect her, but he was afraid she would get mad. Broose had to also worry about her safety for he said, “I don’t like one bit the idea of you going alone, Eriana. Maybe I should—”

“You should take care of your blood brother and use your knowledge of the empire’s geography to lead the group to Dar Kahar,” Eriana put in firmly. She had always been very willful, and the sharp gleam in her eyes showed that nothing would change her decision. “I’ll be much faster without you anyway.”

Broose sighed and shook his head. Then he said, “It’s decided, then. Eriana will pursue Al’Anark and steer him toward us as soon as she can. And the rest of us will head for Dar Kahar.”

Everybody nodded. The light shower was over and the wind died out. The sun broke through the sheet of white cloud, and it started to get warm.

“What about Glen, though?” Derrik asked. “He can’t ride.”

Broose said, “We’ll make a stretcher for him, and let a horse drag it. I’ve seen my father make a stretcher for an injured calf. It’s quite easy.”

“So I’m like an injured calf, now?” Glen asked. With a chuckle he added, “I hope you won’t cut me up for steaks when I’m not looking.” Although his voice was strained and his breathing labored, he seemed to have overcome his initial shock, and Derrik admired his bravery. He was almost sure that if he were in Glen’s shoes, he would not be able to joke. He would probably bawl like an infant.

Glen coughed and winced in pain. His breathing came in wheezy spasms.

Eriana said, “Well, unless you need me to help you with the stretcher, I’ll be probably going. The sooner I start after Al’Anark, the sooner I can steer him toward you.”

Broose said, “We’ll manage, Sister.” With a smile, he added, “Go ahead.”

Eriana winced. “I hope nobody thinks I’m doing this because…” She cleared her throat. “I really think that Al’Anark and his elven heat can—”

Glen took her hand and squeezed it. The movement made him wince in pain, but he smiled. “We all know that you have a great Might but also a great heart. Nobody doubts your concern for me. Thank you, Eriana. Thank you, Sister. Please, hurry after Al’Anark.”

Eriana gave him a slight smile, ruffled his spiked hair, and stood. Derrik, Broose, and Leya stood as well. Eriana embraced her siblings and then she turned to Derrik. “Thank you for shielding me when that nun raised a spear at me.”

He shrugged and said, “That was nothing.” To his surprise, his face did not burn as it normally would, and he probably did not even blush. He did feel his heartbeat quicken when she gave him one of her rare but dazzling smiles. She seemed to have lost even more weight during her journey and through her ordeal, and her cheeks were hollower than before, but she was still agonizingly beautiful. She embraced him, filling him with thrill, but she broke the embrace a moment later.

Broose said, “If everyone agrees, I’ll give my stallion to Eriana, to render her faster and safer in her pursuit of Al’Anark. Glen’s horse is the sturdiest, so he can carry me and drag Glen on the stretcher. And Derrik’s horse is strong enough to carry Derrik and Leya.”

Everybody nodded and murmured that it was a good idea.

Broose said, “We all will have to ride without holding the reins, though; I need to use the reins to harness the stretcher.”

Eriana walked to Broose’s horse and patted his black neck. Slipping her fingers beneath the leather of the reins, she untangled them from the bit and handed them to Broose. Then she reached for the pommel, put her foot in the stirrup, and swung herself into the saddle. She looked so ravishing on the black stallion that Derrik’s heart missed a beat.

“Take care of yourselves,” Eriana said as she took the horse by the mane. “I hope to see you soon. When I stop for the night, I’ll try to connect with Ruah and tell her they no longer need to look for us.”

Broose said, “Please be careful, Sister.” His forehead wrinkled with worry. “I do hate the idea you’ll be out there on your own.”

“I can take care of myself,” Eriana replied, a little too sharply. She heeled the horse and trotted into the woods. As she disappeared among the trees, Derrik hoped she would not come across the warrior nuns. Although they had looked humbled enough to leave her alone.

“Well, let’s make the stretcher now,” Broose said as he ripped his eyes from the spot where Eriana had been moments ago. He turned to Derrik. “I’ll need two thick poles, Brother, straight and about eight feet long.”

Derrik nodded and went deeper into the woods. He found a large fallen tree, hacked off two straight branches with his sword, and shaved them down. When he returned, he saw Broose spreading a blanket on the ground. Leya had untied the reins from the bits of the other two horses and tied the three reins together.

Broose took the poles from Derrik and put them on the blanket, about three feet apart, and two feet from the edges. Then he folded the blanket over the poles so the edges overlapped and only the ends stuck out. “Help me, Derrik,” he said as he bent over one end of the stretcher.

Derrik moved to the other end, and they grasped the ends of the poles and lifted the stretcher. They walked to Glen and lay the stretcher beside him. They led Glen’s horse to the stretcher, strapped the reins across the horse’s chest, and tied the ends to the poles of the stretcher. Glen groaned in pain as they lifted him and put him on the stretcher. Derrik thought he heard Leya sob. When he glanced at her, he saw that her eyes were dry and her jaws clenched.

“That’s done,” Broose said, wiping sweat from his forehead. “Let us go now.”

Derrik mounted Blackwind and helped Leya onto the horse’s back behind him. The wooden, leather-covered saddle was just big enough for both of them. Leya held onto the sides of his shirt while he gently took the horse by the mane and clucked at Blackwind to move.

As the horses started to walk, Broose leaned to Derrik and Leya and said in a hushed voice, “High Mage Torsum should have given us warhorses. A warhorse wouldn’t shy and kick up his feet like the stallion did. Well, let’s hope the mage can still fix Glen’s back. Unfortunately, Dar Kahar is about twelve hundred miles away, which means over a month on horseback. We must hurry.”

Dark clouds wallowed above the small glade where Leya and her brother and friends set camp, and the sky was only clear just above the horizon. The sun was setting, shining nearly horizontally through the rows of nearby trees. She sat by the bonfire, moodily staring at the flames.

Broose and Derrik had gone for more firewood, and Glen lay on his stretcher beside her. Leya winced when he groaned from his sleep. She felt guilty, very guilty, feeling that Glen had been paralyzed because of her. She could not explain where the feeling had come from. Yet it was strong enough to bring tears.

She had been looking after Glen throughout the day, frequently dismounting to trot beside his stretcher to keep him company. She had collected poppies in a blooming, red field, and as they had stopped for the night, she had pulverized the poppy, blended it with water, and boiled it, the way Ruah had taught her. The milk of the poppy had eased Glen’s pain and put him to sleep, but that did not seem to be enough. She wondered what else to do for him to make him more comfortable.

Gusts of wind fanned the fire, making it crouch, leap up, and lean sideways as if it had been possessed by Saitaan. The flames made a sound that reminded her of wet clothes flapping on a clothesline as they shot up from the gaps between the piled boards.

Leya’s thoughts steered to Eriana, and she shuddered with worry. They traveled through a dangerous world, full of monsters, traitors, soldiers, and outlaws—and Eriana was out there on her own. Leya hoped she would soon find Al’Anark.

Glen grunted and mumbled, making her think he had woken up, but then he started to snore. She smiled sadly and shook her head as she watched him. She had not liked him much, back in New Thorstorm, for whenever he saw her, his jaw seemed about to drop to his bellybutton. Although he seemed truly attracted to her, she had often felt that he was making fun of her, too. And that had made her mad.

Besides, he was too lazy and carefree for her taste, and all he had ever seemed to care about was liquor and girls. She was over two years younger, and she was more mature than he was. But the fact that he had left the comfort of his village to avenge the burning of her father’s mill, and his saving her from the nuns this morning, had made her think that he had matured. He seemed to be a different boy. Or man, rather.

Leya twitched when she heard noises behind her, but the voices told her that it was Broose and Derrik coming back with firewood. They came to the fire and dropped armfuls of chopped branches to the grass beside it.

“What happened?” she asked when she noticed bloodied scratches crisscrossing their arms. Broose also had a large gash on his forehead.

“Your dumb brother fell into a blackberry bush,” Derrik said with a chuckle. “It took me a while to pull him out.”

Broose frowned and wiped at the gash on his forehead. Some blood stuck to his fingers.

“I’ve learned to make poultices from Ruah Soothsayer,” Leya said. “I’ll make one for you.”

Broose shook his head and waved his hand. Derrik grinned, showing almost all his teeth, and said, “It’s just a few scratches.”

Leya sighed. Men.

Derrik kneeled by Glen, and Leya smiled at the concern in his eyes. He was handsome, despite that impossibly wide grin, and he was as gentle as he was muscular. She had occasionally regretted that he had fallen for her sister—but more often she thought that life was too short to burden it with boys. Or men. In any case, during today’s journey, she had started to perceive Derrik as her second brother.

She looked at the sleeping Glen, and her smile widened. Earlier that day, she had only had one brother, and she had not even known whether Broose was still alive. Now she had three.

Broose kneeled by Glen’s other side. He had lost some weight and seemed more aware of the real world now. He had never cared about anything but books, but the fact that he had not taken a book when he had left New Thorstorm showed that he had also changed.

Glen opened his eyes and gave them a weak smile.

“How are you feeling, Brother?” Broose asked, gently taking Glen’s hand.

“I kind of feel drunk, thanks to Leya’s potion, and it’s nice,” Glen replied in a tired voice. “And since lying down has always been my favorite activity, I can’t really complain.”

Leya’s heart filled with admiration. She could not believe how bravely he bore his ordeal.

Glen’s eyes landed on the gash on Broose’s forehead. He opened his mouth as if to ask him about it when one of the stallions nickered. Glen winced as if he had been kicked again.

Derrik’s Blackwind and Glen’s Darkstorm were tied to a nearby birch tree. They started sidestepping and tossing their heads, their ears flat against their heads. They stared toward the woods, which began to dim with the advancing twilight.

Derrik and Broose stood. “What’s wrong with the horses?” Derrik asked.

“It could be wolves,” Broose replied.

“Or a bear,” said Leya, but nobody paid her attention. That annoyed her. Everybody, especially Broose, still treated her like a child.

A soft groaning came from the woods.

Broose twitched. “That sounds like Gravelackers. I never heard or seen them before, of course, but Heruplit’s description of their groaning is quite vivid. Heruplit says that their groaning resembles the creaking of an unoiled gate.”

“Gravelackers?” Glen asked, lifting his head. “Who in the Wrathlands are Gravelackers? Some monsters from the Wrathlands?”

Broose shook his head. “They are human, but dead ones, people who were killed by Wrathlords and never got a proper burial. They have no soul, and they probably cannot see. But they smell human blood at miles, and the smell makes them rise.” He gulped. “They are driven by their hunger for human flesh.”

Leya shuddered. There were living dead in the woods? Weren’t the creatures of the Wrathlands, mages walking the Darkside, and crazed warrior nuns enough? They would have to deal with undead cannibals now?

“They must have been stirred by our blood,” Broose said, glancing at his scratched arms.

The groaning got closer, and a terrible stench of rot punched Leya’s nostrils, making her want to vomit. Twenty or so figures appeared among the trees, their skeletal bodies clad in filthy, tattered rags. Although they staggered, they moved very fast. Toward them.

Broose turned to Derrik. “We have to leave the camp and lure the monsters far from Glen and Leya. They have no bleeding injuries but the Gravelackers might hurt them anyway if they are close to us.”

Derrik nodded and they turned to leave. Then Glen said, “Fellas, I don’t want to alarm you, but one of you got some blood over my shirt.”

Leya gasped at the sight of a few red drops on Glen’s blue satin sleeve.

Broose cursed and bent over him as if to rip the sleeve off. But the Gravelackers were already nearly upon them. The horses screamed in terror and tugged on the ropes they’d been tied with. Leya also wanted to scream, but her throat was too dry.

The Gravelackers were skeletal, their shoulders twisted and sloped, and yet she felt they possessed incredible strength. Black circles marked their lifeless eyes, above the two holes that had once been their noses, and above rotten lips that displayed protruding teeth. Some had missing limbs or deep gashes from Wrathlords’ swords. Others had been burned by Wrathlords’ fires, their skin and flesh gone, their bones shining in the firelight. With a terrible groan, some Gravelackers turned to Derrik and Broose, who yanked their swords from the scabbards. But others staggered toward Glen.

On impulse, Leya skipped to Glen, crouched, and half-drew his sword. Ignoring Glen’s inquiry about what in the Wrathlands she thought she was doing, she cut the palm of her hand with the blade. A stinging pain made her wince. She rose and twisted to the undead that were about to fall upon Glen, clenching and unclenching her fist to make her blood flow harder. As she had hoped, the smell of fresh blood made the undead forget about Glen and turn their rotting heads to her.

Leya heard Broose’s and Derrik’s grunting, and the sickening sound of blades hacking into rotting flesh. They had probably attacked the undead that had faced, but she had no time to glance their way to see how they fared. She heard Broose yelling at Derrik, “You must split their skulls to kill them.” His voice was strained with exertion. “Or take off their heads.”

She started to back away from the monsters that faced her. Her blood dripped over her hand to the grass. She heard Glen call her name, but all she could concentrate on was luring the undead toward her, away from him.

The Gravelackers followed her, pushing each other in their desire to sink their rotting teeth into her. One of them lurched at her with a surprising speed and agility. Fortunately, he slipped on the innards that hung from his ripped belly and crashed to the ground. Others fell over him.

Leya turned around and ran. The monsters pursued her. The Gravelackers moved as one body, like a shoal of fish in a river. Their terrible, hollow groaning echoed through the woods. They were terribly fast, and they followed only a few steps behind her. At times, she felt as if they touched her back, and she spurted faster. If one of them managed to grab her by the hair, she would be lost. She groaned in terror when she imagined herself being devoured by those monsters.

Drawing from the reserves of her strength, she ran until she was certain they were far enough from the helpless Glen. Then she twisted to a young oak tree and sprang up, her fingers closing around the rough bark of the lowest bough. She pressed the balls of her feet against the trunk and hoisted herself upward. A Gravelacker reached for her, the touch of its icy hand making her shudder with revulsion. She drove her heel into its rotten face. The sickening crack! of a breaking bone echoed among the trees. Its head snapped back, dangling grotesquely.

She climbed as high as she could until the branches got thinner and started to groan under her weight. Several of the living dead tried to climb after her, but they plummeted like pine cones in a gale.

Shouting came from the distance, Broose and Derrik calling her name.

“Over here!” she screamed.

A little later, the boys barreled forth and started slashing at the monsters with their swords. The monsters never turned to them or tried to defend themselves; they kept trying to climb the tree, pushing at each other to get to the low-hanging boughs. Their terrible groaning carried through the woods.

The boys kept slamming the blades into the monsters’ heads or pulling them by their hair and swinging their blades at their necks. The monsters never even tried to push them away, blinded as they were by bloodlust. The sight made Leya want to sick up. She kept telling herself that the things her brother and Derrik were mowing down had long ceased to be human, that they were dead in any case.

Finally, the last Gravelacker fell, and the sickening hacking and groaning stopped. Leya climbed down, her knees trembling so badly she nearly fell onto the dreadful heap of rotten bodies. She wanted to hug her brother, but he was drenched in reeking blood.

“Is Glen all right?” she asked. To her surprise, her voice shook only a little.

Broose nodded. “We took off his bloodied shirt before we went after you, just in case. But you lured most of the Gravelackers away, and we killed those who lingered there.” He sounded dead tired, and he grunted as he bent over to wipe his blade into the grass. She thought he would collapse and fall asleep right beside the beheaded Gravelackers.

Derrik had been staring at her as if she had grown antlers, and she wondered what it was all about. “You’re a heroine, Leya!” he suddenly said, his eyes shining with admiration.

She shook her head and waved her hand, but Broose smiled and nodded. “Derrik is right,” he said, suddenly sounding much more energetic. “Your valor and quick thinking saved Glen’s life.”

Broose put his hand on his chest as if he were about to give an oath. “My dear sister, you are the bravest woman I’ve ever had the honor to meet.”

CHAPTER FIFTEEN: LANFARETH’S REVENGE

As she stumbled toward the enormous encampment, Lanfareth felt more vulnerable than ever before in her life. She was alone and pursued by Al’Anark, whom she could not stop fearing now that he had wounded her.

She had cauterized the stab wound to her stomach, but the pain and the loss of blood had exhausted her. Dizzy spells nearly sent her to her knees; the pain in her stomach shot throughout her torso and made her groan. She was not sure whether she could defend herself from the elf, especially since her last surviving servant, the Daemorc that had carried her from the castle, had died. It had been badly wounded, and she had forced it to carry her for so long that it could not go on and dropped dead.

Lanfareth needed to get rid of Al’Anark, and she longed to hunt down those brats from New Thorstorm. She could still achieve both, but only with the help of a Wrathlord. That was the reason she ventured toward this encampment of the Darkside. She could feel a Wrathlord inside, and she was certain she could convince him to aid her—and yet her heart pounded as she walked down a gentle slope toward the camp. A malefic spell or a spear or an arrow could kill her long before she reached the Wrathlord; at first glance, the monsters would perceive her as a human rather than as a servant of the Darkside.

Black banners with the Dark Overlord’s insignia flapped above dozens of leather tents that spread throughout a wide valley among endless lines of picketed black warhorses. Hordes of Corpsentinels sparred or polished their weapons wherever they had found space. A wide river—the Ebr, most likely—flowed lazily at the far end of the camp.

A large crew of Daemorcs was building a wooden bridge a few feet beside the remnants of a stone one. Her Might told her that the stone bridge had been destroyed by human defenders to prevent the Darkside from reaching the other bank. The Darkside had annihilated the defenders, though. And began to make another bridge.

Forces of the Darkside had not encamped in Araton for nearly two decades, ever since the Great Battle. They had been confined in the Wrathlands, only occasionally venturing into the lands of the Lightside to plunder or capture human, elven, or dwarfish slaves. Now they had invaded the east again and marched onto Dar Kahar. It was a glorious sight.

If Saitaan possessed Tarroth, he would become the ultimate master of the universe, and he would surely reward all his loyal servants. Lanfareth would no longer have to live in fear of the Circle. She would become one of the richest and mightiest women of the shattered empire. But she feared that right now, the Dark Overlord was displeased with her.

The wind picked up and ruffled her black hair as she neared the encampment. A dark cloud hung just above the camp and covered the sun. She shuddered as she plunged into the shade. When she turned her head, she saw that the path was sunlit just behind her. And yet, a thin, dark mist seemed to wallow among the first rows of tents.

She spotted two Corpsentinel guards, their wide antlers rising toward the angry sky, and her heart quickened with apprehension. To them, she was just a human, someone they were trained to kill at first sight. To show that she was one of them, she called in the Ancient Tongue, “Agarleih’drei Ard’Heretirger Saitaan!” Glory to the Dark Overlord, Saitaan!

Although the Corpsentinels’ vocal cords were not made to imitate the Old Tongue, and they could not understand it either—just as she could never make sense of their hissing and clicking—most of them recognized that greeting, which was common salutation among the Wrathlords.

The Corpsentinels paused and stared at her, grasping their pikes and scowling. Even after years of dealing with them, Lanfareth had not learned to read the expression in the dark gashes they had instead of eyes. It was like trying to guess the intentions of a cavern.

She stepped closer, wincing when she felt sticky blood trickling down her midriff. The shouting had opened the wound. Taking a deep breath, she unbuttoned the top of her black dress to display the image of a horned raven with a snake’s tail seared into her skin. The insignia mimicked the images embroidered on the black banners above their heads. It was etched between her neckline and the top of her breasts. The snake’s tail coiled around her nipple.

The Dark Overlord himself branded me, she sent into the Corpsentinels’ minds. I am a high servant of the Darkside. And I came to speak to your master.

Although she had not been sure whether they would understand, the Corpsentinels nodded, hissing and clicking. They turned and walked toward the heart of the encampment, beckoning her to follow them. She buttoned her dress and walked behind them, staggering under a dizzy spell.

All the Corpsentinels they passed glared at her, and her escort kept clicking and hissing at them, probably to tell them that she was on their side. Still, she feared that steel would find its way into her back before she reached the Wrathlord.

The wind intensified, howling among the tents, tugging on the guy ropes, and twitching the flaps as if curious about what was inside. The black banners made furious slapping sounds. The giant black warhorses that were picketed behind the tents nickered at her threateningly. Just like the Corpsentinels, they saw humans as their natural enemies.

The pain in her belly made her wince as they started to climb up a grassy knoll. A new rush of blood surged from the wound. Al’Anark’s sword had nearly pierced her through. Had she not cauterized the wound with magic, she would have bled to death.

The antlered sentries led her to a large tent that crowned a grassy knoll near the riverbank. A lagarrion, a creature that resembled a massive black lizard, large as a warhorse, with a bird’s beak, a scaly body, and a long, spiked tail, was picketed beside the tent. The beast gave her a warning shriek, yellow eyes blazing.

A Corpsentinel stood on guard by the tent’s entrance, and it hissed threateningly and grasped its pike. Her escort spoke to it in that strange tongue, and the guard twitched the flap aside so she could enter. The two Corpsentinels followed her.

The Wrathlord sat on a high-backed wooden throne, wearing a black leather coat with gold ringmail, a map spread on a small desk in front of him. He had two enormous horns that curved like gorged serpents, and several shorter, straight, sharp horns sticking from his head. Small spikes protruded from his chin like a beard. His nose was crooked and narrow, his fangs as sharp as razors. His eyes resembled black, frozen pebbles. His skin was silvery grey as if he were sitting in a strong moonlight.

Years, ago, Lanfareth would have died with fear at the sight of such a monster; now she reveled in it. The feeling she was on equal footing in the Wrathland hierarchy as this immensely powerful creature gave her a sensation that nothing could ever replace. Her journey through the Darkside hierarchy had been a long one, and she had started as a low servant of Saitaan, with the same rights as a Corpsentinel. But years of luring powerful mages to the Darkside, and of sacrificing those who would not betray the Circle, had made her rise toward the pinnacle.

The Corpsentinels hissed and clicked, and the Wrathlord nodded. Then he turned to her. “Prove that you are what my servants say you are,” he said in a voice that made her think of rats scurrying in dead leaves.

She unbuttoned her dress to show him the insignia.

“Is this the work of Atropeth?” he asked.

“No. Of Saitaan.” She gave him a quizzing, challenging look. Following the death of the old Dark Overlord, Atropeth, all Wrathlords had sworn allegiance to Saitaan. But not all of them had truly accepted him as the new Dark Overlord.

The Wrathlord’s eyes were unreadable, a pair of ice-cold, lumps of coal. “Who are you?” he asked, leaning back on his throne. He obviously had plenty of time while waiting for the Daemorcs to finish constructing the bridge. That was good for her cause. He could easily help her annihilate all her enemies before his army could resume its march.

“I’m Lanfareth. But people call me a traitor. And you?”

“I’m known to your kind as Corpsegrinder,” the Wrathlord replied.

“My kind?” She raised her eyebrows. “You mean humans?”

The Wrathlord gave her a feral sneer, revealing all his fangs. “Aren’t you human?”

Lanfareth shrugged. She had been betrayed by every human she had ever cared for, and shunned by people for so long she no longer knew what she was.

“So what do you want from me?” Corpsegrinder asked.

“I want you to help me kill a meddling elf.”

Corpsegrinder sneered. “An elf?”

“He’s not just an ordinary elf,” she replied. “He’s Al’Anark, whose troops liberated Boartusk Pass between the Elven Kingdoms and Ag-Hur during the Great Battle.”

The Wrathlord scowled and roared softly in his throat. “And who enabled the elves who had been trapped in their putrid kingdom to spill into the land of the humans and help them conquer us.” He dug his sharp, black nails into the throne’s wooden armrests. “That putrid elf must die! Is he near?”

Lanfareth sneered with satisfaction. That had been easy! “Near enough,” she said. “There are other vermin on my to-kill list, and they are also very close. I may as well tell you now so we can make a plan for how to get them all. You see, I was going to kill two wenches in the name of Saitaan during the last Blood Moon, but they got away. I want to—”

“Why would I waste time with two humans?” Corpsegrinder scoffed.

“Because of their parents,” Lanfareth replied, seething at being interrupted. “Listen carefully… if you will,” she quickly added, seeing the murderous glint in Corpsegrinder’s eyes.

She talked to him for a while, laughing inwardly at the way his face turned into a mask of bloodlust.

When she finished, the Wrathlord said, “Very well. Let us get them, all of them.” He stood so abruptly that he toppled the throne. “We’ll start with that putrid elf.”

Al’Anark cursed when he forded the creek and realized that he had lost track of the woman who had kidnapped Eriana and Leya. He had tracked animals and enemies for centuries, both with his Might and his keen elven senses, but he could not find her trail anywhere on the plain. Although it had been quite clear on the other side of the creek, now it had vanished.

Whenever he seemed to be only a few steps behind her, she suddenly disappeared. At times, he could probe her mind with his Might, but she always used her powers to shield herself from him. It drove him mad, especially since he had found her Daemorc dead in the woods, and he knew that he could destroy her now that she was alone and wounded. But for that, he had to find her first.

Something else had been tugging on his mind lately. He sensed that one of the human saplings from New Thorstorm had been injured. However, he was too focused on the woman to pay the feeling too much attention. He had to destroy her before she recovered and found the girls again.

The chieftain frowned at the unblemished grass of the plain, wondering where that putrid human female could have gone, when a premonition blasted into his mind. A Wrathlord was after him. Al’Anark cursed under his breath as he drew Dhra’ackenhernd, reached into his pouch, and produced the Dragon’s Eye. He whetted the black blade with the magical red emerald to make the sword deadly for Wrathlords.

A moment later, the instinctive feeling of hatred let him know that the Wrathlord was coming. The monster galloped from the far side of the glade on a massive lagarrion, his horns pointing aggressively to the cloudless sky, the gold ringmail on his coat gleaming in the sunshine.

Al’Anark inhaled through clenched teeth as he hefted his sword. A Wrathlord was a terrible kind of an enemy, and a Wrathlord on a lagarrion was even deadlier. Al’Anark would have to bring the beast down before he could hope to kill the rider.

The elf scowled when he noticed the evil mage galloping a few yards behind the Wrathlord. She rode a black warhorse, the unclean kind Corpsentinels rode. Hilts and blades! How can I ever face both of them?

The Wrathlord came to a rearing halt a few feet away from Al’Anark. The woman pulled the reins several yards behind him. It seemed that she was just to watch.

“If this isn’t the hero of the Boardtusk Pass,” the Wrathlord said in a horrible, rustling voice. He drew a sword that was as black as Al’Anark’s.

“I see that the traitor has informed you well, pal,” Al’Anark said. Then he spat on the ground. “I killed a Wrathlord in that pass. And I can’t wait to kill another one.” He sounded more confident than he was.

The Wrathlord scowled in fury. He heeled the lagarrion and charged, leaning sideways from the saddle and slashing at Al’Anark with a downward sweep. The black blades clashed as the elf parried. The blow was so powerful that Al’Anark staggered. He thought he heard the woman laugh, and he desired to blast her with a fireball. But the Wrathlord wheeled his mount, and the elf forced himself to focus on the impending assault.

As the Wrathlord charged, Al’Anark arched his back, bent his knees, and leaped. Spinning several feet in the air, he swept his sword at the Wrathlord. The monster parried at the last moment. As Al’Anark landed, the Wrathlord was already wheeling the lagarrion and charging.

Al’Anark lurched and feigned a jab at the lagarrion’s chest. The Wrathlord sawed on the reins and dug his heels into the lagarrion’s flanks to make the beast rear. Al’Anark dived underneath them, and as he hit the ground, he twisted over and slammed the blade into the hamstrings of the Lagarrion’s front left leg. A normal blade would not have even scratched the beast’s tough skin. But this was Dhra’ackenhernd whetted with the Dragon’s Eye.

The beast roared in agony. Al’Anark yanked the blade free and rolled aside only a second before the lagarrion buckled and the Wrathlord flew off the saddle. Although the elf had hoped that the massive beast would crush its rider, the Wrathlord landed on both feet and staggered away from the mount.

To Al’Anark’s satisfaction, a shadow of concern passed over the Wrathlord’s hideous face. The monster knew that Al’Anark’s blade could kill him. The elf guessed that now, the Wrathlord would start playing dirty. And he did.

Raising his hand, the Wrathlord summoned dark fog that suddenly made Al’Anark blind. Al’Anark swiftly burned the fog with his Might, but when he could see again, the Wrathlord was already swinging his blade at him.

Al’Anark ducked under the swing and loosed a fireball. The Wrathlord pointed his palm at him and roared, “Argonserum erkelem.” The fireball hovered just a few inches from the monster before it flew back at Al’Anark, hitting him in the chest. A fireball had as much effect on an elf as a flying rock, but the impact was strong enough to make him grunt in pain. The elf cursed. Not all Wrathlords knew the fireball-repelling spell, but this one did.

“Let’s end this, pal,” Al’Anark growled, lurching forward and showering the monster with powerful jabs, sweeps, and thrusts. To his satisfaction, the monster receded as he ducked, blocked, and parried.

The Wrathlord stepped back some more, lowering his sword, and Al’Anark thought the enemy would run. Then the Wrathlord pursed his lips and blew. A gust of gale blasted into the elf, slamming him against the ground and making him roll until he hit the prostrate lagarrion. The lagarrion moved its head to bite him but could not reach him. The Wrathlord hurried toward them.

As Al’Anark tried to get up, a spell paralyzed him. Before he could break the spell, the Wrathlord raised his sword at him. And plunged it through his chest.

Agony spread through Al’Anark’s torso, along with paralysis, stealing his breath. The world began to spin, and his vision blurred, the colors bleaching into a gray mass. He struggled to remain conscious.

The mage appeared above him, black hair flailing around her face, her large blue eyes shining with malice and triumph. She sneered as she kicked him in the face. He never felt the kick.

The Wrathlord raised his hand and made Al’Anark roll away from the lagarrion… and into the creek. The elf splashed there face up. The creek was shallow at that spot, and yet the water submerged him. When he lifted his head, the water bubbled around its top, and the cold air hit his forehead. However, his nose and mouth could not reach the surface. He could not lift any other part of his body. The spell and the stab had paralyzed him from the neck down.

Although his ears were also submerged, they picked up the words of the Wrathlord. “Let us heal my lagarrion and go. If this elven maggot doesn’t bleed to death, he will drown.”

“Let me make sure he does,” the woman replied. “And that he won’t heal his wound.”

Al’Anark’s soul filled with horror and impotent rage when a rope floated toward him, fluttering like a banner, and plunged into the water. Coiling around him like a snake, it tied his arms to the sides of his body. Even if he had battered the incapacitating spell, he had lost too much blood and body heat to rip the rope.

The mage and the Wrathlord stood above him and stared, a beautiful human and a monster from the Wrathlands, united by evil and basking in his misery. Then they turned around and left.

“I think we should keep going,” Broose said as he stood.

Derrik groaned inwardly. Having spent the whole morning in the saddle, they seemed to have stopped for lunch only moments ago.

He sat beside Leya and Glen in long, sunlit grass by the ditch that ran along the high road. The grass was soft and comfortable and dotted by small, yellow wildflowers that smelled of honey. Derrik enjoyed watching the warm breeze raking through the grass and making it sway, and he wished he could stay a little longer. Broose harumphed above him, though, his shadow cast over Derrik as if to remind him that the sun had already rolled over its zenith and that it was time to go. While he had been quite lazy and lethargic back home, Broose had been pushing them forward ever since Glen had become paralyzed. They kept plodding on—although Derrik secretly feared they would not find High Mage Torsum in time to get Glen healed.

Derrik sighed as he rose. Broose stretched out his hand to help Leya to her feet. She gave him a thankful smile, but she winced and touched her lower back as she stood. Knocked out by Leya’s milk of the poppy, Glen did not stir on the stretcher.

Derrik and Broose brought Glen’s stallion to harness him to the stretcher. Having bought a long piece of rope in a homestead, they were using their reins again, while Darkstorm dragged the stretcher on the rope.

As they worked, Broose said, “I keep thinking about Torsum and why he wants us in Dar Kahar. And why Lanfareth was after my sisters. Does it not seem that our parents were in the Great Battle and that they somehow distinguished themselves?”

Derrik only shrugged. He would never tell Broose, but he highly doubted that Baard was a war hero. Although he fought like a warrior, Baard seemed a little spineless, which he had proven when he had forbidden Derrik to go after the soldiers. Still, Derrik felt terribly guilty about calling his father a coward. He had thought about it every day. And hated himself for it.

Wondering whether Father had recovered from the wound inflicted by the soldier, Derrik realized he had not thought of catching the soldiers for days. Now he would never find those rotters. But he had other things to worry about.

Once all was ready, Broose mounted Darkstorm and Derrik and Leya mounted Derrik’s Blackwind. The high road cut through a plain that had few trees but where the grass was so green that it nearly hurt the eye. Broose led the way, trying to avoid bumps, rocks, and potholes to make Glen’s ride as smooth as possible.

Although the sky had been perfectly clear and deep blue as they had stopped for lunch, ugly gray clouds began to gather and threatened with rain. Derrik began to feel nervous, as if someone had been following them, but whenever he glanced over Leya’s shoulder, there was nothing but the high road behind them. In fact they had not seen a living soul the whole day.

Broose also often looked back with a frown on his face. The horses started to shake their heads and snort, as disturbed as on the evening the Gravelackers had ambushed them. Leya fidgeted in the saddle behind Derrik, nervously clutching at the sides of his shirt. No birdsong reached their ears. All life seemed to have fled from the plain.

A vague yet overpowering feeling of hatred and fear made Derrik glance over his shoulder again. This time, he saw two riders. One was a woman with black hair on a black warhorse. The sight of the other rider congealed the blood in his veins.

The… thing had two enormous horns that curved like fat snakes, and sharp spikes protruding from his head and chin. He sneered, displaying sinister fangs that gleamed like daggers. The monster rode a giant lizard with a bird’s beak. Although the first time Derrik had seen a Daemorc or a Gravelacker had been frightening, something about this monster and his mount made him tremble in helpless terror.

“A Wrathlord!” Broose screamed, heeling his stallion. “A Wrathlord on a lagarrion!”

“The woman’s Lanfareth!” Leya screeched.

Derrik cursed and heeled Blackwind. The two stallions began to canter, and the stretcher rattled wildly over the uneven surface, stirring a cloud of dust. Glen stirred and stared in confusion, his eyes glazed.

Derrik guessed that Lanfareth was mostly interested in Leya, so he decided to split from Broose and lure the woman away from the defenseless Glen. He hoped that the Wrathlord would join her in the pursuit, and that Blackwind would manage to lose them both. Derrik yanked on the reins, dug his heels into Blackwind’s flanks, and made the horse leap over the ditch and gallop across the plain. When he glanced over his shoulder, he saw Lanfareth and the Wrathlord pursue him while Broose and Glen kept cantering down the high road.

An enormous shadow floated over them. As Derrik twisted his head up, he gasped at the sight of a winged giant covered in black scales gliding toward them. The creature was as large as a hut, its webbed wings seemingly embracing the sky. Derrik nearly fell off the saddle when Leya suddenly yelled in his ear, “It’s a dragon!”

The dragon headed toward them, flickering its long, spiked tail. Smoke billowed from its nostrils. Screaming in terror, Blackwind turned around and started galloping away from the dragon. And toward the Wrathlord and Lanfareth.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN: IN THE DRAGONS’ LAIR

Derrik sawed on the reins, but the panicked stallion kept galloping from the dragon and toward their pursuers. Suddenly, the horse screamed and reared, nearly unseating Derrik and Leya. The black dragon overflew them, unleashing a wave of scorching hot air that drenched them in sweat. Blackwind stood still, trembling and tossing his head, as if terror had paralyzed his legs.

Derrik found himself cheering when the dragon locked its wings and nosedived at Lanfareth. He hoped the dragon would rip her apart with its enormous claws and fangs or impale her on the spikes on its tail. But Lanfareth sawed on the reins, and her black warhorse reared and threw her off the saddle. The dragon’s claws missed her by inches. As her warhorse dashed away, it dragged her along; her foot must have got caught in the stirrup.

The dragon wheeled around and set its fiery yellow eyes on the Wrathlord. Derrik still screamed with fear and exhilaration, although he hardly noticed. Surely, not even a Wrathlord stood a chance against a behemoth armed with dozens of fangs and dagger-like spikes, and armored with thousands of hard scales. Then he recalled that some Wrathlords were more powerful than silver-level mages.

The Wrathlord raised his hand toward the dragon, and the giant creature seemed to sway as if blasted by a monstrous turbulence. The Wrathlord’s lagarrion reared and screeched. The dragon opened its giant mouth and belched a roaring stream of fire that poured like steaming lava toward the Wrathlord. The monster lifted his hands, though, and the fire exploded against an invisible shield above his horns and burst into a spectacular yet harmless shower of sparks. The lagarrion screamed and sidestepped, but the monster managed to stay in the saddle.

The dragon wheeled above him and opened its mouth again. This time, only a few sparks and a puff of smoke poured out, though. Derrik guessed the Wrathlord had extinguished its fire with a spell. The dragon swooped at the monster and flickered its tail. The Wrathlord threw himself off the saddle at the last moment, avoiding the spikes on the tail by inches. Somehow, he managed to land on both feet. The lagarrion trotted away, shaking its head and screeching.

The Wrathlord waved his hand, and a blast of gale filled the membranes of the dragon’s wings and hurled him dozens of yards away. Then the monster turned to Derrik and Leya, his hand raised. A ball of fire blasted from the palm and screeched toward them. Blackwind screamed as the fireball exploded against his chest. The smell of burning flesh permeated the air. A blast of heat wallowed over Derrik’s legs. The dragon flapped its giant wings and flew toward them.

Blackwind swayed underneath them, and Derrik knew the stallion was about to buckle. Just as Derrik moved to kick his feet from the stirrups so the horse would not crush his leg when he fell, the dragon swooped at them.

As the stallion fell to his front knees, a giant shadow glided over them as the dragon blocked the sun, and yet a wave of scorching heat sent sweat into Derrik’s eyes. Everything blurred, and Derrik’s stomach nearly leaped into his throat as they were snatched upward. He grasped the pommel of the saddle with both hands. Leya embraced him from behind and pressed her face against his back. When he glanced up, he saw an enormous chest covered by black scales. The air simmered as it would around a bonfire.

Glancing around in bewilderment, Derrik realized that the dragon had grabbed Blackwind by the head and the tail with its front claws, lifting the horse off the ground. The dragon flapped its wings, sending eddies of hot air over Derrik. The grassy plain seemed to leap away from them, and Derrik thought he would be sick. He grasped the pommel so hard that his fingers hurt. When he looked down, he saw that the Wrathlord was as small as a thumbnail. They glided toward a forest, and he suddenly found himself looking down at the tops of the tallest trees.

Derrik’s stomach settled, and a strange blend of thrill and fear made him tremble. The dragon had saved them from Lanfareth and the Wrathlord. But what if it dropped them? What if it was taking them to its lair to devour them?

“This is so exciting!” Leya suddenly screamed behind him, her voice filled with glee. She was two summers younger, and her lack of fear put him to shame.

“It is!” he called back. He thought it had sounded forced, though, and he made himself push all his worries aside.

Try to enjoy this, you sawdust-headed idiot, he berated himself. Only a handful of people in the whole world get to experience something like this in their lives.

He had always dreamed of being a warrior, which had somewhat come true during his journey. And now he felt like a dragonlord, the elite of the elite. Except that dragonlords rode their dragons’ backs rather than hanging underneath them while sitting on a dead horse. There was no doubt that Blackwind was dead, and Derrik’s eyes suddenly stung. He was sure it was the wind, though; warriors never cried.

A gust of gale slammed into them, and the dragon swayed. It was a slight movement, and yet Derrik felt as if his stomach had ripped against his ribs. They flew into a dark cloud, and Derrik suddenly saw nothing. He screamed in fright. So did Leya. The dragon grumbled. Although it sounded like a clap of thunder, Derrik sensed the enormous creature was trying to calm them.

When they flew out of the cloud, a large lake spread underneath them. A tall, barren cliff towered above the lake. The dragon banked toward it. Derrik tightened his grip on the pommel, fearing that he would slide off the saddle. Leya dug her fingernails into his belly, making him grunt.

The mouth of an enormous cavern yawned near the bottom of the cliff, making the cliff look like a rugged keep with an oversized gateway. The dragon spread its enormous wings and hovered above a plateau by the cavern’s mouth, so low that Blackwind’s hoofs hung only about a yard above the ground.

Derrik guessed it was time to dismount. Unclenching the pommel, he pulled his foot from the stirrup, swung his leg over the horse’s back, and used the stirrup cord to climb down—not an easy thing with his hands and knees trembling. Then he reached up for Leya and helped her dismount.

The dragon glided a few feet away and dropped the horse. Derrik cringed when the beautiful stallion crashed lifelessly to the ground. Poor Blackwind!

Leya swayed, and Derrik held her so she would not fall. “Thank you,” she said, giving him a weak smile. She looked exhausted as if she had swum across the large lake and climbed up onto the platform. With a worried grimace, she looked over the lake as if she were afraid that the Wrathlord or Lanfareth had somehow pursued them. But there was no sign of either of them.

Derrik struggled to process what had happened. That woman Lanfareth had united with one of the most terrible creatures of the empire to destroy them—and they had been saved by a dragon! Having seen a Daemorc and Gravelackers, Derrik had thought that nothing would take him aback anymore. He had been wrong. He did not know whether to marvel at the dragon or shake in fear at the memory of the Wrathlord. Since he felt that he and Leya were safe for now, he decided to marvel.

Their enormous savior landed and made the ground shake. A puff of dark smoke rose from its nostrils. The dragon had to be four times as large as a warhorse. It had an enormous, triangular jaw brimming with fangs longer than daggers, a massive, muscular neck and powerful legs. Long, menacing spikes bristled in several ridges on its back and tail. Although black, his hard scales glowed like firelit obsidian. The creature emitted a surprisingly pleasant smell that reminded Derrik of a recently-snuffed candle.

The dragon tilted its head to them and grunted. Again, it sounded as if a storm was coming. And again, Derrik found the rumbling sound soothing, as if the giant was trying to tell them that it was a friend.

“Thank you for saving us,” Derrik said, wondering how dragonlords communicated with their mounts.

The dragon grunted, perhaps to acknowledge Derrik’s appreciation. Then it stomped into the cavern, glancing at them over its shoulder as if to tell them to follow.

“Do you think we should go in?” Derrik asked. He immediately felt a bit silly asking someone who was two summers his junior. His mother always told him he was too indecisive, and she was right. “I think we should,” he quickly added.

“Good decision, Derrik” Leya said, giving him what looked like an amused smile, and he wondered where that shy girl from New Thorstorm had gone. “The dragon seems to be on our side; if it wanted to devour us, it would have already done it. We will be safer from the Wrathlord and Lanfareth in the cavern, although I hope we won’t see them anytime soon. And I’m very curious what is inside!”

“Let’s go then,” Derrik said.

As they followed the dragon, he winced while passing the dead horse. The dragon’s claws had crushed poor Blackwind’s head, but the horse would have died anyway, from the terrible wound inflicted by the Wrathlord’s fireball. Derrik sighed and shook his head. He had not enjoyed the beautiful stallion for long.

Leya had already entered the cavern, and he quickly followed. Although he had expected the cave’s entrails to be black, it shimmered with a clear light that reflected on the dragon’s scales. Enormous, jagged stalactites hung from a ceiling that was high enough to dwarf the dragon. They dripped with water that pooled on the rugged, muddy ground. The craggy walls towered so far apart that Derrik felt as if he had entered an enormous hall, and they displayed strange protrusions and shadowed alcoves.

Having passed the entrance, he saw what the source of that strange light was. There was another dragon, this one white as fresh snow. Its scales glowed so fiercely that Derrik had to close his eyes for a few moments to get used to the brightness.

While the black dragon was stout, hefty, and menacing the white dragon seemed… elegant—if such a word could be used for a creature armed by hard scales and bristling spikes—with a long, gracious neck and a lean body. Derrik guessed that the black dragon was male and the white was female.

The dragons briefly touched snouts, and the white one turned to the humans and grunted as if to welcome them in their lair. The walls echoed with her deep rumble. The black dragon lowered his head and looked Derrik straight into the eyes, growling softly in his throat.

Something tugged on the back of Derrik’s mind, a sudden feeling of closeness and familiarity to the black dragon. A vision blasted into his mind, a moonlit, snowy mountain range dashing past hundreds of feet below, and a roaring flash of fire pouring from a scaly mouth, brightening the night sky. He staggered and ran a trembling hand over his face. It felt like an old memory, but the memory was not his own. It was as if…

“What is it, Derrik?” Leya asked. Her gentle, greenish-blue eyes shone with concern in the light pouring from the dragoness.

“I can’t really explain it,” Derrik said. “I’m probably wrong but… it feels as if the black dragon has recognized me. It’s almost as if the dragon was once bonded to my father.”

Al’Anark was about to give up. Hours ago, when the Wrathlord had made him roll into the creek and that evil woman had tied his hands, he had been closer to death than ever before in his life. He had managed to find a way to survive. Now he almost wished he had not.

Shortly after his two adversaries had left him sprawling in the creek, unable to move, and with the water covering his face, his Might had told him that a hollow piece of reed was floating toward him. He dragged it toward his mouth with magic and caught it between his lips without letting too much water enter his mouth. Clasping one end of the reed between his front teeth as if it were a pipe stem, he made the other end stick above the surface and took a deep gulp of air.

The creek’s currents kept rushing by, pulling at the reed and bubbling above his face, but time seemed to stand still. Al’Anark guessed he resembled an idle human enjoying an afternoon pipe. But he was struggling for survival, taking each breath through the reed desperately as if it were his last.

At times, the current grew stronger and nearly ripped the reed from his mouth. His jaws cramped, and he was sure he would not be able to hold the reed much longer. The debilitating spell had waned, but the stab wound in his chest spread paralysis through his body. Although he tugged on the rope whenever he found the strength, he could not free his hands. At times, the bubbling of the creek faded as if he were falling asleep, and he forced himself to stay conscious.

Then he sensed a friendly presence, and hope sparked in the darkness of his soul. Grunting deep in his throat, he clenched the reed more firmly between his teeth so it would not float away and make him drown moments before help came. The thudding of hoofs came over the endless bubbling; a woman screamed in shock. A pair of hands suddenly grabbed him under his arms and dragged him out of the creek. He twitched as if he had just woken up, and he wondered whether he had lost consciousness while the woman had dismounted.

“By the Sleeping Goddess, please be alright.”

The words seemed to come from far away, and he struggled to stay conscious. He saw only darkness and he realized that his eyes were closed. He opened them and found himself staring into a face framed by black hair. The face was blurry, and for a second, he thought it was that evil mage. Then it came into focus, and he recognized Eriana.

“What happened?” she asked, her dark eyes bulging with concern. “Al’Anark? Can you hear me?”

“I must… heal… myself,” he managed to say.

“Of course!” Eriana said, and the next moment, he felt her untying the rope that bound him and putting his hand to the stab wound on his chest. He summoned all the remnants of his energy to pour healing heat into the wound. He felt sticky, warm blood on his hand, but the wound was soon cauterized. Slowly, he began to feel stronger.

He sat up and looked into Eriana’s eyes in wonder. “You saved me.”

She nodded, giving him a happy smile. Her eyes brimmed with devotion. Then she glanced at his belly and winced. The tunic was ripped and gory, and the skin underneath was still red and puckered. “Who did this to you? A Wrathlord?”

Al’Anark nodded. “But it was our friend from the ruined castle who tied my hands.”

“Lanfareth.” Eriana clenched her fists. “I’ll kill that whore.”

“They left me here to die,” the elf said with a shudder. “If it weren’t for you… But what happened to your sister? And what about Broose and the boys? Any news?”

“We all reunited, but I split from them to find you,” she said. “Glen got his back broken, and he can’t walk.”

Al’Anark cursed under his breath. “I hope I can find and cure him.”

She nodded. “That’s why I came to look for you,” she said, making it sound as if he should have figured it out for himself. “They are heading for Dar Kahar, to get healed by a High Mage, but we should catch up with them long before that. I’m sure I can find them. My Might led me to you, so it can lead me to them, too.”

He smiled. “Your Might is remarkable, beautiful human girl.”

She gave him a strange look and smoothed her black hair. “It wasn’t just my Might that led me to you, though,” she said. Looking down, she added, “Do you know what I mean?”

Al’Anark scratched his wet hair, wondering what to say. He did know what she meant, of course; after all, that had been the reason why she had left New Thorstorm. He wanted to tell her that the feeling was quite mutual, but then he sighed and shook his head. He took a deep breath and told himself to be strong; he was about to do something harder than facing a Wrathlord. But he felt deep in his soul that he had to do it.

“You are a beautiful girl, Eriana,” he said, gently. “Beautiful and smart, and well… really special”

She frowned, looking alert. She was smart enough to know that in this case, praise was the forebearer of bad news.

“Our worlds are too different, though,” he continued. “To most humans, I’m just a wildling, and most elves are not keen on humans. You are a woman now, and you need someone to settle down with and start a family, but it would be impossible with me. We would be ostracized, and we would be happy neither in my tribe nor in your village.”

She looked as if she wanted to protest, but then she bit her lower lip and said nothing. Her long fingers kept smoothing her hair as if she were afraid that it would curl. She looked so adorable when she was troubled that he wanted to take everything back.

Instead he said, “Don’t waste your time pining after an ancient creature like me, Eriana. I sense that you fell for me because I can wield magic, and because magic is your passion. But there are lots of human mages who could teach you their craft and besides be good husbands to you. And there’s a boy from your village who is quite mad about you.”

Eriana said nothing for a while. She glanced at the bubbling creek and frowned as if wondering whether to push him back in. Again, her long, slender fingers ran over her black hair. “I am not interested in boys or men, mages or not,” she said. Then she smiled sadly and added, “Maybe it is my destiny to live alone. Perhaps I could join the warrior nuns, after all.”

Al’Anark gasped. “Are you insane?”

She shook her head. “I didn’t really mean it. But it was the first thing that came to my mind. Maybe I can just live alone like Ruah. Most village soothsayers are lonely.”

Al’Anark frowned in thought. Ruah had had a lover once, Eriana’s grandfather, Sethric. He had died before Eriana was born, though, during the Great Battle. Mardok and Ruah had obviously never talked about him to Eriana, so he decided not to mention him either.

“You don’t have to live alone and become a soothsayer,” he said after a while. “Have you considered joining the Magic Circle? With your Might, dedication, and intelligence, you could soon become a silver-level mage.”

Her eyes suddenly sparkled, and Al’Anark felt that learning silver magic could very well fill the empty spot in her soul.

“The Circle runs courses of magic studies at the University of Dar Kahar, and the Archmage himself lectures there,” the elf said. “I’m sure they’d be very happy to accept someone with your talent.”

She uttered a mirthless chuckle. “I see what you’re trying to do here, Al’Anark. I won’t press you because you need to recover and I need to find my siblings and friends. But I don’t consider our conversation on the matters of the heart completed. We’ll talk again at some point, elf.” Although she said the last sentence teasingly, sadness sparkled in her eyes.

“That’s a deal, beautiful human girl,” Al’Anark said, trying to smile. He did not feel very cheerful either, though.

He stood, trying not to wince and wobble. A dizzy spell nearly sent him back to the creek’s grassy bank, but it soon passed. “I could really use some rest and something to eat,” he said. “But Glen needs us so we should go.”

Eriana also stood and walked to a beautiful black stallion. Al’Anark noticed that it had no reins. “The boys each got a horse from the High Mage,” she said. “Although I can’t quite imagine why.”

Al’Anark could guess, but he decided to keep quiet. He would tell them, though, once they had caught up with Leya and the boys. At this point, there was no need for secrets. In fact, secrets had become dangerous.

“We should both ride the horse,” she said, patting the stallion’s neck.

Al’Anark shook his head. “I bet you’ve never seen me on a horse, beautiful human, and it’s not because I’m too poor to have one. Elves would never ride a horse or keep a domestic animal because we consider it slavery. And we respect animals too much to enslave them.”

She gave him an irritated look and said, “I forgot about those strange ways of yours. I guess you’ll have to walk then. I just hope it won’t take too long.”

He laughed. “See? Even traveling with me will be annoying. Can you imagine living with me?”

She chuckled but the merriment never reached her eyes. “I respect you for your principles, Al’Anark. I think it’s… noble.”

He waved his hand. “Noble my armpit. It’s just the way elves think. Anyway, I bet that once I’ve recovered a little, I’ll outrun this horse of yours.”

“We’ll see about that,” Eriana said as she put her foot in the stirrup and grabbed the pommel. She looked so desirable when she swung herself into the saddle that he regretted refusing her.

She had probably sensed it, for she gave him a quizzing look, making him avert his eyes. She clucked on the horse and made him trot, never looking over her shoulder to see whether he followed. With a sigh, Al’Anark forced his aching body to move.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN: CRUSHED

Sitting in a field of barley, nursing her bruises with her Might, Lanfareth sensed movement above her and twisted her head up. White clouds floated over the sky, smeared by strong, high winds, and several geese flew beneath them in a V-formation. But there were no dragons. Thank the Dark Overlord!

She lowered her head and glared at the black Corpsentinel warhorse that had dragged her all the way here. He was still restless, tossing his head, nickering, and stomping his giant hind hoof. For a moment, she thought of blasting him with a spell for unseating her and dragging her by the foot and causing her so much pain. Then she realized she should be thankful to him for saving her from that dragon.

Lanfareth shuddered at the memory of the giant beast’s spikes, fangs, and claws. She had never faced a dragon before. In fact, she had once bonded one, but it was so long ago that it seemed to be in her previous life. And in a way, it had been in her previous life.

A sudden feeling of instinctive hatred made her realize that Corpsegrinder was near. She still occasionally felt that way around Wrathlords and other creatures of the Darkside… although she had long ago become one of them.

Corpsegrinder galloped toward her on his lagarrion, slashing through the barley and lowering his head against the wind that clawed at his horns. He came to a rearing halt near her.

“The dragon took the two human vermin to his lair,” the Wrathlord snarled. He never asked whether she was injured. Although she would not expect him to, somehow it bothered her. She guessed that most humans would ask, and a sudden feeling of loneliness and despondency made her lower her head.

Then she growled in her throat and snapped her head up, angry at herself. What’s wrong with you today? she berated yourself. You’re thinking like an ordinary human maggot. It had to be the pain that had made her so weak and sensitive. She hated weakness. She scorned sensitivity. She had to be strong.

Lanfareth stood, trying to ignore the aches. The ankle that had gotten caught in the stirrup felt sprained, and she had probably lost some skin on her back, pulled a few muscles, and bruised a few ribs. She clenched her hands into fists and gritted her teeth so she would not groan.

“The dragon has to die,” she said firmly, chasing away a distant memory of herself weeping over a dead dragon. “So do the two human brats.”

Corpsegrinder nodded and wheeled his lagarrion around. She guessed it was his way of telling her that he would lead her to them. She walked through the knee-high barley to her horse. A groan escaped through her lips as she scrambled into the saddle.

The Wrathlord kicked his mount to a trot, then canter, then gallop. She gritted her teeth as she followed. They left the field, darted across a plain, and soon reached a spot where the high grass was trampled and scorched by fireballs. That had to be the place where the dragon had attacked them. It surprised Lanfareth; the horse seemed to have dragged her much farther.

They kept galloping, and Lanfareth sensed that Corpsegrinder’s Might was leading them to the dragon’s lair. The mounts began to slow down. The lagarrion limped and grunted in pain whenever it put weight on the leg Al’Anark had hamstrung. Her warhorse snorted with exhaustion and foamed at the mouth. Corpsegrinder heeled his lagarrion furiously. Nevertheless, they soon had to slow to canter and trot so the beasts would not drop dead.

“This putrid thing could gallop the whole day and night and never got tired,” the Wrathlord growled, giving the lagarrion a furious kick that made the beast screech. “And now it’s lame.” He clawed at the beast’s neck, his sharp fingernails scraping against the scales.

Lanfareth shrugged. “It’s the elf’s fault, but he got his due.” As she said it, something told her that it was not entirely true. She was about to ponder it when the Wrathlord snapped, “It’s your fault!”

Lanfareth scowled. “My fault?”

“You got me into this, you human whore,” Corpsegrinder snapped. “And now my mount is injured and I’m far from my regiment. You are less than dust to me, but now it’s personal so I’m going to kill the dragon and the kids. After that, I don’t want to see you again.”

“Why are you talking to me like this?” she snapped. She knew that Wrathlords were fickle and quick to anger, but this was too much.

“On which side did you fight during the Great Battle?” he asked her, viciously.

She smirked. So that was what had been eating at him. As he had focused on her to find her, he must have divined that she had fought for the Lightside.

“I was young,” she said irritably. “Every mage of the Circle begins by fighting for the Lightside, and I switched sides earlier than most. And over the years, I’ve proven my loyalty to the Wrathlands and the Dark Overlord.” Her voice turned icy as she added, “In any case, I have no need to prove myself to you.”

Corpsegrinder only grunted, and they trotted on without a word. They entered a small path that stretched among endless pastures, most of them fenced. The sheep, goats, and cows that grazed there rushed to the far side of the pastures as soon as the Wrathlord appeared. Their anxious bleating and mooing carried across the land. Smoke rose from the chimneys of faraway homesteads, but no people were to be seen.

Having left the path, they rode through a meadow, down an overgrown trail marked by deep wheel ruts. They steered off the path and followed a deer track through a small forest until they reached a large lake with a cliff towering on the faraway shore.

Corpsegrinder pulled the reins. “That’s where the little human vermin found refuge,” he said pointing to the mouth of an enormous cavern at the base of the cliff. He seemed to be in a better mood now. “And that’s where they’ll find death.” He chuckled. “I want to hear that little whore screech and beg for help.”

Lanfareth winced when she realized he was talking about Leya. It made her think of her child, which would be Leya’s age… if it ever had the chance to live. Was she truly prepared to murder Leya for the sins of her ancestors? She had tried twice, and twice she had failed. Was it a sign she should give up? And was she prepared to help kill a dragon, a member of a race she had once bonded and admired?

Stop it! she screeched in her head. Suddenly, she was mad at herself, mad for being so weak, mad enough to scratch her eyes out. She knew, deep down, that she was strange, and people had often told her she was insane. But who would not have gone insane from the ordeals she had experienced?

She screeched, this time aloud, and so vehemently that her warhorse tossed his head and Corpsegrinder gave her a furious look.

“What’s wrong with you, stupid woman?” the Wrathlord snapped. “Do you want to alert them of our presence? Don’t you know how a voice carries over water?”

Without an answer, she dismounted. “Let’s kill them all,” she said after a while. Be strong!

The Wrathlord sneered. “That’s better.” He also climbed down from the saddle.

Lanfareth stared at the cavern’s mouth and focused. “I sense there is not one dragon, but two.”

Corpsegrinder nodded. “I wouldn’t mind dueling with one of them, but two would be a little too much.” With a derisive scowl, he added, “Especially since you’re too weak to help me.”

Lanfareth clenched her fists and forced herself to be calm and patient. She would yet climb the Wrathland hierarchy, and then, maggots like Corpsegrinder would bow to her. Perhaps, she would become the Dark Countess, just like the legendary Agyra, the lover of the Dark Overlord Atropeth. If she did, Lanfareth would walk Corpsegrinder on a leash like the dog he was until his hands and knees bled.

“What do you suggest?” she asked in a flat tone.

“I’ll bring the putrid cliff onto their heads and crush them. But I need you to hold them in while I work my magic. Can you do that?”

She nodded. “I know a spell.”

The Wrathlord looked skeptical, but he said, “Let’s begin, then.”

Lanfareth cleared her mind, drew blood into her head, and summoned her Might. Then she imagined an invisible shield falling over the cavern’s mouth like a portcullis. “It’s done,” she said, wincing at how strained she sounded. “Do it quick; this will soon sap all my energy.”

Corpsegrinder arched his back and raised his hands. His black leather coat began to billow in strong winds, although weighed down by gold ringmail. A blinding snake of lightning flashed above their heads. A thunder roared and shook the earth. Black clouds rushed in. Giant waves began to roll over the lake, making it look like a tiny yet furious ocean.

The wind howled in Lanfareth’s ears over her horse’s alarmed nickering; a powerful gust blasted into her and nearly toppled her. The earth’s bowels rumbled as if they were about to rip apart. The earth trembled under her feet.

Hypnotized by the dragons, Derrik hardly noticed the storm outside. He knew it must have been at least an hour since they had landed by the cavern, and yet he could not get used to the sight of the two magnificent creatures. He kept wondering what kind of bond there might have been between the black dragon and his father.

The dragons had soon lost their curiosity about the humans, though, and gone to devour poor Blackwind. The cavern had darkened when the white dragoness had left for the plateau, but as she returned, her brilliant glow reflected on the giant, translucent stalactites, making Derrik feel as if he were in a dream. The light even reached the faraway walls, probing their crevices and making them glisten. Only the back of the cave swam in the dark, although he perceived some strange, golden radiance coming from a faraway recess. While he wished he could explore the whole cavern, he did not want to take liberties.

The black dragon often gave Derrik a long, knowing look, and Derrik’s feeling that the creature was connected to his father increased. But he could not explain it.

“The dragon really stares at you as if he knew you,” Leya said. She looked Derrik straight in the eyes and spoke with confidence in her voice. “And people say you look just like your father when he was younger…”

Derrik shrugged, unsure what to say. He kept wondering how the shy, taciturn girl had changed over just a few weeks. Nobody would remain the same in Lanfareth’s captivity, he guessed. Some people would go insane. Leya had grown and toughened way beyond her years. Even her face, which was so strangely lit by the dragoness’s white scales, seemed to have lost its childish roundness and looked mature.

“Do you think your father was a dragonlord or something?” she asked, looking around the cavern as if she hoped to find a giant saddle with Baard’s name engraved on the pommel.

“That’s absurd, Leya,” Derrik replied. But he was no longer sure. It would definitely explain why a traitor and a Wrathlord went after them.

Leya nodded as if she could read from the uncertainty on his face. “Our parents have been awfully secretive about their past. They can fight like weathered warriors, and they are full of old scars. Even my mom.”

“And mine,” Derrik replied, frowning in thought. “We should have pressed them for answers.” He doubted his father was a war hero, though. A war hero would not get hysterical when his son wanted to leave the village.

“Anyway, what should we do now?” Leya asked. “We need to find Broose and Glen.” Her face crumpled with worry. “I hope that Glen did not hurt his back even worse as Darkstorm galloped with him in a tow.”

Derrik winced at the memory of Glen’s stretcher rattling over the uneven path. Such a ride could have bruised even an uninjured man. “At least, Lanfareth and the Wrathlord went after us and not after them.” He was quite proud of steering the two monsters away from his injured friend.

“Let’s hope that they didn’t start pursuing the boys once we got rescued,” Leya said.

Derrik gulped and nodded. He glanced at the dragons, which lay on their bellies on the other side of the cavern, heads propped by their forelegs as if they were giant, winged dogs, and with their eyes closed. A gale howled outside and thunder rolled, but they seemed to have fallen asleep, digesting the horse.

“Do you think we can just leave?” he asked.

Leya giggled. “If you want to risk waking them from their nap to say goodbye, you can. But I wouldn’t do it. I got bitten by a dog when I accidentally stepped on him while he was sleeping.”

“Okay, so no goodbyes,” he said, chuckling. “I’d rather be ungrateful than accidentally bitten in half. But how can we get out of here?”

If he remembered correctly, there were several feet of sheer rockface from the platform to the lake, and there did not seem to be another exit. He scratched his head and frowned in thought. He wished he were as smart as Broose, who would surely figure the way out.

“Let’s see if we can climb down and swim,” Leya said.

Derrik followed her to the exit, wondering at how cold it was outside; the dragons’ heat had warmed the cavern like an oven. A gust of wind slammed into him and made him stagger. Black clouds wallowed above the cliff. The lake was strangely agitated, large waves rolling toward them and crashing into the rockface so furiously that light spray peppered his face. They would not be swimming anywhere until the lake calmed.

As they stood in the cavern’s mouth, something told him to look across the lake. He gasped when he saw two figures. Although the lake was vast and the figures far, he recognized a pair of horns that could only belong to a Wrathlord. Which meant that the woman with black hair beside him was Lanfareth.

“Oh, no,” he groaned, backing deeper into the cavern.

“Sleeping Goddess, protect us,” Leya whispered, her lips quivering. She also stepped back, looking uneasy on her feet. For a moment, she looked like the little girl he had known in New Thorstorm.

A low rumble made Derrik twitch and turn around. The dragons had awakened and lifted their heads. They got to their feet, craning their necks to see outside. Agitated grumble formed in their throats as if to compete with the thunder.

The ground shook under Derrik’s feet. A large crack blasted open just beside him. Another tremor made him stagger and fall. Leya fell beside him. The white dragoness bellowed in distress and rushed to the back of the cavern. The black dragon roared in rage as he stared across the lake at the Wrathlord. As Derrik tried to get up, another tremor kicked the feet from underneath him. Huge waves crashed against the rock underneath the plateau, and spuming water flooded the platform. An enormous stalactite fell beside the black dragon. The ceiling seemed to be ripping apart.

“We have to go onto the platform,” Leya called over the howling of the wind, the roar of the lake, and the rumble of the earth. She scrambled up and stood with her feet wide apart for balance.

“But the Wrathlord can see us!” Derrik replied as he also got up. “And he can roast us with a fireball!”

“Better risk a fireball than getting flattened by the ceiling,” she said. She pivoted and ran toward the cavern’s mouth—and staggered backward and fell as if she had hit an invisible wall.

Derrik rushed to help her to her feet, and then he turned to the cavern’s mouth. When he took a few steps forward, he hit something that felt like a sheet of ice. In panic, he ran along the cavern’s mouth, his hand outstretched. And the whole time, his fingers tracked the smooth, invisible shield. “We’re trapped!” he screamed.

The cavern kept trembling. Huge cracks opened in the ground, making tearing sounds. More stalactites fell with a deafening crash.

The black dragon rushed to the cavern’s mouth and rammed the shield with his enormous head. Now sound came, but the shield held and he staggered. He turned around, making Derrik and Leya scrambled backward, and he slammed the shield with his tail. Nothing.

The white dragoness appeared and charged forth. She turned at the last moment, slamming her massive shoulder into the shield. She swayed and roared in frustration. The dragons kept slamming their tails into the invisible shield but could not break it.

Another tremor came, and a few more stalactites fell to the ground. Suddenly, inexplicably, the ceiling seemed much lower.

“Oh, no!” Leya screamed. “The whole cliff is going to fall on our heads. And we can’t get out!”

Suddenly, the white dragoness towered above Derrik. He recoiled as she twisted her head down to him. She slammed her hot snout into him, so hard that she burned him and made him fly across the cavern. And slam his forehead into solid rock.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN: THE DISCOVERY

The cavern writhed in the earthquake like a wounded animal. Leya rolled back and forth, bruised by the rocky ground, which seemed to leap up to hit her like a battering ram. A stalactite fell an inch from her face.

The black dragon opened his enormous mouth and lowered his head to her as if he wanted to devour her. His enormous fangs gleamed in the light of the white dragoness; they loomed over her like a trap about to snap and cut her in half. Leya screamed, her breath catching in her throat, thinking that the creature had been possessed by the Wrathlord. But the dragon pressed his giant fangs against the ground on both sides of her to create a fanged arch above her and shield her from the falling rocks and stalactites with his head.

The light from the dragoness poured through the gaps between the dragon’s large, sharp fangs the way sunshine would pour through a barred window. The dragon’s fiery breath washed over her, making her feel as if her skin would peel off her flesh. She felt like an insect in a Daemorc’s fist, but she was safe from the falling stalactites.

“Derrik!” she screamed over the roar. He did not reply, and she hoped that he was alive, that the dragoness had also created a living shield above him.

Leya screeched when she heard a terrible CRACK! as if a giant rock had slammed into the dragon’s head and split his skull. The cavern got darker and darker, and she feared that the white dragoness was being buried under the ceiling. Where in the Wrathlands was Derrik?

Something crashed above her, making her shudder. The dragon’s head moved. It seemed that some of the dragon’s teeth broke against the ground on the impact. Then there was an indescribable, deafening noise, and the whole cliff seemed to fall on top of them.

The world dimmed, and Leya thought she was dead. Then she felt blood dripping from her forearm. Something must have ripped it, perhaps a flying piece of the dragon’s tooth.

A long tongue lolled out and fell over her legs, scalding them. The dragon’s breath no longer sent eddies over her, though, and Leya guessed that the dragon had died. She bent her knees and pushed the tongue aside with her feet. She felt blisters forming on her legs.

The tremor had stopped. Suddenly, the cavern was terribly silent.

“Derrik!” she screamed in the blackness. But he did not reply.

She screamed again, this time in panic. As far as she could tell, there were piles of rock all around her. Now she wished the dragon had not protected her. Getting killed by a falling stalactite was preferable to lingering death, trapped between the dragon’s teeth. Would she go insane before she died of thirst? She wished the Wrathlord had blasted the entire cave and killed her fast.

Only her ragged breathing interrupted the silence of the cavern. It was loud and panicked. Her heart hammered against her ribcage. When she opened her mouth to scream again, she realized that her throat was too constricted to make a sound.

A terrible aftershock rattled her body. Something roared underneath her. The earth seemed to open up, and she plummeted. The last thing she felt was a brutal hit to her head that made her see stars in the incredibly deep blackness. Then there was nothing.

The Sea of Oblivion was wet and peaceful. The wetness seemed to touch her face, but Leya guessed that she no longer had any face, that she had left her body beneath the collapsed cavern and only her soul floated in the Sea.

Too bad it is so dark, she thought. Whenever Broose—who always lectured her about the things he had read, whether she was interested or not—had talked about the Sea of Oblivion, she had imagined a large surface of water gently lit by a perpetual sunset. Oh well, I’ll get used to it.

Then she realized that her surroundings were not as black as she had thought. And not as quiet. Light seemed to move behind her closed eyelids, and muffled voices reached her ears, as if she had just woken up. Agony came along with the light and noises, a dull yet incredibly strong pain in the back of her head, and in all her muscles.

Leya forced herself to open her eyes, half-fearing that she had been dragged into the Wrathlands to be tortured. What she saw was a man bending over her in a weak, silvery light coming from high above his bald head. The man wore only a fur loincloth, the way Daemorcs did, but he was very short, probably less than four feet. A dark beard fell over his protruding stomach. His bushy eyebrows resembled two caterpillars crawling above round, beady eyes. He had a bulbous nose and very large, round ears. He grasped a waterskin that looked too big for his hand.

“Finally you was wake,” the man grumbled. “I was waste almost all water.” His accent was hardly intelligible, and his intonation was elaborate as if he were not used to speaking Aganopean.

Leya put her hand to her wet cheek. The man must have poured some water on her face to revive her. “Thank you,” she said.

She looked up and saw a patch of brilliant white scales. The body of the dragoness shone through a crack, illuminating something that looked like a tunnel with rugged walls. The place teemed with short people with loincloths, armed with stone axes, spears, and simple bows and arrows. The men had long dark beards, usually loose and occasionally braided. The women had fluffy side whiskers and mustaches, and strips of fur tied over their chests. They reminded her of Rasfera, the leader of the warrior nuns. But these females were much shorter. They all headed in the same direction, pausing and staring at her with a frown.

“What… what happened?” Leya asked her savior.

“I should ask you,” the man grumbled, scratching his nose. “You was fall into our tunnel!”

Our tunnel? The people looked so strange that Leya suspected they were no people at all. But she had something more important to ask. “Did you find a boy here?” She cringed as she awaited an answer.

The man shook his head. “No boy.”

“I have to find him,” Leya said, scrambling to her feet. Pain drilled into the back of her head, and she moaned and grimaced until it somewhat faded. Derrik must be up in the cave, and although the hope he had survived was small, she had to go there and search for him.

She cast about as if she hoped to find him in the tunnel, but the light of the dragoness only revealed those strange little people. They hardly reached her chest, and they twisted their heads up to her and gave her quizzing glances as they passed her. Several scowled and muttered as if she had fallen into their tunnel for pleasure. Some of them spoke to her savior in a strange, guttural language while nodding to her, and he replied something she did not understand. They had to be dwarfs.

They walked past and plunged into the blackness at the far side of the tunnel without hesitation, and she realized they could see under the ground. That only made sense; Broose said that dwarfs avoided sunshine and that the Dwarfish Realm, an enormous territory sprawling between the Elven Kingdoms and the Kalhan Desert, was nothing but a giant complex of underground caves and tunnels.

Although meeting members of this obscure race should have been the event of her life, she hardly cared. She had to find Derrik, dead or alive.

The dwarfs seemed to be as bad-tempered in real life as in Broose’s legends. Even her savior scowled as if she were pulling his beard. He had not left her side, though, and his sharing his water to revive her told her that he had a good heart.

She gave him a smile. “Will you help me find the boy, please? He is a good friend of mine, and he might be trapped under a rock up there.”

The dwarf’s frown deepened in thought. When it almost seemed that he would agree, he shook his head. “Chieftess comes soon.” He tossed his head toward the back of the procession. “She angry if she see me help.” Then he joined his comrades.

Leya sighed. She had been almost sure her savior would help her. His small stature and the ability to see in the dark would be invaluable up in the cave. Now she was on her own.

She looked up. The light of the dragoness showed weakly the gap through which Leya had fallen. The ceiling was just a few inches above her head. She lifted her hands, grasped the rough edges of the gap, and pulled herself up. She scrambled into the cave—and into the wide-open mouth of the black dragon, the poor creature that had saved her life twice and died.

The dragon’s mouth was still hot, and rivulets of sweat poured down her forehead. Weak light limped through the dragon’s shattered fangs, and Leya dragged herself through the largest gap. She saw the dragoness’s white scales shining among broken rocks. The dragoness was almost completely buried, and she did not move.

A pang of guilt bruised Leya’s heart. The dragons had died because the black one had saved her and Derrik from the Wrathlord. Lots of horrible things had happened because she and Eriana had left the village. She should have dragged Eriana back home, older sister or not, or awakened her parents and told them to stop her, rather than trailing behind her and getting snatched by a Corpsentinel.

Leya clenched her fists and tried to focus, but the feeling of guilt nearly made her weep. Broose had said that most dragons had been killed by the Darkside during the Great Battle and that most people never saw a dragon in their lives. Now she had indirectly caused the death of two of the last surviving specimens of that amazing race.

The ceiling had not collapsed completely, for the bodies of the dragons supported it at some places, along with the stalactites that had not shattered. She crawled on all fours under the masses of stone, hoping that another tremor would not bring them down on her head. She supposed that the Wrathlord and Lanfareth thought that she and Derrik were dead. She hoped that they were wrong about both of them.

“Derrik!” she called. Her voice echoed strangely in the closed space, and she felt that the shouting desecrated the dragons. Her echo made her headache even worse, and a stabbing pain in the back of her head brought tears to her eyes. Yet she shouted again. And again.

“Over here!”

The voice belonged to Derrik, and it filled with glee, although it was weak and dazzled. It came from the back of the cavern, where the light of the dragoness could not reach. But there seemed to be another source of light. Something golden shimmered in the distance, making her think of Broose’s tales about caverns hiding boxes with treasures.

She crawled toward the light and Derrik’s voice, and she was surprised to see that this part of the cave had not fallen. He sat on the ground with his back leaning against a stalagmite, lit by a strange golden oval that lay near him. His forehead had a nasty gash, and blood glistened on his face in the golden light. But his dazzled eyes shone brightly in that strange light.

“I think I banged my head as I walked from the inn,” he said, his voice slurred. “But I don’t think I drank too much. I must have slipped on ice. Damn, my head spins!”

Leya guessed that the blow to his head had caused what Ruah Soothsayer called brain rattling. He must have got knocked out, and when he had come round, he believed that he was back in New Thorstorm, injured from a fall on his way home from the inn. Ruah said that such confusion was quite common with head injuries. It usually got better in a few hours.

“Everything will be all right, Derrik,” Leya said, patting his forearm. “I’ll take you out of here and cure your forehead.”

Her eyes glided to the strange, shiny object. It was oval and the size of a big loaf of bread. It had beautiful golden scales that emitted light that was nearly as strong as the light of the dragoness. The air around it shimmered in golden hues.

“Oh, yes, I found this under the table in the inn,” Derrik said when he noticed her staring at the object. “It’s pretty. But hot like an oven stone. Hilts and blades! Why is everything spinning so much?”

Leya hardly listened. Her heart pounded when she realized it was a dragon egg.

The world finally stopped spinning, but Derrik’s head throbbed, and pangs of pain seared into his forehead. He barely remembered crawling after Leya through the collapsed tunnel, past the enormous corpse of the white dragoness and squeezing himself between the shattered fangs of the black dragon to ease himself down into a tunnel that was full of dwarfs. The older memories were much more vivid, though.

He recalled clearly the dragoness shoving him with her snout, burning his skin, and sending him flying toward the end of the cavern. Then came an explosion as he had banged his forehead, and the world turned black. He must have only come round to Leya’s shouting his name. At first, he thought that the dragoness had wanted to kill him, but now he realized that she had done it to save his life. Her maternal instinct must have told her that her egg was in a protected area, so she had shoved him there. She had probably headed there when the ceiling collapsed and crushed her to death.

Leya had bandaged his head with a handkerchief she had found in the pocket of her dress and sat beside him. She looked so tired she could fall asleep right there, sitting on the hard ground, her back leaning against the rough wall of the tunnel. The fluorescent dragon egg was between them, illuminating the tunnel and the large crowd of dwarfs that surrounded them. The dwarfs kept murmuring in their strange language and staring at them and their golden find. They never spoke to Derrik or Leya, and they often looked over their shoulder as if they were expecting someone.

The dragon egg was beautiful, with large golden scales and a surprisingly smooth yet hot surface. The sharp scales covered the shell in perfect rows as if the egg had been made by a master jeweler from an enormous golden nugget. Just like the dragons, the egg emitted a very pleasant smell that reminded him of a recently-snuffed candle.

Derrik was so grateful to Leya for returning for him and taking him to the tunnel that he thought of giving her the egg. However, his instincts kept telling him that the egg belonged to him. The black dragon had surely fathered the egg, and Derrik was still certain that the creature was somehow bonded to Derrik’s father. The dragoness had shoved Derrik into the safe part of the cavern so he would survive and take care of the egg in case she died. And he meant to do it. He hoped the little dragon would hatch soon. He looked forward to it the way a father would anticipate the birth of his firstborn.

I just hope the dwarfs won’t take the egg away from me, he thought, giving the crowd a mistrustful look. His head hurt too much, and he was too tired to get up and plow through them in search of an exit. He felt that if he stood, another bout of vertigo would send him to the ground. Neither he nor Leya had any idea where the tunnel led. Its far ends drowned in blackness.

“They seem to be waiting for that chieftess the dwarf who revived me mentioned,” Leya whispered to Derrik, eyeing the dwarfs. “What do you think they will do with us?”

Derrik shrugged. “I remember your brother saying that dwarfs were very territorial,” he whispered back. “And that they killed and enslaved humans who encroached on their territory. This isn’t Dwarfish Realms, though, but Araton.”

Leya said, “Yes, but the tunnel is theirs.”

Derrik nodded with a frown. The dwarfs were not much taller even though they were on foot and he was sitting. But their weapons looked sinister.

The dwarfs kept looking over their shoulders, and now they began to murmur and make way. Derrik could not believe his eyes when he saw four dwarfs carrying someone on a golden palanquin.

The dwarf they carried was female, stocky and with a snub nose. Her abundant, fair hair was combed in a very elaborate bun, perhaps to flaunt the fluffy side whiskers that reached her chin. Although she only wore fur to cover her breast and loin, just like the other female dwarfs, she wore an array of golden rings, earrings, bracelets, and necklaces. The jewelry glittered in the light emitted by the egg.

The four bearers stood in front of Derrik and Leya. They carried the palanquin on their shoulders, which explained why the tunnel’s ceiling was high enough for Derrik to stand straight. The female dwarf looked so important that he wondered whether it was appropriate to keep sitting. But then, dwarfs seemed pretty short-tempered, and she could disdain the fact that he was taller than she when he stood, although she was on the palanquin. Besides, she was the ruler of dwarfs, not of humans.

A dwarf with a red, braided beard who had been following the palanquin said in a pompous voice, “Greet Ylaha, the chieftess of all dwarfs.”

Leya bowed her head but kept sitting, and Derrik followed suit.

“And who in the Wrathlands would you be?” Ylaha asked, giving them a curious look. While she had a very thick accent, she spoke proper Aganopean.

Derrik guessed that since he was older, he should do the speaking. “I’m Derrik, and this is my friend, Leya. We come from Gaaltor.”

Ylaha nodded. “That scores a point. We are good neighbors.”

That surprised Derrik. Northern Dwarfish Realm did share a long border with Southern Gaaltor but he never heard of dwarfs and humans being too brotherly. But then, he came from the northwest, a region near the Elven Kingdoms.

“Now, tell me what happened,” Ylaha said in an authoritative voice, staring at the dragon egg.

Derrik told her about the Wrathlord and Lanfareth chasing them, and about the black dragon saving them and taking them here, only to be killed by their pursuers along with his mate. He told her about the earthquake and the invisible shield that had prevented them from escaping from the crumbling cavern, and about his discovery of the egg.

Ylaha kept smoothing her side whiskers with her bejeweled hand as she listened. Then she nodded. “The dragons were your friends, and the dwarfs are friends of dragons. And we hate Wrathlords and humans walking the Darkside. I suppose I’m glad you didn’t die, especially since you got that egg.”

Derrik glanced at Leya, who gave a slight shrug and looked perplexed. Same as he, she did not seem to know what to make of that strange female. Ylaha was their ally, it seemed, but a rough one. And what was that she had said about the egg? Did she plan to take it from him?

He tilted his throbbing head and frowned when she leaned in her palanquin and stared at him. “You look an awful lot like a man I met shortly before the Great Battle,” she said, giving him a quizzing look, the ends of her bushy fair eyebrows nearly touching.

“Was the man’s name Baard Thon?” Leya asked.

Although Derrik expected Ylaha to shake her head, her eyes opened wide. “The very same.”

Derrik frowned. “Father never told me he knew dwarfs.”

Ylaha thought for a second, twisting one of her golden rings. “Then he had a good reason for that,” she said, looking away to show him that she would not say more.

Derrik and Leya exchanged a confused look. He could not wait to find out all of the secrets his father had harbored. He was determined to press Al’Anark or Torsum for details as soon as he saw them.

“In any case, the dragon egg is yours,” Ylaha said. She had said it benevolently and gave him a long look as if she expected him to thank her.

Although he was relieved, he decided not to. The egg had been his ever since the dragoness had shoved him toward it and died. He was increasingly certain that it had been the dragoness’s dying wish that he would raise the hatchling.

“I hope you take good care of it,” Ylaha said, sounding a bit vexed. She thought for a while and added, “There are never enough dragons, especially now that the putrid forces of the Wrathlands have swarmed the lands of the Lightside. I guess I have a good reason to protect you and the egg.”

Ylaha spread her arms, making her bracelets jingle and sparkle in the egg’s golden glow. “This tunnel leads from Northern Dwarfish Realm to Cahes. Normally, my servants use the tunnel as a commercial route, to trade minerals for gold. This time, we are going to Cahes to take another tunnel to Dar Kahar to help defend the magical battleax, Tarroth. You can go with us if you wish.”

Derrik shook his head, wincing at the pain it stirred. “Normally, we would accept gladly, for Dar Kahar is our ultimate destination. But we have to return to the place where the Wrathlord attacked us and try to track down our friends.”

He looked at Leya to see if she agreed. She thought for a while and then she said, “Cahes is on the way to Dar Kahar. Eriana will be heading the same way, and so will Broose and Glen. And Eriana will surely find us with her Might, especially if she found Al’Anark who could help her. If we go to Cahes, chances are that we all reunite there.”

Ylaha gave them a quizzing look. “Al’Anark is another name I know. You human saplings have a very powerful friend.” She twisted her side whisker in thought. “That must be one of the reasons you have such powerful enemies.”

Derrik nodded absently, thinking of what Leya had said. Heading for Cahes under the protection of the dwarfs truly sounded more logical than roaming the surrounding area and trying to find their friends. Especially if the Wrathlord and Lanfareth were still around. Especially if civil war raged above.

“The egg will light the tunnel, so I suppose we can travel through it easily,” he said. He only regretted that he would not see the sun for weeks or perhaps months. Then a straight thought made him frown. “But if we are under the ground, Eriana’s and Al’Anark’s Mights won’t reach us,” he said.

“But neither will the Mights of that traitor and the Wrathlord,” Ylaha said. “Besides, you won’t be underground all the time. We emerge every night to hunt and sleep in the woods.”

Derrik nodded with a smile. He would not see the sun but at least he would see the moon and the stars. Spending the day walking through a black tunnel would not be that bad if he could look forward to sleeping in a forest. And the dwarfs could protect him and Leya from the monsters.

“You shouldn’t emerge for a few nights, though,” Ylaha said. “If you do, the putrid Wrathlord and that traitor will find out that you’re alive and go after you.”

Derrik and Leya nodded. It made sense.

Ylaha spoke in the dwarfish tongue to a servant, who rushed away. He came back a few moments later with a wide strip of hide, which he gave to Derrik. The chieftess said, “Put the egg on the hide so it doesn’t burn your hands, and let us go.”

Derrik did as she had said, and he and Leya stood. Carrying the precious egg as if it were a giant jewel, they followed Ylaha and her retinue through the tunnel.

CHAPTER NINETEEN: ELVEN MAGIC

The forest path was so steep and muddy that Eriana had to dismount and lead her stallion by the bridle. The horse snorted as he scrambled up. A fallen tree barred the path. Al’Anark lifted the tree, raising one end above his head with incredible strength, and she yanked on the bridle to bring the horse’s head down and walk underneath it. As she kept struggling over the mud, she was surprised to see the wall of a stone building among the treetops.

“I told you we’re going the right way,” Al’Anark said with a grin, his good ear twitching from tangled masses of golden hair. Not a drop of perspiration glistened on his gentle, ageless face, and he did not seem out of breath while she was sweaty and tired from the climb. It was as if he were eighteen and she ancient, not the other way around.

She nodded. “It seems that we’ve reached a high road. Finally.”

The forest ended abruptly, and Eriana tilted her head to the mid-morning sun, which now poured on her face unobstructed. Having basked in the warm sunrays for a while, she scrutinized the building. It was the temple of the Goddess Aganope, judging by the domed roof, and it could use sprucing up. The walls were dark with grime and overgrown by creepers. The tombstones in the small cemetery behind the building barely poked up from high grass. The high road stretched past the temple, wide enough for two carts but full of muddy potholes.

They walked to the high road and turned right to head east. Eriana guessed they were in the heart of Araton, about five hundred miles from Cahes. She and Al’Anark had coincided in their feelings that her siblings and friends were heading to the Aratonese capital. That was where they would go as well.

Eriana mounted, but Al’Anark would keep walking, as usual. The elf could really trot as tirelessly as her stallion—although she would prefer if he sat in the saddle behind her and embraced her. Her skirt had been pulled up to her mid-thigh as she mounted, but she did not pull it down. Although Al’Anark pretended not to see her naked leg, his good ear twitched so much she thought it would break off. He had treated her as a friend or sister throughout the journey, and although it vexed her, she had to admire his strong will.

They usually slept in the woods, and when the night got too cold, she pressed her body against his so his elven heat kept her warm. The silly elf never stepped beyond snuggling, to her chagrin, but his heavy, ragged breathing told her that it took him all his willpower to keep his hands still.

Good, she always thought. Let him suffer.

The sight of the temple made her believe that they were nearing a sizeable village or a small town, and she hoped that somebody had seen her siblings and friends. Pastures stretched left and right. A line of trees behind the pastures indicated they were following a river. Lambs and sheep scattered whenever her stallion snorted or tossed his head. Cows stared at them with dull eyes, and only their mouths moved as they chewed the grass. She smiled and shook her head when she saw a black goat chasing around a flock of sheep.

As the road veered closer to the river, they saw dozens of storks strutting around a flooded field, tilting their heads on the lookout for frogs. A little later, they neared a large village. And she immediately knew that someone from New Thorstorm was there.

Heart fluttering, she looked down at Al’Anark who grinned, his good ear twitching. He said, “I think our search has come to an end, beautiful human girl. And sooner than we hoped.”

Eriana was not sure it was entirely true. She felt that Broose and Glen were there. But she did not sense the presence of her sister and Derrik. Although she rejoiced about reuniting with at least some of them, she wondered why they had split.

The very first house of the village bore a wooden, weathered sign above the door that said, The Grand Palace Inn. Despite its name, it was not in a much better shape than the temple they had passed, all flaking plaster and rotting thatch, and she doubted there were more than two or three bedchambers upstairs. But the feeling that Broose and Glen were inside made her steer the stallion into the front yard of the small building.

A man sat there on a tree trunk, smoking a pipe and staring at a pile of firewood he was probably supposed to chop. He was old and very stout, with a tanned, wrinkled face and a forked white beard. He wore a red cap to match his veined nose and a white shirt that was full of stains. It was hard to tell the original color of his woolen leggings. His bare feet were remarkably filthy.

He smiled and nodded to her good-naturedly, but his face darkened with anger as he noticed Al’Anark. “Are you an elf?” the man growled around the stem of his pipe, standing up and glaring at Al’Anark’s long ear. His sing-song Aratonese accent was incongruous with the anger and threat in his voice.

Al’Anark shrugged and said, “What if I am?”

The old man pulled the pipe from his mouth. “I want no filthy elves in my inn!” he spat, loudly enough to startle a blackbird that was sitting on the roof. The stallion shook his head and sidestepped. The man glanced at a long ax at his feet as if he wondered whether to pick it up to chase Al’Anark away.

Suddenly, Eriana trembled with anger. She dismounted and put her hands on her hips. “How dare you…?”

She trailed off when the front door opened and her brother, Broose, came out. He no longer seemed to have much excess fat, but had gained bags under his eyes that told her he had not been sleeping well.

Broose smiled at her and Al’Anark and said, “It’s so good to see you both!” Then he winced. “But I see you didn’t bring Leya and Derrik.”

Eriana gulped. “The last time I saw them, they were with you.” She made it sound like a question.

Broose sighed. “It’s a long story, I’m afraid. But let’s not waste our time right now. Glen is inside, and he needs your help.” He turned to the old man with a frown. “I hope you did not mean the horrible things you were shouting, Antor?”

For a few seconds, the old man looked ashamed, and Eriana thought he would say he had been joking. Then he said stubbornly, “I said I don’t want any filthy elves here, and I meant it. Never had them as guests. Never will.”

Broose inhaled and crossed his arms. “According to the Aganopean Constitution, the races of the Lightside are equal all over the Lightside’s territories. They may travel as they wish around the empire and have the same rights wherever they go. Of course, we no longer have much of an empire to speak of, but I never read of any kingdom changing this particular law.” He gave the old man a challenging look. “Have you?”

Suddenly, the man chuckled. “I can’t even read, so…” He shrugged. “I guess the filthy elf can go in for a few moments.” Then his face turned serious. “But I’m not going to serve him.”

“Well, I don’t want to go in,” Al’Anark said. That was one of the few occasions when Eriana saw him frown. “I crap on your Grand Palace.”

Antor smirked and spat on the ground.

Broose turned to Al’Anark. “I think you should go in, elven friend. Glen will be happy to see you, and he can’t come out right now. And he sure could use your healing heat.”

Al’Anark sighed and nodded. “Well, let’s go.” An amused expression played on his face as he jerked his thumb to Anton and said, “I hope the palace’s common room is cleaner than this human’s feet.”

The old man spat again and shoved the pipe back in his mouth.

Broose glared at him with his arms crossed. “Please, get my horse ready,” he said, sternly. “We won’t stay here much longer.”

Antor shrugged and stomped toward the stables. Eriana tied her horse to a young cherry tree, and then she followed Broose and Al’Anark into the inn.

As he led them through a darkened hallway that smelled of mold, Broose said, “That man had been so nice to us. He helped me carry Glen inside, and since the stairs were too narrow for the stretcher, he let him sleep in the common room last night. He even treated us to a few tumblers.” He shook his head. “It’s incredible how racism can turn normally nice people nasty and vicious. Racism and politics.”

Al’Anark chuckled. “That’s why we elves have no hierarchy or rulers. I’m a military leader when we’re at war, but in peacetime, I would get a crack on my nose if I tried to order someone around. Unfortunately, there’s nothing much we can do about racism. I’m afraid that some elves are guilty of that as well.”

They entered the common room, where a few long tables and benches stood on a floor covered by rotting straw. The smell was much more pleasant than in the hallway, for lamb stew bubbled under a slow fire at the back of the room. Eriana wanted to ask about Leya and Derrik when she noticed Glen. He was lying on a stretcher on the longest table, lifting his head to them and waving.

“So you’ve joined the party,” he said as they came over and gave him a quick, careful embrace. His hair was no longer spiked, and he had a haggard look, yet his eyes beamed with their usual cheerful light. He tilted his head to look behind them. “I hoped you’d bring Leya and Derrik, though.”

Eriana frowned. What was going on? “The four of you were supposed to go together to Dar Kahar,” she said, testily. “What happened?” She held her breath as she waited for Glen or Broose to speak.

Broose scratched his head. “Glen needs urgent healing, so—”

“It can wait a minute longer!” Eriana snapped. A horrible premonition was starting to hollow her insides.

Glen turned his head to Broose, “Just tell them, Brother.”

Broose winced. “All right,” he said with a sigh. “We were taking the high road toward Dar Kahar when we noticed Lanfareth chasing us, along with a Wrathlord. I kept galloping along the road to take Glen to safety while Derrik and Leya leaped over a ditch and galloped across a plain. The two rotters went after them.”

Glen added in a strained voice, “That was the last we saw of them.” The merriment had left his eyes without a trace.

Eriana saw the world spinning, and she staggered. Two pairs of hands grabbed her and lowered her to a bench. The dizzy spell soon passed, but nausea made her bend over and dry heave. Fear for her sister brought tears to her eyes. As if it was not bad enough that there was a treacherous silver-level mage after them, Lanfareth had now got a Wrathlord to help her. What happened to Leya and Derrik?

Suddenly, she shot to her feet, so angry that she could demolish all the benches and tables in the room. She heard herself scream, “And you kept traveling toward Dar Kahar? You never tried to find them?” As soon as she had said it, she calmed. And realized that she had put her foot in it.

A horrified look spread over Glen’s face, and Broose’s cheeks reddened with anger. She was sure that they had looked everywhere, and that they had only come to this dingy place because they had been too tired to go on.

“How dare you question us if it’s all your fault!” Broose snapped, making her gasp. He glared at her and raised an accusing finger. “If you hadn’t snuck out of home like a thief in the middle of the night to chase Al’Anark, Leya would be now safe in New Thorstorm. If she died, you’re her murderer.”

“I would have sensed if she died,” Eriana said weakly, praying that it was true.

Profound guilt, and the fear for Leya, brought tears to her eyes. The fact that her brother had shouted at her, for the first time in her life—and that he had a good reason to—made her even more wretched. Deep sadness poured into the cauldron of guilt and fear that bubbled in her soul, making her want to crawl under the table and cry.

Al’Anark put a hand on Broose’s shoulder. “Calm down, my human pal,” he said in a soothing voice. “Death is such a powerful thing that I would have surely sensed it. They are alive. And we’ll find them as soon as I fix Glen’s back.”

Broose sighed. He glanced at Eriana as if wondering whether to apologize, then he turned back to the elf. “Please, try to heal Glen.”

“Yeah, I’d prefer to listen to your arguing while sitting up,” Glen said, giving them a brief smile. “I always dreamed of sleeping in a tavern or a common room, and I finally had the pleasure last night. But I’m a bit tired of lying down.” Although he tried to sound nonchalant, pain filled his voice, and he stared at Al’Anark with desperate hope.

Al’Anark inhaled deeply. “Let’s turn you over, human pal.”

The elf and Broose turned Glen onto his belly, and Eriana pulled up his shirt. Glen’s spine was still terribly bruised from the horse’s hoof. His whole back was discolored with red and purplish patches and blisters. Eriana winced. Bedsores.

“The bruise is a good sign, human pals,” Al’Anark said. “It means that the fracture isn’t that old, and beyond healing. Let’s see what I can do.” He lifted his green eyes to her. “It is a serious injury, though, and I’ll need your Might, beautiful human girl. Otherwise I could fail.”

As he spoke to her, Broose’s eyes glided between her and the elf with curiosity as if he wondered what had happened between them. She cleared her throat and said, “What do you need me to do, Al’Anark?”

The chieftain said, “When I tell you, wrap your fingers around my wrists and clear your mind as if you were about to cast a spell. I’ll do everything else.”

She nodded, and he placed both hands on the bruise. Glen grunted. The air around Al’Anark’s hands began to shimmer.

The elf glanced up at her. “Now.”

She wrapped her hands around his wrists and summoned a mental wave to wash away all her feelings, worries, and thoughts. Immediately, she felt all her strength, body heat, and Might being sapped away from her. A dizzy spell made her stagger. She shivered as if she were naked in a blizzard.

Blood roared in her ears—and yet she suddenly heard angry shouting. “What in the Wrathlands is this?”

She glanced up and saw the innkeeper rushing toward them, glaring. “I don’t want any filthy elven magic in my inn!” he yelled.

Al’Anark winced, and Eriana felt the heat rushing back to her hands. She feared the elf would lose his concentration, so she screamed at the innkeeper, “Get out or I’ll scratch your eyes out!”

Broose called, “We’ll recompense you for your trouble, Antor. But now, please leave and let Glen be healed!”

The man grumbled, but he left the common room. She hoped he would not return with the ax.

Al’Anark narrowed his eyes in concentration, but not a wrinkle marred his smooth, ageless face. The heat and energy rushed away from Eriana again, and the elf’s face blurred. Her head spun and she thought she would faint. Her knees turned into lard. She feared she might fall and interrupt the healing.

The sounds of steel hitting wood told her that the innkeeper had started chopping the firewood in the front yard. She hoped it would calm him, and that he would not bother them again.

At last, Al’Anark lifted his hands, and she let go of his wrists. She shivered and felt dizzy; she hardly noticed that Broose wrapped a blanket over her shoulders. But the bruise on Glen’s back had faded.

“Try to turn around, human pal,” Al’Anark said to Glen.

Glen obeyed and then he sat up, wincing in pain, but his eyes shining with happiness. “You cured me, you elven genius!” he exclaimed, tears running from his eyes. He whooped and laughed with excitement until a bout of cough made him stop.

Everyone cheered as if they had not shouted and argued a few moments ago.

“You really cured me!” Glen said in a trembling voice, staring at Al’Anark with wonder and admiration. His grin was so wide he seemed about to dislocate his jaw. Happy tears still ran from his eyes. “Now let me hug you!”

He swung his legs over the table to stand, but his feet did not support him. He would have fallen had it not been for Broose and Al’Anark skipping to him and supporting him.

“Easy there, pal,” Al’Anark said. “You need to regain your strength first. You shouldn’t be walking for at least a day.”

“Day my armpit,” Glen exclaimed happily, wriggling out of his friends’ clutch. He swayed but managed to stay on his feet. “See? I’m cured!” He turned to Eriana with a grin. “I think I can even dance! Why don’t we—” He swayed again and staggered into Broose’s arms.

A scream of pain came from the front yard. They hurried outside, Broose holding the wobbly Glen under the arm. The innkeeper was sitting on the trampled grass, holding his thumb. Rivulets of blood streamed through his fingers. The ax lay beside him, the blade stained red.

Antor lifted his head to them and exclaimed, “Master elf, please help me! I’ve nearly sliced my thumb off.”

Al’Anark raised his eyebrows. “You want to be healed by filthy elven magic?”

“Yes!”

“Are you sure?” Al’Anark asked. He seemed slightly amused.

“Yes, please!” Antor groaned. “I see that you cured the young master’s legs. Curing a thumb must be nothing for such a wonderful mage as you.”

Al’Anark chuckled and shook his head, but he approached the innkeeper. Bending over, the elf pulled Antor’s hand away and put his hand over the bleeding thumb for a few moments to cauterize the cut with his inner heat.

As the elf let go and wiped the man’s blood from his hand into the grass, the innkeeper stared at his thumb in wonder. Gritting his teeth, he tried to bend the thumb and sighed in relief when he managed. He scrambled to his feet and stared at them. His astounded look soon turned cunning.

Glancing at Glen, Antor said, “I suppose that now that young master can walk, you won’t need that stretcher. I’ll keep it to transport goods and firewood. And I’ll forego the compensation, which Broose mentioned when the lady so rudely cursed me out of my own inn.”

Eriana frowned. Broose had mentioned compensating the awful man for allowing filthy elven magic in the common room. But she would think that the cured thumb was enough.

She said so, and the innkeeper shook his head. “I’m very skillful with an ax, you see? I only cut myself because your bunch had irritated me.”

Glen scoffed and said, “You know what? Keep that stupid stretcher. I’m glad that I no longer need that putrid thing.”

The innkeeper ignored the derision in Glen’s voice and gave him a cunning look. “Now that young master is no longer maimed, he’ll need a horse. I have one, and I can give you a special price for it.”

Glen shook his head. “I’d rather walk than ride a horse of yours, whatever the price.”

The innkeeper gave him a hurt look.

“My friend is right,” Broose said. “I thought you were a good man, but you’re a bigot.”

The innkeeper frowned in confusion, and it was obvious he did not know that word.

“In any case, we’re out of here,” Glen said.

Broose nodded. “Let’s get our horses.” Broose and Eriana went to get their stallions, which were tied to the same tree. As they returned, the innkeeper kept wringing his hands, wincing when he touched the recently-healed thumb.

“If you don’t want a horse, at least stay for lunch,” Antor said. “Master Broose, you said you were starving, so I’ve made a whole cauldron of stew. Even the elf is invited. The stew is delicious, with mushrooms and lots of lamb.”

The four of them looked at each other and shook their heads. Not even Broose seemed to have much appetite, disgusted as he was with the man.

“You can put your cauldron on your new stretcher and drag it to the Wrathlands, pal,” Al’Anark said.

Broose chuckled and then he turned to Glen. “I’ll help you into the saddle and I’ll walk, along with our friend, Al’Anark.”

Eriana shook her head. “Please, take my horse, Glen. Broose is right, and everything is my fault. It’s my fault that, for a while, you won’t be able to walk properly. It’s my fault we now have to comb the empire for Leya and Derrik. Take it.”

Suddenly, Broose turned to her and pulled her into a hug. He broke the embrace only a moment later, but it had made her heart beat with bliss. “I’m sorry about what I said, Sister,” he said, looking ashamed. He was suddenly lost for words, perhaps for the first time in his life. “I didn’t mean it; I was just suddenly so angry and… I didn’t mean it.”

“You were right to say that, Broose,” she said, rubbing his forearm. “But we can’t undo what has been done. We can only try to fix it. Well, I can only try to fix it. And I’m so grateful you’re going to help me, like the wonderful brother you are.”

He smiled and embraced her again. “And as the wonderful brother, I’ll walk and let you ride your horse. Now let’s help Glen up and get out of here.” His tone admitted no arguing.

“All right,” Eriana said. “But we will take turns. And I’m sure that from time to time, we can both ride the horse without breaking his back.”

Al’Anark climbed Broose’s stallion, stood on his back, and lowered his hands for Glen. Broose and Eriana lifted Glen, and Al’Anark pulled him into the saddle. Glen groaned in pain, but he beamed like the sun above when he grasped the reins. The elf gently patted his shoulder and leaped off the horse.

As Eriana also mounted, Broose turned to the innkeeper. “Farewell, Antor. I hope that you and your greed and prejudice will live happily together in your palace.”

They left without giving the innkeeper another look. When Eriana glanced back, several yards down the high road, the man was still standing there, staring at them with his jaw hanging.

CHAPTER TWENTY: THE WHOLE TRUTH

Summer had arrived and yet the nights remained chilly. The dwarfs did not seem to notice, looking as comfortable in the tunnel as in a windswept forest, but Derrik and Leya always slept near a roaring bonfire, with the scorching dragon egg between them. They had been traveling for over a month, plodding through the endless tunnel during the day, and emerging to spend the nights outside.

The tunnel had shafts, every fifteen or twenty miles, that led up to the hearts of forests. The dwarfs always emerged at dusk, for the sun would burn their sensitive eyes and skin, and Derrik wondered what kind of biological clock told them when it was safe to leave. Descending underground just before sunrise, Derrik and Leya had not seen the light of the day for weeks. The gloom of the tunnel often mirrored their mood. Had it not been for the egg’s golden glow, they would have been blind as bats most of the time… and about as cheerful.

Derrik had learned to hunt in the twilight, and he often got a hare, which abounded in the woods of Araton. The one he had killed tonight was as large as a cat and as fat as a piglet. As usual, he had skinned the catch while Leya prepared a bonfire in the middle of the sprawling encampment. The dwarfs always let them camp in their midst for protection, for Lanfareth and the Wrathlord had likely realized that they had survived. The dwarfs rarely associated, however, and only the chieftess, Ylaha, occasionally visited Derrik and Leya for a few moments. She was obviously more interested in the egg than in them, though.

As they each roasted their half of the hare on a sharpened stick, Derrik said, “We’ll have plenty of meat left to take into the tunnel for lunch tomorrow.” His mouth watered as he watched the fat dripping from the meat. The skin glistened, nearly as golden as the dragon egg in the firelight. “Although I’m hungry enough to eat my portion right away.”

“You shouldn’t give me half of everything you hunt, Derrik,” Leya said. “I’m much smaller than you; a third would be enough.”

He smiled and waved his hand. “You’re still growing, Leya. You need lots of meat.”

She looked at him and gave him a dazzling smile. Leya looked beautiful in the firelight and in the glow of the dragon egg, her soft skin radiant and her bluish green eyes sparkling, and he almost regretted pining after her sister and not paying Leya any attention back in New Thorstorm. But she was his sister now, and besides, his best friend, Glen, liked her. Although it was not sure whether she liked him. Or any other boy.

“In any case, we should be close to Cahes,” Derrik said. “There we can use the money I got from High Mage Torsum to sleep in an inn and have a wonderful feast.”

She smiled and nodded. “Let’s hope we will reunite with my siblings and our friends there, too.”

He sighed. “Yes, let’s hope so.” They had seen no signs of Al’Anark or the other New Thorstormers.

Realizing that it had not sounded very encouraging, Derrik said, “I’m sure that your sister found Al’Anark, and that they have found Broose and Glen. And they will find us as well.” At times he had nightmares about Broose and Glen staying far behind, looking for them at the place where the Wrathlord and Lanfareth had attacked them. But he never told Leya.

She smiled but said nothing. They fell silent, rotating the portions of the hare above the crackling flames. Derrik’s eyes often snapped toward the egg, which was nested on a strip of charred hide beside him. His eyes were drawn back every few minutes as if pulled by invisible threads. He could almost feel the faint pulse beneath the scaly shell, he could almost hear mysterious whispers from within. The tiny creature slowly seemed to have become part of him. He checked the egg for cracks dozens of times a day but had not found any yet. At times, he felt sick with fear that the dragon would never hatch.

The moon hid behind clouds, and the sky grew black. The egg shone more fiercely, the flames dancing on the golden shell. Somehow, the fire seemed to twist much more slowly on the egg’s surface. Derrik had noticed it several times before but could not explain it.

The guttural tongue of the dwarfs carried across the darkened woods, and their bonfires flickered all around. The chieftess Ylaha appeared, on foot rather than on a palanquin, but surrounded by four guards armed with stone axes.

“Good evening,” she said as she approached their fire, which reached the level of her chest. Her golden jewelry sparkled in the bonfire, along with her fair, elaborate bun and the fluffy side whiskers.

“Good evening, chieftess,” Leya said. Derrik only murmured and nodded.

Glancing at the meat on the sticks, the chieftess said, “I see that you had a good catch tonight.”

Before Derrik or Leya could reply, she spoke in her tongue to a guard, who bent for the egg and picked it up. A human would hiss and drop the scorching egg, but the dwarfs seemed to be immune to heat and cold, just like elves. She took the egg from him to examine it, as if it belonged to her. Derrik glared, breathing hard with annoyance and wondering whether to speak up. He did not care one bit for the proprietary airs she was putting on.

“No cracks yet,” Ylaha said, sounding disappointed. She handed the egg to the guard, who put it back on the strip of hide.

Derrik expected her to leave, but the chieftess said, “My scouts have brought disturbing news: Cahes has been besieged by the Darkside.”

Derrik frowned. “Why would the monsters besiege Cahes? Weren’t they marching to Dar Kahar to steal Tarroth? Why did they change their plans?”

No longer feeling hungry, he put the stick with the rabbit on the grass. Leya followed suit, twisting her braid and staring at the chieftess with troubled eyes.

Ylaha said, “I think they still mean to steal Tarroth. But it’s easier to break into Cahes than into Dar Kahar because Cahes is less heavily fortified.”

“That doesn’t make sense,” Derrik said. He realized he sounded irritated; he was still angry about the guard handling the egg. He wanted to pull the dwarf’s long, braided beard. “Tarroth is in Dar Kahar, not in Cahes.”

“It does make sense, boy!” Ylaha said touchily. “If they break into Cahes and storm the enclosure of the local Magic Circle palace, they could reach the Circle’s headquarters in Dar Kahar within moments.”

Derrik only gawked, but Leya asked, “Do you mean they could go through the ten-mile portal?”

“That’s right, girl,” Ylaha said.

“The ten-mile portal?” Derrik asked.

Ylaha rolled her eyes at his ignorance while the guards smirked. Derrik felt his face burn. The dwarfs looked like tiny Daemorcs with their loincloths and stone axes, and yet they now surely felt superior because they knew something he did not.

Leya turned to him. “Ten-mile portals are magical gateways that connect the seats of the Magic Circle across the continent,” she said in a lecturing tone that reminded him of her brother. “One step inside the portal forwards the travelers by ten miles, so they can cross the entire empire incredibly fast.”

Derrik gulped. “So if the monsters broke into the ten-mile portal in Cahes, they would be, in a few moments, inside the Magic Circle in Dar Kahar?”

Leya nodded, and then she frowned in thought. “But isn’t the Archmage the only one who has the ability to travel through the portal, Ylaha?”

The dwarfish chieftess shook her head, making her earrings swing. “That’s a myth that has been perpetuated by Archmages for centuries. It’s believed that anybody with an exceptionally powerful Might can do it. A high-ranking Wrathlord, for instance. Or the Dark Overlord.”

Leya cringed. “And Tarroth is somewhere inside the palace complex of the Magic Circle in Dar Kahar, isn’t it?”

Ylaha frowned and nodded. “It is, probably within a mile from the magic portal.” She sighed and shook her head. “In two days, we’ll reach Cahes, and I pray that it won’t be too late. We will get into the city through the tunnel and help defend it from inside.” She squared her shoulders. “We dwarfs can only fight at night, due to the putrid, murderous sun, but our combat skills more than compensate for the disadvantage.”

“Then we’ll go with you,” Leya said in a determined voice, straightening her back just like Ylaha did.

Derrik frowned. “How can we reunite with our group, though, if the monsters besieged the city and—”

A horn blasted through the encampment, drowning his words and making him twitch.

“An alarm,” Ylaha said, turning around. She hurried away, surrounded by the guards, shouting orders in the guttural dwarfish tongue.

Suddenly, the encampment resembled a beehive, with dwarfs rushing back and forth, their black outlines darting in the lights of the bonfires. Derrik and Leya stood, exchanging a worried look. They had come very close to a besieged city, and the camp suddenly seemed a very dangerous place. Was the Wrathlord and Lanfareth after them?

“Maybe we should hide in the tunnel,” Leya said.

“Good idea,” Derrik replied as he crouched above the dragon egg and wrapped it.

Following Leya through the mayhem, he held the egg in his arms and winced when it burned him even through the hides. The moon had come out and shone on the camp to show them the way. As his eyes darted about to make sure that the Darkside was not sneaking up on them, Derrik realized he feared for the life inside the egg more than for his own.

Just as they neared the shaft, Derrik noticed that the dwarfs calmed. They kept calling at each other in their tongue, but relief, amusement, and slight embarrassment filled their voices. Most of them returned to their fires.

“Derrik, look!” Leya exclaimed, pointing.

To his delight, he saw Broose and Glen in the moonlight, with Eriana and Al’Anark behind them. Al’Anark was on foot, while Eriana and Glen rode the black stallions from High Mage Torsum. Broose rode a sturdy bay with strong legs he must have bought at a farm.

“The dwarfs almost shot us because they thought we were monsters,” Glen called in an amused voice. “But we said we were your friends, and they let us enter. Anyway, how in the Wrathlands are you doing?”

They dismounted, and Glen rushed to hug Derrik while Broose and Eriana dashed to their sister.

Derrik found himself laughing with glee as he wrapped his arm around his friend’s broad shoulders while holding the egg under his other arm. “It’s so good to see you, Brother,” he said, slapping Glen’s back. “And it’s even better to see you on your feet!”

“I’m so happy we’re together again!” Glen exclaimed in Derrik’s ear, loudly enough to plug it. “Al’Anark and Eriana healed me. And they led us straight to you and Leya!”

They broke the embrace, and then Broose, who had just finished hugging Leya, pulled Derrik into a bear hug, so vehemently that Derrik feared his friend would crack the egg. “I’m so glad that Wrathlord didn’t kill you,” Broose said, his voice breaking. “Al’Anark and my sister kept telling me that you and Leya were well, but I didn’t really believe it until now. You’ll have to tell me all about your escape!”

“I will, Brother!” Derrik said. “And you’ll have to tell me about your journey!”

“You bet!” Broose said as he let go of him.

Derrik felt strangely calm as he hugged Eriana. Had she hugged him back in New Thorstorm, he would have surely blushed like an idiot, his hands sweating and his heart pounding. Now he was just happy that she was alive. Still, feeling her body against his gave him a jolt of tingling energy. She had lost some weight, and her cheekbones stood sharply against her skin. But her eyes looked even larger and more haunting.

As he greeted and embraced Al’Anark, Derrik could not help wondering whether something had happened between her and the elf. He immediately felt ashamed, for Al’Anark showed genuine happiness at seeing him, his eyes sparkling and his good ear twitching.

“What is the bundle, Derrik?” Glen asked, nodding to the egg. “Are you trying to hide a loaf of bread from Broose?”

Derrik chortled. A loaf of bread, indeed! “You’ll see!”

They went back to Derrik’s and Leya’s fire, drawing curious looks from the dwarfs. The horses followed them willingly, snorting and rolling their eyes as they stared at the dwarfs with suspicion. Broose beamed like the moon above them as he led his sisters by their hands.

They sat around the fire, and Derrik said, “I’ve got something to show you.” He breathed hard with pride and excitement as he unwrapped the egg, letting its luminescent scales shine in the light of the fire. The egg looked like an enormous, meticulously ornamented gold nugget, and everybody’s eyes filled with awe.

Derrik’s jaw began to hurt, and he realized he had been grinning like a fool as he watched their reaction. Nobody seemed to notice as they stared at the firelight dancing on the scales. “It’s a dragon egg,” he said, proud like a father showing off his firstborn.

Al’Anark seemed to be more stunned than the others. “How… how did you find it?” he asked, a single line furrowing his smooth forehead.

Derrik and Leya exchanged a glance. “It’s a long story,” they said, almost at the same time.

Al’Anark shrugged. “We are not going anywhere, human pals.”

Derrik and Leya narrated everything that happened in the dragons’ lair, and the group spent most of the night exchanging stories about their journeys and adventures. They finished roasting the hare, and each took a piece.

They had spent most of the firewood and the flames were starting to die when Leya said, “You might have already divined it, but we have some disturbing news, which we’ve learned tonight.” She glanced at Derrik as if wondering whether to tell them or leave it up to him.

“Chieftess Ylaha told us that Cahes had been besieged,” Derrik said, nodding to Leya to encourage her to speak. As Leya repeated what Ylaha had said about the siege of the Aratonese capital, everybody listened in silence, their faces growing more and more serious.

“The monsters are pretty cunning,” Al’Anark said. “Instead of marching for another month or so to Dar Kahar and trying to break through its heavy fortification, they surprised everyone by besieging Cahes.”

Broose nodded. “If they managed to breach the city walls and fight their way to the portal, they would get near Tarroth within moments. Besides, they caught the forces of the Lightside unprepared because everyone was getting ready to defend Dar Kahar. That’s a stroke of genius.”

“We need to go there and help!” Glen exclaimed.

They all nodded, and Derrik stared into the flames and fidgeted with the hilt of his sword. Soon, he would be in the midst of an epic battle, as he had always dreamed about. However, he was not sure whether he was ready for it, following all the hardships he had endured. He would have preferred to spend a few days in a peaceful village and sleep in a warm bed.

Broose said, “I’m against my sisters’ going to Cahes, now that I know the city is besieged by monsters.”

Eriana perked up. She inhaled as if to tell him off, but Al’Anark put a calming hand on her forearm. Derrik frowned, but he forced himself to relax his facial expression a moment later. Don’t make them think you’re jealous, you sawdust-headed idiot, he berated himself.

“I think it’s safer for the girls to enter the city through a tunnel and find a safe place to stay, my pal,” Al’Anark said to Broose. “I, for one, can’t imagine them walking back, alone across half the empire, which is not only overrun by monsters but also ravaged by civil war.”

Broose pulled on his beard, which did not seem to be quite as fluffy as before. He had lost a lot of weight, but his skin was pink from the sun, as it was every summer. Derrik guessed it contrasted sharply with his and Leya’s paleness. “But our parents must be fretting sick over them!”

Eriana said, “I reached out to Ruah and told her we were well. I’m sure the soothsayer heard me and told everybody.”

Broose frowned but said, “Very well, then. As long as we find a safe place for you and Leya.”

Eriana crossed her arms. “We’ll see about finding a safe place.”

Broose raised his eyebrows. “You don’t mean to fight, do you?”

Leya said in a weak voice, “Let’s not argue now that we’ve finally reunited.”

Broose smiled at her and rubbed her back, but he shot a wary look at Eriana.

Al’Anark said, “In times of war, women with healing abilities usually help in field hospitals.”

Glen gave the girls a wide grin. “And Eriana and Leya are women with healing abilities.”

Broose frowned. “In a civil war, field hospitals are considered safe havens, their sanctities respected by both sides. But we’re at war with the Darkside, and I doubt that the monsters respect...” He sighed. “Anyway, in a besieged city, a field hospital will be as safe or unsafe as the royal palace. I guess my sisters may work there.”

Eriana smirked. “I don’t need your permission, Broose.” Then she leaned to him and kissed his bearded cheek. “But thanks.”

Derrik had been only half listening, for he had been thinking of another problem. “But High Mage Torsum is expecting us in Dar Kahar,” he said.

Broose shook his head. “I’m sure that Torsum would be heading for Cahes, now that the monsters’ focus has shifted there. After all, he’s the High Mage of Araton, and Cahes is the capital.”

Derrik nodded. “That makes sense.”

Glen added, “I suppose that Torsum will soon be there, and he’ll find us. Maybe he will go through that ten-foot port!”

Broose harumphed like a displeased lecturer. “It’s a ten-mile portal, Glen.”

Glen chuckled and waved his hand. He had spiked his hair again, and seemed to have fully recovered from the ordeal of having his back broken.

“That’s decided then, human pals,” Al’Anark said. “I’ll ask Ylaha to let us all travel with them. We’ll enter Cahes through the tunnel and help defend the city.” He yawned and stretched. “We should go to sleep now. We have difficult days ahead of us. I’ve been through a siege, and let me tell you, the garrison doesn’t get much sleep.”

The elf looked at Derrik and the three siblings. “Your parents could tell…” He trailed off and cleared his throat as if he had said something he had not meant to say. He frowned, and his good ear twitched in agitation.

“What is it that you wanted to say?” Derrik said. “I think it’s time we knew the whole truth about our parents.”

Al’Anark shifted his eyes. “What do you mean?” he murmured.

Derrik said, “What do I mean? The chieftess of all dwarfs knowns my father. Lanfareth was after us, later even with the help of a Wrathlord. I felt that the dragon who saved us was connected to my father, and now you’ve suggested that our parents were battling a siege. Nobody’s going to sleep until we hear the whole truth.”

Derrik’s friends nodded, leaning to the elf and urging him to speak.

Al’Anark sighed. “All right, all right, human pals. I thought I would leave it to Baard, Diara, Ufi, or Mardok, but I guess it’s up to me to tell you.” He scratched the stump of his ear as if wondering how to start.

“It all began over twenty years ago, back on the island of Thorstorm. A local Wrathlord cursed the land, and the king’s soldiers kidnapped pretty girls from all over the realm to appease him. One of the girls was called Diara.”

Derrik gulped. “My mother?”

Al’Anark nodded. “I really think that your parents should tell you the whole story, and I’m sure that one day they will. I’m not going to tell you all because it would take days to tell. Let’s just say that a boy called Baard set off to rescue Diara from the Wrathlord’s palace.”

“My father!” Derrik whispered. He breathed hard as he waited for the elf to continue.

Al’Anark smiled and nodded. “Your father. On his journey, he met a wizard called Sethric and his adoptive daughter, Mardok.”

The siblings looked at each other. “Our mother and grandfather,” Eriana said, her dark eyes shining like obsidian.

“That’s right, beautiful human girl,” Al’Anark said. “Sethric was the High Mage of Thorstorm, and Mardok was a very talented mage herself. They taught Baard magic, and because of certain circumstances, he also became a mage.”

“Our mother and Derrik’s father were mages?” Eriana asked. “How come I never sensed any Might in them?”

Al’Anark sighed. “They lost their Mights here in the empire in the Great Battle, during which Sethric died, but that’s another story. Anyway, you need to know that, with the help of Mardok and Sethric, and with the help of me and my elves, Diara became free, and Baard became a Wrathlord Slayer, the hero of Thorstorm.”

Derrik leaned back and frowned in disbelief. His father… A hero?

Al’Anark looked at him and nodded as if sensing his incredulity. “That’s not all. Baard was so famous that the king got jealous of him and sentenced him to die, but he was saved by a man called Ufi, who later became his best friend.”

The siblings exchanged an excited look. Leya clapped her hands and said, “Our father is also in the story!”

Al’Anark rubbed his eyes. “It really is late, so let me make this short. The remaining Wrathlords declared war on humans and elves, which we finally won, also thanks to the bravery of Baard, Diara, Ufi, Sethric, and Mardok. All of us later ended up here in the empire to fight against the Dark Overlord.

“Baard Thon was named the Warrior-Summoner, my pals. He was the one who struck the ground with Tarroth to call mages and fighters, dead and alive, to the Great Battle. He brought a terrible sacrifice, and he fought and conquered Atropeth, the old Dark Overlord.”

Glen whooped and slapped Derrik’s back, but Derrik hardly felt his friend’s large hand. He thought he was dreaming, and only the heat of the fire on his face and the cold of the night on his back told him that he was awake. Every child knew about the Great Battle and the Warrior-Summoner. That legendary figure was… his father?

“But why would the Warrior Summoner and his close friends end up in obscurity in a hole like New Thorstorm?” Broose asked.

Al’Anark sighed and his green eyes clouded with gloom. “The empire disintegrated shortly after the Great Battle. It was tragic, really. The Dark Overlord was dead, and the monsters on the run. But instead of chasing and destroying the monsters, humans turned against each other. That meant that most monsters survived, and it gave a prominent Wrathlord called Saitaan a chance to proclaim himself the new Dark Overlord.”

The elf stared into the dying flames and rubbed the stump of his ear. “And for reasons I still can’t comprehend, many people blamed the Warrior-Summoner for causing all the trouble. That’s why Baard, Diara, Mardok, and Ufi decided to live in seclusion and secrecy, in a village tucked in the corner of the empire, close to the Elven Kingdoms.”

The elf fell silent, and the listeners stared into the flames. Al’Anark leaned toward the diminishing pile of firewood and threw a few boards into the flames.

Derrik knew that it would take him several days to process all he had heard. “I still can’t believe it,” he said. “My father was the hero of Thorstorm? A Wrathlord Slayer? The Warrior-Summoner of Tarroth? But he always… Ah, he always seemed so… timid.”

Al’Anark gave Derrik a hard look. “After the Great Battle, when Baard realized that Diara was pregnant, he swore a solemn oath to keep his child away from wars and danger.”

Derrik gulped. “That’s why he has always been so secretive and overprotective.”

The elf nodded.

“Still… it’s hard to believe,” Derrik said, although he knew he sounded stupid.

Al’Anark sighed. “I’m not here to try to convince you, human pal. But let me tell you that the black dragon that saved your life was surely Dhra’ack, a dragon which Baard raised and bonded.”

Derrik gulped and nodded. He guessed that nothing should surprise him anymore. He glanced at the golden egg beside him. “Why weren’t they together, then?” he asked.

The elf said, “During the last hours of the Great Battle, the Dark Overlord cast a spell of oblivion over the dragon, making him forget that Baard was his pal and rider. Dhra’ack almost attacked Baard before he flew away. And nobody saw him again.”

Leya said, “And now that the dragon saw Derrik being chased by the Wrathlord, he remembered and realized that Derrik was Baard’s son?”

Al’Anark smiled and shrugged. “It’s possible, smart human girl. Or perhaps it was High Mage Torsum who steered Dhra’ack toward you and Derrik.”

The group began to talk about all they had learned, and about all the possible reasons why Dhra’ack had saved Derrik and Leya, but Derrik hardly listened. His father had killed a Wrathlord to save his mother. And they had fought in a war, and Baard conquered the Dark Overlord and…

Derrik’s head began to spin, and he was suddenly so nervous that he had to stand and walk around the encampment. As he was later falling asleep in his bedroll, with Dhra’ack’s unborn progeny in the glowing shell beside him, he sent a silent apology to his father for calling him a coward.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE: ON THE RAMPARTS OF CAHES

To Derrik, Cahes resembled an anthill just before a storm. People rushed around shops and markets to stock up on food to endure the siege, lamenting the lack of supplies and the high prices caused by the monsters’ razing the farms outside the city. Many shops were closed, and the banging of hammers on nails carried through the streets as shopkeepers boarded up their doors.

The poor were leaving the suburbs for the heart of the city, their meager possessions on their backs or handcarts, desperate to get as far from the city walls as possible. They blended with wide-eyed peasants who had escaped from nearby villages on oxcarts and horse-drawn wagons. Both groups drew curses from footmen and bodyguards who trotted ahead of lacquered carriages. City guards strutted in their red-and-blue surcoats, glaring with distrust as if they suspected everyone of being a traitor.

Cahes seemed to be much larger than Balabor, with hovels and wooden houses strewn haphazardly along the dirt paths of the suburbs, and with rows upon rows of stone houses lining paved throughways. Built in veined white marble, the enormous royal palace crowned a large hill above the city, with gilded domes and bronze statues standing along the flat roof.

Having ushered Derrik and his friends to a shaft leading to the city, Ylaha and her subjects stayed underground to wait for nighttime and join the garrison. Al’Anark reunited with his elven troops while Eriana and Leya joined the healers and physicians who were preparing medicines, ointments, and bandages in a drab, brick hospital in the suburbs. And Derrik, Broose, and Glen had suddenly found themselves alone amid the mayhem.

They found lodging in an inn near the wall separating the city’s ancient nucleus from the newer suburbs. After a long, painful hesitation, Derrik had reluctantly left the dragon egg hidden under the bed before they left the bedchamber. As they roamed the crowded, sunlit streets, they spotted a large group of armed men heading toward the ramparts. Although they had no armor or uniforms, the men marched like soldiers in a tight, orderly formation.

“They are probably members of the citizen army,” Broose said.

“Let’s go with them!” Glen exclaimed, rushing to march along. Broose and Derrik exchanged an exasperated look as they hurried after him. Their friend’s back had healed completely and he was the old Glen again, afflicted by laziness one moment and possessed by unbearable energy the next.

Some of the volunteer soldiers gave them a strange look, but then they shrugged and kept marching. Listening to their conversations, Derrik realized that they were going to relieve an Aratonese banner on the wallwalk on the city ramparts.

Derrik kept clenching his sword hilt, feeling cold sweat make his hand stick to the smooth leather. At last, he would fight in a real battle, defending an enormous city from monsters, as he had always dreamed. But all the adventures had exhausted him, as had the long march through the dwarfish tunnel. He had hoped that the men were just going to an encampment for sword practice in preparation for the battle.

Stop this, you wimp, he berated himself. You’re the son of the Warrior-Summoner, so act like one! He was only slowly getting used to the idea, though. He could not wait to see his father to apologize and tell him how much he admired him.

Two volunteer soldiers started talking just beside him, severing the trail of Derrik’s thoughts.

“… told me the putrid monsters made themselves trebuchets,” a middle-aged man with a bald, sunburned head and a bushy brown beard was saying.

His comrade nodded. “I heard it, too,” he said grimly, tugging at his fair, waxed mustache. “Let’s pray to the Sleeping Goddess they won’t deploy them while we’re up on the ramparts.”

Derrik leaned to Broose. “What in the Wrathlands are trebuchets?” he murmured, softly so nobody else would hear. He felt that as the son of the Warrior-Summoner, he should know all about warfare. But he did not.

“It’s a type of catapult, Derrik,” Broose said, more loudly than Derrik would have liked. “It’s a towering, wheeled tripod with a very long beam that has a counterweight on the shorter end and a sling hanging from the longer end. Warriors place payload—usually large stones—into the pouch of the sling and release the sling with the help of ropes. That makes the stones fly at their target, usually at city walls or into the city behind them. They are terrible machines that can shoot up to a thousand feet!”

Derrik inhaled the warm, summer air through his teeth. What in the Wrathlands have we got ourselves into?

Broose signed. “I wish we could have a bite to eat before facing those trebuchets.”

“And a drop to drink,” added Glen, licking his lips.

Derrik wished he could have both, but his friends kept marching alongside the soldiers, ignoring inns and taverns, and he went along.

At first, they walked down cool throughways shaded by towering stone houses, but as they reached the half-empty suburbs, the sun glared at them over one-story hovels. Although Derrik had yearned for the sun during the long weeks spent in the darkness of the damp tunnel, his skin tingled with sunburn and he wished for shade. Cahes was much hotter than New Thorstorm, perhaps because it was in a valley and farther south than his village. Despite that, he saw many men in cloaks and women in mantles.

They passed an enormous park where the red-and-blue banners of Cahes and the green-and-white banners of Araton fluttered in the warm breeze above endless rows of large canvas tents. The garrison had converted the park into its encampment. Near the edge of the camp, a group of bare-chested men rotated an ox on a large pit above a roaring fire. The breeze brought the smell of roast beef.

Broose perked up and sniffed. “This is the first time in my life I wish I was a real soldier,” he grumbled. “I’d hate to die on an empty stomach.”

Glen laughed and patted Broose’s shoulder. “And I’d hate to croak with my throat all dry, but nobody’s dying today, Brother. Once our task is done, we’ll stuff ourselves with meat and ale in our inn’s common room. We’ve got enough money from that High Mage to last us several weeks.”

Broose frowned and shook his head. “If the monsters start shooting from the trebuchets, and if their projectiles are especially heavy, we will be done for. Not even hiding under the crenels might save us because they’ll probably destroy the whole parapet.”

“What are crenels?” Derrik asked, raising his eyebrows. “And what is the parapet?” Now he truly felt daft.

Broose sighed. “The parapet is the protective wall on the top of the ramparts. It’s usually over six feet tall but there are gaps there which only reach a man’s waist and where defenders stand to loose arrows or bolts. The gaps are called crenels, and the higher parts between them are called merlons.”

Glen grinned. “I hope that no monster cracks that smart head of yours, Broose. It would be a shame.”

Broose nodded gravely. “It would.”

They reached the ramparts, which reared over a hundred feet toward the blue sky. Craning his head, Derrik said, “And they say that the walls of Cahes are low and easy to breach?”

Broose nodded. “And that’s why the monsters decided to attack this city rather than Dar Kahar. The ramparts of Dar Kahar are the second highest of the former empire, after Renekah, measuring one hundred and fifty feet.”

Glen chuckled and shook his head. “You’re either a genius… or full of crap, Broose.” Prodding his friend’s ribs with his elbow, he asked, “Which one is it?”

Broose shrugged. “If we ever reach Dar Kahar, you can measure the wall yourself, man.”

A large crowd of soldiers in conical steel caps, mailed shirts, and green-and-white surcoats poured from the side-gate of the ramparts. They must have seen the reinforcements coming and headed for the encampment. Many of them took off their helmets to wipe their sweaty foreheads with the back of their hands. Their shoulders sloped with weariness.

“It was about time!” a man roared at the volunteers from the gate. He wore plate armor over a mailed shirt, and a skirt of black lobstered metal to protect his thighs and knees. The purple ribbon of a captain fluttered from his right epaulet. “The real soldiers were about to drop dead with exhaustion!”

The members of the citizen army murmured apologies as they rushed into the gate.

“Why do they let this rotter shout at them?” Glen asked with a frown. “Aren’t they volunteers? They should crack his nose.”

Before Broose or Derrik could reply, the men behind them pushed them into the gate. Darkness swallowed them, and Derrik stumbled as he began to climb the winding stairs inside the ramparts. Only now and then, an arrow slit let in a bit of daylight, and he kept peering at his feet on the shadowed staircase. The sunlight blinded him as they reached the top of the ramparts and entered a wallwalk with a high wall with gaps about ten feet apart. Not a wall with gaps, he corrected himself. A parapet with crenels and merlons.

Another armored captain stood there, shouting, “To the left, to the left,” and shoving the members of the citizen army who did not move fast enough. He held a pike, and he seemed to be tempted to prod the slowest volunteers.

Other pikes leaned against the parapet, and most volunteers took one. “I guess they are for grabs,” Glen said, grasping one and hefting it. Derrik and Broose followed suit.

When the captain saw them, he shouted, “Halt!” and stretched his arm sideways to bar their way with his pike. He was a short man with a hooked nose and mean thin lips. A thin, gray braid hung limply over his shoulder, resembling a rat’s tail.

“You look like outlanders!” he said accusingly. Derrik wondered what could have given them away. “Who let you up here? Where are you from?”

“Gaaltor,” Glen said, squaring up his shoulders. “We came to help defend the city.”

The captain frowned in thought as if trying to remember whether Araton had ever been at war with Gaaltor. “How do I know that you’re not saboteurs?”

Derrik shook his head. “What do you think we’re going to do? Throw the other soldiers over the ramparts? Skewer them with the pikes and roast them for supper?”

The captain inhaled as if he were about to snap when Broose said, “Look, my sisters are in the city, helping in the hospital, and I’m here to protect them as much as I’m here to protect the city itself. You should be grateful for every hand you get.”

The captain frowned, but then he gave a small nod. “All right, go,” he grumbled. “But I’ll be keeping an eye on you.

“Please do that,” Glen said with a wide grin. “The wallwalk doesn’t seem very safe.”

The captain gave him a murderous look, and Derrik pushed Glen along. They walked down the wallwalk, which was quite crowded at first, with ‘real’ soldiers and the citizen army alike, but the crowd thinned about a hundred feet later. Having passed a merlon with an iron pole supporting a large bell, they reached a crenel with three armored crossbowmen in red-and-blue surcoats.

“This looks like a good spot,” Glen said, elbowing his way to the crenel. The crossbowmen gave him filthy looks but said nothing.

Derrik briefly glanced to the left at the city below, and then he turned and craned his neck to look over the crossbowmen’s shoulders. He saw the high road and the drawbridge over a deep moat that led to the main gate. About five hundred feet beyond the city walls, hundreds of black-and-red tents, and wattle-and-daub huts and dugouts spread in the fields and meadows, embraced by a deep ditch and a high palisade. The monsters had built a small city from which they could harass Cahes.

Thousands of Daemorcs dressed in loincloths milled around the camp, along with enormous hordes of antlered monsters in black breastplates over mailed shirts and crimson surcoats. Corpsentinels, Derrik thought, glumly. Another race of the Wrathlands I’ll soon have the pleasure to meet.

He winced when he noticed three enormous contraptions, which had to be the trebuchets, and dozens of long ladders leaning against the palisade. Dark clouds wallowed above the monsters’ camp, which probably meant that Wrathlords were there. And around the clouds, six or seven dragons circled, roaring and screeching, and flicking their spiked tails.

Broose and Glen gawked at the winged, scaly behemoths as if they had been hypnotized. It was the first time they had seen dragons.

“They are so majestic,” Broose said in awe.

“They are,” Derrik replied. Sleeping goddess, don’t let anyone enter our bedchamber and steal the egg!

The dragons circled the clouds but did not fly through them or swoop underneath them to get at the monsters.

“Why don’t they attack and roast those rotters?” Glen asked. “Are they afraid?”

Broose shook his head. “I doubt it. More likely, a Wrathlord has set up wards which the dragons cannot pass.”

Derrik kept thinking about the unborn dragon. He prayed it would not hatch while he was away.

The world seemed to get dimmer, as if a black cloud had blocked the sunlight, and Derrik wondered whether something was happening to his eyes. Tendrils of dark fog slithered along the plain that separated them from the monsters’ encampment. Soon it swallowed the high road and the drawbridge.

The garrison began to shout in agitated voices. Derrik could make out the outlines of his friends and the three crossbowmen, but he could not see beyond the ramparts. Something exploded against the parapet, making the ramparts shake.

“They are bombarding us!” Broose yelled. “Take cover!”

Derrik crouched under the crenel, covering his head with both hands. The bell began to toll above his head, and he guessed that one of the crossbowmen pulled the long rope to alert the people in the suburbs. The fog thinned, but stones kept slamming into the ramparts. Some of them flew over the walls, and he hoped they would not hit the hospital.

Another explosion came, this one very close. Debris pelted his head. The bell crashed to the wallwalk. Someone screamed in pain. Derrik lifted his head, fearing it was one of his friends, but Broose and Glen crouched unharmed right beside him. A crossbowman with a bloodied head was crawling away. Another was lying under the bell. Derrik moved to help him when he saw that the man’s skull had been crushed. Derrik closed his eyes again, coughing when stone dust entered his mouth and nose.

The bombardment ended as fast as it had started. However, the sudden silence was even more ominous than the noise of stones hitting the wall. Tongues of dark mist still licked the ramparts.

“Are you all right, Brother?” Broose stood above him and stretched his hand out to help Derrik to his feet.

Breathing hard, Broose kept looking at the dead man, whose brains hung from his broken skull, resembling overcooked scrambled eggs. The other two crossbowmen crouched nearby. “You should have worn a helmet, Gustan,” the uninjured one said to his bloodied comrade. He was also bareheaded.

“Our first bombardment!” Glen exclaimed as he scrambled up, eyes shining from a face darkened by stone dust. “We survived our first bombardment.”

“We did,” Derrik said, wincing at the way his voice shook.

Something told Derrik to look to his right. To his surprise, a man stood on the top of a crenel about a hundred feet away, raising his hands toward the encampment of the Darkside. Derrik saw only the man’s outline, but as the fog suddenly thinned around him, Derrik saw that the man had a brown mustache, a long white beard, and gray hair worn in a long braid. He wore a thick silver chain around his neck and a blue cloak with the ahritaal, the symbol of the Magic Circle. Four young men stood around him. They wore mail shirts under red and black surcoats embroidered on the chest with the ahritaal.

“High Mage Torsum!” Derrik called as he recognized the man who had saved their lives in Balabor.

“Torsum, Torsum, over here!” yelled Glen.

But the mage did not seem to hear. He frowned in concentration as he faced the enemy camp. He spread his fingers and arched his back as if he wanted to push away the fog that still shrouded the plain beneath the ramparts. The fog began to thin and disappear. Sun flooded the plain. The fog receded until it only wallowed above the monsters’ encampment as before.

Derrik looked down over the crenel—and blood congealed in his veins. Hundreds of Daemorcs and Corpsentinels milled just under the ramparts, raising ladders and leaning them against the wall. The monsters were incredibly fast, and many were already climbing up toward them. It was the most frightening sight Derrik had ever seen.

“Those rotters had used the fog to invade us!” Broose shouted. “How dishonorable!”

Dragons overflew the Daemorcs and Corpsentinels, roasting them with fire and slamming their tails into the ladders. But hundreds of other monsters were rushing across the plain to replace them, the long ladders in their claws. The dragons gathered about five hundred feet away, circling above the ramparts and belching fire.

“Wrathlord, Wrathlord!” somebody shouted there.

Torsum turned his head to the New Thorstormers and called, “Stay safe, I’ll find you later.” Then he leaped off the crenel and rushed toward the dragons, the four guards in tow.

A few Daemorcs were climbing a ladder toward the boys’ crenel. They wore nothing but loincloths, and muscles rippled on their enormous bodies. Their horns were more sinister than swords; their hands resembled battering rams. They got closer and closer.

Four men dressed in civilian clothes rushed forth. Three lifted the bell, straining under its weight, and the fourth pulled the dead crossbowman from underneath it. They lifted the corpse and swung it over the crenel. The corpse flew at the first Daemorc and got impaled on its horns, but it did not cause the monster to fall. The men cursed, and Derrik watched in horror as the Daemorc shook its head to get rid of the corpse, making it plummet, before it resumed climbing.

Broose leaned over the crenel and jammed the butt end of his pike against the ladder’s highest rung. “Help me heave it over!” he shouted. Derrik and Glen joined him, pikes braced against the ladder. But the ladder would not budge.

“Damn it!” Glen shouted in frustration, lobbing the pike at the Daemorc and missing.

“Don’t waste pikes, you dummy!” Broose shouted.

Archers and crossbowmen leaned over the crenels and loosed arrows and bolts. The denizens threw rocks and logs and poured cauldrons of boiling water, but the monsters were unstoppable. A few Corpsentinels spilled over the ramparts a hundred feet away.

“Waken your steel!” a man shouted as he rushed at them with a sword.

“Waken your steel!” others roared in response as they attacked the antlered monsters.

Meanwhile, the Daemorcs got even closer, and Derrik wondered what to do. He was the son of the Warrior-Summoner; he could not just stand and gawk and wait for the monsters to swarm the ramparts. He glanced around, and his eyes landed on the bell. The rope that was used to make the bell toll had snapped. One end was tied through a loop at the bell’s top while the other end lay loose on the flagstones. The rope was about twenty feet long. That had to do.

Ignoring his friends’ questions about what in the Wrathlands he was doing, he wrapped the rope’s loose end around his chest, tying it with a double knot. Then he climbed onto the crenel. “I’ll hack the top rungs off so the monsters can’t reach us,” he said as he drew his sword.

“No!” Broose exclaimed.

“This is crazy, Derrik,” Glen shouted.

Derrik winced. If even Glen thought it was crazy, it had to raging mad. Nevertheless, he took a deep breath and started lowering himself over the crenel. Although the bell looked heavy enough to support him, it started to slide over the gory flagstones. Broose skipped to the rope and held it, shouting at Glen to help him.

Derrik climbed down and started hacking at the ladder’s first rung. The nearest Daemorc roared in rage a few feet below him, making his blood curdle. As Derrik cut through the hard wood, the monster got so close that he could almost touch its horns with the tip of his sword. Taking a deep breath as if he were about to plunge into an icy lake, Derrik lowered himself to the second rung and hacked at it until he splintered it.

Now the Daemorc could not reach the crenel. But it could reach Derrik. The monster’s stupid face split into a vicious sneer as he reached for him.

“Pull me up!” Derrik yelled in panic as he pressed his trembling feet against the wall to heave himself upward.

Just as Broose and Glen began to pull, the Daemorc’s giant hand grabbed Derrik’s foot. Derrik screamed and wriggled like a hooked eel, and his friends kept pulling, but the monster would not let go. The other Daemorcs roared eagerly below the first one.

The monster yanked on Derrik’s foot. The rope tightened around Derrik’s chest, nearly breaking his ribs and making him lose his breath. Derrik hacked at the Daemorc’s wrist, making it bleed. The monster roared, pulling back its lips to reveal giant teeth. Black gore trickled down his arm from the gashes. But it would not let go.

As the monster heaved up toward him, Derrik stabbed at its face. A lucky chance made the tip of the sword slide into the monster’s left eye. The Daemorc bellowed in agony and fell, taking another giant down with him. Derrik shook so much that he nearly dropped his sword. Glen and Broose cheered as they pulled him up. He tried to press his feet against the wall to help them, but the soles of his shoes kept slipping on the stone.

They heaved him over the crenel and he staggered into their arms. “You’re a hero!” Glen exclaimed as he pulled Derrik into a tight hug, slapping his back with his large hands.

But Derrik did not feel like a hero. He was shaking like a lapdog. And he fought the urge to glance down to make sure that it was only sweat that had wetted his leggings.

Then Broose shouted, “Watch out, you idiots!”

Derrik pulled away from Glen and twisted his head left and right. Three Corpsentinels had fought their way toward them and were about to attack. The boys hefted their swords.

“Waken your steel!” Glen shouted, repeating the Aratonese war cry. He lunged at the nearest monster as Broose crossed blades with another one.

The third Corpsentinel turned to Derrik, its cruel lips pulled back, its fangs reminding him of a wolf. Its eyes were just black slits in the horrid head, and yet they seemed to glow.

Derrik heard himself roar as he lurched at the monster with Spark shooting from a bonfire, one of the first forms he had learned from his father. The monster parried, pivoted, and swept its steel at Derrik’s head. Derrik ducked under the blade and staggered.

The Corpsentinel hefted its sword. Its terrible mouth seemed to grin.

Derrik roared as he battered the monster with Trout thrashing among rocks. To his satisfaction, the monster receded as it blocked and parried the burst of blows, jabs, and sweeps. Sweat poured into Derrik’s eyes, but he would not stop. He was the son of the Warrior-Summoner. He would prevail.

Falcon swooping from the sky. Derrik brought the sword down and struck the monster’s shoulder. His blade broke its collarbone and bit deep into the unclean flesh, denting the top rim of the black breastplate. The monster fell with a terrible hiss.

Derrik was about to roar with victory when he heard a hissing and clicking behind him. Another Corpsentinel had sneaked up on him. Before he could react, the monster plunged its steel into his side.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO: BORN UNDER A SIEGE

Derrik woke up to the buzzing of a large fly. The sunlight pressed against his closed eyelids, making him realize he had been sleeping outside. He heard something that resembled the distant rattling of wheels, and he thought he was camped in a forest near a high road. Then a warm breeze caressed his face. He realized that the sound was actually caused by leaves trembling in a tree crown.

He was too tired to open his eyes, and his mind hummed with stray thoughts, questions, and memories. Where was he?

He recalled he had been traveling with the dwarfs through the tunnel, and sleeping in the woods, beside Leya and the dragon egg. But that journey had already ended, had it not?

A twinge of pain in his side brought other memories. Memories of horned and antlered monsters, of creeping fog and flashing steel. He groaned and opened his eyes. There was the blue sky above him, with a few thin, white clouds floating by, the view partly blocked by the branches of a large oak tree. Another stab of pain made him grunt as he sat up to look about.

To his surprise he saw rows of people, mostly uniformed soldiers, lying on a sprawling, walled lawn, just like he did. A large, square, brick building reared behind the lawn, and he recognized the hospital where Eriana and Leya worked.

“You’re awake!” The voice came from behind and sounded familiar.

The next moment, Leya bent above him. Her nose was sunburned and her face gaunt, and she no longer wore her light brown hair in braids, perhaps to look more mature. That was hardly necessary, though, for the bags under her eyes made her look far beyond her sixteen summers.

Although she looked haggard and exhausted, she smiled. “I’m glad you’re better, Derrik,” she said as she kneeled beside him.

He nodded. “What happened, Leya?”

“Broose and Glen brought you here with a deep gash in your side,” she said, cringing. “It took the healer a while to combat the infection caused by the filthy Corpsentinel steel. Your fever was terrible, Derrik.”

He nodded as he recalled Glen carrying him over his shoulder along the wallwalk while Broose covered them, fending off monsters. Derrik must have lost consciousness while being taken down the dark stairway inside the ramparts.

“Are they alright?” he asked. “I mean Broose and Glen.”

Leya nodded. “Yes, they had a few cuts and bruises but they were fine the last I saw them. They’re up on the ramparts again but there hasn’t been any new attack, as far as I know.”

“And I guess the garrison repelled the attack during which I was injured,” Derrik said.

“It took a while, but they did,” Leya replied. She sighed. “But so many people got killed and injured. The hospital is so full that we were ordered to take all recovering patients to the garden. There’s no space for all of them inside.”

“I see,” Derrik said. That explained why he was under the tree. It also explained the bags under her eyes.

With a wink, she added, “I suppose you prefer to be outside, anyway.”

He smiled and nodded. “You know me well, Leya.”

The grass rustled behind his back, and Eriana stood above them. After a short hesitation, she kneeled beside Leya. She also looked haggard, and her beautiful black hair seemed to have lost some of its luster. But her large, dark eyes were still ravishing, despite the bags underneath them.

“Broose told us you behaved quite heroically up on the ramparts,” Eriana said. “And you also proved your bravery when we faced those warrior nuns.” A slight, tired smile played on her lips. “Maybe you’re not such a good-for-nothing braggart I always thought you were.”

Derrik only gawked. She had made it painfully clear she was not very interested in him. But he would never think that she saw him as a good-for-nothing braggart.

She must have seen the bewilderment on his face, for she chuckled. “I always had to laugh when you strutted around the village like a rooster on a dunghill, flashing your sword, and when you practiced your forms on the square. But now I see that all the foolishness has paid off.”

Derrik frowned. Had she just insulted and praised him at the same time? Eriana had a knack for doing that. Hilts and blades! he thought. Will I ever learn to understand girls? He feared he would not. But he had learned not to blush and stutter around them, and that was something.

Eriana parted her lips to speak, but then she perked up and turned her head. As Derrik followed her gaze he saw High Mage Torsum coming, his beard and cloak fluttering in the gentle warm breeze.

The sisters stood and curtsied, which made the old mage smile. “I’m no royalty, girls,” Torsum said good-naturedly. “But thank you.”

“You’re more than royalty,” Eriana said, awe in her voice. “You’re the leader of the local Magic Circle.”

The mage chuckled and waved his hand. “Well, I thank you again, Eriana. I see a strong Might coming from you, and I hope you take the bronze chain once this madness ends. But please, could I now have a word with my friend Derrik?”

The girls exchanged a surprised look. “Of course, High Mage,” Leya said, and the sisters, somewhat reluctantly, left.

Torsum watched them go with an amused smile. Then he turned to Derrik. “I’m glad you’re well, lad,” he said as he sat on the grass beside him.

Derrik gawked. He would have never imagined the High Mage to sit on the ground.

Torsum chuckled as if he had divined what Derrik was thinking. “Being the High Mage means working hard and learning magic, lad, not living in luxury and growing soft. I grew up here in Cahes, but as a child, I spent every summer at my grandparents’ farm outside the city.”

A shadow of pain passed over the man’s dark eyes, and Derrik wondered whether the farm had been razed by monsters. Glancing at the kind face with a brown mustache and white beard, Derrik suddenly wanted to hug the mage. Without this man, none of the New Thorstormers would be alive. Derrik, Broose, and Glen would have drowned like rats in an underground canal while Eriana and Leya would have died under Lanfareth’s blade. And Derrik did not even remember whether he had properly thanked Torsum.

The mage caressed the tops of the grass blades beside him. “To me, sitting in the grass is better than sitting on a throne, and walking barefooted through a meadow is better than walking across the polished floor of the grand hall of a palace. I sense that you feel the same. We are similar, you and I, lad. And your father is just like you.”

Derrik perked up. “You know my father?” He smiled and shook his head. “I guess it should not surprise me.”

Torsum glanced around as if to make sure nobody was listening. All the men around them seemed to be asleep. Eriana and Leya lingered around, pretending to be checking on patients. “I was never introduced to him personally, but I knew about him,” he said in a low voice. “Everybody did, Derrik. And I witnessed him battling Atropeth. It was glorious!”

Derrik smiled, his soul filling with pride. Thousands of thoughts and questions rushed to his head, but they tripped over each other, and for a moment he did not know what to say. He had suspected that Torsum wanted him to join the war against Darkside because of Derrik’s father. Now it had become nearly certain. But he still did not fully understand the High Mage’s reasoning for it.

Torsum spoke again. “I sense you’ve had quite a few adventures since the first and last time we met, lad. Tell me about it.”

Derrik told Torsum about their skirmish with the warrior nuns and about how the black dragon, Dhra’ack, had saved them from the Wrathlord and Lanfareth. He talked about the cavern falling in and about the dwarfs taking them through the tunnel into the city. He did not tell the mage about the dragon egg, though, out of fear that the mage would claim it for the Magic Circle. His father had always told him not to trust anybody. And since Baard was the Warrior-Summoner, he probably knew about trust.

When Derrik fell silent, Torsum raised an eyebrow and looked at him as if he wanted to ask whether it was all. Then he looked around the garden. “I’m taking you to the Magic Circle palace, lad,” he said, his normally mild voice filling with determination that bore no protests. “The monsters are at the gates, and the city teems with traitors. This badly protected garden is no place for the son of the Warrior-Summoner.”

Derrik frowned. “You want to hide me away?”

Torsum shrugged. “At least until you heal. Then we will see. You’ll have a nice chamber and can consider yourself a guest of honor. Very few people have this privilege, Derrik.”

“But my things are in an inn,” Derrik protested. That was not entirely true, because he had had all his belongings in Blackwind’s saddlebags, and he had lost them when the cave had collapsed. But the egg was there, under the bed. Hilts and blades, what will I do about the egg?

Torsum said, “We will stop at the inn on our way to the Circle’s palace.” He gave him a deep look. “The floor under a bed is no place to keep a dragon’s egg, my friend.”

Derrik cleared his throat, his cheeks blazing with shame. There were no secrets to be kept from this man. He would just have to trust Torsum. After all, the man had saved his life.

Torsum chuckled and slapped Derrik’s back. “Let’s see if you can stand up, lad. There’s a carriage waiting beyond the gardens. And worry not! The little dragon is yours.”

Later that day, on the way from the inn, exhilaration grew inside Derrik, making it hard to breathe. He had a dragon egg on his lap, and he was riding a lacquered carriage to the Circle’s palace as a guest of honor. Out of the incredible things that had happened since he had left New Thorstorm, this was probably the most exciting.

High Mage Torsum sat beside him on the upholstered seat, and Eriana and Leya were sitting across from them. The sisters were on a short leave and decided to go along, instead of getting the sleep they obviously so badly needed. Eriana stared at the High Mage with admiration, but her large dark eyes often glided to Derrik, making him clear his throat, gulp, and fidget with the strip of hide that enveloped the egg.

What’s happening? he thought. Has my closeness to Torsum made her interested in me?

A movement underneath the scaly shell made him look down. The egg seemed to pulsate even through the thick hide, which he had never noticed before. The pleasant smell of a snuffed candle seemed to have grown stronger. The egg’s heat made Derrik’s lap sweat.

“The little dragon might hatch soon, for it surely senses that it’s heading to safety, at last,” Torsum said.

Leya clapped her hands, “How exciting!” she exclaimed, but she immediately lowered her head, looking ashamed. Eriana glanced at her irritably while Torsum gave Leya a kind smile.

Derrik’s heart thumped, fighting the temptation to unwrap the egg to check the shell for cracks. The notion that he would soon see the little dragon crawling from the shell sent a shiver of excitement down his spine.

The carriage rattled along a paved throughway lined by large houses, most of them in white, veined marble and with turrets, gables, and enormous gardens. Then it climbed a steep hill and plunged into an oak forest. Derrik gave the High Mage a quizzing look.

“Don’t worry, lad.” Torsum chuckled. “I’m not kidnapping you.”

“The Magic Circle palaces are usually at the far end of a city and close to the woods,” Eriana said, sounding a little pedantic, like her brother. “That’s because of the ten-mile portals, which were built by ancient elves and which must remain deep in a forest to retain their powers.”

Torsum smiled. “That is correct. The palace stands on the edge of a steep precipice. That’s the reason why the monsters are trying to get to it through the city’s main gate.”

A sprawling stone building reared behind a gilded gate. It was a beautiful palace with large arched windows, rows of flying buttresses, and gargoyles depicting dragons and demons. Even from afar, it seemed to radiate with ancient secrets and unbridled magic that made Derrik shudder.

The guards swiftly opened the gate to let them through. The carriage rattled over a courtyard where the flagstones were arranged to depict a large ahritaal. The forest sprawled to the left, even thicker than outside the wall. That had to be where the portal was. The place which the Darkside longed to reach.

As they stopped by an arched doorway, a liveried servant with a white, square-cut beard peered inside, and Derrik protectively gathered the egg in his arms. A blast of energy darted through his hands and throughout his body. The dragon truly seemed about to be born.

With a bow, the servant opened the carriage door, and Torsum and his guests filed out. “Good afternoon, Master High Mage Torsum,” the servant said, giving another bow.

Torsum nodded and said amicably, “Good afternoon, Elgran. And thank you.”

The servant looked at the bundle in Derrik’s arms, making Derrik worry that the man would grab the egg to carry it for him, and break it. Derrik pressed the egg to his chest, wincing as it burned him. The servant gave him a strange look but did not reach for the bundle.

“Follow me, my young friends,” Torsum said. He led them through the vast entrance hall into the palace. They walked down a long hallway where dozens of torches blazed in ornamented sconces. Their flickering light danced on ornate tapestries and hunting trophies that adorned the age-darkened walls.

“This is the main palace wing,” Torsum explained, his mild, pleasant voice echoing slightly in the hallway. “We’ll explore it later. But first, let’s go to the guest wing.”

He led them across a courtyard where a giant fountain that seemed to be made of a single piece of marble gurgled to the clapping of their feet on worn flagstones. They entered another wing and climbed a winding staircase. Then they stood in front of a low, ironbound door.

Torsum raised his hand to the lock, making it click. Then he pushed the door open. The chamber was done in white marble, with a wide four-poster bed wrapped in blue velvet, a large fireplace, a mahogany wardrobe, and a gilded washstand. Six upholstered armchairs stood around a round table in a horseshoe-shaped nook. Sunrays poured through tall, arched windows, making the walls glow.

“This will be your home for now, lad,” Torsum said.

Derrik looked around and gawked. All this space and luxury was just for him? He wanted to say that it was too much, but Torsum continued, “Your friends, Glen and Broose, can stay here as well, and we’ll send for them later. And you, ladies, can stay whenever you are not needed in the hospital.” Eriana and Leya gasped and exchanged an excited look and thanked the man.

The High Mage sighed. “Before the civil war, this wing always teemed with visiting mages from all over the empire, but now it’s almost always empty.” His usual smile returned as he added, “But it means more space and quiet for you, my young friends.”

“Thank you, Torsum,” Derrik said. “I don’t know how I could ever repay you for all you’ve done for me.”

Torsum smiled and said, “But I do, lad.” He nodded to the bundle in Derrik’s hands. “I sense that the birth of the dragon is nearly imminent. It is no coincidence, for dragons are incredibly intelligent creatures. The hatchling must feel that now is the best time to break through the shell. Will you allow me to stay and witness that miracle?”

That question surprised Derrik. Torsum was the High Mage and this was his palace. “It would be an honor,” Derrik said, wincing at how pompous he had sounded. Eriana’s smirk confirmed that he had made a fool of himself. But the High Mage only smiled and gave him a thankful nod.

They sat in the armchairs, and Derrik put the egg on the table. As he unwrapped it, he felt it pulse like a living heart. The scales bristled in perfect rows, all of them the same size and shape. The air around the egg shimmered. The nook glistened with golden light that sparkled in everyone’s eyes. The silver chain around Torsum’s neck seemed to smolder.

“These are horrible times, and these are exciting times,” Torsum said. “You have lots of hard work ahead of you, Derrik Thon. But I promise the reward will be great.”

Derrik cleared his throat, glancing around all the glittering luxury. “Is all this because of my father, High Mage?”

Torsum ran his hand over his beard. “It is and it isn’t, lad. Yes, you are the son of the Warrior-Summoner, and that was my primary reason for seeking you out. But since then, you have bonded a dragon—albeit an unborn one—and shown admirable courage and loyalty, just like your father.”

Derrik pressed his lips together to suppress a grin. His chest filled with pride and glee.

“I believe in signs, Derrik, and the signs are clear,” Torsum continued. “I want you to further follow in your father’s footsteps. I will put you against my best guardsmen to spar with. And I’ll personally teach you magic.”

The girls perked at hearing the last sentence, especially Eriana, who gave the High Mage an expectant look.

Torsum shrugged and said, “I suppose that you girls can watch when I teach your friend.”

Eriana sprang from her chair and rushed to Torsum. “Thank you, High Mage!” she exclaimed as she hugged him.

“Well, well,” the mage said with a chuckle. He seemed surprised but pleased.

Derrik and Leya exchanged a bewildered look. Eriana was always so composed and even a little cold, and this display of affection was about as common as seeing a goat walk backward. Eriana broke the embrace, cleared her throat, and smoothed her dress as she walked back to her chair. She seemed more surprised about her own reaction than the others. Leya watched her with an amused look, but she also looked excited about the prospect of learning magic. Derrik was more excited about sparing with the Circle’s best swords, though.

“I appreciate your willingness to make something of me, Master Torsum, but I have no Might,” he said. And no passion for magic.

“First of all, I’m just plain, old Torsum, and no Master,” the High Mage said with a kind smile that brightened his whole face. “Secondly, I do sense a spark of Might in you, which is not surprising because your aunt was clairvoyant.”

Derrik lifted his eyebrows. Hilts and blades, I had an aunt? What else have my parents been keeping from me? Before he could ask about her, the High Mage said, “Your Might is not strong enough to come out naturally, as it did in the case of Eriana, but it’s strong enough to be developed through hard work.”

“He will work hard, I’ll make sure of that,” Eriana said, making Derrik gawk. The girl did not cease to surprise him today.

Torsum looked at the egg and smoothed his beard. “I believe the little one is missing its parents. We cannot do anything about that, but let’s make it feel a little bit more at home.” The High Mage twisted in his armchair and pointed his hand at the fireplace. Derrik and the girls exchanged an awed look when the logs piled there burst into flames. The man had the same abilities as an elf. Or a Wrathlord.

Maybe wielding magic would not be that useless, Derrik thought as he watched the flames. Magic can definitely make life easier. And if it also impressed Eriana…

The egg’s golden scales seemed to absorb the firelight and blast it forth again. The egg wobbled, and a scraping sound came from the inside.

“The baby wants to come out,” Leya said tenderly.

Nobody spoke for a while, as they watched the egg. A crack appeared on the surface, and everyone exchanged excited looks. Nothing happened for long moments after that, though, and the girls’ eyes grew red and tired. They kept fidgeting and stifling yawns but as the room was warm and silent, their battle against drowsiness eventually ended in defeat.

Torsum gave them a tender look. “Those poor girls have hardly slept since they started working in the hospital,” he whispered. “The healers are heroes of this war as much as the warriors on the ramparts are.”

Derrik nodded eagerly. “That’s true, High Mage.”

Leya slumped at the table, her head propped on her arm. Eriana leaned back against the chair’s high backrest, her head lolling. She was lovely, perhaps because for once she looked relaxed rather than stern, and her long eyelashes fluttered as she dreamed.

Another scraping sound made Derrik lower his head to the egg. It seemed to pulse and vibrate as if the tiny dragon was impatient to break through the scaly shell, discontent in that cramped space. The crack grew and widened.

Derrik looked at Torsum and inhaled to ask about his aunt, but the High Mage put his finger to his lips, nodding to the girls. Derrik was not sure whether the High Mage truly worried that he would wake them, or whether he did not want to speak about the aunt.

The scraping got louder, and another crack appeared on the side of the shell. Soon, small cracks covered the shell as if the egg had fallen off the table. A small, clawed foot reached through the widest crack. It was endearing, with diminutive golden scales. But the claws looked sharp as nails.

Derrik held his breath while Torsum turned to the sisters. “Girls, it’s happening!” Although he only whispered, they woke with a flinch and leaned toward the egg.

The tiny dragon stuck its other front foot through the gap and pried it wider. Then the head appeared. It was also covered with golden scales, and had two horns and a crest of spikes. The little creature opened its mouth, displaying small but sharp teeth.

The dragon struggled from the shell, which tilted, causing him to drop on the table. It was the size of a larger kitten, and it was breathtaking, with golden scales that glowed in the firelight, and with spikes on its back and tail. It looked both menacing and adorable. The wings dripped with membrane. They were nearly transparent and crisscrossed with tiny veins.

“He’s perfect,” Leya whispered.

The others nodded in agreement. Derrik bit his lower lip and clenched the edges of the table, his hands trembling with emotion.

The dragon turned its head, and its yellow, intelligent eyes scanned the surroundings. The black, vertical slits that slashed them narrowed as the dragon focused on Derrik. Derrik’s heart pounded when the dragon crawled to him.

Derrik leaned against the table and stretched his hand to the dragon, hoping the little creature would not confuse his fingers with food. A content rumble escaped the dragon’s throat as Derrik carefully caressed its cheek. The scales were smooth as silk but so hot that he hissed.

The dragon crawled closer and pressed its body against Derrik’s chest. Derrik grunted as the scales scalded him. He sensed that the dragon needed to feel his touch, though, so he clenched his teeth to endure the heat. As he got used to the discomfort, his soul suddenly filled with tenderness. The dragon yawned and sighed, making the girls go, “Aaah!”. Then it curled up and closed its eyes. The girls giggled affectionately when it started to snore.

“Congratulations, Derrik,” Torsum whispered. “This amazing little creature has recognized you as its future rider.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE: THE RAID

The guest-chamber of the Magic Circle palace pulsed with excitement, just like the palace itself. Derrik was sharpening his sword, along with Broose and Glen who shared a chamber next door but spent most of their time with Derrik. In agitated voices, they talked about a raid on the monsters’ encampment, which had been arranged for that afternoon.

The little dragon, whom Derrik named Dhra’ack after his father, clambered around, swishing his spiked tail. In a week, Dhra’ack had grown to the size of a hunting dog. He was usually restless in the guest-chamber, but he loved descending to the courtyard and watching Derrik and his friends spar with the Circle’s guards. He enjoyed being with Broose and Glen, and he liked Eriana and Leya, who shared a chamber across the hall but spent most of their time in the hospital—but he was most attached to Derrik. Dhra’ack snuggled with Derrik at night, making him break into a sweat; he often nuzzled Derrik with his hot snout, causing blisters and abrasions but filling Derrik with fatherly affection.

Having watched the boys whetting the blades for a while, Dhra’ack crawled toward the window. The dragon’s sense of boredom brushed against Derrik’s mind. Dhra’ack climbed the wall and sat on the window ledge, curling his spiked tail around his legs as if he were a large, scaly cat. He looked beautiful in the backdrop of the overcast sky, his scales glowing like gold in the sun that was nearly invisible behind the gray clouds. He spread his webbed wings as if he wanted to try flying. Derrik wondered when he would take off.

“Soon, he won’t be able to fit in the window,” Broose said, twisting his beard, which had grown quite bushy, to Derrik’s envy. “I’ve read that dragons grow incredibly fast, especially in the first month of their lives. This chamber will soon be too small for him, too.”

“We can take him along to the raid,” Glen suggested. “He could take down a few monsters with those claws and teeth.”

“Are you crazy?” Derrik asked. He wanted to rush to Dhra’ack and hug him. “He’s just an infant! Would you send an overgrown human baby to the frontline, you madman?”

Glen chuckled and inhaled to reply when the door swung open and a tall woman in her late twenties marched in. She wore the uniform of the Circle’s guard, a mail shirt under a red and black surcoat embroidered with the ahritaal. That would not be so strange because Derrik had seen several women among the guard. But a silver chain around her neck also marked her as a mage.

She had fiery red hair and the most penetrating light-green eyes he had ever seen. She had a shapely figure, as far as he could see, and a delicate nose yet strict lips that made her face look both stern and desirable. A jagged scar ran across her chin. Somehow, it made her even more attractive. She was beautiful yet menacing, delicate yet strong, a bit like Dhra’ack.

“I see you are ready,” the woman said, glancing at the swords. “I do hope you can wield those toys.” Her voice was husky, forceful, and self-confident, incongruous with her sing-song Aratonese accent.

“Who are you?” Derrik asked. And why didn’t you knock?

“I’m Gerra, your bodyguard,” the woman replied.

Derrik raised his eyebrow.

“Torsum wants you to toughen up, so he’ll let you participate in today’s sortie,” she explained impatiently. “But he wants you to be protected. We believe that the whore Lanfareth is around, along with her friend, Corpsegrinder.”

Derrik gulped, feeling his guts turning liquid with uneasiness. So the evil mage Lanfareth was back. In a black corner of his mind, he had feared all along that she would, and yet he found it disquieting. He guessed that Corpsegrinder was the name of the Wrathlord who had tried to kill him and Leya.

Broose smoothed his beard with a troubled frown, but Glen gawked at Gerra in fascination, absentmindedly twisting his spiked hair. She noticed and rounded on him. “Stop drooling, boy, or I’ll hang you by the balls from a bedpost.”

Glen gasped, and she chuckled. “I was just joking!” she said. Her eyes and face turned to cold stone a moment later. “But every joke is seasoned with a pinch of the truth, as they say. If I catch you ogling me again, I’ll cut off your little birdie.”

Glen smiled stupidly, his eyes gliding around as if he wondered where to run.

Hilts and blades! Derrik thought. How could such a beautiful woman be so rough?

Gerra turned to him and smirked. “I’m too rough for you, am I, boy?” She must have read his thoughts, and Derrik was also ready to run out of the chamber. Dhra’ack gave the woman an agitated shriek, but she ignored him, her eyes boring into Derrik’s.

“To satisfy your curiosity,” she said, “My father abandoned me in the woods when I was ten, and I had to get rough to survive. I had to learn to hunt and defend myself from wolves and outlaws.”

Her face turned dark with anger. “I was about to be ravished by a group of brigands when I realized I had the Might. None of the bastards is alive to talk about that night.”

Derrik gulped and nodded, drawing a smirk from Broose. A brief, silent smirk, for Broose was obviously also wary of that woman.

Gerra closed her eyes in concertation, and three servants came, each carrying a mail shirt and a round steel halfhelm with a noseguard. “Put these on, boys,” she ordered.

Derrik’s heart fluttered. At last, he would look like a real warrior! Glen had promised to make him a mail shirt a long time ago, and never delivered on the promise. Now he was going to have one, surely made by one of the best blacksmiths in the kingdom, and with a helmet on top of that.

The mail shirt was surprisingly heavy, and the servant had to help Derrik don it, making him bend over and stretch out his hands as if Derrik was about to leap into a lake. As he strapped the helm under his chin, Derrik wanted to rush to the mirror, but he resisted the urge.

“Well, let’s go,” Gerra said, sounding vexed as if she thought they had taken too long.

“But… what are we going to do with him?” Derrik asked, pointing to Dhra’ack who watched them from the ledge, tilting his golden head.

Gerra nodded to the servant who had helped Derrik into the shirt, a short man with a bald pate and a grizzled beard twisted in a thick braid. “He’ll look after your dragon until you return.”

The man nodded while the other two servants left.

Derrik gave the man a distrustful look, and Gerra harumphed. “We have no time for your foolishness, Derrik Thon. The man can be trusted.”

Dhra’ack leaped off the ledge and walked to Derrik, his claws clapping on the polished floor. He gave Derrik a quizzing look, the black slits of pupils narrowing in the fiery yellow eyes. Derrik scratched the dragon’s inner ear, the only place where the creature had no scales and where he could feel Derrik’s touch. Derrik winced as the dragon’s skin burned his fingertips. “I’ll be back soon, Dhra’ack.” I hope.

Gerra, Broose, and Glen filed out, and Derrik followed them with a sigh. It would be the first time since Dhra’ack’s birth—and since Derrik’s discovery of the egg—that they would be separated. Dhra’ack walked toward the door, but the servant barred the way and closed the door shut as soon as Derrik had left the chamber. Derrik sighed again as he rushed to catch up with the others. A plaintive shriek came from the chamber. Derrik felt like a traitor.

They went to the stables to get their new mounts, massive warhorses they had been given by Torsum. Derrik had named his gray horse Blizzard. The mount was not as beautiful as the late stallion, Blackwind, but it was a giant of a beast with a thick neck and twitching muscles. His eyes and coat shone with health and strength. Blizzard was much bigger than Blackwind, and as Derrik mounted, he almost felt like he was flying. He wondered when he could sit on Dhra’ack’s back and fly for real.

They joined about fifty silver-chained mages, three hundred guards, and a hundred servants. As they rode across the city, Broose and Glen kept talking about the imminent raid, but Derrik was mostly silent, thinking about Dhra’ack. He hated to leave the little creature alone even for a second.

They reached the city wall, and Derrik forced himself to focus. Soon, they would leave the city and charge at the monsters’ encampment. He breathed hard and nervously fingered a round, steel shield that hung from the pommel.

“That’s strange,” Broose said, scanning the fortification’s crenelated top. “There’s nobody up on the ramparts.” Indeed, no guards milled among the crenels.

Gerra rode several feet ahead of them, but she must have heard him even over the clapping of hoofs. She twisted to them in the saddle of a roan warhorse that was even bigger than Blizzard and said with a mysterious smile, “It’s on purpose.”

Glen inhaled as if to ask what she meant, but then he clasped his lips shut again. He had been unusually quiet around the woman. Broose, who had not yet incurred her displeasure, asked for of him.

“It’s simple,” she replied. “We want to lure the monsters out of their filthy lair. The servants will leave the city and pretend to be deepening the moat, and only a few guards will go with them to protect them. We hope that when the monsters see the vulnerable servants and empty ramparts, they won’t resist the temptation to go and annihilate the servants, and perhaps try to breach into the city. Meanwhile, the mages will sneak up on the ramparts and hide behind the merlons. And when the monsters pour out of their gates, well, then you’ll see what silver-level magic can do.”

Derrik shifted nervously in the saddle. He had to admit that it sounded intriguing.

“This is the Circle’s raid,” she said. With a slight disdain, she nodded to the royal soldiers who were just leaving their camp to join them. “Those will be only secondary fighters. The elite of the Circle’s guard, warriors who wield silver-level magic, will try to break into the monsters’ encampment and destroy the ladders and trebuchets while the rest of us cover them.” She frowned at Derrik as she added, “Normally I’d join the push for the trebuchets—but I have to babysit you.”

Derrik frowned, wondering whether to retort that he had not asked for any minders. Then he decided to keep quiet.

They reached the gates and everybody but the soldiers and most of the Circle’s guards dismounted. The city guardsmen opened a small door in the gate, and the Circle’s servants poured through, along with a few guards. The mages headed for the stairway inside the ramparts that would take them up to the wallwalk.

Derrik said, “I’m going up to watch.”

Gerra shook her head. “You wouldn’t have time to descend and join the battle. And Torsum wants you to fight.”

He frowned. “Then I’ll go outside and pretend to be helping protect the servants.”

He expected Gerra to protest again, but she said, “Very well, boy. You need to watch so you can learn. But I’m going with you.”

“And so are we,” said Broose.

They left their mounts behind, pushed through a throng of guards, and walked through the door. The servants were already milling around the moat, holding shovels. Across the plain, Derrik could see the palisade of the monsters, with the trebuchets rearing behind it. The strange dark fog still wallowed there, and he hoped it would not extend toward them like the last time.

The servants started shoveling, but for long moments, the gate to the palisade remained closed. Derrik felt a strange tinge of disappointment. Then the gate swung open and a horde of Corpsentinel cavalry poured from the encampment, like puss from a giant boil. When he looked up, he saw the mages standing on the ramparts.

“You can’t see that, but they have surely taken off their chains,” Gerra said. “And they are all linking their hands with them.”

A loud rippling noise blasted from the ramparts and rolled over the plain, as if a storm was coming. A buzzing energy suffused the air, and Derrik felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise. Smoke and flames suddenly billowed from the black manes of the Corpsentinel warhorses, causing them to scream and rear. Many of the beasts unsaddled their riders and dashed diagonally across the plain, colliding and crashing to the ground. The Corpsentinels hissed and clicked as they rolled on the trampled grass, limbs and antlers entangled.

Another wave of Corpsentinel cavalry poured from the encampment, evidently unaware of what was happening. Some warhorses leaped over the fallen mounts and riders while others trampled them or fell over them. Another ripple of combined Might roared above, slamming into the new wave of monsters. A series of loud crashes exploded in Derrik’s ears. The Corpsentinels slumped in the saddles, sliding off. Some even flew off their horses’ backs.

“The mages made the monster’s breastplates crumple to break their rotten ribs,” Gerra shouted over the hissing and clicking that carried across the plain.

Glen cheered like a madman.

A horde of Daemorcs poured from the camp, stomping over heaps of dead and injured Corpsentinels. This time, the sky above seemed to rip asunder. Horizontal snakes of lightning darted toward the encampment. The earth rippled and roared under the Daemorcs’ feet, and the horned giants stumbled and rolled in the grass.

The city gates opened wide, and royal soldiers and Circle’s guards barreled out on their warhorses. Dozens of hoofs drummed on the drawbridge. The attackers galloped across the plain and slew many monsters before they could even stand. But new waves of Daemorcs and Corpsentinels kept pouring from the camp.

Derrik, Gerra, Broose, and Glen rushed back through the gate to the awaiting warhorses.

“This will be a hit-and-retreat,” Gerra called as they mounted. “When you hear the horn, wheel your horses around and gallop back to the city, understood? Don’t get trapped inside their palisade! Make sure to use the shields!”

Derrik nodded and hung the shield over his neck. Then he heeled Blizzard. The drawbridge shook under massive hoofs as the warhorses ran toward the enemy encampment.

A giant shadow glided over them. When Derrik twitched his head toward the sky, he saw seven or eight dragons. They swooped at a horde of Daemorcs that had carved their way through the guards and soldiers and rushed toward Cahes. Dragonfire poured over the horned giants like rivers of lava, engulfing them in famished flames.

The dragons flew toward the camp—and they roared in rage and wheeled back when they neared the dark fog above the palisade. Derrik hoped the ward the Wrathlords had set against the dragons would not affect people and horses.

They galloped through the first ranks of Corpsentinels killed by the mages. The palisade was getting closer and closer. Derrik drew his sword, the other hand clenching the reins.

“Waken your steel!” The Aratonese war cry carried over the plain.

“Waken your steel!” Derrik roared at the top of his lungs. The war cry seemed to give him courage and determination. Then he plunged into the midst of a battle.

All around him, steel flashed in the light of dragonfire that roared and twisted atop dead Daemorcs. Blades clashed, men grunted, horses nickered, and monsters roared, clicked, and hissed.

A Daemorc rushed on him and tried to grab his arm to pull him off the horse. Its horned head was at the level of Derrik’s, although Derrik sat on the massive warhorse. As he could not slash the monster with his blade because the Daemorc was too close to him, Derrik smashed its nose with the butt end of the hilt. The monster roared in pain. Blizzard danced sideways and slammed his body into the Daemorc, making it stagger and fall.

Another Daemorc barred their way. It leaped to Blizzard, grabbed him by the mane, and moved to sink its teeth into the horse’s neck. It was so blinded by bloodlust that it did not even twitch as Derrik swung his sword at its head. The blade split the monster’s skull, and Blizzard reared. The monster fell, and the warhorse stomped it with his front hoofs.

Derrik glanced around and saw the monsters running toward the palisade. The soldiers and guards pursued them. The monsters crossed the moat and rushed to the open gate. The humans were after them, riding into the moat. The warhorses struggled to scramble up.

Blizzard galloped down the moat, nearly unseating Derrik, and then he deftly climbed up. As they dashed for the gate, all the monsters had rushed into safety and the gate suddenly closed.

What do we do now? Derrik thought. A sense of anticlimax rushed through him, cooling the battle fever that had boiled his blood.

The soldiers and guards ahead of him rushed to the gate, battering it with their steel. They were mowed down by a volley of arrows that flew over the palisade. Derrik screamed as an arrowhead clanged against his helmet.

“Hide behind the shield you fool!” shouted Gerra, who was suddenly beside him. Derrik let go of the reins and raised the shield above his head. The next second, two arrowheads crashed into it.

Blizzard danced underneath him, and Derrik pressed his knees against the horse’s sides to stay in the saddle. He wondered whether to sheathe the sword. A horse screamed nearby, and a man cried out in surprise. Derrik dared a peek under the shield. Although he feared that it was Glen or Broose, it was a royal soldier. He fell off his horse, which had buckled, a bolt sticking from its neck.

Arrows kept slamming into shields and armor like furious hailstones. And suddenly, everything grew deathly quiet. Arrows still flew over the palisade, but they glided above the attackers’ heads as if driven by merciful currents. The gate crashed to the ground with an enormous bang.

“That’s Torsum’s work!” Gerra yelled. “Charge!”

With another roar of, “Waken your steel!”, the warriors dashed for the gate. Derrik let go of the shield and grabbed the reins while grasping his sword in the other hand. His heart kept slamming against his ribcage as he passed the gate and entered the monsters’ encampment. The world dimmed as he rode under the dark clouds. A cold wave made him shudder. Tongues of dark mist slithered around, reeking of decay and corruption, driving bitter bile up toward his throat.

Pikemen rammed into the monsters, piercing unclean flesh with steel and trampling them under the hoofs of their warhorses. Swordsmen followed, slashing left and right with their blades. Derrik galloped after them.

“Battle Wizards to the trebuchets!” someone called.

A Daemorc stomped toward Derrik, brandishing an enormous spiked mace. Blizzard reared and kicked his front feet, his hoof narrowly missing the monster’s horn. Derrik had not expected it, and as the giant horse crashed back to all fours, he slid sideways off the saddle, holding only onto the pommel. As he tried to pull himself up, the Daemorc rounded on him and raised the mace.

Blizzard danced sideways, and the mace swished an inch from Derrik’s head. But he feared that the next time, he would not be so lucky. The Daemorc stepped forth, poising itself for another blow. Then a furious screech cut through the noise of the battle. It sounded like Gerra. Derrik looked up just as the woman twisted her mount toward them and slashed at the Daemorc’s neck. Her blade went so deep it nearly severed the horned head. The monster collapsed with a hideous groan.

Gerra wheeled closer to Derrik and helped him straighten himself in the saddle. Then she slashed at a Corpsentinel galloping at her on a warhorse.

Another Corpsentinel ran at Derrik on foot, black sword raised. With a horrible hiss and click, it grabbed Blizzard’s bridle, but the horse sidestepped and tore the bridle from its hand. Derrik leaned sideways and slashed. He screamed in horror and glory when his blade took off the monster’s hand at the wrist. Black blood peppered his leggings. The Corpsentinel fell, hissing and holding its stump. Derrik wheeled around and glanced at the trebuchets. They were still intact.

Then the feeling of hatred and fear possessed him and nearly unseated him. Blizzard screamed in fright; a disquieting sound from a battle-trained warhorse. Derrik found himself gasping for air. His pulse pounded behind his ears. What was happening?

“Wrathlords!” Gerra yelled. “Wrathlords are mustering!”

A wave of panic seemed to rush over the human warriors. Derrik shuddered. What if one of the Wrathlords was Corpsegrinder? What if Lanfareth was near?

A moment later, someone shouted, “Retreat, retreat!” to the blast of a horn.

Gerra wheeled her warhorse toward Derrik and grabbed Blizzard’s bridle. She dug her heels into her horse’s flanks and, with a forcible yank, made Blizzard gallop alongside her toward the toppled gate.

Dazed by fear, Derrik struggled to stay in the saddle. He did not even have time to see whether the Battle Wizards had managed to set the trebuchets ablaze. He smelled smoke, but it could have come from Wrathlords’ fireballs.

The humans rushed through the gate and galloped under thinning clouds toward the city. Bolts and arrows pursued them; men and horses fell. A fireball screeched past Derrik and drenched him with sweat. It exploded against a soldier, melting ringmail and burning a deep hole in his back. The wave it created brought down three or four of his comrades and enveloped them in flames.

Gerra still galloped right beside Derrik. She grabbed her shield and raised it behind Derrik’s head. The next moment, he heard steel slamming into it. As he moved to use his shield to protect her, she lowered her shield and slowed down.

“We’re out of danger,” she said, matter-of-factly. “The monsters’ magic can’t reach us anymore. And they won’t follow us.”

He guessed that her Might had told her so, and he hoped he could believe her. A sense of relief washed over him, and excitement started to creep in. He had survived a sortie into an enemy encampment!

Derrik laughed happily when he turned his head and saw all the trebuchets on fire. His glee increased when he spotted Broose and Glen galloping a few dozen feet behind him.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR: TO KILL TWO FLIES

As he followed the old servant across the Magic Circle palace courtyard, Derrik fought the urge to rush ahead. He glared at the back of the man’s head, which was bald except for a few tufts of white hair above his large ears, and covered with liver spots. The nape of the man’s neck was lined like ancient canvas, and he shuffled, leaning heavily on a stick that was as gnarled as he was.

Eriana and Leya, who walked beside Derrik, also fidgeted and looked impatient. Derrik wondered why High Mage Torsum had not got a younger footman to summon them. It seemed like a cruel joke that the slowest person in the Circle’s palace was leading them to the thing that had kept them awake at night: their first magic lesson with Torsum.

Derrik had always dreamed of being a warrior—and what had seemed a foolish dream a few months ago had suddenly come true. He had a chainmail shirt, a helmet, and a warhorse, and he had participated in a sortie and helped to defend an enormous city from besiegers. He had crossed blades with Daemorcs and Corpsentinels, and he had a bedchamber in a palace, with a little dragon currently sleeping on his bed.

At times, he could still not believe all those things were true. And yet, being a simple warrior no longer seemed adequate.

Although he had always found magic boring—and had only feigned interest when Eriana had talked about it back in their village—he had witnessed its enormous force on the battlefield, which made him wish to become a Battle Wizard. It depended on how much Might he had, though. And it would be determined today. He had never noticed any gift of precognition or special powers. According to Torsum, though, his lineage had had many mages, and Derrik seemed to have inherited some of their talents.

The ancient servant led them into the western wing and shuffled toward a winding stairway. Torsum’s quarters were in a turret in the western corner of the palace. A very high turret. As the servant began to struggle up the stairs, his stick clapping against the flagstones, his free hand grasping the mahogany handrail, Derrik and the girls exchanged an exasperated look.

Leya seemed rather amused but Eriana looked as if she wanted to push the man aside and rush up the stairs. The girls had a spring in their step and a spark in their eyes. They had been overwhelmed by work after the sortie, but as the injured soldiers died or improved, the sisters were allowed a two-day leave. They wore blue linen tunics, typical for Araton, which were gathered at the waist with wide belts and revealed their shoulders and lower legs. Although this fashion nearly made Derrik blush, he wished it had been adopted elsewhere in the empire.

At last they reached the top of the stairway. The servant ushered them into an octagonal nook with tall windows and a mosaic floor worked in the ahritaal. The stone walls, while bare of paintings or tapestries, displayed curvilinear frescoes, which Derrik assumed were magical and mythical symbols.

Torsum appeared from behind a heavy red curtain. “Thank you, Arolp,” he said kindly to the servant, gently patting the old man’s hunched back. “You may go and take a rest.”

Arolp mumbled under his breath and turned around. Derrik tried hard not to frown as he watched the old man shuffle away—but the High Mage noticed his annoyance.

“Patience is the virtue of a good mage, lad,” Torsum said, not unkindly. “And loyalty is the virtue of a good man. And I try to be both. Arolp has been with me for forty years, and since he’s a widower, working for the Circle is the only thing that still fulfills his life. He will be with me as long as he wishes to.”

Derrik nodded, feeling that his cheeks burned with embarrassment. Leya gave the High Mage an approving smile. Eriana looked at Derrik and tsk, tsked… as if she had been more patient with the old man.

Torsum smiled, shook his head, and sat at a round table. He motioned to them to take their seats. Then he asked, “How is our little Dhra’ack?”

Derrik smiled at the memory of the golden creature curled up on his bed. The dragon brought joy to his life, filling the gap created by Derrik’s separation from his home and his parents. Then he frowned and scratched his forehead.

“He’s well, but he’s no longer little,” he said. “Actually, he’s growing too fast. He’s already almost as big as a mastiff, and he always seems to forget that his tail is as long as his body. He can’t turn around in the bedchamber without knocking something over. I’d hate to part with him, but I might have to let him stay in the courtyard.”

Derrik hoped the dragon would wake up and tear down the palace while looking for him.

Torsum nodded. “We’ll deal with that soon.” He rubbed his hands. “But now let’s do some magic.”

Derrik and the girls looked at each other, taking a deep breath. The girls were to watch and listen only, but Derrik guessed it was nearly as exciting to them as if was for him. Especially for Eriana.

“There are three levels of magic: bronze, silver, and gold,” Torsum said. “Gold-level magic is reserved for the head of the Circle, or the Archmage. It’s prohibited for anyone but the Archmage to wield it, so let’s talk about the other levels.

“To put it roughly, when you use bronze-level magic, you normally need to touch the object you want to enchant, or at least get very close to it. Then you summon either a mental wave or a mental flame to wash or burn away all your thoughts and emotions. Then you pronounce a magical formula. Less than one in a hundred thousand people can wield magic, so even a bronze-level Might is a wonderful gift. It is also more practical for menial tasks like unlocking doors. Obviously, it has its limitations.”

Derrik hoped his Might would reach the silver level one day so he could become a Battle Wizard. He guessed that a bronze-level mage could never deflect an arrow or kill a monster.

Torsum nodded as if he could read his thoughts. “Silver-level magic involves clearing your mind, drawing your blood into your head to summon your Might, and thinking or pronouncing a formula. Silver-level mages concentrate on the blood inside their bodies, feel it flow through their veins, and draw it up into their heads to wield magic. It isn’t the blood itself that makes the magic happen, though, but the water it contains. Water is a crucial element, for it makes up most of the earth and human body.”

“The River of Life,” Eriana said.

Torsum smiled and nodded. “That’s right. The River of Life is often used as a metaphor for the course of a person’s lifetime. But silver-level magic gives this expression another meaning.” He smoothed his beard, his eyes momentarily gliding toward oblivion. “Anyway, silver-level mages often point at whatever they want to enchant to help them concentrate, but it’s not always necessary. As you saw during the raid, silver-level magic works at a long distance, unlike the bronze-level one. The stronger the Might, the longer the distance.”

“Why don’t we go straight to the silver level, then?” Derrik asked.

Torsum smiled but shook his head. “Let’s better start with the bronze-level one, lad. That way we will see what’s in you.”

Leya smiled, and Eriana smirked as if she thought that Derrik was stupid.

Derrik frowned and cleared his throat. It’s not like I wanted to start with the gold level.

“Are you ready, lad?” Torsum asked. “I must warn you, even the simplest spells require deep concentration.”

Concentration? Derrik thought. Now he wished the girls did not wear those Aratonese tunics. He quickly cleared his mind before Torsum could read his thoughts.

The High Mage said, “First of all, you need to close your eyes and imagine a flame. You can imagine it dancing on the top of a candle, in a bonfire, or a hearth. Once you’ve got it, imagine it burning away all your thoughts and feelings.”

Derrik nodded and closed his eyes. He decided to summon the image of a candle. As he imagined the flame dancing and flickering, he felt that he moved his head slightly to mimic the movement of the flame in a gentle draft. His thoughts and feelings truly vanished, apart from the sensation of utter peace.

“It worked,” he said as he opened his eyes. “I’m not sure whether the mental flame burned through my thoughts or whether the concentration helped me forget about anything else. But my head truly cleared.”

Eriana looked bored, for she had probably already mastered that technique with Ruah Soothsayer. Leya blinked as if she had also been imagining a flame.

Torsum nodded. “It doesn’t matter what it was, lad, as long as it worked. Now, you’ll try to unlock a door, which is often the first test of the Might.”

The High Mage stood and walked to the door, which he locked with a large iron key. He put the key into his pocket and said, “You’ll clear your mind again, and put your hand on the lock and say—”

“Wait,” Eriana said. “Doesn’t he have to bend the upper joint of his forefinger while keeping the rest of the finger, and the other fingers, perfectly straight? My teacher told me it’s often necessary in order to perform bronze-level magic.”

Derrik frowned, feeling annoyed. She was supposed to be listening and watching, not speaking and demanding things that seemed impossible.

“Those with very little Might have to do that to help them concentrate and summon all their powers,” Torsum said. “But I believe that Derrik can do without it.”

Eriana shrugged as if she was not that sure.

“Anyway.” Torsum turned back to Derrik. “You need to clear your mind, put your hand on the lock, and say, “Eristrang amborderum!”, which means door open in the Ancient Tongue.

Derrik nodded and approached the door, putting his hand on the lock. This will never work, he thought. Then he took a deep breath and summoned the image of a candle to clear his head. Only one thought remained: he had forgotten the formula the High Mage had told him. The next moment, though, those strange words rushed into his mind.

“Eristrang amborderum!” he said. His head began to spin, and he put his head against the door—which budged under the pressure and swung open, making him stumble into the hallway.

“Excellent!” Torsum said as he stepped to him and supported him so he would not fall. “You do have the Might or this would have never worked.”

Derrik nodded happily despite the slight feeling of sickness and dizziness.

The High Mage said, “Many people think that magic is nothing but a bit of concentration and a formula in the Ancient Tongue, but they are wrong. Magic is a form of art, and every form of art needs time and hard work. But all hard work would be fruitless without talent. I bet that the words came to your mind all of a sudden? Yes? I thought they would!”

Leya clapped her hands while Eriana looked unimpressed. I’d like to see you try, Derrik thought. She would have surely succeeded, though, and without stumbling into the hallway like a drunkard from an alehouse.

“Now, let’s try something more difficult,” Torsum said. He briefly frowned in though and added, “I’d better not tell you what this spell does. But you need to be ready, and when I say, ‘now’ you’ll say, Erilosum aralig.”

Derrik nodded, hoping that the magic words would rush into his mind as they had before. He wished he had Broose’s brains. Broose would surely remember long magical formulas even without the Might.

Torsum led Derrik to the fireplace. He raised his hand, and flames suddenly erupted there, starting to devour the wood piled there. Derrik frowned, wondering what was to come.

“Are you ready, Derrik?” Torsum asked.

Derrik nodded, although he was not sure.

“Clear your mind, lad.”

Derrik nodded again, summoning the flame to purge his mind.

Torsum raised his hand, and the fire roared in the fireplace. “Now!” he shouted, waving his hand and making the flames shoot toward Derrik.

“Erilosum aralig!”

The words seemed to have come out of Derrik’s mouth on their own will, and the flames died before they could reach him. He staggered, trying to control his breathing.

Torsum walked to him and patted his shoulder, grinning widely. “Great job, my lad. Erilosum aralig means flames freeze, and you did make them freeze.”

Derrik only nodded, unable to speak. This time, even Eriana looked mildly impressed.

Torsum gave Derrik an apprising look. “Your Might has been dormant your whole life, but it seems strong, lad.” With a wide smile, he added in a teasing voice, “I’ll try to burn and kill you a few more times, and if you survive, we can try your strength in silver-level magic!

The Corpsentinel bowed as he opened the back gate of the encampment, but Lanfareth ignored him. She was too agitated for courtesy, and Corpsentinels were beneath her notice. She heeled her warhorse and cantered across a makeshift bridge over a shallow moat toward a nearby forest. The night was strangely lucid, despite the white clouds that covered the sky and trapped the moonlight, or perhaps because of them. A cold breeze made her shiver in her hooded cloak.

The warhorse did not slow as they plunged into the dark forest; beasts of the Wrathlands were at home in the shadows. Lanfareth summoned her Might to help her see.

Having ridden for a few hundred yards through the forest, she turned onto a small path that led to Cahes. It was much longer than riding through the front gate of the encampment and across the plain toward the main city gates, but much safer. Lights flickered and shadows moved on the faraway ramparts; Aratonese soldiers watched the Darkside day and night. If they had seen her emerging from the enemy encampment and riding to the city, they would surely kill her.

The path took her along the edges of the plain, which was cracked and charred from the attack of the Magic Circle. The Daemorcs had devoured all those fallen, but blackened, dented bits of armor still lay there, witness to the Circle’s raid.

Lanfareth had arrived in the encampment about a week before that, along with Corpsegrinder’s unit of Daemorcs and Corpsentinels, and with other squads of the Darkside that had gathered to storm Cahes and reach the ten-mile portal to get to Dar Kahar and steal Tarroth. She had been in the heart of the encampment during the raid, far from the fighting by the main gate, but she had observed from a hill as the silver-level vermin burned the Darkside’s trebuchets. She scowled at the memory. Those machines would take weeks to rebuild.

What was worse, Corpsegrinder had gone missing in the battle. His lagarrion had been found dead, and everybody thought the Wrathlord had been killed by silver-level mages. Other Wrathlords had taken over his troops. Although Lanfareth had somewhat hated him, she had seen him as an important ally. Besides, the loss of such a high commander was a blow to the Darkside.

But the Lightside would get its due yet. She would sneak into the city and the Magic Circle’s palace. And she would enter the ten-mile portal to travel to Dar Kahar… right after she had annihilated all her personal enemies, who—as she had divined—were all conveniently staying in the palace.

Lanfareth cantered toward the city, twisting her head over her shoulder as if she feared somebody was pursuing her, for the benefit of the soldiers who were surely watching her from the ramparts. She reached the battlements and crossed the drawbridge over the moat. A squad of Corpsentinels had destroyed the chains that raised the drawbridge on the previous night, and the garrison had not repaired it yet. She dismounted and stepped to the gate.

As she raised her hand to knock on the iron-bound door inside the enormous gate, she wondered whether she should have come during the day. Nighttime suited her better and made her lie more believable. Still, people were more suspicious at night.

A wave of apprehension made Lanfareth want to leap on the horse and gallop away, but she had surely already been seen from the ramparts. Taking a deep breath, she balled her hand into a fist and banged on the door.

A slit opened, and her nocturnal vision revealed a pair of squinting, mistrustful blue eyes.

“Who is it?” The voice behind the gate was rough, and as distrustful as the eyes.

She smirked. The human vermin inside the city lived in permanent fear of the Darkside. She drew a short, sharp roundel and hid it in her left sleeve. Then she took a deep breath. It was time to put on a little show.

“Please, let me in!” she called, trying to sound hysterical. “The monsters attacked our homestead and killed everyone in their sleep. I managed to escape, but I think they’re after me.”

“Step aside, woman!” the man behind the door commanded.

Lanfareth obeyed, guessing that he wanted to make sure that nobody was hiding behind her.

Nothing happened for a while, then she heard the bar grate inside the brace. The door opened a bit, and she walked in, leading her horse by the bridle. The beast was so big that she had to yank down on the bridle so it would not scrape its head against the top of the doorframe.

Two guards were there, grasping their pikes. One was tall and bearded, the other short, with a beer belly and a droopy mustache. Their helmets and breastplates glistened in the light of four blazing torches. They closed and barred the door and turned to her with distrust blended with curiosity. There was more of the former than the latter.

She knew that men found her black hair and blue eyes a stunning combination, so she turned her face to the torchlight and batted her long eyelashes. It worked on the bearded one, who gawked like an idiot. But not on the short one.

“Is that a warhorse?” the short one asked, eyeing the large black beast. His alert, green eyes landed on her satin black cloak. “You look nothing like a peasant!”

And you are too observant for your own good, she thought. Reaching into her sleeve, she drew the roundel and thrust it at the man’s throat in one fluid, practiced movement. The man gurgled and staggered, pressing his hand to the bleeding gash. Although blood gushed in small rivers between his fingers, he jabbed at her with the pike. She skipped aside, and the pike’s iron head crashed into the roundel, forcing it from her hand.

The other guard jabbed his pike at her chest, but she staggered backward, out of its reach. She drew blood into her head. Summoning the heat from the blazing torches, she weaved it into tendrils and made them dart toward the guard. The man grunted in pain and dropped the suddenly-smoldering haft of his pike.

Three torches had died, and the fourth one sputtered, casting eerie shadows. The guard with the bleeding throat collapsed, his face deathly white from the loss of blood. The other guard yanked on his sword to unsheathe it, but her Might jammed the blade inside the scabbard. Then she made her roundel lift off the ground.

The guard gawked at the hovering weapon for too long. She grasped the roundel, twisted around, and slammed the blade into his side, just behind the breastplate. He gurgled, his eyes bulging as if they were about to fly from their sockets and hit her face.

He made a grab for her hair, but she wrenched the blade free and stepped aside. He collapsed, and she winced as the helmet fell off his head and clanged loudly against the flagstones. Drawing blood into her head, she killed the last torch and shielded herself behind a spell of non-detection. It had its limitations, but she was sure that none of the vermin on the ramparts would sense that anything strange had happened down here.

The man with the ripped throat lay still. The other had just stopped twitching and groaning. She let her warhorse lick the blood off the roundel, and then she shielded it. She looked at the corpses, wondering what to do with them. There was nothing she could do but leave them there and let their replacements wonder what had happened.

She turned to the door in the gate to unbar it. She could even try to open the whole gate, and summon the Wrathlords with her Might to charge—

A bell tolled on the ramparts, making her twitch. Somebody must have realized that she had killed the guards, after all. Perhaps some silver-level mages patrolled up there, along with the soldiers.

Lanfareth mounted and cantered away from the gates. Sensing that a volley of bolts and arrows was about to rain on her from the ramparts, she summoned her Might to deflect them. They clanged against the flagstones all around her horse’s hoofs, making the beast nicker and snort. She galloped past a giant park that had obviously become an encampment of the garrison. Stirred by the bell, the soldiers ran back and forth among the tents like headless chickens, but nobody paid her any attention, due to the spell of non-detection.

The bell’s toll faded beyond the park, and she slowed to a trot. Stones were piled on every corner to make barricades in case of an invasion of the Darkside. She counted seven patrols, uniformed or not, before she crossed the suburbs. Hardly anyone as much as glanced at her, though, for she had neither horns nor antlers. Nobody seemed to follow her, and she started to calm down.

Heeling her horse over and over, Lanfareth forced the beast into a gallop whenever she sensed there was nobody around. They started to climb a steep hill toward the Magic Circle palace. She knew that Eriana and Leya stayed there most nights, although they worked in a hospital, and that the other brats from New Thorstorm were there as well. She did not care about Glen, whose parents had not been involved in the Great Battle, but she longed to kill Derrik and Broose—and the girls, of course. Especially Leya.

The times when Lanfareth had thought of sparing that girl were long gone. Now she hated Leya for the same reason she had once pitied her; that little insect was the same age her child would have been. But her child had never been born. Lanfareth abhorred Leya for living and enjoying her life while her own offspring had never had the chance.

“I’ll get you yet, you little whore,” she grumbled. “Oh yes, I will! Twice you’ve escaped from me, and that’s once more than anyone else has ever managed.”

She still could not believe that Leya and Derrik had come out of the collapsed cavern alive. She had realized that days later, and before she finally accepted it, she could not find them anywhere. But her Might had led her to them, eventually.

Now she could kill two flies in one swat, as they said in her native Renekah. If she managed to get into the Magic Circle palace, she could kill all those brats and enter the ten-mile portal. She felt certain that her Might was strong enough to travel through the portal to Dar Kahar. If she succeeded in stealing Tarroth, she would surely earn the Dark Overlord’s eternal gratitude, becoming the richest and most powerful woman on earth. That prospect made her pant with thrill.

Reinforcing the spell of non-detection, Lanfareth plunged into the forest that embraced the Magic Circle palace. She knew the city and the palace well; she had spent nearly a year training here, after finishing her magical studies in Dar Kahar, and before returning to Renekah. She had even met Torsum, and she hoped the High Mage was asleep. If he were awake, he could detect her even through the spell of non-detection.

As the palace came into view, she stopped and dismounted. Hide away and wait for me! she sent into the warhorse’s mind. The horse snorted, tossed its head, and trotted into the forest.

Taking a deep breath, she skulked to the gate. She sensed that only one guard sat in the guardhouse beyond it. Others were guarding the city walls and the walls of the palace’s enclosure. She rubbed her hands. All the better!

She thought of blasting the door open with a spell and rushing at the guard, but that would make too much noise. She pressed herself against the wall by the gate and focused on a nearby stone. The stone lifted and flew at the gate, slamming into it.

“What’s going on?” A gruff voice came from over the gate.

Not so loudly, you stupid insect, she thought, wincing.

The gate opened, and the guard stepped out, hefting his pike. Thanks to the spell of non-detection, he did not see her in the dark until she was right in front of him. And he did not realize that something was wrong until she had thrust her roundel into his eye.

As the man grunted and collapsed, Lanfareth listened, scanning the black building in the distance. No lights came on, and she breathed out in relief.

The man had a long, brown braid and a forked beard. His only eye stared with horror and incredulity, glistening in the strangely strangled moonlight. As she bent over him to wipe his blood and ocular liquid off her roundel in his surcoat, she wondered what to do with him. Since she could not leave him there without raising suspicion, she decided to take him to her hideout.

Having sheathed the roundel, she grabbed him by the wrists and dragged him into the courtyard. She closed the gate and hauled him toward the eastern wing, keeping to the shadows of colonnades, trees, and fountains whenever she could. A bird chirped and tweeted in a tree crown as if to complain that she had awakened it. She blasted it with magic and made it fall at her feet. A squirrel chittered in another tree but rushed away before her magic could reach it. A few rats scurried past, startling her. But she did not see a single human.

Pouring strength into her muscles through her Might, Lanfareth finally reached the eastern wing. She magically opened an arched, iron-bound side door and dragged the corpse down a narrow, winding stairway. She sensed torches in sconces nearby, and she ignited them with her Might. Their sputtering light showed a narrow hallway with a low, groin-vault ceiling.

The guard grew heavier and heavier, and her arms and back ached despite the spell. Lanfareth grunted as she dragged him to the end of the hallway. She could have made him float with her Might but that would sap too much out of her, thinning the shield of non-detection and making her less aware of possible dangers.

With magic, she opened another door and lit another set of torches. The torchlight revealed a crypt with about a dozen black, marble sarcophagi that lined the stone walls. The sarcophagi were some ten feet long, and they reached her chest. The torchlight danced eerily on golden skulls and bones that decorated the lids. This was the place where the former High Mages of Araton had been buried. This was the place where not even the living High Mage, Torsum, could find her.

Here in the crypt, and under the spell of non-detection, she was well out of the reach of his Might—but she could strike out at her enemies whenever she sensed the opportunity. Once they were dead, she would sneak into the portal to get Tarroth—and deliver it to Saitaan so he could finally conquer, enslave, or annihilate all the vermin of the Lightside.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE: THE GIFT

The Magic Circle’s palace buildings were quite empty these days, for many mages helped out in the hospitals while the guards took turns manning the ramparts and patrolling around the palace’s outer walls. Battle Wizards patrolled around the forest surrounding the ten-mile portal at the edge of the palace enclosure to make sure no Wrathlord would sneak there.

Only the Circle’s court of arms bustled with activity, ringing with steel as Derrik sparred with Gerra while Broose faced Glen. Heavy clouds wallowed over the court, as dark as they would be above the enemy encampment behind Cahes, as if to defy the fact that summer was at its peak. Still, Derrik sweated like in the strongest sunshine as he tried to stand his ground against Gerra.

The woman had decided to take over his battle training. She had been testing his skill, strength, and stamina every day for hours on an end until he wanted to bawl and crawl on all fours from the courtyard. Although she had blunted the practice swords with magic, Derrik was full of bruises while her skin bore no blemish—apart from that scar on her chin, which she had received long before they had met.

Gerra swirled like a twister, her thick red hair flying around her head but never seeming to impair her vision, her blade slamming over and over against his. She never seemed to tire, almost as if she had elven blood. Only occasionally did a grunt escape through her clenched lips as she battered him.

Derrik had gone through all the sword forms he knew, but she anticipated and deflected all of them as easily as if she had invented them. As he dodged, ducked, and receded under her blows, he recalled Bark floating in a white river, a form he had invented back home. He lurched forth and went through a difficult series of jabs, sweeps, and thrusts. He ended the sequence with a half-pirouette and a swift sideways blow. He exclaimed with glee as his blade tapped her elbow. That was the first time his steel had touched her. The blade would not have done much damage even if it had been sharp, for he had only grazed her. Still, it felt like quite an accomplishment.

Gerra lowered her sword and stepped back “Not bad, boy,” she said with a grin, rubbing her elbow. From someone like her, it seemed like the highest praise. “I suppose you deserve a few moments of rest.”

He nodded, puffing up with pride. He wished that Eriana was there to see him. Oh, and Leya, too, of course. Unfortunately, the girls now spent most of their time in the hospital. While there had been no major offensives for days, healers had their hands full preparing potions, balms, and bandages for future battles. Dwarfs had dug out a tunnel into the enemy encampment and raided it along with elves, and the Lightside expected a prompt retribution.

Wiping the sweat from his forehead, Derrik glanced at Dhra’ack. The dragon sat perched on a nearby wall, spiked tail around his clawed feet as if he were a cat. He was as nearly as large as a pony, and Derrik wondered when he could ride him. Since yesterday, smoke had occasionally poured from the dragon’s nostrils, but he had not breathed fire yet. He sometimes fluttered his wings as if he wanted to fly, but for now, he only padded around. He could climb trees and walls as deftly as a lizard, though.

Steel no longer clashed on the other side of the courtyard. When Derrik glanced at his friends, he saw they were taking a rest. Again.

Broose sat in the grass, eating a pie and reading a book he had propped on his crossed legs. He had been adopted by an elderly kitchen hand, who kept stuffing his pockets with treats. As he had also befriended the chief librarian, he found the palace a haven of pleasures.

Glen lay on his back, his head resting on a wooden shield. Chewing on the end of a long grass blade, he blinked lazily as he scratched his belly. He also seemed happy in Cahes, for he spent most of his time dallying with scullery maids and drinking mead and ale with servants in the palace’s great hall.

Since Broose had filled up again, looking a bit flabby, and since Glen had cut and spiked his hair, the sight of his friends took Derrik back to New Thorstorm. Until a brutal blow to his stomach brought him back to the present.

He grunted and gasped, staring at Gerra, who had sneaked up to him and stood only a foot away, hefting her sword. He fell to his knees. Then he went to all fours and vomited. Now he was glad that the sisters were not there to watch.

Dhra’ack roared menacingly, glaring at Gerra, and showing fangs that reminded Derrik of Silverbolt, their wolf friend from New Thorstorm. The dragon’s anger brushed against Derrik’s mind. Dhra’ack moved as if to leap off the wall and run at her, but then he twitched and sat still. Derrik sensed that she had stilled the dragon with a spell.

Gerra grabbed Derrik under the arm and pulled him up. She was incredibly strong. “The break was shorter than you thought, huh?” she asked, her husky voice brimming with annoyance. Her light-green eyes flashed. “Had it been a real sword, you’d be dead, boy. You can never drop your guard, do you hear? Now let’s keep sparring.”

No! he groaned, but only in his head. As he hefted his sword and tried to focus, he noticed Torsum coming. Derrik had never been gladder to see the High Mage. His arrival meant a respite from the torture Gerra called sword practice.

Gerra lowered her sword and turned to the mage to greet him. She had told Derrik never to drop guard, and he was tempted to smack her back with his blade to teach her a lesson. It would be dishonorable, though, as Broose would say. Besides, she would probably sense his movement and break his arm before he could reach her.

The High Mage nodded and smiled at Gerra and then he turned to Derrik. “I see you keep working hard, lad,” he said. “Unlike your friends,” he added, shooting a disapproving look at Broose and Glen.

Glen yawned and stretched, his eyes half-closed, and Broose still had his nose buried in the book. Neither of them had noticed the High Mage’s arrival.

Torsum turned to Dhra’ack. “I see that our winged friend is growing like a reed.”

The dragon spread his wings and straightened his neck, the way a toddler would raise his hands to show how tall he was. Derrik often felt that the dragon understood him through their bond, but the creature seemed to understand the High Mage as well, perhaps through magic.

“He’s too big to stay in my chamber, but he refuses to get far from me,” Derrik said. “He sleeps in the hallway, but with the tail stuck in the doorway so I can’t close the door.”

Torsum smiled. “It must be nice to have such a fierce guardian.”

Derrik chuckled and shrugged. “I suppose. A servant nearly died of a shock when she was passing the hallway at night and Dhra’ack suddenly growled at her.”

Torsum shook his head, his dark eyes sparkling with amusement. Then he grew more serious. “I suppose we will have to train Dhra’ack some independence. He’s too little to stay with the other dragons in the plains and forests behind the Circle’s walls, but he will have to learn to sleep right here in the courtyard. Let’s do some work, now, though, lad. We need to teach you some more silver-level magic.”

Derrik nodded, hoping it would be less painful than the swordplay. Torsum had been training him in magic as relentlessly as Gerra trained him in sword fighting. Derrik often staggered from one tutor to the other on the verge of exhaustion. His fighting skills had been improving, though—at least, he seemed to receive fewer bruises every day—and his Might had been blooming like a spring meadow, bringing him every day closer to his new dream of becoming a Battle Wizard.

Having mastered the technique of drawing blood into his head to summon all his Might, he had managed a few silver-level spells like setting things on fire or moving them without touching them. Unfortunately, his Might was still so weak he needed to combine it with Torsum’s to manage that.

“Should we go to your quarters?” Derrik asked, although he found it odd that Torsum had come for him in person. In the early days, the High Mage had always sent his painfully slow footman. And as of late, he had summoned Derrik mentally.

Torsum shook his head. “Let’s practice right here. We need Gerra for today’s lesson.”

Hilts and blades, it is going to be painful, Derrik thought.

The woman smirked and eyed Derrik, hefting her sword. She was not only the best fighter he had ever met, but also a powerful silver-level mage.

Glen walked to them. “I saw Gerra giving you one of her smirks, so I figured out something funny’s going to happen,” he said to Derrik, his eyes shining with anticipation. “I bet you’re about to get your ass kicked.”

Torsum turned to him, raising his bushy eyebrow.

“Oh, hello there, High Mage,” Glen said jovially, patting Torsum’s back. Gerra moved as if to punch him for the impropriety, but Torsum shook his head. Derrik gave Glen a dirty look.

Broose also joined them, but he could not greet the High Mage, for he was chewing his last mouthful. He only nodded as he wiped his hands into his jerkin, whose enormous side pocket bulged with the book from the library.

“I suppose that our friend here is going to get bruised by the combined powers of steel and magic?” Broose asked when he swallowed, putting his hand on Derrik’s shoulder.

Torsum shrugged. “It depends on Derrik whether he will get bruised or not,” he said in his mild, pleasant voice.

Glen and Broose exchanged a look that said they believed Derrik would get bruised badly. He thought so, too.

“Until now, Derrik and Gerra have engaged in what laics call ‘clean’ type of fighting,” Torsum said. “But now, for the first time, I’ll let her use silver-level magic while sparring.”

Derrik frowned while Broose and Glen slapped the palms of their hands, grinning with anticipation. Derrik glared at them, thinking, Who needs enemies with friends like that?

Torsum said to Derrik, “An encounter with a skilled silver-level fighter could be nearly as deadly as an encounter with a Wrathlord. It will happen, sooner or later, and that’s why you need to get ready. Gerra will use magic, but I’ll try to anticipate her moves and spells, and send you mental instructions on how to defend yourself. That’s the best way to learn.”

Derrik took a deep breath. He did not like the sound of the word ‘try’.

“You need to focus on fighting as usual, while keeping blood roaring in your head,” the High Mage said. “Don’t let anything distract you, lad. Or anybody,” he added, looking at Glen and Broose, who took a few steps backward.

Gerra and Derrik smirked.

Torsum said, “The formulas we’ll be practicing today are, aredim ahir, sizirk aynider, and geriem edersirm.” Those words were in the Ancient Tongue of the stone-ax elves. And yet they sounded familiar to Derrik, as if they had been stored in his ancestral memory.

Gerra nodded, tucking a lock of fiery red hair behind her ear. “River flow, object move, and balance remain. I’ll make you use those, then. Do I have to do it in that particular order?”

Torsum shook his head. “That will not be necessary. Now, if you are ready…”

Gerra hefted her sword, grinning. She only seemed to be in a good mood when she was about to bruise Derrik.

Derrik poised himself and summoned the image of a flame that burned away all his thoughts, feelings, and emotions. The singing of the birds faded, and his heartbeat slowed. He focused on the blood coursing through his body and forced it to soar to his head. His face felt as hot as if he were running a fever, while his toes and fingers went ice cold. The first few times he had tried this technique, he had always felt sick and suffered from headaches and nosebleeds. Now he only felt a slight pressure on his temples. He was glad that he had been practicing his forms and stances with the blood roaring in his ears.

Derrik decided to strike first. He lurched at Gerra, swinging his sword in an upward arch with Falcon swooping from the sky. She parried easily and gave him a forcible shove, making him stagger and fall on his arse.

Over the roar of blood in his head, he thought he heard Glen laugh and Dhra’ack shriek. Hilts and blades! Derrik thought as he leaped to his feet. She hasn’t used magic yet, and I’ve already made a fool of myself. That thought made the flow of blood ebb. He quickly cleared his mind and drew the blood up again.

She lurched forward with a jab, a blur of steel and flailing red hair. Derrik skipped aside and moved to swat at her forearm. Although she had stayed long within his guard—uncharacteristically long—he missed her. The sword’s balance suddenly felt wrong. The blade grew heavy, pulling his hand down.

Geriem edersirm! Torsum’s voice echoed in his mind just as Gerra twisted to him with a side sweep aimed at his midsection.

Derrik repeated the words automatically. “Geriem edersirm.” Suddenly, his sword felt normal and he managed to swat at her blade and deflect the sweep at the last moment. He staggered away from her, hefting the sword. The balance and weight remained as usual.

She circled him, as if waiting for him to attack. Derrik leaped forth with Leaf swirling in the wind, a fast succession of jabs and sweeps. In the middle of the complex sword form, he felt that the sleeve of his shirt started to burn the skin on his arm.

Aredim ahir! Torsum’s words blasted into his mind just as he saw that the sleeve started to smolder.

As Derrik repeated the words, the image of a wave swept in front of his eyes. The sleeve was suddenly cool and damp.

Derrik danced away from Gerra, heart pounding. Had it not been for the High Mage, that crazy woman would have set him on fire. Again, Gerra circled him, a slight smile on her face, waiting for him to lurch. One more spell left, he thought. Let’s get this over with.

He roared as he lunged and swept his blade with Frog leaping off a lotus leaf. She parried easily and lifted her free hand. His instinct told him to look right, to the place where Glen had been lying. The shield which Glen had had under his head soared and darted toward Derrik. He staggered sideways—and the shield changed its trajectory to hit him.

Sizirk aynider!

Derrik repeated Torsum’s words just as the shield came within inches of his head.

Something blurred in front of his eyes. An invisible force slammed into the shield and deflected it. But it was too late. The edge of the shield crashed into the side of his head and felled him.

The roar of blood faded, replaced by the chirping of birds and alarmed shouts. There was only darkness for a while, then flashing lights, and then the world came back into focus. Gerra was bending over him, her red hair falling to his face.

“You didn’t put enough force into the last spell, boy,” she said. She sounded apologetic, annoyed, and concerned at the same time.

Something thudded nearby, and when he looked that way, he saw that Dhra’ack had leaped off the wall and was padding toward him. Derrik quickly sat up, afraid that the dragon would try to nuzzle him with his fiery snout. His body heat seemed to increase along with his size. And Derrik had suffered enough pain today.

Dhra’ack stood a few steps away, his fiery yellow eyes flashing with worry and anger. The dragon opened his mouth as if he wanted to bite Gerra, but she lifted her hand and he clamped his mouth shut.

Glen and Broose rushed to Derrik. “Are you all right, Brother?” Broose asked in a worried voice as they pulled him up.

Derrik nodded; the movement blasted pain throughout his head.

“You fought well for a logger,” Glen said, bending for Derrik’s sword and giving it to him. “I’m sorry that you got hit by my pillow.” Despite his light tone, he cringed with concern, and Derrik suddenly felt better. Broose and Glen were good friends, after all. Not just friends. Brothers.

He tried to produce a smile as he sheathed his sword with his trembling hand.

Torsum stepped to them and said, “Let me heal him, please.”

Glen, Broose, and Gerra stepped aside, and Torsum put a hand to the wound. A tingling sensation spread through Derrik’s head, along with calming heat. The pain slowly faded into a mild ache, making him feel as if he had drunk too much last night.

“You allowed the flow of blood to ebb, due to exhaustion and scare,” Torsum said. “That was the reason why the spell wasn’t forcible enough. It was lucky you did hold some blood in your head still, though. If you hadn’t, the shield would have crashed into your forehead and broken your skull.”

Derrik shuddered. He hoped he would never face an antagonized silver-level mage, or a Wrathlord, in his life. Since he was the son of the Warrior-Summoner, though, sought after by Lanfareth and the Darkside, there was a good chance that he would.

Torsum nodded gravely as if he could read his thoughts. He most likely could.

“I have a present for you,” the High Mage said. “I think that you more than deserve it, for you have shown remarkable determination to improve your fighting skills and to nurture and enhance your Might. Besides, it’s crucial for your safety.”

Torsum turned his head, and a black sword flew toward them. Derrik groaned in fright and staggered, but the sword floated quite slowly and hovered in front of him.

It was the most beautiful weapon Derrik had ever seen. The blade was sturdy, a few inches longer than a usual sword, only a little shorter than a longsword. It was black like the deepest abyss, and yet it seemed to glow. The black, steel hilt was long and ornate, with a giant red gem encrusted in the crossguard. The gem shone so brightly it nearly hurt the eyes, although the sky was overcast and the day was gray. It resembled the watchful eye of a magical creature.

Derrik grasped the hilt with a beating heart and hefted the weapon. It was much lighter than he had expected.

“It’s… beautiful,” he breathed out. “Thank you, Torsum!”

The High Mage smiled and patted his back. “It’s not only beautiful but also deadly, so be careful with it. It was forged by evil mages, eons ago in dragonfire, and tempered in dragon’s blood.”

Dhra’ack grunted in displeasure, glaring at the weapon with distrust in his eyes.

“This weapon is a Wrathblade?” Broose asked. He stared at the black sword in fascination, just like Glen.

Torsum nodded. “Those weapons were originally made for Wrathlords. Luckily, the Circle got possession of a few of them throughout history.”

“And old Archmages turned the flow of their magic to serve the Lightside,” Broose said, speaking slowly and frowning in thought as if he were reciting a text he had read years ago.

Torsum smiled and nodded again. “You are smart, Broose. The result is, that this is one of the few weapons on this continent that has the power to kill a Wrathlord.”

Derrik breathed hard as he hefted the weapon again. The red gem hypnotized him. Tendrils of the sword’s incredible power scurried up his arm. He could not believe he had been given such a present. He, a muddy foot from New Thorstorm, suddenly had a dragon, the Might, and one of the deadliest weapons ever forged.

“Thank you again, High Mage,” he said. “I… I don’t know what to say.”

Torsum said, “No need for thanks or words. Just make sure you always use the weapon to defend the Lightside.”

“And do not use it to spar with me,” Gerra said. She looked jealous as her piercing, light-green eyes glided over the black blade.

“Mages and warriors customarily name their magic swords,” Broose said. “What are you going to call yours, Derrik?”

“What about Wrathbane?” Glen asked.

Derrik instinctively thought of rejecting the idea, because it was Glen’s, but suddenly he loved it.

“Yes,” he said, lifting the sword high. “I will call it Wrathbane. And I swear to make sure that the sword does honor to its name.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX: CAGED

On the following day, Derrik dragged himself to the great hall, bruised and aching from another sparring bout with Gerra. It was not dinnertime yet, and only a few servants were milling around, placing wooden bowls on the long tables. Broose, however, was already sitting there, stuffing his face with a mince pie while reading a book. He looked as happy and comfortable as if he were sitting in his mother’s kitchen back in New Thorstorm.

“You’re having an early dinner, Brother?” Derrik asked as he sat beside him.

“Oh, I’ll be having real dinner with you and the others, my friend,” Broose said, a mischievous smile splitting his podgy face. “This is just a little appetizer.”

“A little appetizer, Broose?” Derrik asked, shaking his head in amusement. The pie was nearly the same size as the book.

His friend kept eating and reading for a while, licking his fingers before he turned a page. Derrik kept staring at him because he knew that it annoyed him.

As he had expected, after a few moments, Broose sighed and lifted his head. “My, aren’t you irritating!”

Derrik chuckled. “I didn’t say anything!”

Broose frowned and harumphed.

“Anyway, where did you get such a nice pie, Brother?” Derrik asked.

Broose shrugged. “Old Gherma from the main kitchen building sees me as her own son, and she feeds me like one as well.” He twisted his beard and frowned. “Sometimes, she treats me in a little, erm, non-motherly fashion. But I guess it’s worth it.”

Derrik burst out laughing. “You are a whore, my friend.” He reached out and tore off a piece of the pie, drawing an injured look from Broose. As he stuffed it into his mouth and chewed, Derrik said, “But you’re right, it is worth it! Chicken and boletus, not bad!”

Broose gave him a long look. “Old Gherma is my territory, mate, so keep out,” he said. His tone was flat and Derrik was not sure whether he was joking or serious. The remark made him laugh in any case, so hard that he nearly choked on the pie. Broose frowned and rammed an enormous morsel into his mouth, his eyes gliding back to his book. The servants had departed, and the great hall was silent.

Something told Derrik that Glen was coming. His sense of precognition had become acute, especially when there was silence and when he focused. He also felt that Dhra’ack was getting restless and agitated down in the courtyard. The dragon had not been allowed into the hall ever since he had accidentally splintered his third table with his tail. And he did not take it well.

Easy, Dhra’ack, Derrik sent. I’ll come to see you as soon as I’ve had dinner. And I’ll bring you something good to eat.

A sense of guarded contentment passed over Derrik’s mind. As his Might grew, so did his bond with the dragon, letting him send thoughts to Dhra’ack’s head and feel his emotions.

Voices came from the hallway and interrupted the silence. Glen walked in with a girl in a black-and-blue maid’s uniform. He carried a large basket while she walked with her hands behind her back. She was pretty, with long fair hair and a bright smile, but she seemed too tall for a girl. She towered above Glen even though he had spiked his hair.

Glen grinned and nodded to Derrik and Broose as he put the basket on a table. The rattling sound told Derrik that the basket contained cutlery.

Glen turned to the girl. “All right, I’ve carried this here for you as you wanted.” Taking her around her waist, he asked, “Would you like me to carry you somewhere?”

He flexed the bicep of his free arm. “I may not be very tall, but I’m strong as a bull!”

She swatted his hand away. “If you don’t know what to do with your hands, dispense the knives. Put them on the right side of the bowls, mind you!”

Glen hung his head for a while, but then he shrugged and took out a handful of knives, placing them by the bowls while she watched him with her arms crossed.

“She’s crazy about me,” Glen whispered as he passed his friends. Derrik and Broose looked at each other and chuckled.

Mages and captains of the guards began to trickle into the great hall. Many tables remained empty, though, for most guards were on the ramparts or manning the ten-mile portal while mages worked in hospitals. Sometimes, Derrik felt bad about staying in the palace the whole time, although he worked hard on his fighting and magical skills. Broose and Glen did not seem to mind at all.

Glen finished handing out the knives and walked to the girl. He leaned to her for a kiss, but she laughed, pushed him away, grabbed the empty basket, and hurried out.

He chuckled and shook his head as he joined his friends at the table. “She was acting timid because you guys were staring, but she’s a real dragoness when we are alone!”

Derrik and Broose shared a good laugh.

Servants walked in, carrying large trays. The great hall filled with a blend of aromas that made Derrik’s mouth water. Broose raised his head, his nostrils flaring as if he had turned into a horse. His eyes shone so much one would say he had not eaten in days.

“Venison on blueberry sauce,” he said, sniffing. “Trout baked in butter, veal tart with cream, stuffed piglets, and baked gammon of bacon.” He rubbed his hands. “The mages eat so well that I might join the Circle! I mean to sit here until I’ve tried each and every one of those treats.”

Something was telling Derrik that Broose would not have the chance today. But he could not tell why.

“But what’s going on?” Broose said when the servants approached the tables on the far side of the hall. “On even days, they always start serving this side. Today is an even day, so I sat here to be served first. And now they change the routine?” He snorted like an irritated mule. “I’m talking to the High Mage about that. If you can’t even rely on the servants of the Magic Circle, the whole world will head for the Wrathlands.”

He moved as if to walk across the hall and sit at another table to be served sooner. Then he scowled, waved his hand, and remained seated.

“What are you upset about now, Broose?”

The voice was cheerful, teasing, and familiar, and when Derrik turned, he saw Leya, approaching their table along with Eriana. His heartbeat quickened as he saw the older sister. He had not seen her for several days, and he had nearly forgotten how beautiful she was. The girls were wearing those Aratonese tunics again, revealing their tanned shoulders and the lower parts of their shapely legs.

Glen stood and pulled out a chair for Leya. “What are you beautiful ladies doing here?” he asked with a wide grin.

“We are free from our hospital duties until tomorrow, so we’ll have dinner with you,” Leya said as she sat.

“And then go to sleep,” Eriana said, collapsing heavily on a free chair. Her dark eyes glistened with fatigue as she stifled a yawn.

A murmur floated around the great hall. Derrik sensed that Torsum was coming. The next moment, the High Mage rushed in, followed by Gerra. They headed straight to Derrik’s table.

“You need to leave immediately,” the High Mage said, his eyes gliding over the group. His normally mild voice brimmed with impatience and agitation. “All of you!”

Broose’s eyes glided from the servants and the heaps of food back to the High Mage. He looked as if a death sentence had just been pronounced over him. “But we’ll be terribly hungry if we skip dinner!”

“Do you prefer to be hungry or dead, boy?” Gerra snapped in her husky voice, eyes flashing. “You’re in danger, don’t you understand?”

Everybody stood and turned toward the exit, exchanging confused looks. Derrik sensed that the danger was real. He regretted having left Wrathbane up in his chamber, and carrying the ordinary sword he used for sparring. Fortunately, Gerra severed the blunting spell after each practice so the blade was sharp.

“Hurry up,” Torsum said as he led the way from the great hall, the hem of his blue cloak fluttering around his ankles. “I’ll explain everything once you’re safely hidden away.”

The High Mage led them outside and toward the guards’ barracks, an ugly square building with mean, small windows. He entered the barracks, walked to the back of the building, and stood by a stone wall. When he pulled down on a torch in a sconce, the floor trembled and the stone wall moved with a thunder-like roar. A narrow doorway opened in front of them.

Torsum took the torch, lit it with magic, and led the way down a gaunt flight of winding stairs. Smoke filled the closed space, and Leya coughed. Torsum lifted the torch above his head so that everyone could see. The flame licked the low, arched ceiling as the group walked down a narrow hallway. Neither the High Mage nor Gerra said a word, although Glen kept asking what was happening.

They passed a place that reeked like a privy and reached the end of the hallway. The High Mage raised his hand, and several torches blazed into life. The torches lit a cage with a sturdy iron pole erect in the middle and with an array of heavy chains lying around it. The floor was full of suspicious dark stains.

“This is a cell for Wrathlords and silver-level traitors,” Torsum said. “This is also the safest place in the whole city. And it’s where you will remain until the palace is safe for you again.”

“But why isn’t the palace safe?” Glen asked. “Is it that whore Lanfar—”

Torsum lifted his hand, and Glen trailed off as if he had run out of air in the middle of that word. “Pronouncing her name would call her attention,” the High Mage said. “But yes, she is somewhere in the palace. I can feel her filthy presence in every pore of my skin. You won’t be going anywhere until I bring her here and chain her to this pole.”

Derrik’s breath grew ragged. So Lanfareth was after them. Although he had feared it was the case ever since Torsum had rushed to the great hall, the confirmation hit him like a hammer.

Torsum gave them a searching look. “Did I make myself clear?” He sounded uncharacteristically stern. Everybody nodded and murmured in agreement.

Torsum said, “Gerra will make sure that you are safe. And I’ll make wards against the traitor.”

The High mage narrowed his dark eyes in concentration, and Derrik could almost see the tendrils of his Might making the air around him shimmer. The torches sputtered as if a draft blasted into them. An invisible shield seemed to spread around the cage.

“This should prevent that woman from sensing you.” Torsum looked around the bare cell. “You won’t be too comfortable, my friends. But I hope you won’t have to stay here too long.”

Torsum twisted around and walked away, leaving Gerra behind. Derrik tried to reach with his mind to Dhra’ack to warn the dragon to hide. His Might hit a black abyss.

Torsum strode out of the barracks, intent on destroying Lanfareth. To him, she was not a woman or a human being but a monster of the Darkside, a member of an unclean force he had sworn to fight. He hated creatures of the Wrathlands for killing his brother and grandparents, and thousands of other innocent people, elves, and dwarfs. But he hated human traitors even more. Besides, he had to protect Derrik and the other youngsters.

He had first decided to help Derrik out of respect for the Warrior-Summoner, and because he sensed that Derrik could eventually become the new protector of Tarroth, but the lad and his friends had soon grown on him. Although they had their flaws, they were brave, determined, and loyal, and Derrik and Eriana had even shown a true talent for magic. Just today he was about to suggest the two of them took the bronze chain and became magical apprentices. He had to protect them. He had to destroy Lanfareth once and for all. And now it was his chance.

He knew that the traitor was in the crypt beneath the palace. He guessed that she had been there for days, ever since two city guards had been killed by the gates, and a Circle’s guard had gone missing. Only today, though, had she scurried out. She had likely sensed that all her enemies—Derrik, Broose, Glen, Eriana, and Leya—would gather for dinner in the great hall, and she saw her opportunity to kill them at the same time. As soon as she had left the crypt, though, Torsum’s Might had alerted him against her. Lanfareth must have sensed his mind reaching to her so she hid again. She probably hoped that he had not detected her, but she was wrong. Now he was going to get her.

The High Mage wondered whether to take other mages and guards with him to the crypt. Then he decided against it. He could not be sure if it was not a ruse. What if she was not acting alone? What if she hid in the crypt to attract everyone there while her accomplices sneaked to the ten-mile portal and into Dar Kahar? His first concern was to protect Tarroth, not the son of the weapon’s wielder, attached as he was to the lad.

Besides, although he did not want to admit it, his pride was involved. He was the High Mage, and he had been experimenting with gold-level magic in case he became the Archmage. He did not need help to root out and destroy a silver-level traitor.

A few guards emerged behind him from the barracks, bristling with the energy and determination of men who were about to start their day’s duties. One of them, a giant of a man with a broken nose and a black, forked beard, wore the ribbons of a captain.

“Be especially alert today, please,” Torsum told the man. “And if you have men to spare, send them to the ten-mile portal, just in case.”

“Of course, High Mage,” the captain said with a slight bow, his gauntleted hand grasping the hilt of his sheathed sword.

Torsum thanked him and walked over the courtyard toward the eastern wing. The evening was raw and overcast, and the leaves on the trees shivered in the breeze as if they were cold. In a few months, the leaves would fall and cover the ground. Suddenly, Torsum wondered whether he would be still alive to see that. He frowned and clenched his hands into fists.

Just focus, you silly old man, he admonished himself. Focus and kill that human monster.

He entered the eastern wing. Drawing blood into his head and lighting the torches that rested in iron sconces, he descended a narrow staircase and crept down a long hallway. His heart pounded as he reached the end of the hallway and stood by an ironbound door to the crypt. Lanfareth was surely hiding there, among the sarcophagi of the former High Mages of Araton. Unless he was careful, he would join his predecessors in that gruesome place, eternally and sooner than he had planned.

Taking a deep breath and forcing another surge of blood into his head, he magically unlocked the door and kicked it open. Darkness welcomed him, and he lit all the torches in the crypt. He scanned the rows of black marble sarcophagi embellished with golden skulls and bones that glowed creepily in the sputtering torchlight. He sensed she was there, hiding and shielded behind a spell of non-detection, and he kept his blood roaring in his head, ready to deflect whatever she might unleash upon him.

His Might told him to look at the ceiling. He did so just as something large plummeted toward him. He raised his hand and caused the thing to stop falling and to hover above him. He screamed in fright when he found himself staring into the face of a corpse. It was not a former High Mage but a man in a guard’s uniform. A dreadful hole gaped where the guard’s eye should have been. The other eye glared terribly with frozen horror.

A waft of rotting smell told Torsum that the man had been dead for a while. It had to be the guard who had gone missing. Lanfareth must have made him levitate, and she dropped him on Torsum just as the High Mage stood underneath the corpse.

The shock and the sudden feeling of sickness made him drop his guard for a moment, and the blood ebbed away from his head. Something slammed into the back of his head, and he fell to the ground.

Black clouds of unconsciousness passed over his mind. Everything blurred and spun in front of his eyes. He heard himself groan. Lanfareth was suddenly crouching above him, her black hair falling to his face, her large, blue eyes shining. With a hideous sneer on such a beautiful face, she reached for his nose and squeezed it, making him open his mouth to gasp for air.

Tottering on the verge of consciousness, he did not have the strength to summon his Might or push her hands away. In horror, he watched as she produced a flask and put it in his mouth. Burning liquid poured into his throat. He gurgled and tried to spit it out, but she clasped his chin and forced his mouth shut, still holding his nose. After moments of struggle, he was forced to swallow the liquid.

A stupor spread through his body. It affected his fingers and toes first, making them fall asleep, then it crept to his limbs. In a moment, he was completely paralyzed.

Lanfareth stood and walked away. He could not move his head to see where she was going, and he only listened. The clapping of her steps ended about twenty feet away. Then he heard stone grating on stone. In horror, he realized that she was opening a sarcophagus. The next moment, he found himself lifting off the ground and floating. Toward the open tomb. As he was dropped there, the chemical smell of preservatives and color additives overpowered him. He had just landed on an embalmed corpse.

Lanfareth was standing above the sarcophagus, looking down on him. Her eyes shone wildly in the sputtering light of the torches. “Rest well with your predecessor, you pitiful worm,” she said with a terrible sneer. “Soon, the coffin will fill with the corpses of the brats from New Thorstorm. I will make you suffocate under their weight. You will die in horror and remorse. And then, then I will travel through the ten-mile portal to Dar Kahar for the artifact you once swore to protect.”

Her laughter echoed through the crypt as she lifted her hand. The heavy marble lid of the sarcophagus grated shut. The world plunged into silence and darkness. He summoned his Might to warn Battle Wizards and silver-level mages, but the tendrils of his magic crashed into a wall as black as the lid above him.

Torsum wanted to scream in despair. He feared that without his protection, Derrik and his friends would be lost. Sooner or later, one of them would surely leave the barracks to see what was happening, and Lanfareth would be near to get them. Once she had killed them and dumped them on top of him, she would venture into the ten-mile portal to steal Tarroth.

Survival instincts and a sense of duty urged him to try to get out. Logic made him pray that he would die before she returned with the youngsters’ cadavers.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN: A FATAL MISTAKE

Deep silence ruled the cell under the barracks. After Torsum’s departure, Derrik and his friends had spent some time sitting on the cold floor inside the cage, speaking about Lanfareth—without pronouncing her name, of course. They speculated on how she had got into the palace, and whether Torsum would be able to destroy her but could not come to any conclusion. The talk steered toward New Thorstorm and their parents, but that made Glen sad because he had lost his mother. The conversation dried out soon afterward.

Eriana and Leya had fallen asleep, as their exhaustion had overcome their discomfort and anxiety. The boys fell silent to let them sleep, and soon, Glen and Broose also seemed to be nodding off. In the silence, Derrik kept trying to connect with Dhra’ack and wondering why he could not. Was it the distance, or was it…?

He twitched at the sudden feeling that Lanfareth might have hurt the dragon. Fear burrowed into his stomach and covered his hands with cold sweat. He glanced at Gerra, who was the only one awake, sitting cross-legged by the door, unsheathed sword in her lap. He had to get past her and see whether Dhra’ack was well. He had to bring the dragon here.

Derrik stood, wincing at the pain in his back and knees; he had been sitting on the floor for too long.

Gerra shot her head up to him. “Where do you think you’re going, boy?”

“To the privy,” he said, remembering the reeking place down the hallway.

Her piercing light-green eyes shone with mistrust, and he feared that her Might was telling her not to believe him. “My stomach isn’t too good!” he quickly added. He did not have to lie about that, for he suddenly felt queasy, and it seemed to fool her.

She frowned and nodded. “Take a torch.”

Relieved, Derrik yanked the nearest torch from the sconce and rushed down the hallway. As soon as Gerra was out of sight, he stopped, cleared his mind, drew blood into his head, and shielded himself by the spell of non-detection. Her Might was much stronger than his, yet he hoped the spell would keep her from suspecting him of trying to leave.

Rushing to the stairs, he wondered whether he would find a way to open the door that would take him into the barracks. Torsum had not opened it with magic but manually, and Derrik guessed that some kind of simple mechanism opened the door from the inside. He was determined to find it.

Derrik lifted the torch above his head as he walked up the stairs. There was a sconce that had no torch. An instinct told him to pull on the sconce. As he did, the wall moved with a rattling sound and the doorway opened. Derrik exhaled as he walked through. Exactly the same system that had admitted them had now let him out. It was easier than he had thought.

The doorway grated shut a moment later, and he hurried through the barracks. Torches blazed everywhere, and blackness had gathered behind the small windows of the hallways. Down in the cell, he had not realized that night had come. With summer at its peak, it would be one of the shortest nights of the year. But it already felt like the longest night of his life.

Two guards appeared from around a corner. They barred the way and glared. Both were about his age, one with a thick, droopy mustache and the other with a full yet wispy beard similar to Derrik’s. The torchlight made their breastplates and helmets glisten, but their eyes looked nearly black. The men looked familiar, and Derrik guessed they knew who he was. He hoped they did not know he was supposed to be in the cell. As he probed their minds with his Might, he realized they wondered what he was doing in their building.

“Excuse me, have you seen my dragon?” Derrik asked. He truly wondered where Dhra’ack was for he still could not reach him with his mind. And it would serve as an excuse for entering the barracks.

The bearded guard scoffed. “How can you lose a roaring, shrieking thing that’s as big as a goat?”

The other said, “And I thought you had the Might.”

The guards shared a laugh. They would not have dared speak like that to a silver-level mage, but they usually treated apprentices with scorn. And Derrik was less than an apprentice, for he did not even have a bronze chain.

“To answer your question, no we didn’t see any scaly goat walking around,” the bearded one said. “Now leave the barracks. They are off-limits to civilians. Especially those who have nothing to do with the Circle.”

Derrik glared at them as he moved on, but he secretly breathed out in relief. He hurried toward the main doorway and rushed out. It was not as late as he had thought, but dark clouds had brought on an early twilight, and it was pouring down. Pausing under the roof of the small portico, he looked around but could not see a soul.

Where in the Wrathlands is that dragon? Although he reached for Dhra’ack with his Might, his mind seemed to glide into darkness. He was afraid that Torsum or Gerra would find him sooner than he found Dhra’ack. He prayed that Lanfareth had not harmed or killed the dragon.

He tried again, picturing the dragon’s fiery eyes, golden scales, and webbed wings, and calling to him with his mind. Suddenly, he sensed that Dhra’ack was somewhere near the eastern wing. He rushed there, blinking as rain poured over his head into his eyes. The rain was so heavy that his torch sputtered and died within moments.

“Stop right there, boy!” Gerra’s voice cut into the night and seemed to hack into his back. He slowed, wondering whether to ask her for help. She would surely scold him and drag him back into that damned cage before he could find his dragon. He decided to run on.

“Derrik!” Gerra’s voice came from a little closer.

Derrik ran faster, his feet smacking the drenched grass and the puddles on the flagstones. He reached the eastern wing, and his Might immediately alerted him of danger. He realized that he had fallen for a ruse. Dhra’ack was not anywhere near that wing.

But Lanfareth was. And she had lured him there with her evil magic.

Derrik cast about in panic. He tried to clear his mind to shield himself with a silver-level spell, but his head was in too much turmoil. He saw Gerra rushing toward him, a dark outline wrapped in shadows behind the sheet of downpour. Suddenly, a figure appeared from the shadows of the wing’s entrance, smaller and more feminine than the tall, robust Gerra, yet much more menacing. Icy fear gripped Derrik’s muscles when he recognized Lanfareth.

The traitor raised her hand and threw something at him. The dark object flew so fast that he only had time to scream and stumble backward.

Gerra called out in alarm, raising her hand. An invisible force slammed into the object, deflecting it away from his face. From the corner of his eye, he glimpsed a glint of steel. A dagger.

Lanfareth screeched in rage. A blinding bolt of lightning seemed to split the sky asunder. It struck Gerra, making her stumble and collapse. She lay face down on the pavement, and Derrik sensed she would never get up.

A moment later, he realized what had happened. Lanfareth had summoned the lightning and sent it at Gerra. And Gerra had been so focused on saving him that she had not had a chance to protect herself. The lightning must have struck her mail shirt and killed her.

A deafening thunder drowned his scream of horror and rage. He moved to run away from Lanfareth, but something tripped him and made him crash into the drenched flagstones.

When he tried to scramble up, his bones and muscles seemed to have turned to lard, and he could not move them. Derrik wanted to scream, but his tongue suddenly swelled in his mouth. All he could do was groan and gurgle.

As she stood in the middle of the crypt, looking down on that little maggot, Derrik Thon, Lanfareth breathed hard with glee. She was exhausted, for she had been hiding in the darkness of the crypt for days. Her waterskin had long been empty, and hunger cramps tortured her stomach. It was only her will and her Might that had kept her alive and sane. But the ordeal had proven fruitful.

She had trapped the High Mage of Araton in a sarcophagus. And the son of the Warrior-Summoner lay at her feet. She would kill them both tonight, along with Derrik’s closest friends, and then she would depart to Dar Kahar to claim Tarroth for the Darkside. Soon, even Wrathlords would have to bow to her. And perhaps, Saitaan would endow her with gold-level magic as a reward.

Derrik glared at her, but fear glistened in his eyes, and it added to her glee. She had hogtied him with a rope so she would not have to keep him bound and paralyzed with magic. She would need every particle of her Might tonight and could not waste it.

Lanfareth let the blood ebb from her head, and Derrik started to wriggle like the worm he was, his paralysis leaving him. She also severed the spell that had made his tongue swell, but the brat did not even scream; he knew that nobody would hear him here.

“Where is my dragon?” he asked in a strained voice. “What did you do to him?”

That surprised her; she would have expected him to beg her to release him.

She ignored the question, and he clenched his teeth and gulped. His eyes glided about as if he thought the dragon was hiding in one of the torchlit sarcophagi that surrounded them. That made her sneer.

“So you scurried from your hideout like a rat from its hole,” she said mockingly. “And that guard ran after you to protect you. She died while saving your pitiful life.”

The pain in his eyes told her that her assumption had been right. The guard’s death seemed to make him suffer more than the severest whipping and branding ever would. How pitiful were the vermin of the Lightside! Wrathlords and Corpsentinels would never agonize over things they could not change.

Basking in his suffering, incomprehensible as it was, Lanfareth decided to push on. “Your stupidity has killed that guard, worm,” she said. “And now it will kill you and your friends.”

A shade of horror passed over his eyes. She sensed he struggled for control over his emotions. “Where is my dragon?” he asked again. “Where?” He seemed genuinely worried about that thing. But she also sensed that he was trying to steer her attention from his friends. She scoffed. How pathetic!

“What did you do to Dhra’ack?” he insisted.

Lanfareth laughed. “You are truly attached to that dragon, aren’t you?”

She had not killed the dragon yet, but she had used her Might to put him into a deep sleep. Perhaps she would try to raise and bond him. But she would not bother telling the insect at her feet.

“Where is he?” he insisted, anger and despair twinning in his voice.

“What do you care, maggot?” she snapped. “You won’t have any use for him. Dead men don’t ride.” She gave him a long, stern look. “Just like you, I also need to find out where someone is. And unlike you, I will get my answer.”

Derrik looked away and frowned in concentration. She could feel his Might creating a shield against her to protect his pitiful friends from detection. She rammed into his mind with her magic, but could not batter it down. His Might was pitiful—but Torsum had reinforced it. Although he was paralyzed from her potion, and surely half dead from the lack of air, the High Mage still helped Derrik block his mind against her.

Lanfareth could either kill Torsum or torture and intimidate Derrik until she broke him and destroyed the shield he had created. She opted for the latter. She would murder the High Mage in any case. But first, she would play with the brat.

Looking down at her captive, she had to admit that Derrik was not bad-looking with his fair hair and muscular shoulders. He brimmed with strength and youthful energy and with the determination to protect his friends. Breaking his will and reducing him to a wreck would be amusing.

She put her foot on his chest. “You are going to die for the sins of your parents. But your death can be quick and merciful if—”

“My parents are heroes!” he snapped, his voice overflowing with scorn and echoing against the cold, wet walls. “They risked their lives fighting monsters and traitors. They fought against evil creatures like you.”

Lanfareth laughed. “How naïve you are, maggot. Do you truly believe there is good and evil, black and white? In any case, you’re too low and stupid to even argue with. I could as well be barking back at a lousy dog. Now, tell me where your little friends are or you will suffer terribly.”

Derrik gritted his teeth and looked away. Tendrils of her Might probed his mind and hit a black shield, reinforced by that putrid Torsum.

“You will speak, worm,” Lanfareth snapped. “I can guarantee that.”

She stretched out her hand and closed it into a fist. The rope that tied his hands and ankles tightened, digging deep into his skin until he grunted in pain. Then she imagined thorns growing from the ropes. Derrik writhed and groaned, blood gushing from his shredded wrists and ankles. She thought that the pain would make him let go of the shield, but it did not.

“Where are they?” she snapped. “Speak!”

“Go to the Wrathlands, traitor,” he ground through his clenched teeth.

“You are still pretty cocky for a worm who’s about to die,” she said. “But cockiness is a disease which I can cure quite easily.”

Lanfareth thought of kicking him in the head, but that would be below her. She looked at the blazing torches and got an idea. Forcing blood into her head, she drew the scorching heat from the torches and let it wash over the willful brat.

Derrik closed his eyes and groaned. His shirt and leggings, which were still wet from the downpour, suddenly dried. A moment later, they were drenched again, this time from perspiration. His face turned crimson. Sweat poured from his pores and dripped from his ears and nose. A burning smell slithered around the crypt, and she guessed that it was coming from his beard and hair. But the damned shield remained.

“Don’t make this worse than necessary, maggot,” Lanfareth said. “Do you have any idea what horrible things I can do to you?”

Derrik only gritted his teeth and groaned, his face swelling from the heat. A derisive laugh bubbled in her throat—but her eyes suddenly filled with tears and blurred her vision. He was just a child, after all, misled and stubborn, but a child nevertheless, and no child should suffer like this. A phantom pain pulsed in her womb, and her maternal instincts flickered to life. Had she become pregnant a few years earlier, Derrik could have been her son.

She killed the spell and blinked away her tears, wondering what to do. He lifted his head to her and stared at her wet eyes with an expression that glowed with surprise. And with something else. A hatred and repulsion. That look made her scream in rage and kick his face. She trembled with anger, longing to stomp that worm into the ground.

“Who do you think you are, you putrid brat?” she screeched. “I hate you. You make me sick to my stomach!”

But in fact, she hated herself more. She hated herself for her spell of weakness, and for displaying it. She hated herself so much that she slapped her face.

He stared at her in disbelief. “You are mad.”

Lanfareth scoffed. The stinging pain of the slap calmed her. I am mad, am I? That was what humans always said, another reason why she hated them. The creatures of the Darkside never judged her.

“Where are your putrid friends, maggot?” she yelled. Her voice echoed from the cold walls and the arched ceiling. “Tell me!”

“Never!” he spat.

She clenched her hand into a fist again, and he started to groan as she crushed his throat. She kept up the pressure, guessing that he felt as if a heavy man stood on his neck. His face went deeper red. She felt him struggling to draw blood into his head to fight her spell and ease the pressure.

That effort shattered his shield.

Suddenly, an image blasted into her head: the brats were in a cage with a large iron pole and chains in its center.

She unclenched her hand. “So old Torsum put your friends in a prison cell for Wrathlords.”

“That’s not true!” Derrik groaned through his crushed throat, his eyes filling with horror.

She laughed. The brats were locked inside the cage, probably by that female mage whom Lanfareth had killed with the lightning. The mage had locked them there so they would not run after Derrik. And that way, she had sealed their fates. Killing those little vermin inside that cage would be easier than drowning a bunch of blind kittens.

“I will go now, but I’ll be back soon,” she said. “I’ll bring you their heads. Then I’ll kill you along with Torsum. Then I’ll go get Tarroth.”

“No!” he screamed, squirming like an eel.

She waved her hand to kick all the air from his lungs and shut him up. His voice grated on her nerves.

He gasped for air, eyes bulging, and she wondered what to do with him. She thought of hiding him in a sarcophagus, but it was too much useless work, so she decided to leave him there, behind a ward of non-detection. His Might was too weak to help him free himself. And, out of the mages of Cahes, only Torsum would see through that ward.

Torsum was probably close to death, though, due to the lack of air. The paralysis her potion caused would not leave him for hours. By then, she would be back to perform the most spectacular rite and sacrifice in the history of the Darkside.

She summoned her blood and cast a shield of non-detection around Derrik. With a victorious sneer at her prisoner, she turned around and rushed from the crypt, up the stairs, and out of the eastern wing.

It no longer rained but darkness had fallen. Although she longed to go straight to the barracks, she decided to head to the forest around the ten-mile portal first to dry the trees with magic and set them on fire. The Lightside’s biggest fear was that the Darkside would sneak into the portal; the conflagration would draw all the mages and guards to the forest, leaving the palace and the barracks empty.

She would be free to sneak back, descend beneath the barracks, and murder the New Thorstormers. Once it was done, she would decapitate them and bring Derrik their heads, just as she had promised. Then she would kill him and Torsum, fan the flames to create further chaos, and sneak into the ten-mile portal to travel to Dar Kahar.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT: VOICE FROM THE TOMB

Glen often dreamed about his dead mother. The dreams were mostly pleasant, set in his early childhood, about sitting on her lap and listening to her stories by a roaring hearth, and about their baking Harvestend cakes or picking blueberries in the woods. Those dreams made him wake up with a pang of loss, and yet he cherished them the way he would cherish his mother’s portrait.

Tonight’s dream was like a brutal thrashing.

His mother was already ravaged by illness in that dream, withered and gasping for air. She was bent like a crone and could only shuffle around with a skeletal arm hooked into Glen’s—but she suddenly disappeared. Glen and his father searched for her in the house, the smithy, and the village. They called her until they were hoarse. As they could not find her anywhere, they rushed to the cemetery and…

Glen woke up and opened his eyes, sweating and panting as if he had truly been running. He saw Broose, Leya, and Eriana sitting on a stone floor with their backs against thick iron bars, their eyes closed. He recalled that they were in a cage under the barracks, hiding from Lanfareth. Many torches were already flickering and about to die. And Derrik was gone, as was Gerra.

“Hey, wake up, everyone,” Glen said.

The three siblings opened their eyes, squinting and stretching their backs.

“Where is Derrik?” asked Leya.

“And where’s Gerra?” asked Broose.

Glen shrugged. “Beats me. I’ve only woken up now.”

Eriana frowned in concentration. “Something is telling me that Derrik has done something stupid.” Her tone indicated that she was vexed but not at all surprised.

Glen got up, trying not to groan at the pain in his back. A cold stone floor was a bad place to sleep. He walked to the barred door and tried to open it. It was locked. “Derrik?” he called through the bars. “Gerra?”

“Be quiet, man,” Broose said. “Do you want to call the attention of the traitor?”

Glen scratched his spiked head. No. He really did not want that. “What could have happened?” he asked.

The siblings also stood and walked to the door.

“Derrik must have sneaked out, for one reason or another,” Broose said. “And Gerra rushed after him to protect him. And she locked us in.”

“Damn that woman,” Glen said, rattling with the gate.

“She did it to protect us, Glen,” Leya said. Her gentle voice and sweet, beautiful face calmed him almost immediately.

“I know,” he said, trying to sound good-natured. But he hated being locked up, whatever the reason.

“It is true that Gerra’s decision is questionable,” Broose said. “If Lanfareth found us here, we would have no way to escape.”

“There would hardly be a way to escape from a silver-level traitor in any case,” Eriana said. A mysterious smile played on her lips. “But if you want, I can open the lock with a spell.”

Glen felt excited yet incredulous. “You can open a lock that is meant to restrain Wrathlords? You must be as magical as you’re pretty.”

For some reason she did not rejoice at the compliment. Instead she studied the lock. Or pretended to.

Leya pointed to a set of massive spikes above them. “I’m sure that’s a portcullis, which is the thing that would truly restrain the prisoners. We are lucky it’s raised.”

“And you’re as smart as you’re pretty,” Glen said.

Leya smiled and waved her hand, making him wonder where the time had gone when she would blush and lower her head.

“Do you want me to unlock it or not?” Eriana sounded impatient. She had not changed as much as her sister had.

“Yes, go ahead, Eriana,” Broose said.

Eriana nodded, taking a deep breath. She put her hand on the lock. Although she was too thin for Glen’s taste, he had to admit that her Might and her concentration made her desirable. He tried not to stare at her, though, for he did not want to break her focus. And get his ears boxed.

“Eristrang amborderum,” Eriana said.

The lock clicked, and she pushed the door open.

“That was excellent, Eriana,” Leya said, her eyes shining. She did not seem to worship Eriana as much as she had back in New Thorstorm, so this sudden show of admiration was a little surprising. In any case, that admiration made her extremely cute. Glen wished she would ever look at him like that. It almost made him want to learn magic.

Broose said, “Now that we can leave, I wonder whether we should go and look for Derrik.”

“Of course we should!” Glen said. The cage was suffocating him, and he longed to leave. Besides, Derrik might need them. Their adventures had made them brothers; they had to always stand by each other.

Broose did not look convinced, so Glen said, “Wouldn’t it be dishonorable if we stayed here and left our brother Derrik on his own?” The word dishonorable always worked wonders on Broose, as if it were a magical formula.

Broose chortled. “I know what you’re doing, you sly fox. But I guess you’re right. It would be dishonorable to stay here. I’m going.”

Glen grinned and glanced at the girls to see whether they were impressed by his manipulating their smart brother. They did not seem so.

“Staying here wouldn’t be dishonorable,” Eriana said. “It would be smart.”

Glen frowned. He was not that surprised that Eriana would be against it. She was pretty much against everything he ever said.

“Torsum wants us to stay here until he returns,” Eriana said. “And he’s the High Mage.”

“High Mage my nose hair,” Glen murmured, drawing a dirty look from her.

Broose said, “He may be the High Mage, but he isn’t our High Mage.”

“That’s right,” Glen said. “We have nothing to do with the Circle. We don’t have to listen to him.”

Leya looked uneasy, saying nothing, but Eriana snapped, “I’m sure he will soon offer me to become an apprentice of the Circle. Torsum is my High Mage.” She sighed and said in a calmer voice, “I sense that Derrik’s stupidity has put everybody in danger. If we leave, we can make it even worse. Much worse.”

Glen waved his hand. “You worry too much.”

Broose said, “Glen and I have made our decision, and it would be dishon— I mean, it would be wrong to break it. We cannot make you come with us, although I’d be much calmer if you were with me. But you can’t oblige us to stay.”

“I’m not telling you to stay,” Eriana said, crossing her arms.

One by one, everyone turned to Leya, who sighed and glanced at her feet. For a moment, she was the little girl who would hide from him in New Thorstorm. Then she cleared her throat, looked up, and said in a confident voice, “I think that all of you are right, in a way. But I should stay with my sister.”

Broose nodded. “We accept and respect your decision, Leya.”

Glen smirked, despite the tension. He loved Broose like the brother he never had, but he was sometimes maddeningly stiff.

“Please, stay safe,” Broose said to his sisters, his voice trembling. “I don’t know what I would do if something…” He trailed off and sighed.

Leya smiled and embraced him, putting her cheek on his wide chest. “You too, my brother. Be careful.”

Glen fidgeted, wondering what to do. He hoped that Broose would hug Eriana so that Glen could hug Leya without making it look too strange. But Broose only nodded to Eriana and said, “I’ll see you soon, all right?”

She smiled and squeezed his shoulder. “Of course, Brother.”

Broose nodded. “Well, we go now.” He walked from the cell, and Glen followed, grabbing a torch from a sconce.

The torches must have been burning for hours, and yet none of them died yet. Glen guessed that Gerra or Torsum had made them burn slowly with a spell. He supposed that magic could be useful, especially if it brought him the admiration of Leya. He knew, however, that he would not have the diligence and patience to learn it, even if he discovered he had the Might. Anyway, some scullery maids admired him even without magic when he told them stories about his adventures… most of which were even true.

They walked down the hallway in silence. Then Broose said, “Shouldn’t we have discussed the possible outcomes and made plans for each contingency? All this seems awfully hasty and foolhardy.”

Glen waved his hand. “Plans are for wussies. Real men just go and act.”

“And get killed,” Broose murmured with a frown.

They reached the top of the stairway and stood by a wall that blocked their way. After a moment of hesitation, Broose pulled on a sconce. The wall grated open.

Broose shook his head. “One would think that the Circle would come up with a more ingenious way to secure a dungeon,” he said as they walked through the opening. “On the other hand, guards need to come in and out, so this almost makes sense.”

Glen shrugged, for he did not care as long as they were out.

The wall closed shut behind them, and they walked through a torchlit hallway. As they made a few steps, a guard barred their way. His green eyes flashed in the torchlight. So did his waxed mustache. He was in full armor complete with a helmet, mail shirt, and a breastplate, and he grasped a pike as if he were patrolling the building.

“What in the Wrathlands is going on here?” the guard snapped, brandishing the pike. “Why do civilians keep promenading in the barracks?”

Glen opened his mouth to explain the situation, but Broose furtively elbowed his ribs. Glen frowned, but then he understood. The fewer people knew about Eriana and Leya hiding in the dungeon, the better. Rumors said there might be traitors in the palace, mostly among mages, but also among guards.

“Are you also looking for that dragon?” the guard asked testily. “I heard that was what your friend was doing. That animal isn’t here, all right?”

“Oh, he isn’t?” Broose asked, looking dismayed.

Glen was not sure what was happening, but he decided to leave it in Broose’s hands. Broose may be stuck up but he was smart.

“No, he isn’t, so you can piss off,” the guard snapped. “There might be a Wrathlord in the palace grounds and I have no time to deal with stupid kids.” He looked only about five years older than them.

Glen wanted to retort, but Broose restrained him and said, “All right, we’ll leave.” They passed the guard and walked on.

Suddenly, the guard called at their backs, “I didn’t mean to be nasty.” He sounded embarrassed. “It’s just, everyone is on the edge tonight. The last time I saw the dragon, he was in the court where you usually spar. Something seems to be wrong with him.”

“Thank you, man!” Broose said as he dragged Glen on.

“What in the Wrathlands?” Glen asked. Now he was really confused.

“Let’s go and see Dhra’ack,” Broose said. “Chances are that Derrik will be near.”

They kept walking, and as they passed a window, they saw a strange red light glowing behind it. The slight smell of smoke tickled Glen’s nostrils. “Is there a fire?”

Broose quickened his step. “It seems that way.”

They rushed outside, into the windswept night. The smell of smoke grew stronger, and a reddish nimbus told Glen there was a large conflagration in the forest that surrounded the ten-mile portal. Not a soul was to be seen outside as everyone was probably there, patrolling and trying to put out the fire.

“Do you think that Wrathlords are really around?” Glen asked, grasping the hilt of his sword.

Broose shook his head. “It seems more like Lanfareth’s diversion move, and I hope she is still over there. Anyway, let’s rush to the sparring court.”

Glen nodded and started to trot, but soon he had to slow to let Broose catch up. Broose had regained his old weight, if he had not surpassed it. That old kitchen hand who had adopted him as her son was even more generous with pies and sweets than Broose’s mother.

The torch died just as they reached the court. Deep shadows closed in on them, but a golden glow told them that Dhra’ack was in the farthest corner. They stumbled through the dark toward him. His scales were not as effervescent as the shell of his egg had been, but it still emitted enough light for them to see he was curled in a ball, resembling a giant porcupine. He was asleep or perhaps unconscious, breathing heavily and occasionally grunting and groaning as if in pain or nightmares.

“I would bet a giant mince pie that Lanfareth is behind this stupor,” Broose said staring at the dragon. He lifted his head and glanced around the darkened court. “I wonder where she is. And where in the Wrathlands are Derrik and Gerra?”

Glen was about to add that he also wanted to know where Torsum was when a soft growl came from another corner of the court. A shadow blacker than the darkness crept toward them. A pair of yellow eyes flared in the light coming from Dhra’ack’s scales.

Hogtied on the floor, Derrik was relieved that Lanfareth had left the crypt and that his suffering was over, at least for now. But his soul screamed in fear of what she would do to Dhra’ack and to his friends from New Thorstorm.

Agony clenched his wrists and ankles, his throat throbbed, and he was dying of thirst due to the heat. The physical pain, though, was nothing compared to the mental pain. Lanfareth had been right; Gerra had died while saving his miserable life after he had deceived her and made her run into Lanfareth’s reach. Her death was entirely his fault. What was even worse, his friends were about to die as well, prey to that traitor.

Derrik almost wished that his body were in one of the sarcophagi that surrounded him, that his soul floated in the Sea of Oblivion, unaware of the ordeals he had gone through… and spared the ordeals that were to come. He recalled the flash of compassion in Lanfareth’s eyes—and the hatred and fury that had replaced it a moment later. That woman was insane, an insane, silver-level mage worshipping the Dark Overlord. She was perhaps the most dangerous person in the world. He had to save his friends from this human monster. But how? How?

The ropes were so thick that he could not rip them even if his wrists had not been skinned. His Might was still too weak to burn through them without the help of Torsum.

Without the help of Torsum…

He recalled another thing Lanfareth had said, and her words suddenly echoed in his head over and over again. ‘Then I’ll kill you, along with Torsum.’

He had been too focused on blocking his mind from his friends so that Lanfareth would not find them to concentrate on anything else. But now as he focused on the High Mage, Derrik’s Might told him that he was near. Very near.

At last, lad. I thought I’d never reach you.

The High Mage’s voice burst into his mind. Now that the connection had been established, Derrik could hear him as well as if he had faced the mage.

“Where are you?” Derrik asked in a hoarse voice he could hardly recognize as his own. “Please, help my friends! Help me save Dhra’ack.”

I’m here, in a sarcophagus, Torsum replied. Lanfareth has paralyzed me with a potion. I can’t speak, and I can’t move. And I’m running out of air.

“No!” the word was more of a groan. Derrik had learned to depend on the High Mage the way an infant depended on his mother. Now the High Mage was as helpless as Derrik.

Don’t panic, lad. My Might has been severely weakened, but I may still help you free yourself. Then you can raise the alarm and perhaps save your friends.

Derrik did not like the sound of ‘may’ and ‘perhaps’. And yet, his heart pounded with renewed hope. “What do I do, High Mage?”

You need to imagine that your wrists have turned into stone. Then you must summon a fire that will burn through the ropes. My Might will boost and control the spell, but you will have to do all the work.

Derrik took a deep breath. “I’m ready.”

It’s all silver magic, so you need to clear your mind and draw your blood as usual. To turn your skin immune to fire, you need this formula, Trepir kecahic, which means, stone form.

“Trepir kecahic,” Derrik repeated. It already sounded familiar. “All right.”

This spell is very, very temporary, and not even skillful mages can hold it for more than a few moments. As soon as you start feeling the fire on your skin, kill the fire spell and start anew.

“All right, Torsum,” Derrik said, bracing himself for another ordeal. “And what is the fire spell?”

You should remember the formula for summoning fire from our previous lessons, lad.

“Oh, yes. Argonserum shegiriz.”

The very same. Argonserum shegiriz. Fire glow. Now let’s get ready. You don’t need to fear for Dhra’ack, but your friends are in terrible danger. Be fast but not hasty. Breathe easily. Think of it as another lesson.

Derrik inhaled, cleared his mind with a mental fire, and drew blood into his head until his face burned but his hands and feet went ice-cold. Then he said, “Trepir kecahic.”

Feeling that his wrists no longer hurt, he summoned fire, and soon he could smell the ropes smoldering. Pain bit into his wrists, and he groaned as he severed the flow of his blood.

He repeated the spells over and over again, feeling Torsum’s Might flowing into his mind to enhance the magic. At last, he managed to burn through the rope. Groaning in pain and wincing at the sight of his singed, shredded wrists, he untied his legs and scrambled to his feet. His eyes glided over the sarcophagi.

Over here, lad.

Derrik staggered to Torsum’s tomb. His legs felt wobbly, and his wrists screamed in pain. His clothes clung to his sweaty skin.

The marble slab that covered the sarcophagus was askew, and he pressed against it and pushed it aside. Torsum sprawled on his back over the body of a white-haired woman who looked dead yet alive, with glistening glass eyes and leathery skin that glowed with healthy color. The smell of chemicals punched Derrik’s nose.

The High Mage took a deep, ragged breath. He lay as rigid as the corpse underneath him, and only his eyes bulged and his chest expanded. Thank you, lad. A few more moments, and I would have suffocated.

“Thank you for helping me to free myself,” Derrik said. “Now, let me help you out.”

No, lad, don’t waste your time. I can’t move, and I can’t help you anymore. The paralysis will wear out, though, eventually. I’ll just lie here until then.

Derrik sighed. “All right,” he said, although he hated the idea of letting the High Mage lie in a sarcophagus upon an embalmed corpse. “What do I do now?”

For the first time, the High Mage looked unsure and uneasy. That’s a good question, lad. Now that I no longer need to use my Might to help me breathe and fight claustrophobia, I will try to help you. But I don’t think my Might will reach you and Lanfareth, at least not in an overly effective way. You can try to find some mages or guards to help you, but every moment is precious. I’m afraid that you will have to rush to the barracks and fight Lanfareth on your own.

Derrik took a deep breath. “I’ll manage… somehow. Goodbye for now, Torsum. I’ll come for you as soon as I can.” He twisted to the exit, wondering whether he would ever see the High Mage again.

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE: UNEXPECTED ALLIES

As he left the eastern wing and stepped into the night, Derrik was tempted to rush to his chamber and get Wrathbane. Since the blade could kill a Wrathlord, it would give him much more confidence than the practice sword at his belt. It would be only a few minutes to get the weapon—but his friends could be dead before he returned from the guest wing. If they were not dead already.

Besides, he needed silver-level spells rather than deadly steel to fight Lanfareth. He wished he had spent more time practicing magic with Torsum, although nobody could accuse him of idleness. He hoped that Torsum’s Might would reach him from the sarcophagus.

The High Mage was under the ground, though, and paralyzed by Lanfareth’s potion. Derrik could truly be on his own. And he would rather fight ten Corpsentinels than that one woman.

He rushed toward the barracks, a blazing torch in his hand flaring in a cool breeze. The smell of smoke assailed him, and he saw that the forest around the ten-mile portal was on fire. The flames had to be huge, for he could see them from about a mile away. He sensed it was Lanfareth’s trick to lure the guards and mages away from the palace and the barracks.

Although it meant he would not be getting any help from the guards, it also meant that Lanfareth had not gone straight to the barracks. His friends might still be alive, then. Even a silver-level mage would take a while to set fire to a drenched forest.

His thoughts rushed to Dhra’ack, but when he tried to reach him, his mind slammed into a black wall. He hoped that Torsum was right and Derrik did not need to fear for the dragon.

Drawing his sword, he rushed into the barracks. The building was empty, except for one guard. And he was dead. The man lay in the middle of the hallway, green eyes staring terribly at the arched ceiling, his mouth open wide under a waxed mustache. A terrible gash ran across his throat, the blood glistening in the light of Derrik’s torch. Derrik had no doubt that this man was the victim of Lanfareth. The blood seemed very fresh, so she must have killed him only a short time ago.

Rushing to the back of the building, Derrik clenched the hilt of his sword until his fingers hurt. He pulled on the sconce to open the secret doorway and dashed down the stairs and the passage.

Torches still blazed all around the cell, and the barred door was wide open. Lanfareth stood in the middle of the cage, a sword in her hand. She was bending over Eriana and Leya, who sat on the floor, wrapped in chains meant for Wrathlords and traitors. The girls only groaned and gurgled, as if Lanfareth had tied her tongues. Broose and Glen were nowhere to be seen.

Derrik dropped the torch, rushed into the cell, and lurched at Lanfareth just as she twisted around. Although he had hoped she would be too stunned to see him to react, she slammed his blade aside, pirouetted, and slashed at his legs, ripping his leggings. He staggered backward away from her. Suddenly he was scared. Apart from being an evil, silver-level mage, she was also a formidable sword.

Fight her, Derrik! Torsum’s voice came weak and distant. I’ll try to tie her Might.

Derrik was not sure what it meant, but he guessed that the High Mage would use his Might to keep Lanfareth’s powers on the leash. Encouraged, he hefted his sword as he circled her.

“So you wriggled yourself out, you little worm,” Lanfareth jeered, blue eyes glowing. “Well, let’s have some fun, then, before I kill you along with those little whores.” She nodded to the girls, who writhed in the chains, their eyes full of fear and hope. “Then I’ll find the other two brats and do them in.”

Derrik lurched at Lanfareth and jabbed at her chest. She leaped back and slashed at his blade, deflecting the blow. He launched himself at her, swinging his sword in a downward arc, putting all his rage, fear, and strength into the blow. She grunted in pain as she parried and stumbled under the power of the clash. Having receded with an angered sneer, she abruptly leaped forth and jabbed at him. As Derrik leaned back and parried, she raised her free hand as if to blast him with a spell. He summoned his Might to shield himself, but it was too late.

His eyes began to sting and water. He kept blinking tears as he staggered backward. His vision blurred. His eyes seemed to be crusting over as if he had an infection. He waved his sword in panic, hardly able to see her. Then he could feel Torsum fighting the spell. His eyes cleared just as she struck at him. He skipped aside and swatted her blade away with an upward stroke.

Screeching in fury, Lanfareth slashed at his head with a downward sweep. Derrik met her blade in mid-swing and, fast as a bolt, he lurched toward the opening. He flicked his wrist and drove his blade straight, aiming at her belly. She leaped back, narrowly escaping the point of his sword.

Encouraged, he lashed out at her and made her dodge and block his powerful strikes. He kept pressing forward, feeling confident that he could rid the world of her. Suddenly, he felt as if his wrist was going numb, like during the spell that had shielded him from the fire.

In a panic, he grasped the hilt with his other—untrained—hand. He barely turned away a blow aimed at his neck, then danced backward, praying for the numbness to leave. Then he felt Torsum at work.

I must end this, Derrik thought when he could move his wrist again.

With the sword back in his right hand, he feigned a jab at Lanfareth’s face. As she raised her steel to deflect it, he bent his knees and swept his blade at her midriff. The point of his sword ripped her cloak. And from the pained grimace on her face, it had also tasted her skin.

He heard himself roar as he showered her with blows. Then something seemed to move inside his beard as if a large wasp had flown in there. Realizing that it was another trick, he forced his mind away from it. It was hard though, with the invisible thing pulling at his facial hair. He was losing concentration, and she pressed forth, making him dodge, duck, and parry furious blows. Then the thing left his beard, and he sighed in relief. He felt that this time, it was Eriana who had severed the spell.

Derrik lurched forward, making Lanfareth recede. “Are you going to use filthy tricks whenever I get the upper hand in the fight?” he asked as he and Lanfareth circled each other.

She laughed. “I would be stupid if I didn’t, worm, wouldn’t I?”

How can I ever win then? he thought. He roared in rage and frustration as he moved to lurch at her—but she was faster. Much faster. With a downward blow, she slammed the sword out of his hand, making it clang against the floor. The next moment, she pressed the point of her sword under his chin.

“Now you’re mine, you little insect,” she said with a victorious sneer, her enormous, blue eyes shining with glee, malice, and insanity in the torchlight. “In the end, I needed no magic to best you.”

Derrik wanted to scream in fear and frustration. He was sure that she had used magic, making him lose his grip on his sword. But that did not matter now.

A growl rolled through the hallway, making Lanfareth twitch and look back. Derrik staggered out of her sword’s reach. A massive wolf with long gray fur dashed toward her. The wolf leaped at her and went for her throat. Lanfareth stabbed at the wolf’s belly and raised her free arm to protect her throat. The wolf’s yelp and her scream blended as her blade went through the wolf’s belly and the wolf’s fangs tore away a chunk of her left bicep. They fell to the floor in a bloodied heap. Lanfareth was back on her feet the next moment, brandishing her sword, but bleeding heavily.

Derrik staggered away from her. Guts spilled from the wolf’s ripped belly as it tried to stand. Derrik recognized Silverbolt, their friend from New Thorstorm.

Lanfareth breathed hard, her blue eyes gliding from the wolf to Derrik as if she wondered whom to attack first. Silverbolt dragged himself up, pulling back his lips to show terrible fangs, his hackles bristling. A deep growl rumbled in his throat.

A war cry came from down the hallway. Derrik yelled with glee when Glen and Broose barreled toward them.

“Waken your steel!” Glen roared, brandishing his sword. Broose looked too out of breath to scream, but his sword was also bare.

Lanfareth screeched in rage, her eyes twitching all around as if she were a trapped animal. She waved her hand, and all the torches flared and died. In the sudden blackness, Derrik heard the clapping of her feet as she ran away. A light padding sounded in the dark, Silverbolt rushing after her.

Then came a crash that made the floor tremble. The wolf yelped in mortal agony.

Lanfareth seethed with wrath as she rushed up the stairs from the dungeon. She had made the portcullis fall so that the brats could not follow her; she had them all trapped in one cell, and she knew they would not be able to lift the portcullis—and yet she could not kill them.

She was badly hurt and exhausted. She had to use all her Might to stop the bleeding, and without her Might, she could kill nobody through iron bars.

Besides, she had divined that the barracks would soon teem with guards and mages. Torsum no longer had to focus his Might to help Derrik during the swordfight—and he had used his powers to mobilize silver-level mages and Battle Wizards. She could not even go and finish the helpless Torsum, for several guards and mages would surely head for the crypt.

The only thing that made her feel better was that the damned wolf had got impaled by the falling portcullis while rushing after her. Wolves had always hated the Darkside, and now there was one less. The fact that the wolf was obviously connected to the little brats made it even better. Overall, though, her quest had been a disaster.

However, she still had a chance to make her intrusion into the Circle’s palace grounds worthwhile. In fact, if she succeeded in sneaking into the ten-mile portal and possessing Tarroth, Saitaan would surely be so grateful he would personally help her destroy all her enemies. No, not destroy. Take them to the Wrathlands to be tortured and enslaved.

She stumbled in the darkness of the stairway and used magic to guide her through the blackness. Her ripped bicep started to bleed profusely as she drew her Might away from the wound. She reached the top of the stairway and lifted a trembling hand for the sconce that would let her out.

Only a ghost of light limped in as she pulled the sconce and the wall opened. Lanfareth stumbled forth until she reached a torchlit section, then she focused her Might on closing and cauterizing her wound again. She hurried down the hallway and stepped over the guard she had killed. As she reached the exit, she stuck her head out. The sky had cleared and the moon was out. A small army of guards ran toward the barracks.

Wincing, she scurried out and sidestepped toward the far corner of the building, pressing her sweaty back against the rough wall. The guards barreled into the barracks just as she turned the corner, without noticing her. She breathed hard in relief, thankful there were no Battle Wizards in the group. She hurried around the building and toward the ten-mile portal.

The forest still burned, and black figures rushed back and forth trying to extinguish the fire. The red glow of the fire drew her forth as if she had turned into a moth. She left the gardens and entered the edge of the forest, which was not on fire yet. Darkness swallowed her there. The smell of smoke got so strong that her eyes watered. She hid in the shadows and waited.

A group of servants ran past her down the moonlit path, each carrying two empty pails of water. She thought of killing one of them, but killing a guard would serve much better to her means. She told herself to wait.

A group of guards passed her, and she fought the urge to attack. Then, a few minutes later, she saw her chance. A guard staggered toward her, alone and coughing and retching as if he had inhaled too much smoke.

Lanfareth drew her sword and crept toward him. As she used magic to trip him, she tried to ignore the sudden surge of blood from her wound. He crashed with an alarmed grunt, his halfhelm clanging against a tree as it flew off his head; he had not strapped it under his chin. She dashed at him and hacked at his neck. The swing was so powerful the blade had nearly gone through and decapitated him. She wrenched the sword free, sheathed it, and dragged the guard into deep shadows.

“In life, you served the Circle,” Lanfareth said as she began undressing him. “In death, you’ll serve the Darkside.”

She took off his mail shirt, leather boots and leggings, and red-and-black surcoat embroidered with the ahritaal. As she put on his clothes, she gathered her black hair and covered it with the helmet, hoping she would pass for a man in the dark. The Circle had several female guards. But Torsum might have alerted everybody to look out for a woman with black hair and blue eyes.

Lanfareth hurried toward the conflagration, strapping the helmet under her chin. The loss of blood made her head whirl; she hoped her Might was still strong enough to travel through the portal. She slowed down as the heat of the fire blasted into her face. Most trees were burning, as was the underbrush. High, humming flames twisted and danced on boughs, branches, and twigs, devouring bark, leaves, and needles. It was breathtaking. And it was her work. But the sight of the black figures milling around the fire made her scowl.

There were still too many mages and guards. How could she sneak into the portal with so many vermin swarming it? If only Corpsegrinder was there to blast them all! The Wrathlord was dead, though, and she was on her own. She knew she would never have a better chance to sneak into the ten-mile portal. She had to try, alone or not.

The feeling that somebody was watching her made her twitch. A mage with a silver chain stared at her. Then he turned to the guards. She feared that Torsum had divined that she had disguised himself. And that he had warned the others.

Sensing that the mage would send the guards after her, Lanfareth twisted around and ran. She wanted to screech in rage and frustration. Not only had failed to murder her enemies, although she had had most of them helpless at her feet; she had also failed to enter the ten-mile portal, although she had got within a few hundred feet away from it. Now she had to focus on saving her skin, though.

She rushed toward the gate, turning her head to see if they were running after her. They were. And every time, they seemed closer. And more numerous. The mail shirt weighed her down; the boots were too big for her feet. Her hair got loose under the helmet and fell over her eyes.

Lanfareth slowed down a few paces from the gatehouse just as a guard walked out. He was short and stocky, but somehow, he seemed agile and dangerous. “I’m going to patrol outside,” she said, in as a low voice as she could. It was hard since she was out of breath.

The guard gave her a strange look, nostrils flaring in a large, broken nose. “What?”

She twisted her head back and saw the group of guards and mages only a hundred feet away. “Open the gate, you idiot!” she snarled. Nodding to her pursuers, she said, “Torsum sent us to patrol around the outer walls. A Wrathlord is creeping around the enclosure!”

“All right, all right,” the man grumbled as he turned to the gate. She silently drew her sword.

“Don’t let her out!” The shout came from behind her just as the guard started to unbar the gate.

The guard turned his head to her and eyed her, and she knew he had noticed the loose locks of her black hair. His mouth twisted with horror as he saw her blue eyes. He must have heard of the traitor Lanfareth. The next second, her blade plunged into his midriff, just under the mail shirt. He groaned with agony.

She pushed him aside, yanked at the bar, and slammed her shoulder into the door. Agony made her scream; she had forgotten that the putrid wolf had ripped her bicep. The gate creaked open, though, and she dashed through, summoning the Corpsentinel warhorse she had left outside on her arrival.

She rushed toward the forest that separated the Circle’s palace from the rest of the city. The guards and mages were gaining on her. A bolt or an arrow hit her back. The mailed shirt preserved her skin and flesh, but the impact made her grunt with pain. Another missile clanged against her helm, pushing it over her eyes.

Lanfareth straightened the helm and dashed toward the spot where she felt the horse. Sensing that a mage was about to blast her with a spell, she channeled her Might away from the wound to create a shield. She felt only a trickle of blood running down her arm, but the wound throbbed so much she groaned. That rotten wolf!

The forest grew thick and dark, but she was afraid to summon her Might to let her see, for she had to shield herself from that mage. She stumbled and moaned in fear. Then, at last, heavy hoofs hammered in the darkness; the knot of despair unwound in her gut, replaced by a flutter of hope.

The Corpsentinel warhorse barreled from the dark like a giant shadow, coming to a rearing halt in front of her. She scrambled into the saddle, trotted through the forest, and galloped across the city toward the gates. Although she felt somewhat safe, she wanted to scream in frustration. Instead of destroying Torsum and his group of brats, she had killed a few guards and a lousy wolf. And instead of traveling through the portal toward Dar Kahar and Tarroth, she was running toward the city gates.

As she reached the suburbs, she heard something that made her gasp. The beating of hoofs behind her, echoing against the walls of drab, brick buildings. Her pursuers must have managed to get horses, or summoned a cavalry to go after her. She could feel tendrils of powerful Mights pouring over her and zooming toward the mages manning the gates. She was lost. And yet she kept galloping. She had nowhere to run, and instincts drew her toward the gates despite the danger.

As the city fortification reared above her, she saw dozens of figures milling on the parapet wall. Normally, they faced the Darkside’s encampment on the other side. Now they faced her. She sensed another squad in the shadows by the gates, silver-level mages among them. Her pursuers had gained on her, the beating of their horses’ hoofs tearing at her ears. That was the end then.

Suddenly, deafening explosions rattled the walls. Fireballs slammed into the parapet, scattering the garrison. Many fireballs flew over the walls, bursting into the squad by the gates. Fires erupted. Men shouted panicked orders; horses screamed in terror. Limbs flew though the firelit air; blood poured over the flagstones, sizzling, and evaporating in a hot acrid mist.

A fireball exploded a few feet away from her, engulfing her in scorching heat. Her warhorse reared and threw her off. She gasped as she suddenly found herself weightless, falling off the horse’s back. But she never crashed to the pavement. She felt herself being lifted and levitating over the battlements. The fireballs stopped, and as she overflew the wall, archers and crossbowmen aimed and shot at her. She deflected the bolts and arrows with her Might.

Suddenly, she plummeted over the wall, and she screamed in horror. Then the fall slowed, and she alighted on the back of a snorting, sidestepping warhorse. To her immense surprise, she saw Corpsegrinder sitting on another warhorse a few feet away.

She stared at the Wrathlord in disbelief. He must have disappeared during the battle against the Lightside, leaving behind his dead lagarrion, to make everybody think he had died. She had no time to wonder or ask why, though.

The gate remained closed, as the garrison was probably gathering the courage to come out and face a Wrathlord. But it could burst open at any time. Arrows and bolts rained at them from the parapet, but they turned into dust before they reached them due to Corpsegrinder’s shield.

Without a word, Corpsegrinder wheeled his horse and galloped toward the nearest woods. She heeled her horse’s flanks and dashed after him.

“Where are you going?” she asked as she caught up with him, raising her voice over the beating of the hoofs. “The camp is that way.”

But Corpsegrinder kept heading to the woods without a word. After a while, he said in his grating, rustling voice, “The other Wrathlords think I’m dead, and I mean to keep it that way. I’ve shielded myself so they won’t know it was me causing all that mayhem.” He laughed. “Nobody in our encampment will figure out what happened at the gates tonight! And you and I, we are going for Tarroth.”

CHAPTER THIRTY: THE DEAD AND THE LIVING

The sun rose on a light-blue sky to dry the puddles and the grass, and birds sang and tweeted as if no horrors had taken place in the night. But the trees around the ten-mile portal had been reduced to charred sticks, some of them still smoldering. And Derrik stood with his dragon and his friends around a shallow grave in a meadow beyond the Circle’s palace. As silent as the grave itself, they looked down at Silverbolt lying there, his belly ripped by Lanfareth’s blade and his skull broken by a spike of the portcullis. They mourned for the wolf—and feared that soon, they might meet a similar fate.

Last night, they had been trapped in the cell until Torsum had recovered from his stupor and raised the portcullis. Lanfareth had been long gone, and rumors said that a Wrathlord had helped her fly over the city walls and flee. But Derrik knew that she would not give up. Last night’s failure would make her all the more determined to murder them all.

“He was a good wolf,” Leya said, stirring him from his thought. Her eyes sparkled with tears, but a slight, nostalgic smile played on her lips as she added, “Although he would nibble at my fingers and make them bleed when he was little.”

Derrik smiled when he recalled that. Silverbolt had been a restless pup and seemed to think that human fingers were perfect chew toys. As the wolf grew, he had often accompanied Derrik and Baard when they went logging. Derrik had often secretly thought of him as his pet. And now he was dead.

“He saved our lives last night,” Eriana said, her voice trembling. “And he had also saved me from that Corpsentinel back in our woods. He must have recovered enough to come here, and now...” She wiped away a tear and sighed. “I’ve been wondering how he could track us down. Ruah Soothsayer must have sent him to protect us.” She turned away, perhaps so that nobody would see her tears.

“I wonder how he could get into the palace,” Broose said, staring dejectedly at the dead animal. “We found him when we were in the sparring courtyard.”

“Actually, he found us,” Glen said with a sad smile. “And he scared the crap out of us, with his eyes suddenly shining in the dark.”

Derrik said, “He showed up in the dungeon just as Lanfareth held me at a sword point. Without him...”

He gulped and shook his head as he stared into the grave. He could not shed the terrible feeling that the wolf had died because of his stupidity. Guilt gnawed at his entrails. And he knew he would feel much deeper remorse yet when they visited Gerra in the House of the Dead behind the eastern wing.

Dhra’ack craned his neck and looked into the grave, two angry puffs of smoke rising from his nostrils. Derrik sensed that the dragon knew that the same person who had put Dhra’ack to sleep had killed the wolf. Dhra’ack had only awoken about an hour ago, and his eyes were still hazy and his legs wobbly. Dry mud covered his golden scales.

“Let us fill the grave,” Broose said. “Then we will visit the other dead.”

The boys picked up shovels and started to throw the dirt they had dug out back into the grave. Leya and Eriana walked around the meadow and picked dahlias, pansies, and mums. Derrik’s stomach roiled as the majestic, fearless wolf slowly disappeared under a layer of dirt.

Once the grave was full, they went to see another victim of Lanfareth. The girls each carried a colorful bunch of flowers. The palace grounds still teemed with guards looking for Lanfareth, although Torsum had said she had left. Many guards probably also searched for Wrathlords, although no monsters had snuck into the palace last night.

The grunting of saws and hacking of axes came from the charred woods, where the servants cut down skeletal remnants of trees lest they fell and crushed someone under their weight. The sounds made Derrik long for the old days in the Wolfhide Forest. Everything had been much easier when he was just a logger… and when he had thought that his father had always been a simple logger as well. Nobody had wanted to murder him. And no loss of life had tortured his conscience.

Derrik feared that seeing Gerra would make him weep with guilt and remorse. He shuddered as they passed the place where the lightning had struck her. The memory of her charred corpse made him want to sick up.

The House of the Dead was a small, round building with tall windows that flaunted pointed arches and stained glass. The arched dome on top of the building was worked in a mosaic depicting the ahritaal.

Dhra’ack paused near the doorway and looked at Derrik to ask whether he could enter. The dragon lifted his front leg and tilted his scaly head as if he were a dog, his fiery yellow eyes staring attentively.

“You better stay here, Dhra’ack,” Derrik said. “It’s not a good place to enter in any case. And we’ll be right back.”

The dragon grunted as if he was unsure whether he liked that. Then he tossed his head, which seemed to be a dragonish version of a shrug. He tilted his head some more so Derrik could scratch the inside of his ear, the only place where the dragon could feel the touch of Derrik’s fingernails. Dhra’ack had grown so much that Derrik no longer had to bend over to reach him. Derrik let his nails grow so the dragon’s hot skin did not burn his fingertips.

“He is adorable,” Leya said. She reached for the dragon to scratch him as well, but Dhra’ack’s warning rumble made her yank her hand away.

Derrik gave her an apologetic look. Dhra’ack would not let anybody touch him but Derrik, and Derrik wondered when the dragon would grow out of it. “Don’t be mean to my friends, Dhra’ack,” he admonished. The dragon lowered his head and looked up at Derrik, his eyes full of embarrassment.

Glen chuckled and shook his head as he led the way into the building. Dhra’ack sat and wrapped his tail around his legs with a resigned puff of smoke that seemed to say, All right, I’ll wait.

Gerra’s body lay on a slab of granite. It was shrouded in a black cloth and framed by burning candles. She lay beside four other corpses, guards of the Circle whom Lanfareth had killed. The sun shone through the stained glass and painted the sad place with cheerful colors, giving the dead faces healthy hues. Numerous columns supported the groin vault ceiling. Motes of dust floated among them as if they were particles of the souls of the deceased.

Invisible, icy fingers seemed to trace Derrik’s spine when he looked at Gerra. She was as beautiful in death as she had been in life, despite the scar on her chin, and she seemed at peace, with her eyes closed and with the colorful sunshine playing on her face. But her neck was marked by reddish lines that looked as if the image of a fern had been etched into her skin. He guessed that the pattern, stamped by the lightning, covered her entire torso.

“Gerra died because of me,” he said, tears suddenly flowing down his cheeks. He felt so wretched and remorseful that he had no strength to wipe them away. He almost wished it was him on that horrid slab of stone.

Leya put her arm around his waist, as did Eriana, to his surprise, but not even that made him feel much better.

Broose said, “Don’t blame yourself over her death, Brother. She was struck by lightning, and the lightning was summoned by Lanfareth. It might have happened anyway.”

“Broose is right, Derrik,” Glen said. “Now, cheer up!”

Derrik shook his head. “It wouldn’t have happened if I had stayed in the cell. If I had stayed, she’d have stayed as well.”

The friends looked at each other as if wondering what to say. Broose opened his mouth to speak, but Derrik beat him to it. “I botched everything by leaving the cell,” he said, shoulders heaving with sobs. “I’m a disgrace to my father.”

“I won’t have you speak like that, lad!”

Torsum’s voice boomed behind him. The High Mage sounded uncharacteristically stern and annoyed.

The girls let go of Derrik, and everybody turned to the High Mage, who stood in the doorway. The sunshine poured on his back, creating a halo around his gray head.

“Your father would be very, very proud of you, lad,” Torsum said, in a much milder voice, as he stepped to Derrik. “I hope that the soothsayer of your village is powerful enough to sense what you and your friends have achieved and that she will tell your parents. They will surely rejoice.”

The siblings glanced at each other and smiled. Glen said, “My father probably wouldn’t care that much. But… do you think my dead mother will know?” his voice broke, and tears filled his eyes as he said the last words.

Torsum nodded and gave him a compassionate smile. “Even that is possible, lad,” he said gently. “The soul never dies.”

Glen nodded, blinked, and smiled sadly. Derrik wiped his eyes, waiting for the High Mage to keep talking. Torsum’s mild, melodious voice was as soothing as his words.

The old man turned to Derrik and said, “I never thanked you for saving my life, lad. Without you, I would have probably suffocated in that sarcophagus.”

Derrik nodded. He had been so full of remorse over Gerra’s death that he never thought of that.

“I let Lanfareth surprise me, paralyze me, and throw me in that tomb,” the High Mage continued. “But you, Derrik, you stood your own against her, and with the help of your friends, you managed to chase her away. And that is a tremendous accomplishment.”

Derrik smiled, feeling much better. Then he glanced at Gerra and her closed eyes and the fern-like pattern etched in her skin, and remorse punched him anew.

“I’ve been here for a while, and I heard what Broose said,” Torsum said. “And he was right, as usual. Gerra was struck by lightning which had been sent down by Lanfareth, and it may have happened anyway, at some point. I’m sure that Gerra died happy and with pride, sacrificing her life while performing her duty and protecting you.”

Derrik doubted that anybody could die with pride and happiness. He always found that notion silly. Torsum raised his bushy eyebrow and looked at him. Derrik quickly cleared his mind before the High Mage could read it. He guessed it was too late.

Torsum did not seem to mind. “In any case, not even the Archmage could change what has already come to pass, and we need to look to the future.” His normally so kind face turned stern and hard as he said, “I swear that one day, we will hunt Lanfareth down and make her pay for all her crimes. She will yet weep with remorse over betraying the Lightside and humanity!”

Lanfareth sighed in relief as Corpsegrinder finally stopped and dismounted in a small meadow. They had galloped throughout the night, heading east, and the Wrathlord had never said a word, ignoring her questions.

She slid off the saddle and sat in the grass. Exhaustion made her want to lie down and sleep, but she was dying to hear Corpsegrinder’s plan. Her head spun and her eyes stung. The wound the wolf’s teeth had inflicted started to fester, shooting pain throughout her arm.

Lanfareth barely perceived her surroundings, the cobwebs spread over the dewy grass, sparkling in the rising sun, and the ring of birches that surrounded the meadow. The Wrathlord’s presence had chased all the birds away, but they chirped in alarm in the woods and got on her nerves. She wished she had enough Might and power left to blast them into oblivion. The guard’s mail shirt weighed her down and she wanted to take it off. But she did not even feel strong enough for that.

“Where are we heading?” she asked the Wrathlord, who stood over her, arms crossed. The sun made the gold ringmail shine on his coat, and his horns seemed about to rip the light-blue sky. His face saw no signs of exhaustion.

“Why did you save me?” she asked when he did not reply.

“That’s what I’ve been asking myself the whole night,” Corpsegrinder said in a scornful, rustling voice, glaring at her with disgust. “I can’t believe how weak and pitiful humans are, and right now, you seem to be the weakest and most pitiful of them all. You fill me with loathing and repulsion. But I still suppose that an alliance with you would benefit me.”

She scowled and wondered whether to retort. Somehow, she did not dare.

He bent over her and scowled, pulling back his cruel, thin lips to reveal his fangs. “I know what you tried to do back in Cahes, you whore,” she snarled. “You wanted to sneak into the ten-mile portal to get Tarroth and reap all the glory for yourself.”

The Wrathlord’s face clouded with rage and he moved as if he wanted to leap at her. She cowered, and he sneered. “You wanted to worm yourself to the pinnacle of the Darkside’s hierarchy, didn’t you?” he asked. “You wanted to best me and the other Wrathlords.”

She gasped, glancing around as if to see where she could run. But there was no running from a Wrathlord. “I… I didn’t even know you were alive and—”

Suddenly, he straightened his back, tilted back his head, and hollered with laughter. The birds quieted and flew away, and when he finally stopped laughing, everything around them seemed to have died. He lowered his head back to her and said, “You are as devious as if you had been born in the Wrathlands.” To her surprise, appreciation crept into his voice. “I can use someone like you, although you are just a weak human insect.”

She gulped. “What do you want from me?”

“The Wrathlords are thinking of abandoning the siege of Cahes and moving on to Gandre,” he said instead of an answer.

Lanfareth had not heard those rumors, and she was about to ask why they would do that. And suddenly she knew. Gandre was a coastal city in the northeast, about seven hundred miles from Cahes and three or four hundred miles from Dar Kahar. It was an unimportant city, and probably badly defended. But it had a Magic Circle palace. And a ten-mile portal.

She said, “They want to break into Gandre and sneak into Dar Kahar through there.”

Corpsegrinder nodded and said, “And I want to beat them to it. That’s why I faked my death. That’s why I saved you.”

Excitement rushed through Lanfareth’s exhausted mind. Gandre was not besieged yet, so she could get in easily. They could reach the city in a fortnight on the back of the sturdy warhorses.

Corpsegrinder surely wanted her to sneak him into the city and the Circle’s palace so they could travel through the portal together. But perhaps she could go there alone, and get Tarroth by herself, just as she had planned to do in Cahes. Glancing at the Wrathlord, she quickly cleared her mind before he could find out what she thought. But it was too late.

Corpsegrinder roared in rage and kicked her in the ribs, making her roll on the grass. “If you ever try to betray me, I’ll forever trap you in my palace in Northern Wrathlands and spend every moment of my free time slowly torturing you,” he snarled, his fangs flashing.

Terror spread through her body along with pain. She knew that he would do it and that the Dark Overlord would not help her. Although she was an important servant of the Darkside, she was just a human.

Blood gushed from her wound anew, and she thought she had ripped the scab. Then she realized that the bleeding was caused by Corpsegrinder’s magic. Agony clenched her forehead, spreading quickly to her jaws and the back of her head and bringing tears to her eyes. She rolled on the grass, groaning and pressing both hands to her temples. A boulder seemed to have fallen on her chest, and she gasped for air.

“No matter how fast you run, no matter how far you go and how deep you hide, I’ll hunt you down and torture you ten times worse than now,” the Wrathlord snarled.

“I won’t betray you,” she screeched. “I swear by the Dark Overlord that I won’t!” But the agony kept clenching her.

“I’ll make you scream and cry in pain whenever you as much as think of double-crossing me, you human whore,” Corpsegrinder roared. “Do you understand?”

“Yes, yes!” she groaned. “Just stop, please stop!”

At last, the agony began to fade, leaving behind a dull ache and the feeling of wretchedness. The warhorses had trotted a few feet away, tossing their heads and rolling their eyes.

“We will travel to Gandre together, and as fast as we can,” Corpsegrinder said. “You will sneak into the city and find a way to get me in. How, that’s up to you. If I sense that you try to reach the portal on your own, I’ll make you fly over the city walls just like I did last night. Then I’ll take you to my palace. Understood?”

She sat up and nodded, trying to control her breathing.

“Are you ready to go on now?” he asked contemptuously, raising his hand and making the warhorses trot toward them.

I hate you! she screeched in her mind. He knew how exhausted and pained she was, and yet he would not let her rest. Nevertheless, she said, “Yes, let us go.”

Corpsegrinder sneered and mounted his warhorse. She wanted to weep as she scrambled into the saddle of hers. Then she sensed danger.

“Dragons!” Corpsegrinder snarled, narrowing the black icy lumps of his eyes in concentration. “There are putrid dragons after us!”

He scowled and dug his heels into his horse’s flanks, making the beast nicker and rear. Twisting his horned head and scanning the sky, he sawed on the reins and forced the horse to turn round and round. He was obviously ready to face and fight the dragons. Lanfareth was not.

She heeled her horse and made it dash toward the nearest row of trees. The sudden movement and exertion made her head spin. A branch hit her forehead as the forest swallowed her, and she went flying off the horse. The horse kept running as she fell into a prickly underbrush.

She twisted over on her back, wincing as thorns ripped her skin. She felt so sorry for herself that she wanted to weep. As she sat up, two giant dragons appeared on the horizon, blocking the sun and making its rays limp weakly through the membranes of their enormous wings. One was crimson like freshly spilled blood, the other so white that it hurt her eyes as its scales glowed in the sunlight.

She cringed, fearing that they would go after her. But they banked, locked their wings, and swooped toward the meadow, which was hidden from her view by the underbrush.

A fireball shot up from the meadow and exploded against the crimson dragon’s belly. The dragon swayed and roared. The white dragon swooped down, out of her sight, but soared a few moments later. It tilted and shrieked in pain; its wing seemed to be ripped. Lanfareth dared get up to her knees and crane her neck so she could see Corpsegrinder over the bushes.

The white dragon belched a roaring stream of fire. Corpsegrinder turned his head and shielded his eyes. Dragonfire could not harm Wrathlords’ skin and flesh, but it could blind them. The fire washed over him. The warhorse screamed and danced under the Wrathlord as his mane caught on fire.

Corpsegrinder extinguished the flames with an impatient wave of his hand, and then he pointed at the white dragon. Lanfareth was not sure which spell he had used, but the dragon’s wing suddenly snapped, and the giant creature started to plummet. The dragon crashed and rolled on the grass.

The crimson dragon locked its wings and swooped down on Corpsegrinder. It opened its mouth to belch fire, but only a volley of sparks and a puff of smoke flew forth. Lanfareth guessed that Corpsegrinder had slain its fire. The dragon hovered above the Wrathlord, flicking its spiked tail and roaring. Again it swooped, making Corpsegrinder dip under the swing of its tail. The white dragon arched its back and waved its wings to take off, but the left wing barely moved.

Corpsegrinder blasted a fireball, aiming at the crimson dragon’s ear, the only sensitive place on a dragon’s body, apart from the eyes. As the sphere of flames exploded against the giant, scaly head, the dragon screeched in agony and swayed. Then it twisted around and flicked its spiked tail again. The tail seemed to slam into both the rider and the mount. It drove them several feet sideways and made them roll on the ground. Corpsegrinder scrambled to his feet. The horse did not.

The Wrathlord staggered, looking dazzled, and the white dragon turned its head to him and belched fire. The stream of roaring flames blasted into Corpsegrinder’s face and made him fall and scream in agony. Lanfareth guessed that the fire had burned his eyes out.

The Wrathlord extinguished the flames with a spell but as he struggled to his feet, he swayed and fell. He did not try to stand again.

Now it was nearly certain that the dragons would kill Corpsegrinder. A Wrathlord had to be killed thrice: once he had died in his horned form, he transformed into a large raven, and when the raven was also destroyed, he regenerated into a giant snake. Only when the snake had been killed was the Wrathlord gone for good. Lanfareth was certain that the dragons could easily kill the raven and the snake. She did not know whether to rejoice or scream in fear. She was happy that the tyrant would die. But she knew that the crimson dragon would go after her as soon as he did.

Lanfareth got up and ran toward the depths of the forest. She heard the dragon growling in the meadow as it battled Corpsegrinder in all his forms. But soon, she felt the dragon’s mind reaching toward her, and she quickly shielded herself behind the spell of non-detection. Dragons were magical creatures, though. It could batter down the shield. Especially if she kept moving.

In a panic, Lanfareth twisted her head left and right and looked for a hiding spot as she ran. She wondered whether Torsum had sent those dragons after them, but that was unlikely. Those were probably wild dragons on whose territory she and Corpsegrinder had intruded. Few dragons were left in Aganopea, so attracting them was extremely unlucky. The dragons must have smelled the Wrathlord—or heard him screaming at her.

The dragon roared, and she felt as if he were pronouncing a death sentence over her. A hare darted across her path and startled her. She groaned with fear, feeling that she was losing strength. Her head began to spin again. The wound bled.

At last, she found a perfect place to hide, an enormous, gnarled old oak with a cavity just large enough for her. She squeezed inside and summoned all her Might to strengthen the shield.

The dragon growled closer and closer, and all she could do was to keep her blood flowing into her mind and pray to the Dark Overlord that the giant beast would not find her. Dragons abhorred creatures of the Wrathlands as much as wolves did, and she doubted the dragon would spare her because she was human; it had surely smelled the Darkside from her, sensed her connection to the Wrathlord.

At times, the dragon glided so near that she could feel its heat. The roaring made the leaves fall and the ground tremble, and it seemed to be ages before it finally faded. It was even longer before she dared leave the cavity and sneak back to the meadow. The nape of her neck soon hurt from craning it to the sky.

Only Corpsegrinder and his warhorse lay there on charred, trampled grass. The white dragon must have managed to take off and head back to its lair to lick its wounds, probably in the company of the crimson dragon. Corpsegrinder’s coat was in rags, as was his skin. His eyes were gone, burned away by dragonfire. One leg was torn off, lying several feet away from the mangled body.

The disfigured remnants of the raven into which Corpsegrinder had transformed lay near the severed leg in a pile of black feathers. A charred part of the snake’s black, scaly body hung from a nearby tree.

“You won’t be torturing anybody, you rotter,” Lanfareth said as she scanned the remains. A surge of excitement made her shiver. Corpsegrinder had truly died. And she was free to go on to Gandre, sneak into the portal, and get Tarroth.

She drew blood into her head and summoned the Corpsentinel warhorse. A little later, the massive black mount barreled from the woods and trotted toward her. He kept shaking his head and snorting and rolling his eyes fearfully toward the sky, but she calmed him with a spell. Lanfareth laughed with glee as she mounted and steered the horse toward Gandre.

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE: AFTER THE DARKSIDE

The day after Gerra’s funeral, Derrik stood in the sparring court, watching Dhra’ack trying to take off. Puffs of dark smoke rose from the dragon’s nostrils as he hopped around and flapped his wings. His golden scales reflected the rising sun so strongly that Derrik had to squint.

Watching Dhra’ack was one of the biggest—and only—joys of Derrik’s life these days. The dragon had grown to the size of a pony. His wingspan was nearly twice his length from the snout to the base of his tail, and the wings seemed strong enough to support his weight. Despite that, he never lifted off for more than a few moments. He looked lovely yet menacing as he leaped around and shrieked in frustration.

Only Broose accompanied Derrik. Eriana and Leya were in the hospital, looking after guards injured during Lanfareth’s escape over the city walls, and Glen was somewhere chasing girls or sneaking liquor. While Derrik and the three siblings still reeled from the horrors of the past few days, Glen seemed to have shaken them off and was back to his old carefree self. At times, though, Glen seemed as pensive as the others, or more. Derrik guessed that his friend was so obsessed with girls to patch up the gaping hole that his mother’s death had left in his heart.

Derrik perked up when a small flame shot from Dhra’ack’s mouth. It was no bigger than the flame of a torch, but Derrik had never seen the dragon breathe fire before.

“Did you see that, Broose?” Derrik exclaimed, slapping his friend’s broad, meaty back.

Broose was just stuffing his face with a slab of bread heaped with cheese, bacon, and onions, and he coughed, his flabby face turning red. Derrik chuckled as he slapped Broose’s back again, more gently, until Broose stopped coughing.

“You almost killed me,” Broose muttered. Then he took another bite.

“I’m sorry brother, I was just excited to see that flame,” Derrik said.

Broose nodded. “He’s becoming a true dragon, isn’t he?” he said through his mouthful. “He’s growing to be a magnificent creature.”

Derrik nodded, eyeing the dragon with a fatherly pride. Dhra’ack’s jaw had strengthened, and spikes had formed behind his ears. The ridges of spikes on his back and tail had grown and sharpened. His neck grew thick and muscular, as did his limbs.

“I can’t wait to ride him,” Derrik said. “I even dream about it from time to time.”

Broose swallowed and said, “It seems you’ll have to wait a little, Brother. But not long, I’m sure.”

Derrik sighed and nodded.

“Hey there, fellas!”

Glen’s cheerful voice came from behind and made them twist around. He sauntered toward them, his hair spiked and his shirt unlaced. He walked beside a shapely girl with light brown hair and a round, freckled face. She wore a blue cloak and a bronze chain.

Broose leaned to Derrik and murmured, “Our friend has upgraded from servants to apprentice mages.”

Derrik chuckled, but before he could think of a reply, Glen and the girl stood in front of them. “My lover here wants to see our dragon,” Glen said, tossing his head toward the girl.

Derrik frowned at the ‘our’ but Glen winked at him and grinned, so he let it pass. Especially when he noticed that the girl frowned at the ‘lover’.

The girl’s frown melted as she stared at Dhra’ack, and her eyes filled with wonder and admiration. Derrik guessed that the dragon was a better girl-magnet than a cute puppy. It was good to know.

“Isn’t he wonderful?” Glen asked the girl, putting an arm around her shoulder. She nodded but shrugged herself free.

Derrik and Broose exchanged an amused grin. She was obviously much more interested in the dragon than in Glen.

Dhra’ack rushed closer and flapped his wings again, sending eddies of hot air over them. This time, he leaped at least ten feet.

“Good job, Dhra’ack!” Glen exclaimed, proudly as if the dragon was truly his.

Derrik chuckled and shook his head.

A guard came and called, “You lot have a visitor.” He had a broken nose and mean beady eyes. He seemed angry that he had to walk from the gate to the court.

“Who is it, my friend?” Glen asked, but the guard only scowled, murmured, and walked back to the gate.

Derrik often thought of becoming a silver-level mage, just so the guards would treat them with a bit more respect. He would have to become a bronze-level mage first, though. Torsum wanted to name him and Eriana magical apprentices as soon as the Darkside had been repelled. Derrik wondered when that would be.

“Well, I have to go anyway,” the girl said.

Glen pursed his lips and leaned to her. She leaned back, and he nearly fell. “Will I see you later, lover?” he asked as he regained balance, as cheerful as if he had got the sweetest kiss.

She shrugged. “Maybe.”

“And where will I find you, beauty?” he asked. Derrik had the feeling that Glen had forgotten her name.

“Just reach me with your Might,” she said teasingly as she rushed off.

Glen chuckled and scratched his spiked head. “She’s a playful one. And smart and funny. I’m so lucky that such a girl is so crazy about me!”

Broose and Derrik laughed. “You sure are, Glen,” Derrik said as they walked to the gate. Dhra’ack gave up on trying to fly and padded behind them.

“I wonder who the visitor could be?” Glen said. “I hope it’s not one of the girls I met in the city. The girls of Cahes are really relentless. And the female mages are so jealous!”

Broose chuckled. “I wouldn’t worry about it, my friend.”

Derrik tried to focus his Might on the visitor, and he had the feeling that it was Al’Anark. It seemed strange, as they had hardly seen him since they had come to Cahes. But when they reached the gilded gate, they truly saw the elf standing behind it. His golden hair shone in the sunshine as it fell to his waist in tangled ropes, his good ear twitched as he grinned and nodded to them.

The boys walked through the gate and took turns embracing the elf. Although Derrik had often been jealous of Al’Anark, his presence brought sweet nostalgia for the old times, for the elf had often visited them in New Thorstorm.

“I came to see you my pals, and to take a look at Dhra’ack,” the elf said when they asked him what he was doing there. His green eyes landed on the dragon and filled with admiration. “I’ve heard that he’s growing like a watered mushroom, and it’s true!”

Dhra’ack noticed the elf’s attention, and he stretched his neck and puffed up his chest. Extending his wings as far as he could, he started turning around like a prize pigeon, making everyone leap a step back.

Al’Anark laughed. “He shows off just like his father used to!”

As the dragon stopped spinning, the elf stretched his hand out to Dhra’ack’s head. Derrik moved to stop him so he would not get burned or bitten. Then he recalled that elves had a special bond with animals, and that their skin was resistant to heat. Indeed, Al’Anark stroked the dragon’s head without any sign of discomfort. Dhra’ack uttered a content rumble, although he probably felt nothing because of the scales, and he would bite any human but Derrik.

“Dragons are such special creatures,” Al’Anark said with admiration. “Many died during the Great Battle, hunted by Wrathlords and that putrid Dark Overlord. Hardly any more dragons are left in the empire because of the Darkside.”

And now I have one, Derrik thought, his soul swelling with pride and happiness.

“Hey, you can’t just stand here and block the way,” the guard with the broken nose called from the gate.

Glen spun to him. “You’re right. We’re taking our friend in.”

“No!” the guard said, shaking his head, his mean, beady eyes glaring under a burnished helmet. “Only captains of the guard or silver-level members of the Circle can take visitors inside.”

Glen inhaled to retort, but Al’Anark put a calming hand on his forehand. “It’s all right, pals,” the elf said good-naturedly. “I’d much rather sit with you in the woods than in a hall. Wouldn’t you?”

The boys nodded, and they walked to the forest that separated the Magic Circle enclosure from the rest of the city. After a short hesitation, Derrik turned to Al’Anark, half-drew Wrathbane, and told him, “There’s one more thing you might want to look at.”

Al’Anark gave the sword an appraising look, and Derrik knew that the elf had recognized it as a weapon to kill Wrathlords. “A present from the High Mage, I guess?” He slapped Derrik’s shoulder. “You deserve it, my human pal. Your parents will be proud.”

Derrik beamed and nodded, wondering when he could return home and show them the black blade. The siege of Cahes seemed to have come to a standstill, and he felt he was no longer needed here. Homesickness often made him long to rush home. However, Torsum insisted that his task was not finished yet.

They sat in a circle on soft grass in a small glade. Dhra’ack sat beside Derrik, flushing him with heat, his spiked tail wrapped around his clawed feet.

“Eriana will be disappointed that she wasn’t here to see you, Al’Anark,” Glen said with a mischievous grin.

Derrik gave the elf a quizzing look. He was no longer sure whether he was jealous. Right now, he was just happy that they had survived Lanfareth’s intrusion into the Circle’s palace.

Al’Anark only grinned and rubbed the back of his neck, under the golden ropes of his hair. Derrik sensed he had chosen the time when Eriana was gone on purpose.

“Are you trying to avoid my sister?” Broose asked. There was little emotion in his voice, apart from curiosity. After a moment, he added, “I think I understand.”

Al’Anark sighed. “She is very special to me but our races, worlds, and cultures are too different. We might be happy for a year, but a year flows away faster than a stream. Then the differences would start showing and making us miserable.”

“You may overcome them if your love is strong enough,” Broose said.

Glen nodded. “It might be worth the try.”

Why don’t you guys shut up? Derrik thought.

The elf shrugged. “I’m too old to experiment, my pals. You can’t teach an old goat to climb a new ladder, as they say in Gaaltor. And she is too young to face such a big disappointment.” With a glance at Derrik, the elf added, “She should be with a young human.”

Derrik only cleared his throat, feeling that his cheeks were burning. “What have you been up to, anyway, Al’Anark?” he blurted out, eager to change the subject.

The chieftain shrugged. “We’ve been camping in a forest in the western part of the city. We’ve helped patrol the battlements and participated in a sortie led by the dwarfs. That’s about it. But I sense you’ve been busy sparring. And staying alive.”

Glen chuckled. “Yeah, we had a visit from our friend Lanfareth.”

As they started telling Al’Anark about the events of that night, the elf suddenly stood, his usually relaxed features twisted in a focused frown. The next moment, Derrik sensed that something was wrong.

“I’m sorry to interrupt you, my pals,” Al’Anark said. “But I think that Torsum is coming with some news. And it’s not good.”

Dhra’ack rumbled. The boys stood up. “Let’s go and see what’s happening,” Glen exclaimed as he hurried back toward the Circle’s palace.

They reached the road just as the mean guard was opening the gate for Torsum, who had come on a black stallion, along with four guards on warhorses.

Torsum turned his head to them and said, “Everybody, get in! I have news.” He looked and sounded unusually stern.

“Al’Anark too?” Broose asked him.

“Al’Anark too,” Torsum said as he heeled the horse and headed into the palace enclosure.

Glen gave the guard a victorious grin as he took the elf around the shoulders and led him through the gate. Derrik, Broose, and Dhra’ack followed.

A horn blasted in the main courtyard.

“All guards and mages to the great hall!” a woman shouted in an authoritative voice. “The High Mage has an announcement!”

A throng rushed to the main palace building. Blue cloaks fluttered, and helms, breastplates, and bronze and silver chains glistened in the sun. Dozens of shoes beat the pavement. Some people pushed through to get a spot near the High Mage and hear better than the others.

As Derrik’s group reached the arched entrance to the great hall, Derrik turned to the dragon. “You need to stay here, Dhra’ack.” The dragon uttered a grunt of displeasure and sat down. Derrik and his friends entered. They only had to make a few steps over the worn flagstones to reach the back of the crowd.

Nobody sat on the chairs around the tables. Everyone was on foot, facing Torsum, who stood on a table at the back of the large room.

“With a deep shame, I must admit that the Circle has been played,” Torsum called. Although his voice carried strong across the great hall, Derrik had to strain to hear.

An agitated murmur rose from the crowd, but Torsum silenced it with an impatient wave. “The encampment of the monsters is nearly empty,” he said. “It has been so for at least a full day. And I only realized that about an hour ago.”

Another wave of murmuring swept the great hall. Torsum raised his voice, “The Wrathlords had shielded themselves behind filthy magic so well that nobody realized that they were gone until it was too late. Besides, they left behind a small squad of Corpsentinels to man their palisade, and a horde of Daemorcs to harass the neighboring villages to perfect the ruse.”

“So where are the Wrathlords?” somebody shouted impatiently from one of the first rows.

The mage said in a solemn voice. “I’m certain they are going to Gandre.”

The murmur rose as people started to exchange their thoughts on what it could mean.

Torsum said, “As many of you know, Gandre is a city northeast of here. It has a palace of the Circle—and a ten-mile portal. I’m sure that the monsters want to storm the city and get into the portal to get to Dar Kahar and steal Tarroth.”

Derrik could almost feel the sense of agitation emitting from the audience. Some of them were probably relieved that Cahes had been spared the siege. Others worried what would happen if the monsters managed to break into Gandre. This time, everybody was quiet as they digested the news. A gust of wind pressed against the windows, and fires crackled on torches. An occasional cough or a shuffling of feet was the only sound from the gathered.

“I will travel through the portal to Gandre to warn the High Mage and the garrison,” Torsum said. “And I expect most of you to take your horses and follow the monsters. If you are fast enough, you can slam into their ranks just as they start attacking the city. I will make sure that the denizens are on high alert and ready to defend themselves.”

Derrik turned to his friends and said, “I’m going!” He grasped the hilt of Wrathbane, and the sword’s magic filled him with the instincts of a warrior. His homesickness was gone. The world was full of adventures which he could never live in New Thorstorm.

“Me too,” Glen said. “My sweethearts here will miss me, but there must be pretty girls in Gandre, too.” He turned to Broose. “I hope you’re coming too, Brother.” Patting Broose’s belly, he added, “I’m sure that the cooks there will be happy to have such a hearty eater to pamper.”

Broose shrugged. “That’s not the only reason I’m going, although Gandre is famous for its seafood, which I’m quite curious about. It would be dishonorable to stay behind while my friends fight the Darkside.” Broose turned to Al’Anark. “What about you, my elven friend?”

The chieftain grinned. “I wouldn’t stay behind for a heap of gold. I’ll mobilize my troops and march after the Darkside. After all, that’s why we left the Elven Kingdoms.”

Derrik realized that all around him, people talked in low voices, making travel arrangements or stating reasons why they could not leave Cahes.

“Those of you who have decided to go, I’ll be expecting you in an hour at the gate of the palace’s enclosure,” Torsum said when the murmuring died out. “Those who are going, thank you. Those who are staying, I respect your decision. Although we are at war, I have no right to order you to leave your town and your families. All I can do is to ask you to consider what is at stake.”

He paused for a while as if to give people the chance to reconsider. “If the Darkside breaks into Gandre and sneaks into the ten-mile portal, they will be—literally—a few steps away from Tarroth. And if they possess the magical battleax, nothing will stop them from annihilating us all.”

The High Mage paused again. Most people were silent, and some started to turn toward the exit as if they were dying to leave.

“Please, don’t think that I am pressuring you, my friends,” Torsum said. “To be honest, even the journey might be perilous. Since Gandre is in the Northeast Kingdom, and since Araton and the Northeast Kingdom are at war, I’m not sure whether you will be allowed to cross the border. What’s more, you might even be attacked. And I might be arrested as soon as I set foot into Gandre’s Circle’s palace.”

He sighed and shook his head. “I apologize. I do not want to discourage you. I just want to be completely honest with you, to give you all the information you need to make your decision. If you still want to go, please get ready for the journey.”

The crowd slowly dispersed, and as Derrik and his friends turned to leave, Derrik had the feeling that the High Mage was calling him.

“Give me a moment, Brothers,” he told Broose, Glen, and Al’Anark. Then he made his way against the flow of people to the High Mage, receiving dirty side looks from the mages and curses from the guards.

As he reached the back of the large hall, Torsum stepped down and shook his hand. “I believe you are going to Gandre, lad?” the High Mage asked.

“Of course, Torsum!”

The man smiled. “That is good. You need to be very careful, though. I sense that Lanfareth is also heading there, but that she hasn’t given up on her dream of killing you.”

Derrik instinctively clenched the hilt of Wrathbane. Just hearing that woman’s name made him want to run.

Torsum said, “Your death would be a personal tragedy for me, your friends, and your family, but it could also be catastrophic for the Lightside in general. As you know, I want you to take the bronze chain and study to become a silver-level mage.”

Derrik gulped and nodded.

Torsum gave Derrik a long look. “I also hope that one day, you will become the chief protector of Tarroth.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO: THE ARRIVAL

The Magic Circle’s palace resembled a beehive as mages and guards prepared to leave for Gandre, but the forest around the ten-mile portal was quiet. Too quiet. Lanfareth’s fire had reduced most trees to skeletons that cast sad shadows on the blackened ground. No birds sang in the lifeless tree crowns, no hares or deer darted across the path. The servants who had been felling scorched trees had left for the palace to help with travel preparations.

A gust of wind made ashes swirl in a mad dance, and Torsum covered his mouth and nose with a kerchief. “Damn that woman,” he muttered as he scanned Lanfareth’s work of devastation.

He sensed the traitor was heading for Gandre ahead of the troops from the Wrathlands, and that filled him with trepidation. She was the most formidable foe he could ever face, apart from the Dark Overlord and the mightiest Wrathlords.

The oak trees that surrounded the portal had lost most of their leaves, making him feel that autumn had come earlier this year. The trunks and boughs were unscathed, though, as if not even Lanfareth’s filthy fire had dared into the ancient elven sanctuary. Torsum frowned as he approached two boulders that leaned against each other, creating a shadowed gateway. He could get into trouble for traveling through the portal, which was normally reserved for Archmages only. This was an emergency, though, and Archmage Agrader was his old friend. And Torsum was unafraid to face the High Mage of Gandre, Remogan, despite the man’s dangerous temper.

Four guards of the Circle stood by the portal, and five saddled stallions grazed the grass untouched by the fire. These were elite guards, the Battle Wizards, with silver chains around their necks. Their bronze helmets and breastplates with the ahritaal glared in the sunshine. They were on the ready, according to an ancient custom, to protect the sacred passage and accompany the Archmage to the palace in case he visited Cahes. Although they usually did nothing for hours on end and had to be bored, most guards considered this duty an honor.

“Greetings, Master High Mage Torsum,” said a giant of a man with epaulets decorated by the purple ribbons of a captain. Only the right side of his mouth moved as he spoke; the left side was paralyzed and disfigured by a puckered, badly stitched scar. That enhanced the impression that he had been chiseled from an enormous block of pale marble.

Torsum greeted him as he stepped into the shade of the two towering boulders. He thought of telling the guards what he was doing, but they must have divined it. He wanted to wish them good luck in such difficult times. It seemed too trivial, though, so he just nodded to them and entered the cleft between the two boulders.

Cool shadows embraced him as he walked forth. Primordial elven spirits seemed to be whispering at him, displeased by human intrusion. Summoning blood into his head, he made a few steps between the boulders and walked out on the other side. The sun greeted him there but everything blurred as he kept walking, for each step propelled him ten miles forward.

Gandre was about seven hundred miles away. While it would have taken him a fortnight on horseback, and two or three days on the back of his dragoness, the portal would take him there in a few blurry moments. The price was high, though.

Although he closed his eyes, he felt his head spinning. Sickness crept up from his stomach as if he were sailing a stormy sea. As he made about forty steps, he stopped and waited for the dizzy spell to pass. He half opened his eyes and saw he was in rocky highlands, probably near the border of Araton and the Northeast Kingdom.

He wished he could take all his mages and troops through the portal so they would avoid problems at the border. The portal would not admit more than two travelers, though.

He closed his eyes again, summoned his Might, focused on Gandre, and kept walking. He coughed and winced at the taste of sickness in his mouth. His head began to throb and he stumbled on, hoping that he would not get a full-blown migraine before he reached his destination.

“You’re getting old, Torsum,” he murmured under his breath. But he doubted that even strong, young people could travel through the portal without feeling sick and dizzy.

A few more steps, and at last, his Might told him he was in the woods surrounding the Gandre Magic Circle palace. He staggered from a narrow tunnel and blinked to let his eyes adjust to the daylight. Dark clouds covered the sky, and yet the light hurt him at first. His sickness and dizziness slowly faded as he inhaled the sea-scented air.

Four guards and five stallions awaited among tall, gnarled oak trees, just like in Cahes. But the guards did not bow. They glared. And half-drew their swords.

“Only the Archmage can travel through the portal!” one of them snapped.

He was tall and muscular, but he looked stupid like a Daemorc with a flattened nose, receding chin, and mean, bulging eyes. His graying beard was twisted in two long braids that flapped against his bronze breastplate as he spoke. “You’re that High Mage from Cahes, aren’t you? Cahes is in Araton, and Araton is at war with the Northeast Kingdom. Technically, you invaded our territory.”

“Technically, you’re pissing me off,” Torsum boomed, losing his usual calm. He had no time for bullies. “Our kings may squabble all they want, but you have sworn allegiance to the Circle. The Circle is at war with the Darkside only—and the Darkside is marching onto Gandre. I came here to warn you.”

“Technically, you invaded our territory,” the guard repeated as if he had not heard. Stubborn, stupid, and aggressive, he was the worst kind of a man. “We wouldn’t mind if you came from Dar Kahar because Dar Kahar and Gandre are part of our realm. But you crossed our border!”

Torsum sighed and shook his head. How could one argue with such a sawdust-headed fool?

As he had learned right after the Great Battle, folly and shortsightedness plagued the human race, and people hardly ever listened to reason. The rulers put their greed and squabbles over the interests of their people—and yet the people followed them blindly into every battle. For nearly two decades now, humans had attacked each other rather than the Darkside. They fought just because they happened to be born in a different region of the once glorious empire; they willingly died or became murderers, just because a ruler told them to do so.

The guard drew his sword. “I have no choice but to arrest you for—”

“Easy there!” Torsum boomed, raising his hand. “You touch me and I pulverize you within moments.” He glared at the guard’s companions. “All of you.”

The High Mage could manage no such thing, especially after traveling through the portal. He would have a hard time fighting four armed men, even if he dipped into gold-level magic—but the guards did not know that. The men looked at each other with doubt and worry. The stallions snorted, stomped their feet, and tossed their heads, disturbed by the shouting.

“Let’s be reasonable here,” a guard said. He was short but broad-shouldered, with an incredibly muscular neck and a perfectly trimmed brown beard. He gave the High Mage a nervous glance before he turned to the other guards. “Our task is to escort whoever comes through the portal to the Circle’s palace, so let’s do that. Let’s let High Mage Remogan deal with him.”

The guard with the broken nose thought for a while, wincing as if it pained him. Then he turned to Torsum. “Promise you will go with us to the palace voluntarily.”

Torsum chuckled and shook his head. “That’s what I came for, isn’t it?” he asked, his voice brimming with derision. “Or do you think I came here to wrestle with four bully boys in uniforms?”

The guard scowled as if he wondered whether to retort, but then he sheathed his sword.

They mounted, and the guards led the way through the small forest, along a rocky path lined by thickets of thorny brambles and beds of blueberry undergrowth. The branches of the colossal, gnarled trees interlaced above them and shrouded them in emerald green. The scent of damp earth overpowered the salty trace of the sea he had smelled before. He could see the ocean spreading beyond the forest, though; the palace was perched on a high cliff.

Torsum’s heart pounded in alarm when his Might told him that High Mage Remogan would be hostile. The image of the old mage floated in front of Torsum’s mind’s eye. And even in his mind’s eye, the man scowled. Remogan was pushing seventy, a few years older than Torsum, and he walked with a limp, had a patch over his left eye, and his left arm ended in a stump just under the elbow.

Having killed a Wrathlord, Remogan was a hero of the Great Battle, and Torsum respected him—but never liked him. Now all his instincts shouted at him to wheel the horse around, gallop back to the portal, and travel into safety, for Remogan could not be trusted. Torsum grasped the reins so firmly his fingers hurt, but he kept following the guards. A High Mage could not be a coward.

He thought of traveling through the portal to Dar Kahar and getting the Archmage involved. Then he rejected that idea as well. Come on, Torsum, he berated himself. You are old enough to solve your problems.

They rode toward a wide archway in a high, brick wall. The sentinels opened the gate for them, and Torsum followed the guards up a cobblestone path toward a sprawling brick building with small windows and plain turrets. Gandre was an ugly, industrial city pitted with mines, and even the Circle’s palace was drab and utilitarian. It looked like a prison rather than a local stronghold of the Magic Circle. Torsum found the comparison deeply disquieting.

As they dismounted by a large doorway decorated with the ahritaal, Torsum found himself twisting in the saddle and glancing around. His horse felt his apprehension and snorted. The sense of danger tiptoed around his mind. And yet, he could not pinpoint it… as if somebody was blocking it.

A group of guards rushed from the shadows of the gateway, brandishing their steel. They went straight for him while the four guards who had accompanied him drew their swords. The High Mage cursed. Remogan must have sensed that Torsum was coming. And decided to arrest him.

Torsum drew blood into his head and created a gust of air that blasted into the guards, making them stagger. After decades of practice, he no longer had to think the magical formula to do that. Then he focused on their mail shirts and clenched his hands into fists. He put all his rage into the spell, and the guards groaned like Gravelackers as the mail shirts contracted, pressing against their ribcages and squeezing the air out of their lungs. Several staggered and fell to their knees.

Hoofs pounded behind him. He turned to see a guard galloping at him, a pike leveled at Torsum’s head. With a wave of his left hand, the High Mage tore the pike from the man’s hand and flung it at the guards, making them scatter. With a motion of his right hand, he unseated the rider and made the horse stumble. Although he moved to get out of the horse’s path, the horse had been galloping too fast. It slammed into him as it fell.

The impact made Torsum fly a few feet and roll on the ground. He gasped for air and summoned his Might to soothe his aching muscles. Three guards approached him. Torsum sat up and lifted his hands as if to blast them with a spell, and they stopped, looking uncertain. Then a giant shadow glided over them. A wave of heat washed over Torsum.

They all looked up and watched a large black dragon spearheading toward them, wings locked. The dragon spread his wings and landed, making the ground shake and the guards scatter. It turned its enormous, horned head to glare at Torsum with a glowing yellow eye slashed with a black, vertical slit. A man was sitting on the dragon’s back. When the rider leaned sideways in the saddle, Torsum saw he was completely bald but had a white mustache that fell to his chest. It was Remogan.

“I arrest you for the intrusion into our territory, Torsum,” Remogan said, his only eye glaring. “Do you yield?”

Torsum raised an eyebrow. This was too abrupt even for Remogan. As he thought what to do, the dragon opened its mouth as if to belch fire. Torsum sensed that he still had enough power left to deflect the dragon’s flames. He would have to channel all his Might into that, though. That would leave him defenseless against the guards. He could not battle them all; and arguing with a stubborn, spiteful old man like Remogan seemed even more difficult.

“Curse you to the Wrathlands, Remogan,” Torsum said. But he lowered his hands. His head throbbed and all his muscles burned from the spells and from being hit by the warhorse.

“No hard feelings, Brother,” Remogan said with a sneer as he motioned to the guards to pull Torsum up. “Even a war has its rules.”

“You’ve sealed your fate, Remogan,” Torsum said, “and the fate of your ugly city. When war truly comes and Wrathlords bomb Gandre with fireballs, when Corpsentinels impale children on their spikes, and Daemorcs gorge themselves on the dead—then you will regret this.”

The breeze was cold and scented with salt. It ruffled the gray mane of Lanfareth’s dappled gelding and tugged on the hem of her dress as she rode toward Gandre. Although she slumped with exhaustion, she kept looking over her shoulder. It had been a long journey. And she’d had quite a few close calls.

As she had looked too suspicious in the uniform of a Circle’s guard, she had stolen a blue dress from a clothesline behind a homestead—and the farmer had sent a mastiff after her. If she had not blasted it with her Might, the putrid dog would have mauled her.

The black warhorse had also been too conspicuous, and she had stolen the gelding from a stable behind an inn to replace him. The innkeeper and the patrons had pursued her for miles before she had finally lost them.

Due to the war between Araton and the Northeast Kingdom, she’d had to sneak over the border, and faced a hail of bolts and arrows. Again, only her Might had helped her save her skin.

However, she had nearly completed her journey. The walls of Gandre stretched a few miles away, and she was just passing what seemed to be the last village before the city. It was just a cluster of timber houses with low, thatched roofs and tiny windows, and it drowned in silence. Chickens foraged on the dirt road but no people sat in front of the houses or worked in the surrounding fields.

Lanfareth had seen quite a few abandoned villages along the way and passed groups of refugees heading toward Gandre. They had heard rumors of the Wrathlords’ march through their kingdom, and they hoped to find salvation behind the city walls. She always secretly laughed; no walls would ever stop the Darkside.

As she left the village behind, her Might told her that a large group was ahead. She heeled her horse to a trot to catch up with them and blend with them so she would not raise suspicion at the gates.

She crested a hillock and spotted about two hundred peasants ahead. They seemed to come from a poor village, for only two families rode carts drawn by sturdy plow horses while the others walked. Some led cows on a piece of rope; a few dogs ran around a small flock of sheep. The only poultry she saw was dead, hanging by the legs from the carts.

Noticing another group farther ahead, Lanfareth spurred the gelding to draw level with them. As she passed the first group along a grassy ditch, some peasants gave her a strange look, perhaps because her only baggage was a small saddlebag where she had hidden the guard’s uniform. Nobody said anything, though, for they probably assumed she belonged to the other group and hurried to catch up.

She overtook them and saw the rear of the other group only a few dozen paces ahead. Some people heard her horse and glanced at her over their shoulders. They probably thought she was the fastest person from the other village. An old man with a pipe shuffled at the back of the group, bending under the weight of a large bundle he carried on his back. He gave her a friendly wave when he turned his head to her.

Lanfareth decided to catch up with him and help him. Her Might told her it would be beneficial, although she could not yet tell why. She heeled her horse into a light trot and reached the man. He had a hunched back and thin shoulders, and white flakes covered his bald scalp. When he looked up to her, she could see that saliva had drenched his white beard and dirty shirt. Although he repulsed her so much that she wanted to end his miserable life, she managed to summon a smile.

“Greetings, good man,” she said, trying to sound friendly. “I got ahead of my group and saw you, so I thought I could help you with your burden.”

The man gave her a thankful grin. To her surprise, he still had all his teeth. Almost all.

“That would be awfully nice of you, young lady,” he said. “When I was younger, I killed a grown boar and carried him him home on my back. But those times are long gone.”

Leaning sideways from her saddle, she reached for the man’s bundle, placed it on the horse’s back in front of her, and tied the drawstring around the pommel. The pack reeked of old sweat, and she struggled not to wince with disgust. Humans were a very filthy species, a bit like Daemorcs, but nothing like Wrathlords or Corpsentinels which never perspired.

“Are you also on the run from the monsters?” she asked him.

“Aye, young lady,” he replied. “Our village soothsayer warned us that the putrid monsters were marching our way. But we hope to be safe in Gandre.”

Lanfareth quickly shielded herself behind the spell of non-detection so the soothsayer would not find out she belonged to the Darkside.

“When I was young, I killed a Daemorc with my bare hands, but those times are gone, young lady,” the man said. “Now I’m old, so I prefer to run and hide…” He droned on, talking about his feats, most of them surely imaginary, and Lanfareth stopped paying attention and only occasionally nodded.

They passed barren fields beyond which, contraptions that resembled trebuchets reared toward the sky in the distance. She guessed that they were pulleys that hauled material from mines or quarries. A little later, they neared the walls and the city gates.

An array of carts stood along the walls, with canvas stretched between them to protect the people from the sun and the rain. The wagons stood among a little town of tents and dugouts. Behind them, lean-tos stretched on both sides of the fortification as far as she could see. They were mostly nothing but canvas held up by poles or sticks, which told her they were provisional dwellings. Lanfareth winced. That was a bad sign.

“Hold it,” a guard with a surcoat embroidered with a lion on the field of blue and green shouted from the gates. He was standing on a cart so that everybody in her group could see him. “The city is too full already. Only children and the very old are allowed in. The rest must stay outside.”

Everybody started shouting at the guard and pushing for the gates. Lanfareth dismounted, thinking what to do. The old man shrugged and said, “I guess we’ll be parting here, young lady.” He reached for his bundle, but Lanfareth shoved his hand away.

She glanced around to make sure that nobody was watching them. All around, there was a mayhem of people cursing, shouting, and crying, and nobody paid them attention. She unlaced the top of her dress to show the old man the horned raven with a snake’s tail seared into her skin by Saitaan. The man gasped and staggered; old people always recognized the insignia of the Dark Overlord.

She quickly laced her dress and hissed, “I’m going in with you. Just play along or I’ll destroy you and give your shrunken soul to Saitaan.” The man nodded with fear in his eyes.

Grasping the horse’s bridle and taking the old man under his arm, Lanfareth dragged both toward the gate. She poured malefic Might onto the people ahead of them, making them twitch and instinctively step aside. The gate was open, and several crones shuffled through, holding infants that screeched for their mothers, who had to stay behind.

“I’m going in with my grandfather to make sure he’s well settled in the camp,” she said to one of the guards who manned the gateway. “I promise to come back.”

“You heard the captain,” the man said. He was missing a few teeth and had a scar on his cheek. The frown on his pockmarked face was deep and dark.

“Please, I’m just worried about dear Grandfather,” Lanfareth said, batting her eyelashes. Her large blue eyes had little effect on that man, though.

“You’re blocking the way!” a peasant shouted behind them. “What’s happening?”

The old man tried to wriggle himself from her hold, so she summoned blood to her head and made her Might slam into his belly. He groaned and staggered.

“See?” she told the guard. “He needs to lie down and rest. I swear by the Goddess Aganope that I’ll be back as soon as I see to him.” As she said that, she let go of the bridle, reached into her purse, and produced a golden dukaat.

“All right, get in,” the guard snapped, pocketing the large coin. “But if I catch you in the camp inside, you’ll be in lots of trouble.”

You won’t be catching me in any camp, maggot, she thought as she gave him a dazzling smile. She led the horse and the old man through the gate, blending with old folk and the loathsome, noisy insects of their grandchildren.

As they passed the gate, the old man tried to wriggle himself free again, and she blasted him with a spell that crushed his throat. He groaned and fell first to his knees and then flat on his face, but nobody paid him attention. The old folk were dragging their grandchildren toward a refugee camp in a nearby park, and the brats squealed and pulled them back toward the gates and their parents.

Lanfareth mounted and shoved the man’s smelly bundle off her horse’s back. Kicking the horse into a trot, she passed the camp and rode through an ugly neighborhood full of reeking tanneries and noisy smithies and workshops. The smell of sweat and urine made her cringe with disgust. There had never been such a vile stench in the encampment of the Darkside, perhaps except in the Daemorcs’ section.

She sensed Torsum’s presence in the city, but her Might told her he would not be dangerous. As she neared the end of the suburbs, she overtook a marching squad of about a hundred guards of the Circle. She guessed they had helped guard the city walls and now they were returning to the Circle’s palace. They wore mail shirts and red-and-black surcoats embroidered with the ahritaal, just like the guards in Cahes and every other chapter of the Circle. She saw about a dozen women among them. That gave her an idea.

Lanfareth heeled the gelding and made him plow through throngs of soldiers, hawkers, and refugees. The houses grew larger and blocked the sun as she left the suburbs, but the heart of the city was as ugly and smelly as the outskirts. She covered her nose and mouth with a kerchief, glaring at the filthy masses of people around her with disdain. She growled continuously to block out the exasperating cries of hawkers and the pleading, whiny voices of beggars who kneeled at every corner.

At last, the Circle’s palace came into view, crowning a timbered cliff, with a blue strip of the ocean behind it. She steered her horse into a dark alley where she changed into the uniform of the Circle’s guard. Nobody would take her for a man in plain daylight, so she let her hair loose and hoped she would not attract too much attention.

Standing in the shadows of the alley, she waited for the group of guards to pass her. She emerged and walked behind them, shielding herself with the spell of non-detection so nobody would sense her and turn their head to look at her. The guards were tired and walked slowly, hardly speaking at all. As she learned from their sporadic talk, their High Mage believed that the monsters were only a hundred miles from Gandre. She guessed it was about right.

Lanfareth trailed behind them, seething with impatience until they finally reached the gates of the Circle’s palace. She perceived Torsum’s presence stronger here, and again she sensed he was no threat.

The guards marched through the open gate, and she rushed after them just as two sentinels were about to close it. One of them gave her a strange look but said nothing, and she exhaled in relief. The squad marched toward a drab brick behemoth with mean windows and simple turrets. It had to be the Circle’s main palace building; in the whole city, she had not seen a single edifice that was not ugly.

The dozen or so women separated from the group and walked to a brick building that was probably the female guards’ barracks. The building seemed big enough to accommodate at least a hundred women. Lanfareth followed them, receiving a few strange looks but no questions or comments. The Circle had so many guards that they probably hired recruits frequently. The other women likely thought that she was a novice or reinforcement from Dar Kahar.

They entered the building and walked into a long chamber that smelled of stale sweat, despite the small, open windows that let in some fresh air and a bit of sunlight. Dozens of rough-hewn cots lined the brick walls, covered with thin mattresses and worn blankets. The cots were empty, and the first women to enter claimed the nearest ones, while the rest took the ones farther back.

Guessing that the women did not have assigned cots and took whichever was free, Lanfareth picked a cot a bit farther from the others and sat down. Some women took off their surcoats and started wriggling out of their mail shirts. Others reclined without even taking off their boots, their exhaustion stronger than the discomfort they surely felt. Lanfareth followed the example of the latter group, closing her eyes and pretending to be falling asleep. She had to be more exhausted than all of them combined. But her brain buzzed with wakefulness.

She had made it! Only two or so hours ago, she had been beyond the city gates, wondering how to get into Gandre. Now she was inside the Magic Circle’s palace. This had been far easier than she had hoped. All she had to do now was to wait for the right time to sneak into the ten-mile portal… and travel to Dar Kahar.

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE: THE BROKEN WING

Dark clouds wallowed over the highlands, and cold wind ripped the leaves off the branches of the maple, beech, and chestnut trees. It started to drizzle as soon as the troops of the Magic Circle of Cahes stopped for lunch. Although it was only midsummer, autumn seemed to stand on the threshold.

Derrik and his friends sat around a large bonfire, a bit farther from the others. Huddling in their cloaks, they partook of the remaining morsels of two wild ducks which Derrik and Glen had shot with their bows earlier that day. Raindrops drummed on the leaves above them, often making their way through to fall on their heads. The fire hissed with displeasure at being fed damp firewood. Luckily, Dhra’ack sat with them, steam rising from his golden scales, his heat keeping them warm.

Derrik sat between Glen and the dragon, facing Broose and his sisters across the flames. Eriana had insisted on accompanying them on their mission to prevent the monsters from breaking into Gandre, and Leya had decided to tag along. They had left shortly after Torsum’s speech in the great hall and traveled for about a week. One more week, and they would be at the gates of Gandre.

They traveled along with groups of mages and guards, and with Al’Anark’s elves and another, larger, elven tribe. Eriana had divined that a unit of Aratonese soldiers, which counted with at least four thousand men, was also on the march. It trailed several miles behind, likely because it had taken longer to assemble.

Derrik picked a duck wing clean and proffered the bone to Dhra’ack, who took it carefully between his front fangs, yanked his head back to toss the bone into his gaping maw, and started crushing and grinding it. The flames reflected on Dhra’ack’s scales, making it look as if the dragon was on fire. The flames seemed to be much slower on the scales than they really were, squirming and twisting in an elaborate dance that always held Derrik enchanted.

The other New Thorstormers also gave the dragon leftovers, but they tossed them to him so he would not burn or bite them. As he ate, Dhra’ack’s contentment washed over Derrik in powerful waves. Their bond grew day by day, as if their souls were seared together.

When the dragon finished all the bones, he grunted, looking nearly as hungry and displeased as Broose. Then he turned around and padded away. Derrik thought he would roam the encampment, looking for more bones, as he often did. But the dragon headed for a nearby clearing, where he started hopping around and trying to take off. Dhra’ack was now as large as a horse, and Derrik feared he might have overgrown his wings and would take long to start flying. The dragon’s frustration groped around Derrik’s mind, making him edgy.

Eriana craned her neck and looked around, narrowing her large, dark eyes in concentration. “I’ve got a feeling that danger is near,” she said.

Derrik focused on their surroundings, drawing blood into his head, and he suddenly also felt that there was some obstacle or peril farther ahead. He would not have divined it by himself, though, and he wondered at the extent of Eriana’s Might. Her powers of precognition and divination were so strong and natural that she wielded magic more effectively than he, despite all the silver-level spells he had learned.

“Do you think we’ve caught up with the rotters from the Wrathlands?” Glen asked, reaching for the hilt of his sword.

Eriana shook her head. “I don’t feel the usual abhorrence of the Darkside.”

Broose said, “We might be close to the border—and to the soldiers of the Northeast Kingdom.”

Leya turned her head to him and nodded. “I remember you telling me that highlands form the natural border between Araton and the Northeast Kingdom. This place looks like the one described in your book.”

“That’s right, Leya!” Broose said, beaming with pride, and making her smile. Since he was big, podgy, and bearded and Leya was so small, they almost looked like a father and daughter.

Derrik wondered whether to tell the elves, guards, and mages when something told him to look at Dhra’ack. He twisted his head to the dragon just as Dhra’ack lurched himself toward the clouds. Normally, Dhra’ack would land a moment later and expel a frustrated cloud of dark smoke from his nostrils. This time, however, each stroke of his wings heaved him a bit higher.

Derrik cringed in fear that the dragon would fall and plow the ground with his nose, but Dhra’ack was soaring. Derrik felt a strain in his shoulders as if he were flailing his arms. Then the dragon reached a warm current of air and began to glide. The strain eased, replaced with the overpowering sensation of thrill.

Derrik sighed in relief and contemplated the spectacle. He was on his feet, but he did not remember getting up. From the corner of his eyes, he saw his friends standing up and watching the dragon with their jaws hanging. An excited shouting came from various throats, human and elven, as the others also noticed the dragon fly.

Dhra’ack circled above the forest, shrieking and roaring to attract everyone’s attention. He looked magnificent with his golden scales, menacing spikes, and wide wings with membranes that were nearly transparent and gleaming as if no clouds covered the sky. Derrik rushed past their picketed horses, which snorted and pawed the ground, unnerved by the dragon’s shrieking, and he stood in the middle of the clearing to see better. His friends followed.

“He’s really flying!” Glen shouted, slapping Derrik’s shoulder with his large blacksmith’s hand so forcefully that Derrik stumbled. That did not make Derrik stop grinning though. He sensed that part of the thrill he felt was Dhra’ack’s, perceived through the dragon’s mind. He guessed that in a few days, he could try riding the dragon’s back. That thought made him tremble with anticipation.

Something seemed to attract Dhra’ack’s attention, for he jerked his head and headed eastward as if he wanted to reach Gandre ahead of them. A sense of uneasiness possessed Derrik as the dragon disappeared.

Come back, Dhra’ack, Derrik sent, but he got no reply. He felt that the dragon was driven forward by curiosity. What was it he had seen?

A moment later, Derrik began to feel vague yet overpowering fear and discomfort. Something urged him to mount Blizzard and gallop after the dragon. He dashed to the sidestepping warhorse and untied him from a maple tree. Leaping up to grab the pommel, he kicked his foot into the stirrup and swung himself into the saddle.

“Where are you going, Brother?” Glen asked, but Derrik did not have time to reply.

He heeled Blizzard into a trot, then canter, then gallop, and he rushed after the dragon. He left the forest and reached a rocky plain with rough grass and mossy boulders. He sensed that his friends were galloping after him. A sudden pang of pain in his left arm made him wince. He slowed down and looked about.

Dhra’ack suddenly appeared on the horizon, and Derik sighed in relief. But something was wrong with the dragon. He kept tilting, and his right wing seemed to move faster than the other. He flew very low, and as he passed a grove of birch trees, his feet, tail, and belly slammed into the treetops, breaking them off. He shrieked and kept glancing back as if he were running from something. Then he noticed Derrik and steered toward him.

Derrik sawed on the reins to stop Blizzard, and he watched the dragon come. Dhra’ack kept tilting and losing altitude. The warhorse reared and nearly unseated Derrik as the dragon crash-landed a few feet away.

Derrik steadied the dancing Blizzard and dismounted. Dhra’ack rolled on the ground and came to a halt. He was on his feet a moment later but he shrieked in pain.

“What is it, Dhra’ack?” Derrik asked as he rushed to the dragon.

Then he saw it. A jagged rent marred the second membrane of his left wing, the ragged edges twitching with Dhra’ack’s every breath. A rumble of agony, like a distant thunder, rolled from the dragon’s throat. The wing quivered with a sudden tremor.

The beating of hoofs made Derrik jerk his head around. His friends came at a canter, Broose and Glen on their warhorses, and Eriana and Leya on dun palfreys, presents from Torsum. They rushed to him as soon as they dismounted, and stood around the dragon, raindrops plastering their hair to their heads and dripping from their noses. They kept asking Derrik what happened, but he did not reply. He feared that if he opened his mouth, he would sob or scream with anger. In any case, he did not have the answer.

“That poor creature,” Leya said, tears glistening in her eyes.

Eriana nodded gloomily. “He’s only just learned to fly, and now his wing is ripped.”

“That looks like an arrowshot,” Broose said as he craned his neck and examined the rent.

Glen grasped the hilt of his sword. “I’m sure it was one of the rotters on the border,” he said. “A bastard from the Northeast Kingdom. I’ll cut them all up.”

“Why would they shoot at a dragon?” Leya asked. She sounded horrified.

“They probably thought that, since he was coming from Araton, somebody had sent him to attack them,” Broose said. “According to Nesparid, it often happened during the—”

“To the Wrathlands with Nesparid, whoever he was,” Derrik snapped, more loudly than he had intended. “We need to mend Dhra’ack’s wing!”

Although he had learned some healing techniques, he knew that his Might was too weak to fix a ripped membrane. He turned to Eriana, as did the others, but she shook her head. “No balms will seal the wound. We need to get Al’Anark to mend it with elven heat and magic.”

“Do you think he can do it?” Derrik asked, his heart fluttering like a fledging.

“He sure can, human pals!” Al’Anark’s voice rang behind them.

The elf came at a trot, for he must have divined what had happened. He did not seem to be out of breath as he approached the dragon. “This won’t be so hard to mend,” he said in a soothing voice as he put his hand on the wound.

Normally, Dhra’ack would not let anyone but Derrik touch him, especially when he was in pain, but he grumbled contentedly and nuzzled Al’Anark’s shoulder. His hot snout would have burned a human, but the elf did not even seem to notice, his green eyes narrowing in concentration. His good ear twitched as he kept pressing his hand on the wound. The air shimmered above his hand, as his heat blended with the heat of the dragon. Only the raindrops could be heard, beating against them and hissing as they evaporated on Dhra’ack’s hot scales.

Hope surged inside Derrik’s mind, and relief washed over him. He knew that both feelings came from the dragon as if he and Dhra’ack were twin souls. He hardly noticed that it suddenly stopped raining. His friends watched without a word, resembling five drenched statues. But they stirred when, after a few more moments, Al’Anark withdrew his hand.

Derrik exclaimed in glee when he saw a taut, pale scar spanning the wound. The skin around was stretched thin, but it pulsed with a fierce returning strength. He sensed the injury would not hinder Dhra’ack’s ability to fly.

The dragon flexed his wing, and a wave of satisfaction washed over Derrik; the scar pulled tight but held. Uttering a thankful shriek, Dhra’ack nuzzled Al’Anark so hard that the elf staggered. “Easy there, my scaly brother!” the elf exclaimed, chuckling.

“Well that’s done, and now it’s time for revenge,” Glen said. He turned toward the border and glared. The rain had plastered his hair against his head, and Derrik thought that he was now shorter than Leya. And yet, he looked menacing with his broad shoulders and his large hand on the sword’s hilt. “Should we try to fight our way through those rotters?” he asked. “Or should we wait for the Aratonese soldiers to come and help us?”

Al’Anark shook his head. “Neither, my pal. We should go and negotiate.”

“Negotiate?” Glen growled, half-drawing his sword. “There is only one way to deal with bastards that shoot at dragons.”

“That’s right!” Derrik said. “Nobody is getting away with injuring my Dhra’ack!”

Broose said in a calming voice, “They may be rotters, but they are our allies against the Darkside.” He squeezed the rainwater from his beard and continued, “A confrontation would waste human and elven lives, and bring the monsters closer to victory. Al’Anark is right. We should negotiate our way through.”

“I agree,” said Eriana. She crossed her arms as if to challenge anyone to question her decision. Her drenched tunic clung to her body, but Derrik would not dare to let his gaze slide down from her face.

“Me too,” added Leya, wringing her wet hair.

She looked at Derrik, who shrugged. “I guess you are right. Still, I hope my Might will show me the bastard who injured Dhra’ack so I can spear him through.”

Glen scowled but sheathed his sword. “How do you want to approach them without getting shot at, though?”

Broose turned to his sisters. “Does either of you have a shift to spare? A clean one would be preferred but not necessary, as long as its reasonably white.”

Eriana frowned and harrumphed, but Leya walked to her horse, rummaged through the saddlebag, and produced a piece of rumpled yet snowy white underwear. A light of understanding suddenly alighted on Eriana’s face, and she rushed toward the nearest clump of trees and came back with a stick.

Broose accepted both items with a thankful smile and tied the shift to the stick. “Now,” he said, “we’ve got a white flag, a sign that we are coming in peace.” He thought for a while, then he proffered the improvised flag to Al’Anark. “The elves aren’t officially at war with any part of the former empire, so it’s best if you walk ahead of us, holding it high.”

Al’Anark took the flag readily, but Glen scoffed. “Al’Anark should be sending out fireballs, instead of waving around underwear like some crazy laundry maid.”

Eriana frowned. “Glen, I think you should stay here. You have a hot head and big mouth that could get us killed.”

Glen frowned and parted his lips to protest, but Leya took him under the arm. “I’ll stay with you.” Derrik sensed she had not done it out of cowardice, but because she knew that Glen would insist on going otherwise.

Glen grinned and shrugged, reaching up to check on his spikes and scowling when he realized that the downpour had flattened them.

Al’Anark turned to Glen and Leya. “Your task will be as important as ours, my pals. I need you to go to the camp and tell everybody about the situation. Tell them to get ready for anything. If it’s safe to pass, I’ll shoot a fireball into the air as a sign that the troops can move forward.”

Glen frowned as if he struggled to grasp what the elf wanted, but Leya nodded immediately. “We’ll do that, Al’Anark.”

“Pass the message to the elves before you tell the mages and guards,” Al’Anark said. With a grin he added, “Humans are prone to meddling.”

Glen laughed. “You got it, chieftain!”

The New Thorstormers mounted, and Glen and Leya turned for the camp while the others headed for the border. Dhra’ack padded beside Derrik, his head nearly level with Blizzard’s head. Al’Anark trotted a few dozen feet ahead of them, as easily and tirelessly as the dragon and the horses. The white flag snapped above his head. The sky had not cleared, and the wind pressed against Derrik’s drenched shirt, making him shudder. He wished he could sit on Dhra’ack’s back and warm up in the dragon’s heat.

They crested a hill and saw a long rank of soldiers.

“Don’t shoot!” called Al’Anark, waving the flag. “We come in peace!”

They slowed and approached the troops cautiously. Derrik hoped that an elf and three youngsters would not frighten anyone into loosing an arrow or a bolt. Now he wished he had left Dhra’ack farther behind.

A group of men rode forward on their horses. “Dismount right now!” one of them shouted as they covered about fifty yards. Derrik and his friends obeyed, and the soldiers trotted toward them, grasping spears. Their shields and surcoats were emblazoned with a lion on the field of blue and green.

A short man rode a large warhorse ahead of the other soldiers. “Keep that dragon of yours in check!” he yelled in a harsh voice and a strange accent. Derrik guessed that this man had ordered his soldiers to shoot at Dhra’ack.

The dragon growled and arched his back as if to lunge on the man. It took Derrik a lot of willpower to restrain him. And not to attack the man himself.

“How in the Wrathlands do you dare so close to our territory?” the short man snapped, dark eyes flashing from under a battered halfhelm. He had a pasty face, a red, veined nose, and a deep cleft in his chin. His left earlobe was missing. A large, jagged scar grinned on the left side of his neck, partly covered by thin, graying hair that fell to his shoulders. He nodded to the dragon. “And how come you let that beast fly over our border?”

“We’re on our way to Gandre, pal!” Al’Anark said. “We’ve—”

“I’m not your damned pal!” the man yelled, barring his teeth, most of which were nearly black.

The elf chuckled and said, “That’s pretty obvious. We don’t need to be pals, but we should be allies. Allies against the Darkside.”

The man leaned from the saddle and spat on the ground.

Derrik clenched and unclenched his fists, but he managed to sound calm as he said, “We come from the Magic Circle of Araton, and we are pursuing the monsters, who are marching from Cahes onto Gandre. We are here to help you, so you should be thankful rather than hostile.”

The man inhaled to snap, but then looked at Derrik—and he frowned and shifted his eyes in thought.

As Derrik wondered what went on in the man’s head, Eriana said, “That is right. We are going to protect your city and its denizens, and now—”

“And now you can turn around and piss off,” the man snapped, no longer looking pensive. “We don’t need you.”

Broose’s face went crimson but he managed to sound calm as he said, “We’ve been following the monsters’ track, and they must have passed through here. You let them through, but you’re going to block us, fellow warriors of the Lightside? That’s an outrage. The war against the Darkside is above regional squabbles.”

“The monsters didn’t pass through here,” the man said. But he cleared his throat and fidgeted.

Eriana said, “We’ll see about that!” Without a word, she took Derrik’s hand. Her touch made his face burn as if he had drawn blood into his head, but then he realized she wanted to combine his Might with hers, so he made himself clear his mind. She also took Al’Anark’s hand and half-closed her eyes in concentration.

Derrik felt her Might rippling all around her… and drawing his magic powers away from him and Al’Anark. Tendrils of their Mights intertwined, crating twisting cords of magic. Visions flashed through his mind, terrible images of Daemorcs and Corpsentinels slamming into the ranks of humans and massacring them.

Eriana let go of his hand, and the images faded. A dizzy spell made him stagger, but it soon passed.

“The monsters rolled right over you, didn’t they, pal?” Al’Anark asked.

“You were at least four times more numerous, but the Darkside slaughtered and scattered your troops like a flock of chickens,” Eriana said. “They carved their way through the frontier as they would through butter.”

“That’s why you shot at my dragon,” Derrik said derisively. “You’re scared out of your wits.”

The short man only scowled like a Corpsentinel, rubbing the cleft on his chin furiously with a gauntleted glove. Some of his men glared. Others had the decency to look ashamed.

Derrik reached for the hilt of Wrathbane and drew it halfway from its scabbard to show them the black blade. “I can kill Wrathlords with this thing, and I mean to do that!”

Broose nodded. “We didn’t travel all the way from New Thorstorm to be stopped here by a bunch of fearful bullies!”

The man gave Broose a quizzing look. “New… Thorstorm?” His eyes shot to Derrik. “I knew you looked familiar. You must be the son of Baard Thon!”

Derrik said nothing, studying the man’s face. So the man knew his father. But were they friends or enemies? The man’s gruff voice and hard look gave no clues.

“I met him during the siege for Dar Kahar,” the man said. “He was a disobedient brat who risked his life on the battlefield instead of waiting for the right moment to strike Tarroth. I admired his bravery though. The sacrifice he made…”

The man’s mean, dark eyes softened with nostalgia. Then he shook his head as if to disperse his memories. “How many are you?” he asked. “I suppose there are more people behind?”

Al’Anark said, “There are a few hundred elves, guards, and mages. They’re waiting for my sign that it’s safe to let them go through.”

“All right,” the man said after a while. “Give the signal.”

Al’Anark raised his hand, the palm facing the sky. A red ball of fire blasted from his hand and screeched toward the clouds. The horses snorted and shied.

Having gathered just beyond the hill, the elves, guards, and mages poured over the crest and trotted toward them.

The short man turned to the nearest soldier. “Tell the men to make space for them.”

The soldier bowed his head, wheeled his horse, and galloped toward the troops. A little later, a gap appeared in the ranks. The elves, guards, and mages passed Derrik and his group and headed toward it. Not an arrow or bolt was loosed; not a lance or spear was lobbed. No blades were unsheathed, and Derrik sighed in relief.

As the elves and the members of the Circle passed through the gap, Derrik, Broose, and Eriana mounted to follow.

The short man turned to Derrik. “I didn’t expect to meet the son of the Warrior-Summoner,” he said. “If I ever come across you in an alehouse, I will treat you to a tumbler of brandy.” He said it nonchalantly as if he were bestowing an honor on Derrik. But Derrik only glared.

“Your men injured my dragon,” he snapped, “and I never forgive people who hurt those I love. If we ever meet in an alehouse, I’ll punch your teeth down your throat.”

The man scowled and inhaled to snap when Derrik said, “By the way, there is a huge squad of Aratonese soldiers coming. I recommend you to hide and let them through.”

Derrik heeled Blizzard and rode past the gawking man and his companions, most of whom sneered behind the man’s back. Derrik thought that the man would spear him or order his men to arrest him. Nothing of that happened, though, and Derrik, his friends, and his dragon passed through the gap in the rank of glaring soldiers unmolested.

Still, he would not start breathing normally until they were a mile into the Northeast Kingdom.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR: THE BATTLE FOR GANDRE

The imprisonment was, by far, less harsh than Torsum had expected. He was surrounded by books and luxury, and the food and wine were excellent. A carpet covered the floor, and tapestries hung from the walls, thickly woven and depicting magical symbols. The canopy bed was softer than his own in Cahes, and he always had enough torches and candles to keep the room well-lit.

The place looked like a guest-chamber in a palace… except that it was at the bottom of a disused cistern, about thirty feet below the ground level. And there was hardly enough space for him to walk around the bed. And that the cups with food and bottles of wine were lowered there in a pail.

Legends said that an ancient High Mage of Gandre had used this place to test his magic powers. He had tried to summon enough Might to levitate up to the ground level, but as he never could, he spent a great portion of his life in this miserable hole. That confirmed Torsum’s assumption that all the High Mages of Gandre were mad. At least, that old fool had thought of obtaining a bed, a latrine, and a bookcase, and of getting the cistern roofed.

Now it was Torsum’s turn to linger here. It was the most luxurious prison he had ever seen, but still, it was a prison. And after a fortnight, he often screamed with rage, frustration, and claustrophobia.

He was never foolish enough to try to levitate, for it required gold-level magic of the purest kind, and was truly a thing that only Archmages could do. He often tried to send a mental plea for help to Archmage Agrader in Dar Kahar—and High Mage Remogan always blocked it. Torsum had to admit that the one-eyed rascal had a stronger Might than he. Luckily, Torsum sensed that he was about to be freed… by the Archmage himself.

Torsum had divined that the Archmage was traveling to Gandre because the Darkside had attacked the city walls. During the first days of his imprisonment, Torsum had also thought that Lanfareth was in the city. The feeling had soon faded, though, and he hoped he had been wrong. Or better yet, that she had been killed.

A noise from above made him twitch his head up. He smirked when he saw that an upholstered armchair was being lowered into the cistern. They had lowered him suspended by a rope tied under his arms. Now he was going to go up while sitting comfortably. He sensed that Remogan was in deep trouble for imprisoning him.

The chair hung on four pieces of rope. As it touched the ground, Torsum sat in it and grabbed the armrests so he would not fall off as the chair began to lift. As he was pulled to the ground level, two shamefaced guards helped him over the cistern’s rim. When his eyes adjusted to the strong sunlight, he saw something he would not expect to see even in his wildest dreams.

Archmage Agrader stood there in his purple cloak, wearing a golden chain around his neck… and gripping High Mage Remogan’s beard, the way a shopkeeper would hold the ear of a thieving street urchin. That sight made Torsum rejoice more than the sunshine, which he had not seen for so long. It filled him with glee and a sense of justice.

“It’s great to see you, Agrader,” he said with a grin. “Really good to see you!”

“I bet it is, old friend,” Agrader said, keeping hold of the other High Mage. Amusement and anger blended in his voice.

The Archmage had white mustaches that drooped to his waist and were interwoven with golden wires. His long, thin white hair was shaved off on the left side of his head. Although he was a short man with tired eyes squinting under bushy white eyebrows, he obviously instilled terror in Remogan, who glared with his only eye but did not dare to move.

They were in a courtyard behind the palace of the Circle. The place teemed with guards and mages. Some of them seemed appalled. Most others were visibly amused. Stableboys kept bringing out mounted horses. Three mounted dragons awaited nearby.

Agrader turned to Remogan. “Apologize for imprisoning your brother in magic!” he snapped. He had a very rough and deep voice for such a short old man.

Remogan scowled like a Daemorc but ground through his teeth, “I apologize… Brother.”

Agrader yanked on his beard, making Remogan yelp in pain, and stirring murmur and badly muffled laughter from the onlookers. “You will get your due later, Remogan,” the Archmage said, “but now we must save your city from the monsters.” He let go of the mage’s beard and tossed his head to the dragons. “Let us mount.”

The three mages walked to the dragons. Remogan limped due to his war injury; when he thought that nobody was looking, he ran his hand over his beard and scowled. He mounted his black dragon while Agrader climbed into the saddle of an enormous dragon that was as white as his beard and hair.

Torsum mounted a dragoness with sturdy yet elegant features. He sensed that she was called Lithia, after the legendary mount of Adrix Blastblade. Bright green like a polished emerald, Lithia reminded Torsum of Ezder, the dragoness he had left in Cahes. He wished Ezder were here, although she was safer back home.

As he grasped the reins, Torsum looked at Remogan to see how he was taking the insult. The old man’s face was unreadable and his only eye stared straight ahead. But the nerves on his cheeks twitched like hooked rainworms.

As Agrader gave the order, the dragons arched their backs, flapped their enormous wings, and lurched themselves toward the sky. Torsum had a glimpse of the sea, which sparkled in the afternoon sun, and a hill with a lighthouse beyond the city walls, and then Lithia turned around and overflew the city.

The streets were empty, and barriers blocked wide throughways and shadowed alleys alike. They overflew a cluster of large yet drab palaces with sprawling gardens, and then they reached the suburbs, which smelled of cow urine because of its numerous tanneries. A crowd of people was stampeding away from the suburbs in panic. Torsum could soon see why.

A gray dragon glided above the suburbs, roaring and belching fire. Flames blazed on thatched roofs, and charred corpses littered the streets. A woman sat in the saddle, steering the dragon left and right, making him wreak havoc. Torsum sensed she had the Might of a silver-level mage. For a while, he thought it was Lanfareth, but her hair was fair rather than black. Tragically, Lanfareth was not the only female traitor.

The three mages made their dragons swoop at the woman. She noticed them and wheeled her dragon around to escape. Archmage Agrader lifted his hand and pointed it at her back. The air rippled, and a crackling sound made Torsum’s ears ring. The traitor shrieked as a blast of gold-level magic threw her off the saddle. She plummeted like a boulder, her long, yellow hair and a silvery cape flailing behind her, resembling the tail of a comet. Then she thrust her hands sideways and wove invisible threads of air that slowed her headlong dive to a controlled drift. Lithia moved to swoop at her, but Torsum stayed her with his mind. He sensed it would not be necessary.

The traitor landed somewhat gently, despite the precipitous fall, and although her knees buckled, she was on her feet the next moment, twisting her head left and right to find a place to hide. Then five or six men rushed at her from an alley with sticks, knives and, hammers. Averting his eyes, Torsum instructed the dragoness to go on toward the city walls.

The traitor’s dragon flew away but none of the mages pursued it. Dragons would never attack humans unless to protect their eggs, and unless they had been trained and forced to do so by evil mages. Torsum guessed that this dragon would hide in the mountains and never cause trouble again.

The battlements soon came into view. No monsters were to be seen inside the city, but a Wrathlord was shooting fireballs over the walls. The large, glowing spheres of flames screeched as they fell onto an enormous refugee camp. They burst against carts and lean-tos and fell into dugouts, creating craters and murderous waves of heat, and igniting everything around them. Old people and children ran away from the camp and toward the suburbs, some of them with their hair or clothes on fire.

Let’s get that putrid Wrathlord. Agrader’s furious voice erupted in Torsum’s mind.

Yes, let’s destroy him, Torsum sent in reply.

Although Remogan did not send any message, he headed for the walls with them. The man’s face was still as unreadable as a lump of ice. He had coiled the reins around his only wrist to keep his hand free to wield magic.

The three dragons overflew the ramparts. Some of the garrison on the wallwalk cheered and waved. Others were busy notching arrows, loading crossbows, and hauling stones and heavy tree trunks to throw at the monsters. While the city was sunlit, black clouds rolled above the plains beyond. Torsum shivered as he flew into a cold, dark shade.

Several Corpsentinels were slamming the gates with a large battering ram, and a horde of Daemorcs tried to scale the walls. While the monsters had patiently besieged Cahes, they had obviously grown exasperated and tried to take Gandre by sheer force. Since the fortification was low and worn out, Torsum feared they might succeed.

He could see dozens of burning wagons, tents, and lean-tos, and hundreds of human bodies lying at the monsters’ feet. The refugees who had not been allowed into the city had fallen victim to the Darkside.

The forces of Daemorcs and Corpsentinels seemed inexhaustible, and whenever a monster was killed, two others pushed forth to take its place. Their ranks spread far and wide, resembling a vast, monstrous forest of horns and antlers. The hideous clicking and hissing of Corpsentinels blended with the beastly roaring of Daemorcs. Torsum could not see any human soldiers anywhere. Where were the Aratonese squads?

Remogan steered his dragon to the outer fortification, and Torsum guessed he wanted to assault the Daemorcs that climbed the walls. Archmage Agrader swooped toward the Wrathlord, who sat atop a massive lagarrion several feet from the gate. Torsum followed him.

During his two-week journey from Cahes, Derrik had convinced himself he was ready for the battle. The sight of the battlefield outside Gandre destroyed his illusion, though, and his hands suddenly shook and sweated as if he had never held a sword. He had always dreamed of being a warrior. But he was just a wide-eyed logger from a little village. He wondered whether he would ever get used to the feeling of his guts being squished by anxiety.

Although the nearby Gandre bathed in sunlight, dark clouds rolled above the battlefield. Raindrops drummed against Derrik’s helmet, and it got on his nerves. Blizzard’s hooves sank deep into mud as he carried Derrik across a drenched, trampled field. Broose and Glen rode abreast with Derrik, alongside Dhra’ack, which kept growing deep in his throat.

Eriana and Leya had left to help in a field hospital, but Al’Anark and the elves walked behind the boys, along with the mounted guards of the Circle of Cahes. The Aratonese soldiers had caught up with them two days ago and rode on the flanks. The mages of Cahes marched up front, their hands linked by silver and bronze chains.

An enormous banner of Corpsentinel cavalry charged at them from the city, and Derrik struggled for breath as he watched them over the mages’ heads. The monsters seemed much more numerous than the humans and elves. The beating of the hoofs of the unclean warhorses seemed to vibrate under Blizzard’s feet. The ringing of steel came on the wind. Battles seemed to be raging all around them, somewhere beyond the sheets of rain.

Just like the Circle’s guards, Derrik and his friends wore mail shirts and round steel halfhelms with a noseguard. It seemed very little against the monsters’ blades. Derrik wished he had a helmet with a visor, plate armor, and a skirt of black lobstered metal like the Knights of Araton, or at least ringmail over boiled leather like the Aratonese Royal Guard. A large wooden shield hung around his neck, and he wanted to crouch behind it in the hope that the monsters would not see him.

The Corpsentinels kept galloping forth, ranks upon ranks of antlered monsters on black warhorses. Their crimson surcoats resembled a giant splash of blood. Soon, only a hundred yards of trampled, drenched crops, and the rank of mages, separated Derrik from the charging horde. He grasped the hilt of Wrathbane, wondering whether to draw the sword already.

Something flew at them in an arch under that dark sky. Derrik ducked under the shield when he realized they were arrows. He braced himself for arrowheads slamming into the shield, but the shafts never reached him. Sensing that the mages had deflected them, he dared peek over the wood.

The mages held their hands high. With the chains in their hands, they looked like a row of prisoners, except for the blue cloaks with the ahritaal. The cloaks flapped around their legs in the wind, giving the impression that they were flying. The Corpsentinels were so close that Derrik could already see the black gashes where their eyes should be. He wondered why he had listened when Glen insisted that they rode just behind the mages.

Derrik felt a blast of magic bursting forth from the mages and sweeping toward the monsters. Suddenly, a giant crack tore with a tremendous groan at the hoofs of the Corpsentinel warhorses. The monsters hissed and clicked as they fell in. The unclean warhorses screamed and nickered.

The humans cheered, Glen the loudest of them all. “Take that, you rotters!” he shouted. Derrik also yelled, letting go of the shield. Now he was glad that he had listened to Glen. But he noticed a touch of hysteria in his own voice.

The crack was so deep that he could only see the Corpsentinels’ antlers sticking out. The ranks of Corpsentinels behind them wheeled their horses to ride around the crack. Or to escape from the mages’ Might.

The mages lifted their hands for another blast, when a fireball exploded in their midst, only twenty feet away from Derrik. Limbs and blood flew up amidst a shower of sparks and a plume of smoke. The flash of light was so strong that Derrik saw only black. The tidal heatwave made his skin peel.

Blizzard screamed and reared. Derrik lay on his belly and wrapped his hands around the horse’s neck so he would not be thrown off the saddle. As the horse fell back on his front hoofs, the pommel jabbed into Derrik’s belly. The wooden shield shifted and slammed into Derrik’s chin. He felt warm liquid gathering in his beard. He was bleeding before he engaged with a single monster.

The acrid stench of charred flesh wafted over him. A wave of panic rippled through the ranks of the humans. The afterimage of the flash blinded him.

“There must be a Wrathlord nearby!” Broose yelled.

When Derrik could see again, he gasped. The mages had dispersed, leaving behind some dozen of their fallen comrades, three or four of which had been reduced to heaps of torn limbs and charred flesh.

Corpsentinels were galloping alongside the crack to find a way to reach the Lightside. Daemorcs were leaping into the crack to rush at the Lightside, crushing the trapped Corpsentinels. Many of the horned monsters stumbled over antlers and fell, screaming as they got impaled, but the majority were already scrambling out of the crack. Their giant bare feet smacked in the mud nearly as loudly as the hoofs of the Corpsentinel warhorses.

A bugle call blasted across the field. “Crossbowmen, loose!”

On the flanks, Aratonese light cavalry poured forth on lean stallions, leveling loaded crossbows at the monsters. As the bolts snapped forth and the Daemorcs started to fall and roar in agony, the crossbowmen fanned sideways to reload.

“Heavy cavalry, charge!”

The earth shook under the massive hooves of Aratonese warhorses. Derrik spurred Blizzard forward and raced along with the thunderous cavalry, ripping Wrathbane from the scabbard with a trembling hand. He glanced sideways. His friends were right beside him, roaring and brandishing their swords. Dhra’ack soared above them and flew at the monsters to mow them down with his spiked tail. Some elves outran the horses and yelled as they charged at the horned giants. A few more fireballs exploded around them in the mayhem.

“Pikemen, forward!” someone yelled. Derrik wondered how anyone could try to keep order in such chaos.

A moment later, he was in the midst of the battle. Blizzard came to a rearing halt as a Daemorc barred his way. The monster towered above Derrik even though he was mounted. It raised its hand to break Derrik’s head with an enormous cudgel. Blizzard neighed and sidestepped. Derrik raised his shield, but he knew the monster’s cudgel would slam through the wood and shatter his hand and wrist, so he thrust Wrathbane forward.

Glancing under the shield, he saw the Daemorc’s enormous, bare, filthy feet shifting backward. Derrik had been too far from the monster to hit it, and he wondered what was happening. When he peeked up over the shield, he saw the Daemorc recoiling instinctively at the sight of Wrathbane. The monster must have felt the weapon’s magic. Though Derrik feared that the Daemorc’s awe would not last long.

The Daemorc roared furiously, revealing a row of sharp yet worn out, stained yellow teeth. The stench of rot wallowed forth, forcing vomit into Derrik’s mouth. Unnerved, Blizzard began to dance and sidestep underneath him. Derrik decided he would be better off fighting on his feet, trying to hamstring the monster.

Derrik kicked his foot from the stirrup, swung his leg over the horse’s back, and leaped off, brandishing Wrathbane. The grass had been reduced to a quagmire, and he slid and stumbled. He screamed as the Daemorc’s cudgel flew at his head. He twisted his head down, and the cudgel knocked off his halfhelm. The noseguard cut his nose as the helm went flying, but the cudgel had not hit his head. Had the Daemorc aimed an inch lower, he would now lay dazzled at its feet.

Derrik steadied himself and rushed forth to jab at the monster. The Daemorc flinched at the sight of Wrathbane again, and Derrik pirouetted and swung his black sword in a flat sideways arc. He roared in victory when the blade crashed into the monster’s giant knee, nearly taking its leg off.

Black blood swelled forth. The cudgel hit Derrik’s head, but only lightly, as it had fallen out of the Daemorc’s hand. Derrik staggered away just as the Daemorc collapsed. Then he rushed forth and brought Wrathbane down at the monster’s head, just between the horns.

The spiked skull burst open with a terrible craaack!. Although it repulsed him, his fear was gone, and he roared with exhilaration. He had single-handedly killed a Daemorc!

Derrik dashed to Blizzard to mount to get a better view and find another opponent. His shoes grew heavy with mud. His foot nearly slipped from the stirrup as he swung himself into the saddle. All about, mounted humans battled Daemorcs, who towered over the horses, swinging giant clubs, hammers, and battleaxes. He could not see his friends anywhere, but he saw Dhra’ack in the distance, swooping down at a horde of mounted Corpsentinels.

Exhilaration rushed through Derrik’s veins anew, and this time, he knew it was Dhra’ack’s. Pride and happiness filled him among the chaos and bloodshed. He and his dragon were fighting the Darkside, protecting the innocent denizens of Gandre from a massacre.

As he wheeled his nickering warhorse around, looking for a Daemorc to fight, something began to tug on his mind. Suddenly, he kicked Blizzard and headed back the way they had come from, toward the farther edge of the battlefield. He did not know where he was going, or why. All he knew was that he had to get there as fast as possible.

Derrik plowed through the battlefield. Blizzard snorted and nickered underneath him, mud flying from under his hoofs. A few unengaged Daemorcs turned to him and raised their weapons, but the sight of Wrathbane made them hesitate long enough for Derrik to canter past them.

He rushed against the flow of the Aratonese light cavalry that galloped forth to slam into the monster’s rear. “Coward!” some of them shouted, glaring and brandishing their longswords at him.

Derrik paid them no attention. Something screamed at him in the back of his mind to turn around. But even a stronger voice urged him forward, forward, forward! In rare moments of clarity, he wondered whether it was Torsum summoning him.

As he left the last row of cavalrymen behind, he found himself at the edge of the woods where they had camped on the previous night. Blizzard suddenly buckled underneath him, throwing him off his back. Luckily, Derrik fell onto trampled yet long grass and scrambled to his feet in a moment. The warhorse crashed on his side, looking dazzled, and did not try to get up. He rolled his eyes so only the white showed but did not even lift his head. Spume formed at his mouth and dripped onto the grass.

The piece of leather that held the shield around Derrik’s neck snapped, and the shield fell to his feet. Immediately, it caught on fire, and he leaped back before the flames scorched him. As he glanced around, wondering what was happening, he saw a monster with two enormous horns twisting like gorged snakes from a dreadful, spiked head. The fiend had a crooked nose and eyes that resembled frozen black pebbles. His skin was silvery grey as if he were bathing in moonlight. He wore a black leather coat of gold ringmail that reached the tops of his black riding boots.

A Wrathlord.

The monster walked toward Derrik, casually, while drawing a black sword.

“You are the son of the Warrior-Summoner,” the Wrathlord said, peeling his thin lips back to reveal sharp fangs in a snarl. His voice sounded like two vipers fighting in a pile of dead leaves. “And you will die!”

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE: REVENGE

By the city gates, most Daemorcs and Corpsentinels dispersed at the sight of Torsum and Archmage Agrader. But the Wrathlord who had been shooting fireballs over the fortification still sat there on his lagarrion, glaring at them with derision.

Torsum hovered on his emerald dragoness, Lithia, waiting for Agrader to attack the monster first. The Archmage and his dragon tilted as if they were conjoined twins. The dragon locked his wings and swooped down on the Wrathlord, who raised his hand and shot a fireball. Although Agrader lifted his hand to deflect it, the screeching, smoldering red sphere slammed into his foot.

The Archmage roared in pain. He waved his hand and killed the flames with magic. But when the breeze scattered the smoke, Torsum saw nothing but a fragment of a bone sticking from charred flesh from the knee down. Torsum tried to gulp, but his throat had dried. How could a Wrathlord have bested a gold-level wizard?

The Wrathlord stared at the Archmage, a sneer on his hideous face. With a roar of rage, Torsum made Lithia swoop down on the monster and belch fire. The Wrathlord twisted his horned head away from the dragoness and shielded his eyes so they would not be burned. The flames washed over him but neither his skin nor his clothes caught on fire. His lagarrion screeched in anger rather than pain.

The monster laughed behind Torsum’s back. “Nice try, you pitiful worm!”

Wheeling Lithia around, Torsum summoned his Might to unseat the Wrathlord. The monster raised his hand to batter the spell. The dragoness glided just above the Wrathlord, roaring in rage. The roar turned into a shriek of agony, and she swayed from a blast of malicious magic. Torsum grasped the pommel to stay in the saddle.

While they flew past, Lithia’s muscles rippled under Torsum as she flicked her tail. A loud bang, and the monster’s horrible scream, made Torsum twist his head over his shoulder. The Wrathlord was flying sideways off his lagarrion and slammed into the ground. Torsum cheered when he realized that Lithia’s tail had landed a blow.

The Wrathlord rolled on the ground and struggled to his feet. Although he swayed as if the blow had shaken him, he raised his hand to cast a spell or throw a fireball. Torsum winced and made the dragoness soar.

“My turn!” Agrader screamed from his dragon’s back, his voice brimming with agony and determination.

The Archmage made himself levitate, rising off the saddle and floating to the Wrathlord. A long spear appeared in his hand, discharging a blinding light as if flames licked the steel. He lobbed it at the Wrathlord with a furious roar. As the monster began to lift his hands to deflect the spear, a heavy chain suddenly coiled around his arms, crushing them to his sides.

Normal steel would have hardly nicked the Wrathlord’s unclean skin, but the gleaming spearhead crashed into his forehead, bored through his evil brain, and came out on the other side of his head. The Wrathlord uttered a dreadful scream, staggered, and fell. He twitched for a few moments, then lay still. Torsum screamed with glee.

Agrader floated back into his dragon’s saddle. He looked pale and exhausted, and yet he made the dragon hover above the dead monster and watched him with alertness.

Torsum had seen a few Wrathlords die, and he knew what was to come. In a few moments, a tiny raven would crawl from the monster’s mouth, but it would grow by the second and try to fly away. If the raven was destroyed, a small snake would slither from his beak, grow to a monstrous size, and attack everyone around in an attempt to escape. If either the bird or the snake managed to flee, the Wrathlord would eventually return in his horned form.

Something tiny and black slithered from the Wrathlord’s mouth. The next moment, a large raven soared, cawing angrily, evil eyes glaring from a deformed head. Torsum longed to destroy the raven, but the honor was Agrader’s. Still, he made Lithia hover near in case the Archmage needed help.

A crossbow appeared in the Archmage’s hand. The point of the bolt gleamed just like the spearhead. He aimed it at the black bird.

A bell began to toll frantically on the ramparts. Torsum wheeled his dragoness around and cursed when he saw a horde of Daemorcs on the wallwalk, massacring the garrison and throwing them over the walls.

Roast those bastards, he sent to his dragoness. Lithia shrieked in response and darted toward the ramparts. She lowered her head and poured a roaring stream of fire over the Daemorcs. Torsum poured his Might onto the flames to steer them away from the humans.

Lithia wheeled around, and Torsum peered at the wallwalk through a curtain of dark smoke. Most of the Daemorcs were writhing on the ground, bright flames twisting on their giant bodies and devouring them to the bone. A terrible stench assailed him, unclean flesh burning to char. The dragoness glided back to the ramparts to scorch the rest of the Daemorcs. She got all of them—except those who leaped to their deaths over the ramparts with screams of panic.

Torsum headed back to the Archmage, past Remogan, whose dragon poured fire over a horde of Corpsentinels by the gates. Agrader hovered on his dragon above the black raven. The bird was lying dead, with a bolt sticking through its body. An enormous black snake lay motionless nearby, his mouth wide open and his teeth shattered inside a dislocated jaw. His entrails had spilled from his ripped belly; his black scales were scraped white at more than one place on his mangled, deformed body. Torsum marveled at the sheer power of Agrader’s Might that had caused such destruction.

Agrader was pale as a sun-bleached scroll of parchment, and he kept wincing in pain.

We need to get you into the city for healing, Torsum sent, staring at the charred stump of the Archmage’s leg.

The Archmage waved his hand. I’ll be fine.

Torsum wanted to protest, but then he thought better of it.

Agrader sent, I was about to deflect that fireball but something prevented me from doing so. His voice was full of suspicion.

As Torsum wondered what it could mean, his Might told him to look up. He frowned when he saw six or seven dragons coming, side by side, about half a mile away. He immediately sensed that their riders were not coming to battle the monsters. They came to help them.

Luckily, he could not sense any Might pouring out of the traitors. They were not mages walking the Darkside but mercenaries, rotters who fought for Wrathlords for power or riches, or to get the upper hand in a fight against the rulers of other realms. As they got closer, he could see bronze breastplates over expensive velvet and damask. He had known there were traitors among Dragonlords. But he could not imagine there were so many.

The traitors must have noticed and recognized him and the Archmage, for they wheeled around to flee.

Let’s get those bastards, Archmage Agrader sent.

The Archmage’s dragon flapped his massive wings and began to pursue the traitors. Lithia followed.

The clouds grew darker as they overflew the ranks of monsters, although the sun still shone above Gandre. It started to rain, and the drops pounded against Lithia’s scales, evaporating immediately with a hiss.

The Archmage lifted his hand, and the nearest traitor was flung up from his saddle. Without magic to summon currents of air to arrest his fall and save his miserable life, the traitor plunged to his death with a prolonged shriek of terror. Another dragonlord flew about a yard up from his saddle, and as he started to plummet, he got impaled on the spikes on his dragon’s tail. He screamed and thrashed for a while, then his body slumped. The dragon kept flying, the bleeding body of its former master hanging limply from its tail.

Torsum drew all heat from the raindrops that were pounding the nearest traitor, turning them into tiny, sharp pieces of ice. The traitor let go of his dragon’s reins to cover his eyes, and Torsum unleashed a monstrous blast of wind that made the dragon sway. He whooped when the traitor slid off the saddle and fell to his death.

The Archmage lifted his hand to another traitor. It was a woman, who suddenly twitched and snapped her head back. Then she slumped lifelessly in the saddle, her head hanging at an unnatural angle. The other traitors got out of the reach of the mages’ spells, and the Archmage urged his dragon to fly faster. As Torsum followed, he glanced down. And gaped.

They were overflying the biggest battle he had seen in two decades. Just underneath him, about five hundred men in gray tunics and checkered scarfs wrapped around their heads and faces battled Corpsentinels from camelbacks. The Tik’Ereeny, or Sandpeople, had not been this far north since the Great Battle. Now they had returned from the Kalhan Desert to fight the monsters once again.

The clashing of steel, the braying of camels, the roaring of men, and the hissing and clicking of Corpsentinels blended in a cacophony that reached him with clarity. Torsum detected an incredibly strong Might, which surely emanated from the Tik’Ereeny shamaness. She must have predicted the siege and brought the desert tribes to Gandre. He sensed it was the same shamaness he had met during the Great Battle. That woman had to be at least a hundred years old.

When he looked left, Torsum saw Daemorcs clashing with an enormous squad of humans. They were too far to be seen clearly, and the soldiers looked like a large smudge of yellow, the color of Dar Kahar. They were so numerous he guessed that all three Dar Kaharian banners had arrived.

He rejoiced when he flew on for about a mile and noticed the red-and-blue banners of Cahes and the green-and-white banners of Araton clashing with an enormous unit of Corpsentinels. He wondered whether Derrik and his friends were in the battle. And whether they were still alive.

As he flew on, he saw colors of banners he did not even recognize. The battlefield looked larger than the city of Cahes. The Archmage was still pursuing the four remaining traitors but they seemed to be getting farther and farther.

Having chased the dragonlords far beyond the battlelines, the two mages slowed their dragons. Suddenly, Torsum felt there was a danger. But he could not pinpoint it.

Nobody pulls my beard and gets away with it! Remogan’s voice erupted in Torsum’s mind.

Torsum looked up just as the High Mage of Gandre barreled on his dragon from a dark cloud. He tore down at the Archmage. The two dragons collided the next moment, roiling in the air in a mass of scales and spikes.

Agrader made himself levitate, and the dragons began to tear at each other with their fangs and claws. The air shivered, and the raindrops evaporated in a sea of dragonfire. As the behemoths pounded each other with their spiked tails, the rain turned red with steaming blood.

Torsum had hoped that the treacherous Remogan was still on his dragon, getting burned and ripped to pieces. Then he saw him falling. Remogan thrust his hands sideways to arrest his fall, just like the silver-level traitor in the suburbs of Gandre, and he began to float. Torsum roared in anger and poured tendrils of destructive Might onto the currents Remogan had created.

Although Remogan’s Might was stronger, Torsum had put so much rage and power into the spell that he slashed through the currents and made Remogan plummet. Remogan managed to slow the dive soon afterward, though, and Torsum cursed. He had little strength left to batter Remogan’s magic.

Then the air shivered and crackled between Remogan and the Archmage. A monstrous gush of blood poured from Remogan’s mouth. He plummeted again, leaving a red tail that fell more slowly than him and blended with the raindrops. Remogan hit the ground with a hideous thud. Agrader alighted a few dozen feet away, and Torsum made Lithia land. The two antagonized dragons plunged and crashed with an enormous bang that felt like an earthquake.

Remogan lay dead on the ground. The dragons also seemed to be dying, lying on their sides and breathing heavily, large swaths of scales ripped or dented, reddish steam pouring from open wounds. Although they were almost touching, they had no fight left in them.

Archmage Agrader also sprawled on the drenched grass. Although Torsum had hoped that the Archmage had avoided the spikes of Remogan’s dragon, Agrader’s body was terribly mangled. He lay at an unnatural angle, an enormous gash across his chest and belly. The stench of burst intestines permeated the air. Blood trickled from his mouth and stained his white mustaches; his lungs must have been damaged. His clothes were reduced to charred rags from the dragon’s scorching scales. So was his skin. A normal man would be already dead. The Archmage still clung to life.

Torsum kneeled beside him and lifted his hand to heal him, wondering which injury was the most life-threatening.

“Don’t you dare!” the Archmage wheezed out, glaring. The outburst seemed to have sapped all his strength, and he groaned and coughed blood.

“Don’t talk,” Torsum said. “Preserve your strength.” He shuddered when he recalled saying the same words, years ago, while crouching over his dying brother.

Nobody can save me, Torsum, Agrader sent. Not even the elves could mend a spine that has been shattered in so many places, or seal internal organs shredded into pulp. I don’t want to spend the rest of my life lying down, gasping for air, with crap flowing through my ripped guts.

Torsum sighed and hung his head. He knew that Agrader was right. The Archmage gasped for air and wheezed. Blood bubbled and gurgled in his chest. His dragon groaned, making it sound as if a storm was coming.

With a grunt of pain, the Archmage turned his head to the dead Remogan. “That bastard… got me well.”

Torsum understood. It had been Remogan who had prevented the Archmage from deflecting the Wrathlord’s fireball. Remogan must have been planning revenge for his humiliation since they had mounted their dragons. That rascal must have had a much stronger Might than anybody had thought. He had surely experimented with gold-level magic, although it was prohibited to anyone but the Archmage. Torsum had also broken that rule, but only occasionally.

Torsum glanced at Remogan’s cadaver to make sure he was truly dead. The body did not move. Torsum began to feel guilty, for the Archmage was dying because of him. If I hadn’t got arrested, Agrader wouldn’t have to—

The Archmage still had enough strength left to chase the thought from Torsum’s mind.

“You’ve been… a good friend, Torsum,” Agrader wheezed. He spoke fervently as if each word could delay the encroaching darkness. “I’m glad to face… this… by your side.”

Torsum nodded, breathing hard to control his grief and regret. Then Agrader did something Torsum would have never expected.

Drawing from his last reserves of strength, the Archmage raised his bloodied, trembling hand and clawed at the golden chain around his neck. He groaned with effort as he pulled it over his head. Then he grasped Torsum’s hand—and closed Torsum’s fingers around the chain.

Torsum stared at the cold, heavy chain, feeling its magic, and the sheer responsibility it carried. With a slight smile, the Archmage drew his last breath. The dragon’s earth-shattering groan filled the air, then faded into profound silence.

Derrik could not tell how long he had been fighting the Wrathlord. He was barely aware that it had stopped raining, but it could have been minutes or hours ago. Their steel clashed furiously on many occasions, but they seemed to spend even more time circling each other like antagonized lions. The Wrathlord obviously recognized Wrathbane as a sword that could kill him, for he fought defensively and kept glaring at the black blade, revealing his shark-like fangs. His eyes resembled lumps of frozen coal, and yet they glowed with hatred and malice. His own sword was as black as Derrik’s.

If the monster was wary, Derrik was scared out of his wits. Although he had longed to become a warrior, he had never imagined himself facing a Wrathlord. Ever since he had left New Thorstorm, his life had been a dazzling string of perils and bizarre occurrences. This was the strangest and most dangerous of all. And, most likely, the ultimate.

“Your leprous father destroyed my master, Atropeth,” the Wrathlord said in that horrid rustling voice as he circled him. “Now I will end your miserable life.”

Derrik had never doubted it was the Wrathlord’s intention, and he had little hope that the monster would fail. Derrik wanted to reach Dhra’ack with his mind, but he sensed the dragon was helping his friends, who had been outnumbered. Besides, the young dragon would be of little use against a Wrathlord. He was more valuable on the battlefield, slashing his spiked tail into Daemorcs and Corpsentinels.

The Wrathlord lunged, and Derrik yanked Wrathbane upward to catch the downstroke of the monster’s sword. Then he skipped forward and jabbed. The monster parried with an upward swat, bringing Derrik’s sword hand up, and moved to jab at Derrik’s belly. Derrik skipped aside, twisted, and swung his blade with Leaf swirling in the wind. The monster swatted Wrathbane away with an impatient sweep.

Derrik lashed out with Bark floating in a white river, whirling through the stances as fast as accurately as he could, all the time praying he would not slide on the wet, trampled grass. The Wrathlord sneered as he parried all jabs, sweeps, and thrusts. It seemed he could predict his moves and think of the counterstrikes ahead of time.

In despair, Derrik went through the form again and immediately followed with Trout thrashing among rocks. The complex form made him gasp for breath, his shoulder and arm throbbing. The monster never receded an inch.

“My turn, maggot,” the Wrathlord said. He must have realized that Derrik was not a formidable opponent, despite wielding a Wrathblade, and his confidence had grown. The monster poised himself—and scowled and twisted his head toward the battlefield.

Five or six cavalrymen came at a gallop. The Wrathlord pivoted toward them, raising his hand. A rippling flash of lightning erupted from the palm, so bright that Derrik had to narrow his eyes.

The lighting forked, each branch slamming into one soldier. They began to shake and convulse, blood gushing from their mouths and noses. One by one, they slid off the saddles. Their horses scattered with screams of terror.

Although petrified, Derrik saw his chance and struck with Frog leaping off a lotus leaf. The Wrathlord would not be caught by surprise, though, and he twisted to Derrik and slammed his blade upward. The black blades met with a dreadful clang.

The Wrathlord began to batter Derrik with powerful strikes and thrusts. To Derrik’s surprise, the Wrathlord had not used magic once during the fight. Perhaps he wanted to play first, or he overestimated Derrik’s Might and preferred to fight with steel only. The monster could have also deemed using magic beneath him while facing someone like Derrik.

Whatever the reason, Derrik did not complain. And soon he realized that perhaps the Wrathlord did use some magic.

The Wrathlord battered at his guard with an unnaturally swift whirl of steel. Just as Derrik dipped under the strike, he had to pivot to deflect another blow. At times, it seemed that the Wrathlord had split into two to attack from both sides. But Derrik did not have time to wonder about it.

Abruptly, Derrik sensed that Dhra’ack was near. A moment later, the dragon tore from a black cloud and swooped at the Wrathlord. The monster only laughed. He obviously knew that the dragon was too young to belch fire, and the claws, teeth, and spikes would hardly leave a mark on the monster’s unclean skin.

The Wrathlord waved his hand, and Dhra’ack was blown away, shrieking in pain. Derrik winced as his muscles suddenly cramped. The Wrathlord turned back to Derrik, thinking that he had discouraged the dragon. But he did not know Dhra’ack.

The dragon wheeled around and swooped again. He opened his mouth—and a stream of fire poured like lava at the Wrathlord’s head.

Derrik jeered with glee. Dhra’ack could not have found his fire at a better time.

The monster had turned his face away and raised his hand, but it was too late. A roar of pain gushed from the Wrathlord’s fanged mouth. Derrik hoped the dragonfire had blinded the monster. When the Wrathlord lowered his hands, however, Derrik could see that one of the hideous eyes had turned white as milk while the other was scarred but glaring. The Wrathlord was shaken, though, and Derrik saw his chance to strike and destroy him.

As he lurched forth, he sensed that the Wrathlord was going to wield destructive magic. Tendrils of crackling energy burst from the monster’s hand. They twisted and intertwined, absorbing the light, and Derrik struggled to see. The tendrils rippled around him, and suddenly, he was in utter darkness as if someone had closed the shutters in an unlit chamber. Derrik staggered backward.

Batter the darkness with the Might! Torsum’s voice tore through his head.

Derrik felt magic pulsing through his mind. Blood rushed into his head on its own accord. Torsum’ s Might suffused him and poured light into the darkness. Striking furiously with his sword, Derrik deflected a jab aimed at his midriff, then he pirouetted and struck out. An enormous force blasted into Derrik and made him fly. He rolled on the wet grass and struggled to his feet, feeling rattled. He looked at the Wrathlord… and saw black blood gushing from the monster’s throat.

At first, Derrik thought that the High Mage had injured the Wrathlord with his Might. Then he glanced down at Wrathbane and saw black blood dripping from the blade. He laughed with glee. It was he who had ripped the monster’s throat, just before being blasted away.

The black blood gushed from the slash by bucketfuls, spraying feet away. A human would have long been dead, but the monster was still standing.

As the Wrathlord raised his hand to blast Derrik with another spell, Dhra’ack swooped at him. The Wrathlord lifted his hands to the dragon, and Dhra’ack shrieked in pain and swayed. The fire he poured vanished in a cloud of smoke before it reached the monster. Determined to retaliate, the dragon snapped his tail. Its length lashed around the monster’s horns, wrenching his head back with brutal force.

Derrik rushed at the enemy with a loud, hoarse roar. Summoning all his strength, he swung Wrathbane at the monster’s ripped neck. The black blade crashed through the skin, muscles and tendons, slammed through the spine, and went out through the back of the neck.

Something tugged at his belly, but he was so excited he hardly noticed. The monster’s head suddenly dangled from Dhra’ack’s tail. The headless body staggered, black blood pouring from the stump of the neck.

Just as he wanted to shout in victory, terrible pain erupted in Derrik’s midriff. A surge of blood told him that the monster had stabbed him just as Derrik had severed his head. They swayed and collapsed at the same time.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX: THE SIGIL

During the first eighteen years of his life, Derrik had always slept in his bed, except when they were on a hunting expedition, or when the summer nights got warm enough to sleep in the garden behind their house. Ever since he had left New Thorstorm, though, he had hardly slept at the same place twice, going through prison cots, bedrolls, squeaky pallets in roadside inns, and the soft, four-post bed in the Circle’s guest-chamber in Cahes.

Now that he woke up and felt warm and comfortable, he thought he was back in Cahes. Then something told him that he had long left the city and lots of things had happened since. Lots of very strange things.

He snapped his eyes open and stared at a low groin-vault ceiling with faded frescoes of magical symbols. Daylight poured from tall yet narrow windows, along with a fresh breeze. Broose, Glen, Leya, and Eriana sat around his bed.

Broose was reading but when Derrik shifted in the bed, he lifted his head, smiled, and said, “Welcome back, Brother.”

Glen patted Derrik’s arm. “Are you staying with us this time?”

Derrik recalled he had come around a few times before. And that his friends were always around his bed. No, not friends. They were his family.

Leya gave him a smile and said, “I’m glad you’ve come round. You seem much stronger now.”

Eriana leaned forward and touched his forehead. “The fever has finally dropped.” She made it sound as if she had brought the fever down. And she probably had.

“Where are we?” Derrik asked.

“In a turret of the Circle’s palace in Gandre,” Broose replied.

Derrik nodded. He now remembered that they had headed to Gandre. Toward a battle. Battle!

He lifted his head to take a good look at his friends. The girls had black circles under their eyes but seemed unharmed. Broose had his arm in a sling. Glen had his shirt unlaced as usual, despite the cold coming from the stone walls, and he had a fresh scar on his chest. He was obviously very proud of it because he kept tracing it with his finger with a satisfied smile.

“What happened?” Derrik asked.

“What happened?” Glen repeated with a grin. “We kicked the monsters’ asses and made them run away from the city. And you killed a Wrathlord… and were stupid enough to get stabbed by him just as he was dying.”

Derrik noticed a dull pain in his stomach that corroborated the story. Flashes of the swordfight erupted in his mind and drenched him with cold sweat. “But… didn’t the Wrathlord transform into a raven?”

“Dhra’ack took care of him,” Broose said. “He roasted him like a New Year’s goose.” He licked his lips as if he already looked forward to New Year.

“And High Mage Torsum came in time to finish off the snake,” Eriana said.

Derrik sighed and nodded. He was too exhausted to fully rejoice, but relief spread through his mind. Then he twitched in a panic. “Where is Dhra’ack?”

A shriek came in answer, and he saw the dragon gliding past the window, his scales glowing in the sunshine like a heap of gold. The sight suffused Derrik with peace and happiness.

Glen chuckled and shook his head. “The crazy dragon has been flying around the turret like a pigeon for days. He nearly tore Torsum to pieces when the High Mage didn’t allow him to go up here.”

For days? Derrik wondered how long he had been out.

“Conquering the Wrathlord has turned you into a celebrity, Derrik,” Leya said with a bright smile. “Thanks to you, we all got accommodation in the Circle’s palace.”

“Glen shows off his scar everywhere, and says he’s the best friend of a Wrathlord Slayer,” Eriana said, sounding annoyed. “And Broose keeps stuffing his face with the best food the palace kitchen can offer.”

Glen grinned and shrugged. Broose licked his lips and nervously glanced at the door as if he wanted to rush to the kitchen building.

The door opened, and High Mage Torsum walked in, blue cloak fluttering. “I’m glad to see you are better, lad,” the old mage told Derrik. His eyes sparkled with merriment under his bushy brown eyebrows.

“I am,” Derrik said. “Thank you, Torsum.” He tried to sit up, but pain ripped through his stomach and made him recline again.

“You still need to rest for a few days, Derrik,” Torsum said in his pleasant, melodious voice.

Eriana turned to Glen and her siblings, “Let’s take a walk so the High Mage can have a quiet word with Derrik.”

Torsum smiled as if to thank her for her thoughtfulness. Derrik’s friends stood and walked out of the chamber. Glen looked like he wanted to linger in the doorway to eavesdrop, but Broose pushed him on and closed the door.

Torsum took a chair and sat by Derrik’s bed. “You have shown incredible bravery, lad, but it should no longer surprise me,” the mage said with a gentle smile. “Now, what are your plans once you’ve recovered?”

Derrik shrugged his shoulders. He longed to go home and see his parents and spend at least a few quiet days. But that surely was not what the mage wanted to hear.

Torsum’s slight, passing frown confirmed that. “Although we have won a battle, the Lightside is far from safe, Derrik. And the war is far from over.”

“What do you mean, High Mage?”

Torsum sighed. “The monsters we battled in Cahes and annihilated in Gandre weren’t all the monsters the Darkside had spawned. Far from it. There are many more creatures of the Wrathlands, and I believe they will be coming soon, very soon, to avenge their conquered comrades.”

Derrik wondered how the old mage could know that with certainty, but he preferred not to ask. The High Mage frowned as if a disquieting thought troubled his powerful mind. “Saitaan is well aware of his troops’ failures, and he wants to intervene. Personally. He longs to get Tarroth. On account of the civil war, and of Saitaan’s proclaiming himself the new Dark Overlord, the conflict we once called ‘the Ultimate Battle’ wasn’t as ultimate as we hoped. Perhaps one day, there will be another one.”

“Another Great Battle?” Derrik asked, trying to digest the implications. “Is it even possible to summon the dead heroes again?”

The High Mage did not reply, and Derrik sensed he was not sure. For a while, Torsum only sat and frowned in thought, knuckling his white beard. Then he said, “You’ve killed a Wrathlord in his human form, nearly by yourself, and you’re bound to a dragon…”

The mage looked Derrik straight into his eyes. “I want you for the Circle, Derrik,” Torsum said. “I’ve told you that before, and I’m saying it again—and this time, I want a definite answer.”

Derrik frowned in thought. All he wanted right now was to go home, hug his mother, apologize to his father, and sleep for at least a full day.

“If you accept, you can keep learning magic and honing your fighting skills at the same time,” Torsum said. “You can protect the Lightside by both steel and Might.”

Derrik thought of his late bodyguard from Cahes. “You mean as an elite guard like Gerra? Or a Battle Wizard?”

“Even better, lad,” Torsum said, giving him a mysterious smile.

Derrik recalled that, back in Cahes, just before they had departed for Gandre, Torsum had suggested that Derrik could one day become the chief protector of Tarroth.

Torsum nodded, as if he were thinking the same.

“But my father is the Warrior-Bearer and the Warrior-Summoner,” Derrik said.

The High Mage nodded. “And an excellent one. However, I’m thinking of creating a new post, of the Warrior-Keeper, something like the head of guards of Tarroth. If I managed to create that post, you’d be immediately admitted among bronze-level mages, and get the best training to become a silver-level mage and a captain of the guard.”

Derrik gulped, excitement rising through his mind. “I would accept it gladly, if you think I am the right person for the task.” He gave the mage a quizzing look. “Do you think I am the right person for it?” He was sure there had to be dozens of better candidates. Perhaps hundreds.

Torsum smiled. “You are a very special young man, Derrik. A simple logger who has learned swordplay and magic faster than I would have ever thought possible. Besides, although I have not known you for that long, you are one of the few people I can trust.”

Derrik thought he would puff up with pride enough to levitate. Praise from a man like Torsum was better than finding a golden coin. Then he frowned in thought. “Thank you, Torsum, but… can’t only the Archmage create that post?”

Torsum glanced at the closed door and then he pulled a chain from the side pocket of his doublet. It was made of pure gold.

As Derrik gawked at the chain, Torsum said, “Archmage Agrader gave it to me before he died during the battle.”

Derrik let out air through pursed lips. “So you are the new Archmage?”

Torsum frowned and pulled at his bushy white beard. “It’s not that easy, lad. The local mages know about this, of course, and they aren’t content. Some of them are spreading rumors that I’ve snatched the golden chain from Agrader’s dead neck. I sense that some of them even suspect me of killing Agrader, and it might not be long before they start voicing that sentiment.” He grabbed his gray braid, which fell to his waist over his shoulder, and nervously squeezed it.

“I really don’t know what the other High Mages will think,” he said. His voice was uncharacteristically gloomy. “The Circle has been disintegrating since the Great Battle, and this situation will only make it worse, especially—”

Torsum trailed off and twisted his head to the nearest window. He sprang from the chair and strode to the window, blue cloak fluttering around his ankles. He stood there as one frozen. The only movement of his body was the clenching and unclenching of his fists.

“What is it, Torsum?” Derrik asked, but the High Mage did not reply.

Derrik sat up, despite the pain, and struggled to his feet. Holding his bandaged stomach, he shuffled to another window. It gave out on the sea, which resembled a blue, sparkling wall. And upon the sea, dozens of vessels sailed past the port of Gandre and continued eastward.

It was a massive fleet, giant ships with a mainmast and two or three smaller masts sailing alongside long galleys with two tiers of oars. Something about that sight made Derrik shiver. He experienced the sickening sensation he often had when the Darkside was nearby.

“My biggest fears are already sailing past,” Torsum said grimly. “This is a fleet from the Wrathlands, lad. They are going for Tarroth.”

A cold wind swept over the night-shrouded city of Dar Kahar. Lanfareth shuddered in her shift as she crept from the barracks of the Magic Circle’s palace. A strange blend of excitement and frustration roiled in her mind. She was so close to Tarroth that she could almost sense its power suffusing the enclosure. Could she ever reach it, though?

Tarroth was hidden under the turret where the Archmages resided. As she had managed to infiltrate herself into the Circle’s headquarters, she lived within a thousand feet from the turret. And yet, Tarroth seemed to be as far from her reach as ever before, guarded as it was, and sealed by gold-level wards. She could not give up, though. Not now that she had gotten so far.

A few days ago, Lanfareth had used the mayhem of the battle of Gandre to sneak into the ten-mile portal. She had managed to slip past the guards waiting by the portal in Dar Kahar, and since she was wearing the Circle’s guards’ uniform, she had blended among recruits and claimed a pallet in the female quarters in the Circle’s barracks. She could perhaps wait for her turn to guard the turret and sneak inside then. It could take months, though, and impatience stirred her from bed every night and made her slither around the vast main courtyard, hoping to find a way to get in.

She kept twisting her head left and right as she scurried across the courtyard to the black outline of the turret. Her naked feet tapped lightly on the frigid, moonlit flagstones. Hiding in the shadows of a grove of oaks, she let her eyes glide upward over the towering, fluted structure. No lights flickered on the top; a captain had told the guards that the Archmage had died in Gandre, and the High Mages squabbled over who would replace him. All the better for her. Another reason to hurry.

The turret was so tall that it seemed about to fall on her. The branches of the trees that surrounded it swayed in the breeze and cast eerie shadows on its stone wall. An owl hooted nearby, making her wince. Something rustled in the grass between two paved paths, a rat perhaps, or a garden snake.

Lanfareth scowled when she saw the six or seven sentries milling around a small guardhouse by the turret’s entrance. She could probably kill them easily, but what next? How could she break the gold-level wards?

For three nights, she had crouched here, and for three nights, she had not figured out what to do. And yet, she knew she would return here tomorrow night, and the nights after that. Tarroth had become her obsession. She sensed that the Darkside was coming by sea, and she feared that a Wrathlord would beat her to possessing the battleax and delivering it to Saitaan. After all she had gone through, she found the thought unbearable.

As she wondered what to do, the sense of danger blasted into her mind and made her twitch. Somebody was in the grove, shielded by powerful magic. She drew blood into her mind to let her see in the shadows, and she gasped at the sight of a man and a woman wearing silver chains and blue cloaks of the Circle. They were both on the wrong side of fifty, with lined faces and white hair that fell over their slumped shoulders. But their combined Might rippled around them in uncontainable currents.

Lanfareth raised her hand to blast them with a spell, but they battered down her Might and caused her hands to spasm. In a panic, Lanfareth thought of an excuse for being in the grove. She could say she could not sleep so she left the barracks to take a walk, or that—

Quick as a flash, the woman leaped forward and grabbed the collar of Lanfareth’s shift. Lanfareth gasped with horror as the woman ripped the shift open, revealing Lanfareth’s breasts… and the horned raven with a snake’s tail, the insignia of the Dark Overlord that had been branded there by Saitaan.

Lanfareth knew she was dead. She could never lie her way out of this. She would be tortured and murdered. She regretted ever leaving Gandre. She even regretted ever stepping into the Darkside.

The woman moved aside so the man could see the insignia. He stepped forward, and Lanfareth watched him in fear. She tried to repel him with a spell but her hands cramped so much she groaned in pain. All blood drained from her head. How come their Mights were so powerful? She felt helpless when they were battering down on her; they must have been experimenting with gold-level magic.

Without a word, the man began to undo the gilded buttons of his black doublet. Lanfareth wanted to scream in fear. Was he going to rape her?

The man opened his doublet—and Lanfareth’s heart pounded when she saw an insignia branded on his chest.

The same insignia as hers. The brand of the Dark Overlord.

The woman gave Lanfareth a kind smile. “You have nothing to fear from us… Sister.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN: THE ELVEN LADY

Most of the garrison of Gandre left for Dar Kahar as soon as the fleet of the Darkside had been descried. The whole of the Gandre navy pursued the fleet on ships and galleys. Other warriors rushed to Dar Kahar by land, including Derrik and his group, along with Al’Anark’s tribe.

Torsum used the ten-mile portal to get there, and he offered Derrik to go with him, but Derrik decided to travel on horseback with his friends. A week later, though, as they plodded over a potholed road through the forested highlands, only halfway between the two cities and sweating in unseasonable heat, Derrik almost wished that he had accepted Torsum’s offer. Almost.

He loved traveling with his friends, and he felt happy in their circle. Ever cheerful, they joked and laughed, although they still reeled from the battle of Gandre… and already fretted over the battle of Dar Kahar. Broose said that the monsters’ fleet traveled twice as fast as a cavalry, which meant that the monsters might have already reached Dar Kahar. Had Derrik taken the magic portal, he would now stand on the ramparts, exposed to Wrathlord fireballs and fighting off Daemorcs and Corpsentinels climbing the walls.

His belly still hurt from the Wrathlord’s stab, despite Al’Anark’s daily healing and the girls’ curative potions. Blizzard had recovered from the paralysis, but he was fretful and restless like a colt; mount and rider needed to take a short rest from battles. Derrik hoped that Dar Kahar, and especially the Magic Circle’s headquarters, would hold until they got there. Speaking to scattered groups of soldiers they had met along the way, he realized that everyone feared that it would not.

Stepping over yet another pothole, Blizzard flinched when a shadow glided over them. It was just Dhra’ack, though, his scales glowing in the mid-morning sun, a thunderous greeting coming from his large mouth. Blizzard snorted, tossed his head, and sidestepped. Derrik leaned over to pat his neck, murmuring in a soothing voice.

Derrik sensed that Dhra’ack had hunted down and devoured a roe deer. The dragon’s contentment swept through his mind, and Derrik wished his own belly was also full. Although the elves were excellent hunters, and Derrik, Broose, and Glen were not that useless either, oftentimes there was not enough game for everyone. Broose often said he was so hungry he could swallow nails, an old saying Derrik remembered from New Thorstorm.

Try to hunt one more deer and bring it to us, Dhra’ack, Derrik sent. Or a mountain goat or a mouflon. Whatever is bigger than a hare. Well, a big hare wouldn’t be bad, either.

The dragon’s agreement brushed against Derrik’s mind, and then Dhra’ack disappeared on the horizon. Derrik smiled when he imagined the excited expression on Broose’s face if a large, partly roasted animal suddenly dropped from the sky in front of him. He only hoped that Dhra’ack would not burn the forest while blasting the prey with a stream of fire. Or that the dragon would not torch a farm to bring a sheep or a calf.

Al’Anark trotted beside their horses, at the head of the elven tribe, and he lifted his head and sniffed. “I smell bonfires,” he said, rubbing the stump of his ear.

Derrik, Glen, and the siblings also sniffed but they shrugged and said they did not smell anything. Elven sense of smell was much keener than that of humans.

“I do feel there are many creatures ahead of us, though,” Eriana said, craning her neck as if to see down the road or over the spruce trees that lined it. “And I don’t think they are humans.”

Derrik cursed under his breath. Were they coming face-to-face with the Darkside already? Could they never have more than a week of respite? Their armor dangled from their saddlebags, and he wondered whether he should at least don the helmet and mail shirt. The girls did not have any armor though, although they were armed, so he decided to fight in his shirt and linen leggings, if it came to fighting. He summoned Dhra’ack so the dragon would not inadvertently overfly the monsters and get the membranes of his wings ripped by bolts, arrows, or fireballs.

Broose said. “I hope we won’t have to fight. I’m so hungry that I don’t even feel strong enough to unsheathe my sword.”

Glen chuckled and shook his head. “Then fight a Wrathlord with your fists, Brother.”

Al’Anark watched them with a slight amusement on his face, his good ear twitching.

Leya leaned to him from the saddle of her palfrey. “Do you know who they might be, chieftain?”

Al’Anark grinned and nodded. “I do, beautiful human girl. Those ‘creatures’, as Eriana says, are actually elves!” A few other tribes had fought at Gandre, and now they were probably heading for Dar Kahar.

Derrik sighed in relief. Everything is well, Dhra’ack, he sent. You can keep hunting without worry.

Eriana said, “Another elven tribe? How exciting!” With a long look at Al’Anark, she added, “I wonder what their chieftain is like.”

Derrik smirked. She was trying to make Al’Anark jealous, but the elf did not seem to mind at all. In fact, he suddenly chuckled. “I sense that you will be very surprised!”

Eriana made a face. Derrik wondered whether she was vexed that Al’Anark had divined more than she had, or that he had not gotten jealous. It was probably both.

A little later, they spotted numerous plumes of smoke coiling above the trees and toward the blue sky. As the group came closer, they saw elves camping on both sides of the road. When he stood in the stirrups, Derrik saw dozens or perhaps hundreds of elves among the trees. Most of them were sleeping on simple bedrolls but a few sat around bonfires, roasting game.

Broose nearly fell from his saddle as he craned his neck and sniffed the air. “I hope this tribe is generous with their food,” he said, licking his lips.

An elf with a bent back, leathery face, and gray hair that hung limply in thin, bristling tangles to his waist emerged from the woods and walked toward them. Derrik had never seen a gray-haired elf. He had to be as old as the highlands.

“You’re Chieftain Al’Gyran, aren’t you, pal?” Al’Anark asked as the elf approached and the riders pulled the reins. “We met at the battle for Boartusk Pass.”

“So what if we did?” the other elf snarled. His green eyes glared from under long, bushy, grayish eyebrows that nearly covered his upper lids.

He was not only the oldest elf Derrik had ever seen but also the most unpleasant. That must have been why Al’Anark had chuckled when Eriana had wondered about the tribe’s chieftain. Derrik wanted to ask Eriana what she thought of Al’Gyran. But he feared that the old elf would hear him and pour his crankiness at him. And that Eriana would box his ears.

“What do you want in here?” Al’Gyran growled.

Al’Anark did not seem taken aback by the rudeness. “This is the high road from Gandre to Dar Kahar, isn’t it pal?” he said good-naturedly. “And we happen to be going from Gandre to Dar Kahar, just as you are, I am sure.”

The old chieftain grunted, turned around, and walked back into the woods.

Glen turned to Eriana. “So how did you like your chieftain?” he asked in a teasing voice. “I think you two would make a great couple!”

She made a face and looked away. Glen laughed and shook his head.

Derrik said, “I suppose we should keep…” He trailed off when he noticed that Al’Anark’s tribe went to the woods to commingle with the other elves, the ones that were awake.

Al’Anark’s elves were essentially a military squad, with Al’Anark as its leader, but they hardly listened to him in a battle and did whatever they wanted otherwise. Al’Anark never seemed to mind, and Derrik thought it was wonderful. Except right now, for they had only resumed their journey about an hour ago after a long respite. The monsters could be already landing in Dar Kahar. This delay seemed unnecessary.

He wondered whether to suggest pressing forward and making the tribe catch up when an elven lady emerged from the woods. All his thoughts of riding on vanished.

Derrik liked black-haired, dark-eyed girls—human girls—like Eriana, but the sight of this gold-haired lady left him breathless. Although all elves had such gentle faces that he could only tell the genders apart by the swells of female breasts, this elf was distinctly feminine, with regal, strong yet gentle features. While most elves had bulbous noses and narrow eyes, her nose was delicate and her eyes large, almond-shaped, and ravishing. Even her long, pointed ears looked sensual. Her short tunic clung to all her curves. She wore no leggings.

The heat of the day seemed to increase as the elf approached them. “I’m Zórianderan’al, the tribe’s druidess,” she said, giving them a dazzling smile that showed a row of pearl-like teeth.

Derrik guessed that druidess was something like a witch, mage, soothsayer, or shamaness because he felt a very strong Might pouring out of her. She was fascinating, inside and out. But he knew he would have a hard time remembering her name. Let alone pronouncing it.

As if in answer to that thought, she turned to him and said in a sensual voice, “Those very close to me call me Zór’al.”

Derrik gazed into her eyes, which were the lightest green he had ever seen. They were so large, soft, and gleaming that they looked like two pools of wet moss. With a wink she added, “You can call me Zór’al.”

Derrik gulped and nodded. As he tried to catch his breath to introduce himself, Zór’al turned her head to Al’Anark. “You must excuse our chieftain,” she said. “He’s a bit grumpy today.”

“He’s been grumpy for at least twenty years,” Al’Anark said with a shrug. “That’s how long I’ve known him.”

She laughed and shrugged her delicate shoulders. Her ears twitched from a wild mass of golden hair.

Derrik realized that he was standing, but he did not remember dismounting. The other boys had also dismounted but the girls were still in the saddle. Glen stepped forth, puffing up and sticking out his chest like a pigeon trying to intimidate his rooftop rival. His shirt was unlaced as usual, and he probably hoped that the beautiful elf would admire the scar on his chest. He kept running his hand through his hair as if to make sure it was still spiked.

To Derrik’s surprise, Broose stopped sniffing the air and scrutinizing the bonfires to see what was roasting there. He stared at the elf like one hypnotized. It was the first time Derrik had seen him interested in a woman who was not a cook.

Zór’al must have noticed their fascination, and she gave them a seductive smile. Especially to Derrik. He thought he heard Eriana snort, but it might have been her palfrey.

“Why are most of the elves sleeping?” Al’Anark asked. He also looked at Zór’al with a spark in his eyes but did not seem as smitten as the boys. “I hope they aren’t ill?”

The lady shook her head, making her golden hair ripple. “We always travel at night and sleep during the day, so we aren’t bothered by humans,” she said, giving the boys a teasing grin.

“Well, we don’t want to bother you, so we should get going,” Eriana said, sounding vexed and impatient.

“What’s the rush?” Glen asked, jerking his head up to Eriana but quickly turning back to Zór’al. “Let’s sit down for a while.”

Eriana glared. “What’s the rush?” she asked. “What’s the rush, Glen? The Darkside could be already massacring everyone in the port of Dar Kahar!”

Zór’al smirked and gave Eriana a brief yet pointed glare. Then she turned back to the boys and Al’Anark. “A few moments would not hurt, would they? It’s impolite to pass by someone’s camp without stopping for a while. Don’t worry about our chieftain and follow me. Dai’lard karhed se tvo’ird karhed.”

She twisted around and walked to the woods. She never turned once, as if she knew that Al’Anark and the boys would follow her. And as if she did not care whether the girls did.

“What in the Wrathlands was the last thing she said?” Glen asked as they walked behind her, leading their horses. “It sounded like a magical formula.”

Al’Anark said, “Dai’lard karhed se tvo’ird karhed means ‘my fire is your fire’.”

Glen frowned “She’s offering us fire in this heat?”

The chieftain chuckled. “It’s an old elven saying, human pal,” he replied. “A way to say that someone is welcome.”

Glen grunted and nodded, but he looked as if he would have preferred Zór’al to offer him a kiss.

Broose stopped and turned around, and Derrik suddenly remembered the girls. Leya stood beside her palfrey, looking at Eriana as if she wondered whether her sister would also dismount. Eriana pursed her lips in annoyance. Her arms were crossed, which looked strange since she was atop a horse. When she finally dismounted and followed, she frowned like a thunder goddess.

Zór’al sat by a dead bonfire, motioning to them to join her. As they did, Derrik’s friends glanced around, Broose likely for something to eat, and Glen for a flask of brandy. But their eyes soon glided back to the elf. The girls came, and while Leya sat, Eriana remained on foot, her arms still crossed.

Derrik wondered why she was so vexed. He chuckled when he noticed that the old chieftain, Al’Gyran, stood in the middle of the camp, glaring at Al’Anark’s elves and crossing his arms, just like Eriana.

Zór’al said, “I suppose you are also heading for another battle, although you just survived one.”

“Barely survived,” Glen said, pulling back his shoulders to show off his scar. “But for every stitch on my chest, I’ve got a notch on my belt. Or perhaps two. It’s hard to keep count of the monsters I’ve killed.”

Zór’al gave him a brief look and made a face, and he beamed as if she had given him the sweetest smile. Broose chuckled and shook his head. His eyes started to glide around the encampment again. His hunger seemed to overcome his fascination with the beautiful elf.

Al’Anark said, “Let’s hope we get to Dar Kahar before the monsters break through.”

Zór’al nodded, looking only mildly interested. Her green eyes often shifted to Derrik, making him blush and wonder what it was all about.

Leya stared at the dead bonfire as if she wanted to count all the ashes. From time to time, she glanced up at her sister, who stood beside her with a frown. Two squirrels chased each other nearby, and dozens of birds sang in the trees. A few elves laughed around the neighboring bonfire. To Derrik’s embarrassment, he could not tell whether they were from Al’Anark’s tribe or not, for members of both tribes wore the same tunics and looked the same to him. An elf who slept near the loud group turned his back to them and started snoring.

Glen kept fidgeting and scratching his head as if it was full of fleas. Derrik knew that look; his friend was scrambling his brains for ways to impress Zór’al. “Did you know that we slew a Wrathlord back there?” Glen asked. “I’ll have to tell you all about it, my beauty.”

Derrik chuckled. We?

Zór’al narrowed her eyes. Then she nodded to Derrik and said, “I sense that it was only this handsome human who killed that Wrathlord.”

Derrik gawked. He had never considered himself good-looking. In fact, some children in New Thorstorm used to make fun, saying that he had a grin like a donkey, and although it had been years ago, the sting remained. The fact that Eriana, the only girl he had ever really liked, never showed any interest in him did not help. Hearing this ravishing elf saying that he was handsome nearly felled him. Something was telling him that she had told that to a lot of men, though.

Something cracked nearby, and he realized that Eriana had stomped her foot and broken a fallen twig.

“Well, technically it was him,” Glen said, “but I taught him a lot of sword forms. I’m very proud of him.” That was not true either, but Derrik decided to let it pass. Especially since Zór’al paid Glen no attention. Because all her attention was on Derrik.

“So you must be that Derrik Thon, the Wrathlord Slayer,” she said. “I’ve heard humans and elves alike speaking about you in Gandre.”

Her eyes bored into him, and he found himself gasping for breath as if he had just emerged from underwater. His cheeks burned and he feared they were terribly red. He hoped nobody could hear the thumping of his heart.

“He only killed that Wrathlord in his human form, and with the help of a dragon,” Eriana said. “And he nearly died while doing it.”

Derrik gave her a quizzing look. Although she had a slightly complicated character, it was not like her to belittle others, especially her friends. Besides, she had often told him that she admired his bravery, and she even seemed sincere.

Eriana caught his stare and looked embarrassed. But vexed.

Pondering over what could have gotten into her hair, he realized that she was jealous. That realization came as a shock to him, for she had always pined after Al’Anark. So why was she angry that an elven lady gave Derrik a smile?

His father always said that a woman’s mind was a maze. Eriana’s mind seemed to be an endless labyrinth where he would die of thirst before finding his way out.

“It was a heroic deed, nevertheless,” Zór’al said, her eyes still boring into Derrik’s.

Burning with embarrassment, Derrik waved his hand and said, “Meh,” as if it had been nothing. To his horror, he realized that he had sounded like a goat.

“I think we’ve rested enough,” Eriana said, sounding more vexed than before. “Let’s keep going!”

Zór’al gave her a long look and smirked. “You seem pretty nervous for such a young human, darling. But I sense you have the Might, so perhaps you are an old woman who keeps looking young through spells and potions?”

Eriana growled in her throat, twisted around, and stomped back toward the road, tugging angrily on her palfrey’s bridle.

Leya sighed and also stood. “I apologize for my sister, Zór’al,” she said, keeping her eyes down. “I guess your chieftain is not the only grumpy one today.”

“That was why Eriana was asking about him,” Glen said, chuckling. “Yes, they were definitely meant for each other!”

“Let her go,” Zór’al said with a short glare at Eriana’s back. Then her eyes glided over the men and her smile returned. “I haven’t even offered you any refreshments.”

Broose’s eyes shone with hunger for a moment, but then he shook his head and got to his feet. “It would be dishonorable to leave my sister go alone. I’m going, too.”

“In that case, all of us are.” Al’Anark also rose. “It was a pleasure, Zór’al. Maybe we will see you again in Dar Kahar.”

Everybody stood and said their farewells.

Zór’al looked annoyed as she said, “Goodbye, then.” With a dazzling smile, she turned to Derrik. “Farewell, Wrathlord Slayer.”

Derrik nodded and staggered to his horse. As they walked back to the road, he wondered whether they would see that beautiful elven lady again—and how Eriana would react if they did. He seemed to be caught between two women… neither of which had as much as kissed him.

Hilts and blades! I’ll never make sense of women, he thought. I guess that wise men give up even trying at an early age.

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT: THE INVASION

A week later, Derrik and his group finally arrived in Dar Kahar. While Eriana and Leya volunteered in a suburban hospital, Derrik and his friends had taken positions on the battlements that separated the port from the city.

The monsters had already taken the port.

Dozens of vessels bearing the insignia of Saitaan bobbed along the long wharves, among the splintered, charred remnants of the ships of the Lightside—and among bloated corpses of the garrison. Dark smoke brought on a premature dusk.

Derrik’s heart pounded as he watched six or seven Wrathlords standing on the roofs of fire-blackened custom buildings and warehouses, shooting fireballs at the defenders. A red sphere of screeching fire barreled straight at him. He ducked when the fireball slammed into a merlon beside him. A shower of debris thumped against his halfhelm, causing his ears to ring. A scorching heatwave made his face break out in sweat as if he had stuck his head into a blazing oven.

Derrik glanced at Broose and Glen. Their faces and surcoats were gray with stone dust, but he saw no blood or gashes. They had only just joined the battle, though.

Another fireball slammed into the merlon above, as if a Wrathlord was targeting them. Broose screamed in pain and panic. When Derrik twisted to him, he saw him holding the side of his neck, blood streaming through his fingers. A piece of broken masonry had cut him just above the collar of his mail shirt.

“Hold on!” Derrik exclaimed. “I’ll heal you.”

Derrik and Glen helped Broose sit, and Glen kneeled so Broose could lean his back against him. Broose’s chubby cheeks dimpled under the layer of dust as he gritted his teeth. Glen’s usual devil-may-care grin had turned into a mask of worry. Derrik grabbed Broose’s hand and forced it away from the wound. The sharp masonry did not seem to have slashed through any important artery.

“It won’t be so bad, Brother,” Derrik said. He hoped that even his limited Might would cauterize it.

Derrik pressed his hand against the wound and cleared his mind. He drew blood into his head, making it roar in his ears. The screeching and explosions of the fireballs, and the screaming of the injured, faded, as did the sense of danger and fear. When he felt that his fingers and toes were going cold, he knew it was time to cast a silver-level spell.

Derrik said, “Argonserum shegiriz,” or fire glow in the Ancient Tongue, while imagining waves of heat cauterizing the wound. His hand suddenly burned, but he kept drawing blood into his head and pouring tendrils of healing Might to the wound.

Broose winced in pain. A burning smell told Derrik that the small hairs on Broose’s neck burned, so he pulled the hand away. He gave a satisfied nod when he saw that a reddish scab had formed over the gash, making it look as if it had been made a week ago.

“That was awesome!” Glen shouted. He patted Derrik’s shoulder with his enormous blacksmith’s hand so vehemently he nearly hammered Derrik’s mail shirt into Derrik’s skin. “Not even an elf could cauterize the wound like you!”

“Your Might is growing day by day, Derrik,” Broose said, gingerly touching the scab. “Thank you, Brother.”

Derrik nodded and beamed, then he made himself focus on the battle. Fireballs still slammed into the battlements, making the flagstones shake under their feet. The pungent stench of burning flesh wafted over them.

Suddenly, the cool, late-summer air warmed, and giant shadows glided over the port. A flock of seven or eight dragons was charging at the Darkside. Their enormous wings seemed to embrace the sky, their spiked tails flicked left and right.

The warriors on the ramparts cheered when the dragons swooped on the Wrathlords, opening their massive mouths and pouring streams of roaring fire. Some Wrathlords directed their fireballs at the dragons, while others twisted away from them and shielded their faces to protect their eyes. The garrison could take a breather.

Derrik’s heart pounded with a blend of pride and worry when he saw Dhra’ack among the flock. His golden dragon was the youngest and smallest, but as fierce as the adults. Derrik could feel Dhra’ack’s battle fever making his own forehead break in a new wave of sweat. Sensing the dragon’s hatred for the Darkside, Derrik heard himself growling in his throat.

Dhra’ack swooped down on a Wrathlord and belched fire, but the monster waved his hand, and the stream of flames turned into black smoke. Dhra’ack shrieked in pain, and the shriek bored into Derrik’s ears even though it came from a mile away. Pain spread through Derrik’s body; the Wrathlord must have hurt his dragon with evil magic.

Seething with anger, Derrik loaded a crossbow and leveled it at the Wrathlord.

“How do you want to hit anything from that far, you madman?” Broose asked. “It’s a physical impossibility. The bolt won’t reach even halfway there.” But Derrik ignored him.

Drawing blood into his head, he loosed the bolt and guided and propelled it with his Might. He aimed at the Wrathlord’s eye, focusing all his powers on it. It was a powerful spell which he had learned from Al’Anark during their journey to Dar Kahar.

The monster must have sensed it, though. He waved his hand, and the bolt glided astray and landed on the roof beside him.

“Let me try something, human pal.”

Derrik turned to the nasal yet pleasant voice and saw Al’Anark. The elven chieftain raised his hand and narrowed his eyes. His face was composed even in the heat of the battle, but his good ear twitched. A fireball blasted from his hand and screeched toward the Wrathlord. The monster intercepted and deflected it. But it was too late. Although it swerved away from the monster’s face, the fireball slammed into his horn, making him stagger and fall.

Everybody on the ramparts began to cheer.

“Great show, elven brother,” Glen yelled, hammering the elf’s back.

As the Wrathlord tried to stand, two Corpsentinels rushed onto the roof to protect their master. Al’Anark raised his hand to shoot another fireball, and Dhra’ack swooped at the Wrathlord, poising himself to hit him with his spiked tail.

Derrik craned his neck to see better—and suddenly he saw nothing. Dark fog swallowed everything around him, making him peer into blackness. Panicked shouts came from the ramparts. Angry voices rolled through the darkness, cursing Saitaan, or whichever Wrathlord had summoned the fog. Fireballs began to slam into the fortification anew.

Dhra’ack, come back! Derrik sent, his heart pounding with fear for his dragon. He sensed that Dhra’ack was still gliding above the port, and that not even his keen eyes could penetrate the unclean fog effectively. Come back!

He relaxed only slightly when he sensed that the dragon had listened and wheeled around.

“Ravens!” Al’Anark suddenly shouted. “Cover your eyes!”

A moment later, Derrik’s Might told him that those filthy birds, servants to the Darkside, were coming in a giant flock. Ominous cawing confirmed that premonition.

The flock resembled a rolling black cloud. The ravens began to swoop down on the garrison. Derrik grunted as a sharp beak tore his ear. He could not tell how many birds circled his head, but it had to be at least three, pecking him, beating him with their wings, and trying to get at his eyes. Their angered cawing nearly deafened him. So did the clanging of their beaks against his helm. He lowered his head and covered his face with both hands, wishing he had a full helmet with a visor.

Another fireball rattled the battlements just a few yards away from him. Then another. And another. The Wrathlords used the darkness and mayhem to step up their attack. Where was his dragon?

“Dhra’ack!” Derrik yelled, his voice high-pitched with fear and panic.

He swayed with relief when he heard the dragon’s shriek above the ramparts. Then one of the birds ripped his finger, making him grunt with pain.

No more fireballs came, but the ravens kept swooping down and attacking. They pecked his helm, making him feel as if he were in a hailstorm. Luckily, many silver-level mages were on the ramparts, and Derrik sensed their Might repelling the birds. The cawing suddenly filled with agony, and fast-paced thudding told Derrik that the birds were falling dead to the ground. Suddenly, there was nothing but silence.

The dark fog still wallowed around, and tension and nervousness pulsed among the garrison. Derrik straightened his helmet and ran his trembling hand over his mail shirt, as if to make sure it was still on his body.

“I wonder what’s coming now, pals,” Al’Anark’s voice came from the dark.

Glen said. “Whatever it is, I wish I had my flask with me so I could get better prepared. Oh, and a nice girl by my side to give me courage.”

“And I wish I had something to eat,” Broose said. “Warfare is twice as miserable on an empty stomach.”

“When you get your belly pierced with a Corpsentinel’s sword, you’ll be glad it’s empty, Brother,” Derrik said.

They all had spoken in a light tone, but their voices trembled. Facing the Darkside was bad even in broad daylight. Doing so in a sudden night was one of the most frightening things Derrik had ever done. And he had faced quite a few dangers since he had left New Thorstorm. He thought of enhancing his night vision with a spell, but it would sap too much of his energy. And the battle for Dar Kahar was far from over.

Broose said, “The monsters can see in the dark but we can’t, so we—”

A tremor rattled the ramparts and sent Derrik to his knees. Surprised grunts told him that his friends had also fallen. The flagstones seemed to be disintegrating underneath Derrik’s weight as if they were turning into sand.

“This could only mean that Saitaan himself is near,” Broose said as they stood.

Luckily, the silver-level mages had joined their Mights to conquer the darkness, and the dark fog started to thin. But the sense of panic would not fade. The fog was still thick enough to prevent them from seeing what the Darkside was up to.

The flagstones kept disintegrating, and Derrik’s riding boots had sunk over an inch in the softening stone. Broose, who was heavier than the others, sank to his ankles.

“See brother?” Glen told him. “If you had your belly full, you would have already disappeared into the wall.”

Broose inhaled to retort when a horn sounded the alarm. “This whole wall is going to crumble!” somebody shouted in panic.

Some of the garrison rushed to the gatehouse to use the interior stairway to descend to the Port Gate. Their feet crushed the dead ravens and sank deep into the melting stone. To Derrik, leaving the wallwalk seemed as dangerous as staying. The stairway could collapse at any moment.

Al’Anark must have thought the same, for he rubbed the stump of his ear and said, “I wonder whether to stay or go downstairs.”

Everyone turned to the genius of the group. But Broose only shook his head. “I’m sorry my friends, but no amount of acumen could ever help me decide between two insanities.”

Al’Anark’s green eyes narrowed in concentration, and his gentle face furrowed. “The monsters have breached the city walls,” he said gloomily. “About a mile from here.”

Derrik had not felt anything beyond a heightened sense of danger, but his Might did not reach as far as the elf’s. He gulped, dread tracing an icy finger along his spine. So the monsters were inside Dar Kahar, a step closer to Tarroth. When he looked over the crenel down at the vast port, he saw hundreds of Daemorcs and Corpsentinels in the dissipating fog. The monsters poured from their hideouts in the warehouses and customs buildings like puss from ruptured boils, rushing toward the breached wall. The Wrathlords were leaving the roofs to join them.

Derrik found himself looking for Lanfareth. Although she was a human, he found her more frightening than a horde of monsters. Fortunately, she was nowhere in sight. He sensed she was not even in the port.

A woman hurried along the wallwalk, her boots sinking into the softening flagstones as if she had run through mud. She wore a mail shirt and a red and black surcoat embroidered with the ahritaal. Purple ribbons fluttering from her shoulder marked her as the captain of the Circle’s guard.

“Everybody, leave the ramparts!” she shouted in a rough, commanding voice. “Retreat to the Magic Circle’s palace and defend it! For Tarroth!”

Several other soldiers roared, “For Tarroth!” and rushed to the staircase.

“That’s decided then, human pals,” Al’Anark said. “Let’s go.”

As they dashed to the stairway, Derrik realized that the flagstones had solidified. They were full of footprints but as hard as before. He guessed that, since Saitaan had breached the city wall, he would now focus his evil magic on the walls of the Magic Circle.

A few torches blazed on the narrow winding stairway inside the wall. They were so far apart that Derrik kept stumbling as he climbed down. The cold walls echoed with grunts and curses. As they passed through the gatehouse and rushed outside, the breeze brought the hissing and clicking of Corpsentinels and the roaring of Daemorcs. Derrik instinctively grasped the hilt of Wrathbane.

Al’Anark and the elves ran toward the Circle’s palace on foot. The boys rushed to get their warhorses tied to iron rings along the port wall. Derrik’s Might soon helped him find Blizzard and the other horses among hundreds of other mounts. Dhra’ack and the other dragons were flying toward the Magic Circle’s palace. They were already so far that they resembled small bats in the overcast sky. Derrik hoped that the young dragon would not come to harm.

Glen mounted his warhorse and joined the other warriors in their rush to defend Tarroth. Broose was also in the saddle, but Derrik sensed that he hesitated.

“What’s wrong, Broose?” Derrik asked as he grasped Blizzard’s rein. “Let’s go!”

Broose wore a troubled look on his pale round face. “I have to go to the hospital,” he said. “I have to protect Leya and Eriana.”

“They will be fine!” Derrik said. He also feared for the girls, but he feared even more for humanity. “The monsters have no intention of destroying a hospital. They are after Tarroth, and we have to prevent them from taking it. If we don’t, the whole Lightside will be destroyed, your sisters included.”

Broose sighed and nodded. “You’re right, Brother. I’m sorry you had to talk sense into me.” A slight grin played on his face as he added, “It’s usually the other way around.”

Derrik chuckled and heeled Blizzard. They trotted alongside hundreds of soldiers up a wide throughway lined by small, rundown houses that probably belonged to stevedores, seamen, and fishermen. Wide nets hung over fences to dry, reeking of fish and green with seaweed. Most houses had their windows boarded up in expectation of the invasion from the Darkside. The narrow side streets were barricaded by debris, furniture, and pieces of flotsam. No civilians were in sight.

As Derrik and Broose trotted along, trying to catch up with Glen who had disappeared in the armored crowd, a roar alerted them of Daemorcs. The monsters barreled from a side street, leaping off the barricades and charging, tons of muscles rippling on colossal bodies.

A giant with a terrible scar on its wide chest leaped in front of Blizzard. It looked dull and stupid with a flat nose and a receding chin, but its eyes shone with cruelty and bloodlust. A vicious grin played on its face as it swung a large mace. Blizzard reared and kicked at the Daemorc, but the monster ducked under the large hoof, leaped forth, and jerked its head sideways to gore the horse.

A hideous tearing sound told Derrik that the monster’s horn had ripped Blizzard’s belly. The warhorse screamed in agony and buckled, crashing down on the Daemorc.

Derrik yanked his feet from the stirrups just as the horse fell on top of the monster. He stumbled and fell but leaped to his feet the next moment. Lying on its back, the Daemorc roared in rage as it tried to push the dying horse off to get up.

Drawing Wrathbane, Derrik leaped to the Daemorc and brought the black blade on its neck in a downward arc. The steel went halfway through the neck and cracked the spine. Derrik wrenched the blade free and twisted around.

Broose was still in the saddle, but a Daemorc held his horse’s neck in a death grip, its enormous teeth clamped on the horse’s jaw. The horse tossed his head, his legs trembling. Blood gushed from the Daemorc’s mouth. Broose could not reach the Daemorc’s skin and flesh, so he hacked at its horn as if he hoped that the monster would lift its head so he could stab it in the eye. But the monster kept biting down on the horse’s jaw, as though it had gotten drunk on blood.

Derrik sneaked up on the monster and slammed Wrathbane into its hamstrings. He had learned it was the best way to bring down a Daemorc while fighting on foot. Black blood flowed over an enormous, hairless calf; a muffled scream came from the Daemorc’s mouth as it still bit down on the horse’s flesh.

The Daemorc twitched, and its knees buckled. As it fell, it brought the horse down. Broose fell off and started scrambling to his feet. Derrik swept Wrathbane sideways and brought it on the back of the Daemorc’s neck. The spine snapped with an audible crack. The monster collapsed.

“Thank you, Brother,” Broose said as he stood beside him. He breathed heavily, and his voice shook as he glanced at the dead giant. “You’ve saved me twice in an hour.”

Derrik waved his hand. “You’ve pulled me from a few nasty cesspools as well, my friend.”

Broose nodded and patted Derrik’s back.

Derrik winced as he looked at Blizzard, which had already bled to death, his eyes staring into oblivion, a giant pool of blood around his neck. It was tragic to see the death of such a beautiful, powerful beast. The fact that the horse had been with him since the battles in Cahes made it even worse. He recalled shedding tears over his dead stallion, Blackwind. His eyes were dry now, and he wondered whether the war had made him lose some of his humaneness.

Broose’s mount was still alive, but the Daemorc had broken his jaw and torn off a chunk of his cheek. The horse’s neck bulged strangely as if it was broken. His eyes brimmed with terror and pain. A shock sent tremors and spasms through his muscular frame.

“I can’t let him agonize like this,” Broose said. Cringing with regret and repulsion, Broose brought his sword down on the horse’s throat. Fresh blood spilled over the cobblestones, and the horse stopped moving.

Broose sniffed and blinked. “Well, that’s done.” With a sigh, he added, “I guess we’ll have to cover the rest of the way on foot. That’s a crappy thing to do on an empty stomach.”

“I think we’ll manage,” Derrik said. “Let’s hurry!”

He trotted down the street, trying to ignore Broose’s grunts of protest. They only took a few dozen steps when Derrik’s Might alerted him of another danger. They were just passing a large house with a crumbling portico overgrown by creepers. Instincts made him grab Broose under the arm and swing him toward the house.

“What’s happening?” Broose asked.

Derrik ignored him and dragged him up the steps. The front door was locked, but he put his hand on the lock and opened it with magic, the whole time wondering why he was doing that. Then the earth began to shake.

Derrik and Broose screamed when a giant wave burst toward them from the port, a roaring wall of spuming, brownish seawater that swept and swallowed everybody and everything that stood in its way. The wave must have toppled the fortification, and he could see enormous stones rolling in the crest. If the wave did not drown them, they could be crushed by one of the stones it brought.

“Let’s rush upstairs!” Broose yelled.

They shoved the door open and dashed inside. A few soldiers rushed in behind them. Derrik stumbled as the darkness of the hallway swallowed them, but his Might led him to the stairway.

“Follow me!” he called to Broose and the others, stomping his feet so they knew where he was going.

He fell over the first step. The roaring of water came from outside, so he rushed up the stairs on all fours. The roar grew deafening. The water rushed up the stairs, peppering his back with a salty spray. The whole building trembled.

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE: AT THE CIRCLE’S PALACE

The tidal wave seemed to be rolling through the street forever. It rattled the building so much that Derrik feared the roof would fall on their heads or that the walls would burst and bury them. The roaring made him feel as if he were standing beside a monstrous waterfall. The water had flooded the stairs, sloshing and swirling madly only a few feet beneath them.

Desperate screams came from outside as people were being swept to their deaths. Derrik’s heart bled for those poor souls, and for the helpless, agonizing terror they had to feel. But he could not help them.

The roar ended, replaced by an ominous silence. A woman shouted something unintelligible behind a closed door on the top of the stairway. The soldiers who had taken refuge along with Derrik and Broose talked in rattled voices. Then the roar began anew.

“The sea is receding,” Broose said in the gloom of the stairway, his voice shaking. “And it will drag everyone on the streets into its depths.”

Derrik shuddered, wondering whether it was the monsters or the mages who had unleashed such a catastrophe.

Broose said, “The hospital is on a hill so I don’t need to worry about my sisters. But I hope that Glen and Al’Anark had gone so far ahead that the wave didn’t sweep them away.”

“Let’s hope so,” Derrik said, feeling dread creeping over his soul.

The roar ended, and they dared descend. The stairs were slippery with drenched algae. Sand crunched under their feet as if they were walking on a seashore. The sea had receded, but water still swirled in the street, reaching their calves.

Seaweed, trash, and debris floated in the spuming seawater. And bodies. Many bodies. Corpsentinels and Daemorcs, but also humans, soldiers and civilians. Hundreds of rats tried to swim to a wall or tree to climb, squealing in distress. Many had already drowned and floated on their sides.

Whenever he passed a corpse in a mail shirt, Derrik’s heart skipped a beat in fear that it was Glen. Fortunately, it never was. The street sloped upward, and only puddles covered it, white with salt and green with seaweed. Dar Kahar was an enormous city, and the Magic Circle palace was several miles from the port, occupying a sprawling hill that overlooked the sea. They would have to trot for quite a while before they reached it.

A few hours ago, upon their arrival in the city, they had ridden straight from the main gate to the port. A soldier had pointed out the Magic Circle’s palace to them along the way, and Derrik hoped his Might would lead him there in case his memory failed.

“You know, you saved my skin for the third time today when the big wave came,” Broose said. He was out of breath and struggling to speak. “If it wasn’t for you, I’d be floating around like one of those rats. I’m starting to think I owe you something.”

Before Derrik could reply, two Corpsentinels leaped at them from behind an upturned cart. Their cruel, thin, faces scowled under wide antlers. They seemed to glare through the slanted gashes they had instead of eyes. They brandished wide swords. One hefted a black, iron shield.

Broose drew his sword just as the monster with the shield attacked him. Derrik yanked Wrathbane from its scabbard and poised himself against the other one. The Corpsentinel recoiled at the sight of the black blade. Derrik guessed it had recognized it as a dangerous, magical weapon.

Despite its apprehension, the monster lurched at Derrik, making him swing Wrathbane to deflect a jab aimed at his neck. Taking advantage of the momentum, Derrik twisted around and swept his sword, but the monster swatted it away. From the corner of his eye, Derrik saw Broose and his enemy circling each other, brandishing their steel.

Derrik lurched at his opponent with Spark shooting from a bonfire, and immediately followed with Bark floating in a white river. He whirled like a twister, jabbing, sweeping, and thrusting to get past the monster’s guard. The Corpsentinel hissed angrily as he deflected the blows, but it stood its ground. Then it counterattacked with something that resembled Trout thrashing among rocks, but much more forceful.

Derrik grunted as he ducked and pivoted to parry. The Corpsentinel was stronger than those he had clashed with before, and Derrik’s wrist began to hurt. He felt tempted to grab Wrathbane with his other hand but that would make him slower. And this monster was fast, too fast. He heard Broose’s victorious shout but he could not even glance sideways to see whether his friend had injured or killed his opponent.

I have to end this fast, he thought.

Derrik feigned a jab at the monster’s face. As the Corpsentinel raised its hand to deflect it, he twisted the sword downward and slammed it into the monster’s side. He had learned to strike at the places where the Corpsentinels were unprotected. Most of the monsters were of the same stature, so it was easy, but this one was shorter, and Wrathbane rang against the breastplate. While sharp and Mighty enough to tear through mail, the blade only dented the plate of black steel.

The monster twisted and slammed its blade into Derrik’s head. The halfhelm absorbed the brunt of the blow, but Derrik’s ears suddenly rang, and fiery flashes seared through his vision. The Corpsentinel lurched at him, and Derrik staggered back. Although he wielded Wrathbane, he knew that, with his head spinning, he was as good as dead. In fact, it surprised him he had not dropped the weapon. He desperately tried to summon his Might to paralyze the monster’s sword hand, but he failed.

Just as the Corpsentinel raised its sword, something crashed into its antlered head. The Corpsentinel staggered, the sword falling from its hand and clanging against the wet pavement.

It took Derrik a moment to realize that Broose had hit the fiend with the other Corpsentinel’s shield. Fighting the dizzy spell, Derrik leaped forth, kicked the feet from underneath the monster, and slashed with Wrathbane. The monster collapsed. Although he had swung his sword blindly, Derrik saw that Wrathbane had crashed through the monster’s forehead and broke its skull.

The other monster was lying in a pool of blood, and Broose was rushing to Derrik. “Are you all right, Brother?” Broose asked.

Derrik nodded. He thought he would vomit, but he gasped for the cool air, and his stomach settled. The world slowly stopped spinning.

“You just need to save me twice more, and we’ll be even,” Derrik said, trying to grin despite his shock and creeping headache.

Broose chuckled and patted his back, nearly sending him to his jelly knees. “I suppose that in these times and in this city, we will have enough opportunities to save each other’s arse.”

They hurried on, and Derrik’s head throbbed with each step he took. He breathed hard through his mouth, hoping the headache would soon go away. The houses got larger and better kept, and many had gardens surrounded by gilded fences or high, manicured hedges. On a crossroads, dozens of city guards in conical steelcaps rushed up a steep throughway, under the yellow banner of Dar Kahar.

“They must be going to the Circle’s palace,” Broose said. “Let’s join them.”

Trotting alongside the guards, Derrik soon heard the clashing of steel. A little later, they saw that the street was blocked by fighters. Humans and elves grunted, Daemorcs roared, and Corpsentinels hissed and clicked in the heat of the battle. Warriors attacked, ducked, pivoted, bled, and fell. The monsters probably strived to carve their way to the Circle’s palace. And the Lightside had attacked their rear and flanks.

Derrik and Broose stopped several yards behind the fighters, breathing hard.

“Torsum is probably expecting me to help protect Tarroth,” Derrik said. He frowned at the masses blocking the throughway. “How can I do that if I can’t get into the palace, though?”

Glen would have surely poked fun at Derrik for giving himself airs, but Broose looked pensive. “Why don’t you summon Dhra’ack to take you there?”

Derrik shook his head. “He is big enough to carry me now, but his scales would burn my ass to charcoal. Dragonlords and Circle’s Riders use special saddles to protect themselves from the heat.”

“Doesn’t Dhra’ack have spikes on his tail?” Broose said, knuckling his beard. “You could hold onto the last one without getting burned.”

Derrik suddenly felt excited. “That could work!” he exclaimed. “You are a genius, Broose!”

Broose grinned. “I know.”

Derrik focused on Dhra’ack, sending forth tendrils of his Might to probe the dragon’s mind. A vision swept behind his eyes. It was just a moment, but he had seen mages standing on the fortification of the Magic Circle’s palace, blasting monsters below with spells. He supposed that he had seen the scene through Dhra’ack’s yellow eyes.

Come for me Dhra’ack, he sent. I need you to take me to the palace.

The sense of acknowledgment tugged on his mind, and Derrik severed the connection. He knew that the magical creature would soon find him.

“Dhra’ack is coming,” he told Broose. “Will you go with me?”

Broose shook his head. “Hanging from a dragon’s tail isn’t my thing, my friend. I believe I’ll be as useful here as beyond the walls of the palace. I’ll stay and help the soldiers attack the monsters’ rear.”

Derrik nodded. “I hope to see you after the battle, Brother.”

“So do I,” Broose said. “So do I. And I hope we will see Glen and the others, too!”

A large group of soldiers pushed past them. Several gave the boys dirty looks as if they thought that Derrik and Broose hesitated to join the battle. A moment later, Dhra’ack appeared in the sky and glided above them, wings spread wide. His wingspan made him look giant, although he was only a sapling.

Lower your tail, Dhra’ack, Derrik sent. I’ll hang from the last spike.

Dhra’ack grunted in agreement, making it sound as if a storm was coming. He hovered and let his tail dangle above them.

“I’ll see you soon, Broose,” Derrik said, praying that it was true. Then he turned to the dragon, leaped up, and grabbed onto the spike.

His stomach seemed to jump into his throat as Dhra’ack flapped his wings and soared. Derrik grunted in alarm as the tail swung and everything blurred. The spike was not hot, just as he had hoped, but his forearms often grazed the scales on the tip of the dragon’s tail, making him wince in pain. He knew that before they landed, he would be full of blisters. The dragon’s heat washed over him and made his face break into a sweat that dripped from his nose and floated on the wind. He feared that his sweaty hands would slide and that he would plummet.

They flew some thirty feet above the ground, passing rows upon rows of fighters. The monsters’ horns and antlers made him feel as if they were overflying a dead forest. Other dragons kept swooping down on the warriors of the Darkside, roaring fire and flicking their spiked tails. Derrik wished he had a saddle and could join the Circle’s Riders and the Dragonlords in the battle. He sensed a similar longing emitting from his dragon.

A gust of wind made Dhra’ack sway. Derrik groaned when his forearms scraped against the dragon’s scales. Sweat gushed down his face into his fair beard. He held on so desperately that his hands began to cramp. Then they reached the palace, and he saw something that made him forget about the heat and pain.

Dozens of mages stood on the ramparts, just like in his vision. Having taken off their silver chains, each held their own chain in one hand, and the chain of the person beside them in the other. Derrik guessed they were getting ready to blast the monsters with another spell. Dhra’ack instinctively soared, but he circled above as if curious to see.

The monsters swarmed the outer walls in deep ranks. Daemorcs were trying to scale the fortification while Corpsentinels hacked at the ironbound gates with their steel. Those in the back pushed to get closer.

Hundreds of tendrils of the Might blasted from the wall and roared forth, twisting and twining and making the earth shimmer. The Daemorcs fell off the wall like giant boulders, crushing those underneath them and getting impaled on horns and antlers. The Corpsentinels that hammered at the gates suddenly dropped and twisted in death throes. Unclean, black blood flowed from their mouths and noses.

Derrik found himself roaring in glee. He had not seen that spell before.

A new wave of monsters rushed forth, trampling the dead to get at the gates and the walls. Derrik wished he could join the mages on the ramparts, but he had no chain, and his Might was still too weak to be of any use. He would be much more useful beyond the walls, fighting the monsters by steel in case they got inside the palace’s enclosure.

Take me inside and let me down, Dhra’ack. I can’t hold on much longer.

The dragon overflew the wall and hovered above the first courtyard, which teemed with mages and warriors. The Circle’s guards were taking positions. Pikemen stood in a few rows just behind the gate to repel the initial attack. Behind them stood rows of swordsmen, their blades drawn. Archers and crossbowmen stood in the gallery of the nearest building. A large squad of elves was poised in the rear, and Derrik sensed Al’Anark among them. Dozens of Tik’Ereeny, or Sandpeople, stood on both flanks, warriors from the Kalhan Desert in long tunics and checkered kerchiefs that covered their heads and faces, revealing only their black eyes. A faint braying told him they had left their camels somewhere beyond the palace.

A look over the nearest roof revealed four marble wings of the main palace building. They embraced a sprawling courtyard with a towering, fluted turret made of large slabs of age-darkened stone. Torsum had said that the Archmages lived in plush quarters on the turret’s top floor. Tarroth was hidden underneath the turret, protected by gold-level wards.

Dhra’ack hovered in the back of the first courtyard, lowering his tail. Derrik let go of the spike and dropped. He landed on his feet but staggered and fell hard on his butt. A beautiful female elf suddenly appeared above him and stretched out her hand to help him rise. Derrik gasped when he recognized Zór’al.

“I sensed you were coming, but I’d never imagine such a spectacular entrance,” she said teasingly as she pulled him up. “Aren’t you a little clumsy for a Wrathlord Slayer?”

Derrik mumbled, “Yes. I mean, no. I mean… thank you,” immediately berating himself for being an idiot. He felt that his cheeks began to glow with embarrassment. His forearms were scraped and blistered, and he was so sweaty that it looked as if he had been outside in a downpour. Not the best moment to meet that beautiful lady again.

“Well, good luck today, Derrik Thon,” she said, turning around.

Staring at her golden hair swaying in thick ropes to her slim waist, Derrik twitched when his dragon shrieked above him. Be safe, Dhra’ack, Derrik sent as he watched him leave the enclosure to roast the monsters with dragonfire.

Zór’al had disappeared in a throng of her comrades. He craned his neck and scanned the rows of elves to take one more look at her. They were more than a head shorter than he, and they resembled a golden sea of tangled hair and long, twitching ears. He could not see her, but Al’Anark must have seen him, for he was making his way to him. He had a gash along his jawline. His tunic was bleached with salt.

“I’m so glad to see you, human pal,” Al’Anark said, giving him a brief hug. “I was afraid that the big wave swept you away.”

The elf was genuinely happy, and Derrik felt ashamed for ever harboring bad feelings for him out of jealousy. Sometimes he thought that life would be easier without girls. Sadder, but easier.

“Good to see you too, Al’Anark,” he said. “How did you get out of the wave?”

The chieftain grinned. “I just climbed a tree and hung on. But, where did you leave Broose and Glen?”

Derrik frowned. “Broose hid with me inside a house and now he’s outside the walls, harassing the monsters from the back. But Glen rode ahead of us, and I haven’t seen him since we left the port.”

Al’Anark winced and cursed under his breath. His gentle, green eyes narrowed in concentration. “I can’t sense him anywhere,” he said. “When I focus on him, my mind hits a black wall.”

Derrik experienced the same failure. He prayed that it did not mean that his blood brother was dead.

CHAPTER FORTY: THE BATTLE FOR TARROTH

Fireballs started to whizz over the palace wall. They slammed into the ranks of Circle’s guards, and into the squads of elves and Tik’Ereeny, making them scatter. Unclean flames blazed on the flagstones. Plumes of reeking, black smoke rose toward the gloomy sky.

Heading for the interior stairway to the ramparts, Torsum cursed under his breath. A Wrathlord had to be just behind the walls, if not two of them. And Saitaan might not be late to join them. If Torsum wore the golden chain, he could levitate above the walls and blast those rotters with gold-level spells. However, since some of his brothers of the Circle did not believe he was entitled to it, he had left the chain hidden in the palace’s guest-wing.

As he plunged into the shadows of the interior stairway, Torsum wondered whether Lanfareth had joined the forces of the Darkside behind the Circle’s walls. Pouring his Might toward her, a suspicion scratched at the back of his mind, soon blowing into a near-certainty. He sensed that Lanfareth had managed to get inside the Circle’s palace enclosure. Not only that. She had managed to get into the turret. He did not know when it had happened, or how, but suddenly he was sure she had done it.

He twisted around and rushed toward the turret, his heart pounding. The revelation made him want to scream with fright. In Lanfareth’s hands, Tarroth would be as dangerous as in the hands of a Wrathlord. Besides, she longed to climb the Darkside’s hierarchy. What if she decided to hand the battleax to Saitaan in the hope of advancement?

Torsum dashed into the southern wing of the Circle’s palace and rushed through a labyrinth of walls of veined white marble toward the exit. He barreled from the wing and ran across the main courtyard. The turret reared in front of him, fluted and darkened with age, towering above the palace.

Ten Battle Wizards guarded the turret. Torsum cursed under his breath when he saw Helber Aretisim along with them. She was an old, short woman with tiny yet piercing dark eyes and white hair in a long braid. The longest-serving silver-level mage in Dar Kahar, she had hoped to become the Archmage. She had become Torsum’s fiercest opponent.

“You have no business here,” Helber snapped, revealing the six or seven yellow, crooked teeth she had left. “Go and help protect the walls. Or return to Araton.” She spat the last word as if it burned her tongue. Although the mages of the Circle were supposed to be above regional disputes, many pandered hatred and nationalism, especially if it suited their needs.

For a moment, Torsum wished he had the golden chain with him so he could stick it under her nose and say that he had every business to be there. But that was not the point now, so he decided to ignore her.

He turned to the captain of the guard, a man in his forties with a long, graying beard twisted in three braids. “I sense that a powerful traitor called Lanfareth has got into the turret,” Torsum said. “We must go and see what happened to Tarroth.”

Helber stepped between the two men. “So you have stolen Agrader’s golden chain and now you want to steal Tarroth?” she snapped, glaring at Torsum as if she wanted to leap up and pull his beard.

“I have stolen nothing, and I just want to protect the Lightside from doom!” Torsum roared. His outburst surprised even himself, but he had no time or patience for pleading or negotiating with that spiteful old woman today. Could they not hear the muted explosions of fireballs coming from the gates? He knew that Derrik was there, and his guts turned liquid with fear for that lad.

Helber surely had enough Might to probe his mind and learn that Agrader had truly given him the golden chain. But she decided not to believe him.

Helber parted her lips to snap, but the captain raised his gauntleted hand to stop her. She gave him an icy look, and Torsum sensed a rivalry raging between them. He wondered how he could use it to his advantage.

“I’ve heard of Lanfareth, of course,” the captain said with a scowl. “What makes you think she has sneaked past my guard? What proof have you got?” Although he sounded distrustful and a little hostile, he seemed a reasonable person to deal with. More than Helber was in any case. But then, even a Daemorc would seem reasonable compared to that blasted woman.

“I’ve got no proof,” Torsum said. “However, as the High Mage of Araton, I believe I can be trusted to have some Might and the gift of precognition.”

Helber smirked and opened her mouth to speak, but the captain beat her to it. “And as the head of the guard of the Circle’s headquarters, I can be trusted to be putting my best men and women on duty to guard this turret,” he said.

Torsum sighed. “Nobody is questioning your abilities. But we are not dealing with a normal intruder. I believe that Lanfareth is directly linked to the Dark Over—”

The earth shook under their feet, and a clap of thunder rattled Torsum’s bones. Screams and roaring seemed to be coming from the Circle’s fortification. Torsum sensed that the main gate was about to give in. He shuddered when he imagined what would happen if Saitaan’s troops got inside.

The thought of the Dark Overlord brought yet another premonition. Saitaan was about to blast the turret.

“We have to get out of here,” he said, his voice trembling. “The turret is about to explode!”

The captain smirked. “You disappoint me, High Mage. Although you’re an outlander, I would deem such tricks beneath you.”

“What do you think you are going to achieve by this?” Helber snapped. She also had a strong Might but her stubbornness and hostility made her deaf and blind.

“Don’t be stupid,” Torsum snapped. “What do you think I would do? Lure you away and rush inside? Tie me up if you want, but come with me.”

The sense of imminent danger made Torsum step backward. A vision of the explosion, of chunks of stone flying yards away from a mayhem of raging flames made him twitch. The captain and the guards exchanged nervous, distrustful looks. Helber crossed her arms and glared at Torsum.

The High Mage took a few more steps backward. “Get away from the turret! I’m telling you it’s going to explode!”

“We’re not falling for that!” the captain retorted.

“Please, believe me!” Torsum called, still receding. He sent Helber an image of the explosion, just like he had seen it in his vision.

“Hilts and blades!” she screamed. “That bastard is right!”

At last! Torsum thought. He pivoted and started to run. He sensed that others were running after him. Then came a terrible explosion.

A wave of driving heat blasted into his back and hurled him forward, making him stumble and fall. He rolled on the hard flagstones, covering his head. A shower of debris fell upon him like hailstones. Stone dust wafted into his mouth and nostrils and made him cough and retch. The heatwave rolled over him and made him feel as if a dragon had glided by.

When the wave passed and he raised his head to look at the turret, he screamed in frustration. The turret had been reduced to a colossal heap of debris. Giant stones lay yards away from the heap. Underneath them, he sensed were the bodies of Helber and the guards.

Quakes kept rattling the Magic Circle palace enclosure, and Derrik kept his feet apart so he would not fall. The clouds above his head were getting darker and darker. A massive blast came from the main courtyard and brought another tremor. When he glanced over the roof, he thought that something was wrong.

“The turret!” a guard exclaimed, his voice brimming with dread.

Derrik looked again and noticed that the turret no longer peeked over the roof. He shuddered with the realization that Saitaan had brought the tower down in his quest for Tarroth. The monster had to be near. What if he had annihilated the ranks of defenders who were attacking the monsters’ rear? What if Broose died in the battle? And where was Glen?

The palace walls began to shake and crumble, forcing the mages on the wallwalk to break their link and hold onto the merlons. Sensing that something was about to happen, Derrik climbed the rim of a large marble fountain to get a better view.

Another tremor made him sit down and hold onto the rim, but he could still see over the heads of the elves, the Sandpeople, and the Circle’s guards. The sky turned dark as if night had suddenly fallen onto Dar Kahar, and he wondered whether Saitaan was behind it. Although he kept an eye on the gate, his gaze often instinctively glided over the elves, searching for Zór’al.

Another quake rattled the enclosure, and he nearly slid into the fountain. The water sloshed as if the fountain had turned into a small sea. The gate blasted open. A horde of Corpsentinel heavy cavalry poured forth.

“Archers, draw!” somebody shouted in panic. A bell tolled an alarm. A bugle call screeched in the enclosure.

The Corpsentinel cavalry slammed into the rows of pikemen. The hoofs of their massive warhorses broke pikes and bones. The blades of their black swords inflicted terrible wounds.

“Archers, loose!”

A hailstorm of arrows swished toward the monsters from the galleries. The warhorses screamed, and the Corpsentinels hissed and clicked as the arrowheads sank into unclean flesh. But there were so many of them they seemed unstoppable.

“Pikemen, charge!”

The pikemen had overcome their initial shock and attacked, impaling the horses and making them fall. New monsters kept pouring through the gates, though, riding over corpses and slashing left and right with their longswords. The monsters rammed through the ranks of pikemen and fell upon the swordsmen.

Derrik took a deep breath and drew Wrathbane. It was time to join the battle.

“Swordsmen forward!” a man shouted in a hysterical voice. “Don’t let them get through!”

The elves pushed through the ranks of humans, roaring with battle fever. Derrik followed, careful not to cut anybody with his sword, and staying away from the blades of the warriors around him.

Captains kept shouting orders that grew unintelligible in the uproar. Besides, Derrik wondered how anybody could try to keep an order in that mayhem. A forest of antlers loomed over the heads of the warriors of the Lightside. The Corpsentinels were getting closer and closer. Towering Daemorcs appeared behind them.

A fireball screeched from the outside, flew over the wall, and fell into the courtyard with a terrible blast. A flash of light punched Derrik’s eyes, and then, darkness came. He groaned in panic, thinking that the fireball had blinded him. His ears rang so much that the roar of the battle faded. He staggered and thought he would fall.

A pair of hands grabbed him under the arms and dragged him away. When the darkness suddenly dissipated and his vision came into focus, he saw Al’Anark. The elven chieftain dragged him back toward the fountain, scooped some water, and splashed it over Derrik’s face.

“Are you all right, human pal?” Al’Anark asked, concern in his green eyes. His voice was nearly lost in the ringing in Derrik’s ears.

“Yes,” Derrik said. “A bit rattled, that’s all. Thank you, Al’Anark.”

The elf grinned, patted his back, and twisted around to rejoin the battle.

The battlefield had changed beyond recognition. The monsters had swarmed the courtyard, and each had found an opponent to fight. The Circle’s swordsmen had been pushed back, and the elves and Sandpeople had spread around the courtyard. Dragons circled above the enclosure. They could not belch fire without burning the Lightside, so they slammed their spiked tails into the Daemorcs’ horns.

Duels raged all around the fountain. The monsters kept pushing toward the palace’s main building. Derrik feared they would soon carve their way in and get through the southern wing to the main courtyard and the ruined turret.

He screamed when a Daemorc suddenly appeared in front of him, brandishing a double-headed battleax. Seeing no way to hamstring the giant, Derrik twisted around and climbed the fountain’s rim again. Even then, the monster towered above him.

The Daemorc roared in its throat, a vicious sneer on its stupid face. It hefted the battleax and licked its lips as if it already envisioned devouring Derrik’s flesh. Derrik’s ears still rang, and his head spun. He summoned blood into his head to stay focused, but it only made him dizzier.

He ducked under the swing of the giant battleax—and slipped and fell into the fountain. He gasped in shock as the cold water swallowed him. Just as he struggled to his feet, the giant leaned over the rim and grabbed the wrist of his free hand.

Derrik screamed in agony, the monster’s pressure about to shatter his wrist. Despite the pain, though, he managed to clear his mind and draw blood back into his head to cast a silver-level spell.

“Trepir Kecahic!” he screamed, focusing all his Might at his wrist. The spell made his wrist hard as a stone, and as unbreakable. He hoped.

With the pain momentarily gone, Derrik jabbed at the Daemorc’s face. Wrathbane’s point ripped the monster’s flat nose, making it howl in pain. Derrik twisted his hand and swept his sword in a flat arc. He could not put enough force into the swing because the Daemorc still held his other wrist, but Wrathbane was sharp enough to crash through the monster’s cheekbone. Stunned, the Daemorc let go of Derrik’s wrist just as the spell faded and pain blasted through Derrik’s arm. The monster dropped, its giant face splashing into the fountain and turning it black with blood.

Derrik exhaled in relief and looked around to make sure he was not in immediate danger. The mages on the wallwalk had turned to face the courtyard and the battle, but they seemed to hesitate to wield destructive magic; in such a melee, they could blast more warriors of the Lightside than monsters. He watched with fascination as the mages began to leap off the walls. They used magic to slow their fall, and they assaulted the monsters with steel.

Derrik was about to climb over the fountain’s rim when his Might told him that a Corpsentinel had crept into the fountain to stab him from behind. He twisted around to face the Corpsentinel just as the monster yanked up its longsword.

Derrik lifted his hand to parry, and he screamed when the tip of the long blade went past Wrathbane’s crossguard and ripped his fingers. To his horror, Wrathbane slid from his bleeding hand and fell into the fountain. Something wrenched his hair and twisted his head backward, so hard that his neck nearly snapped. He grunted in fright when he realized that the Daemorc, which was not as stunned as Derrik had thought, had grabbed his hair.

The Corpsentinel hissed and clicked, brandishing the longsword. Derrik waved his hands and writhed in the Daemorc’s grasp but he could do nothing else. He knew he would die. The Corpsentinel hissed, and Derrik was sure it was laughing at his efforts to fend off its blade.

Then a wave of heat washed over him. Dhra’ack swooped down on the monster and grabbed its antlers with his front talons. The dragon soared with a powerful stroke of his wings, the hissing Corpsentinel swinging in his grasp. The dragon glided toward the palace building and slammed the Corpsentinel against the peak of the roof, making several shingles explode and fall.

The Daemorc yanked on Derrik’s hair, bringing him down to his knees, and making the cold water of the fountain slosh at the level of his chest. Then it plunged Derrik’s head under the water with a force that sent agony through Derrik’s skull. The water exploded around his head, stinging his eyes and bubbling in his ears. As Derrik screamed in shock, he swallowed a mouthful of water, which made his stomach turn. His nostrils and forehead burned as the water seemingly scurried through his nose straight into his brain. He tried to yank his head up but the Daemorc was too strong.

Terror spread through his mind and paralyzed him. He recalled the unfortunate people caught in the monstrous wave, but his fate seemed even worse. His lungs seemed about to explode. The world shrunk into a black tunnel that led to a drowning death. Then, suddenly, the pressure eased and the force holding his hair slackened.

Derrik yanked his head above the surface, gasping for air, his heart hammering. He thought it was Dhra’ack that had helped him, but the dragon was only now returning. When he blinked the water from his eyes and glanced around, Derrik saw the Daemorc sprawling under the fountain. He could only see its giant legs over the rim, but a rising plume of smoke marked the spot where a fireball hit its back.

He noticed Zór’al facing the fountain, her hand raised, a trail of smoke still wafting from the palm.

“Thank you,” Derrik whispered, realizing she had shot the Daemorc and saved his life. He was too shaken and breathless to speak loudly. She seemed to hear him anyway, or to read his lips or mind, for she smiled and nodded.

As she twisted around to find another opponent, a loose, frenzied camel barreled madly toward her. She lifted her hand as if to trip or sway the beast with a spell, but it was too late. The camel slammed into her and threw her to the flagstones. Derrik screamed when he saw her trampled by the animal’s hind feet. The camel stumbled but kept running.

Elves were incredibly agile and resistant, and she was soon scrambling to her feet. But a Corpsentinel rushed at her with a hauberk. Derrik reached for Wrathbane and climbed over the rim.

“Watch out!” he screamed as he ran toward her, pulling his drenched hair from his face.

She turned to the Corpsentinel and threw a fireball. The hauberk ripped her side—armpit to hip—even as flames ate through the monster’s gut. As the elf and the monster crashed in one heap, Derrik ran to her with a scream.

She only wore a tunic, and no mail protected her, and steaming blood poured from the incredibly long and deep wound. She was barely conscious, and unable to heal herself with elven magic. Sensing a Daemorc eyeing them, Derrik scooped her up, flung her over his shoulder, and rushed with her toward the southern wing.

“Hold on, Zór’al,” he said, unsure whether she was conscious to hear him.

Derrik found a small, wooden door, probably a servants’ entrance, and kicked it open. He barreled into the building and rushed under a low, arched ceiling down a plain hallway. The windows were narrow and far apart, and as the day beyond them was so dark, the hallway drowned in murkiness.

Two shadows barred his way, making him flinch. They had neither horns nor antlers, though, and he soon relaxed. They spoke in a harsh, guttural language, and he realized they were the Sandpeople. They reached for the elf and snatched her from his hands.

“Hey, what are you doing?” he snapped.

Without a word, they twisted around and rushed with Zór’al to the back of the building. He knew he should dash outside and rejoin the battle. But he ran after them, determined to defend her in case they wanted to hurt her.

“Where are you going?” he called, wondering whether they understood Aganopean.

If they did, they did not reply. They reached a large, torchlit hall that looked like a servants’ dormitory. Dozens of injured guards, mages, elves, and Sandpeople lay on thin mattresses.

The two Sandpeople lay Zór’al in front of an ancient woman who sat cross-legged in the middle of the hall. The woman was incredibly gaunt and wrinkled, and her knotted, gray hair fell in long ropes to her waist, touching the cushion she sat on. She seemed to be completely naked, but large beads hung from her neck on numerous strings and covered her torso and crotch.

Derrik had seen the woman in Gandre. She was the Sandpeople’s shamaness. Her Might suffused the room as she leaned over Zór’al to heal her. Derrik gulped and turned around, ashamed that he had thought the Sandpeople would harm the elf.

As he was about to leave, the old woman called, “Baard Thon?” in a croaking voice. Derrik had never heard that name pronounced with such a strange accent, but it hardly surprised him that the shamaness knew Father.

Derrik turned back and said, “I’m Derrik Thon, Baard’s son.”

The ancient woman gave him a blank look, and a man in a long tunic and a checkered scarf leaned to her to translate. The woman nodded and spoke. The man told Derrik, “Shamaness be pleased to meet son of Warrior-Summoner. She hope you make father proud.”

Derrik gave a bow and said, “I try.”

The man translated, and the shamaness nodded and bent over Zór’al. Derrik turned around and rushed outside.

Just as he left the building, the clouds parted, and the sun poured through the opening. Derrik hoped that it meant that the Darkside had retreated. Indeed, there was nearly no sign of the monsters, save for the corpses littering the pavement. The last Daemorcs and Corpsentinels disengaged and rushed out over the toppled gate. Very few warriors of the Lightside pursued them. Those who stayed looked bewildered rather than victorious.

Derrik started to be apprehensive. The Darkside seemed to have been winning, so why had they run?

Torsum suddenly stood beside him, startling him. Stone dust covered his face and cloak. He wore the wide silver chain of a High Mage rather than the golden chain from Archmage Agrader.

“It’s good to see you again, lad,” Torsum said with a slight smile as he squeezed Derrik’s shoulder. Then the old mage began to scan the courtyard, looking troubled. “I don’t like this one bit. Saitaan seems to have suddenly abandoned his quest for Tarroth. And that is beyond suspicious.”

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE: THE MAP

Steering his new stallion, Shadowflame, into the small courtyard of the Happy Hops Inn, Derrik dismounted with a grunt. Shadowflame, yet another horse he had gotten from Torsum, was covered with dust and sweat despite the evening cold. His head drooped, and an exhausted snort escaped from his slavering lips. Derrik felt just as filthy and spent. And frustrated, very frustrated.

He had been looking for Glen ever since the Darkside had been banished from Dar Kahar and, two days later, he still had no luck. He had entered every hospital, infirmary, and morgue he had come across, all in vain.

Broose, Leya, Eriana, and Al’Anark were also combing the streets, and Dhra’ack kept gliding above the sea, but none of them had found a trace of their friend. Whenever Derrik focused his Might on Glen, his mind seemed to enter a black hole. Although the only logical explanation was that Glen was dead or unconscious, he could not accept it.

The stableboy, Ektor, a tall lad of about fifteen summers whose face was nearly invisible behind dozens of pimples, sauntered from the stable, his hair full of hay. He yawned and rubbed his eyes. The grandson of Hanike Innkeeper, he spent the whole day loitering around the stable yard, and occasionally doing odd jobs at the inn.

“Please, make sure to give the horse a good rub,” Derrik said, giving the boy a copper dukaat. “And give him plenty of water and hay.”

Ektor smirked, pocketed the dukaat, and led Shadowflame away. Derrik shook his head as he walked across the yard to the inn. It was a small place with only two chambers upstairs. The common room had six long tables and benches without a backrest. The floor was strewn with straw that might have been fresh a fortnight ago. The whitewashed walls were dotted with small stains, which had once been flies. The ceiling was black with tabac smoke. Darkness was gathering behind the small windows, and candles burned on every table. A high fire roared in a hearth in the corner.

Broose already sat at the farthest table, closest to the back room where the oven was. He had an open book and a mug of ale in front of him, but he did not read or drink. Staring into oblivion, he nervously drummed the mug with his fingers. He was sweaty, haggard, and frustrated, and Derrik guessed he had only recently returned from yet another failed mission.

“Did you find him, Brother?” Broose asked as soon as he noticed Derrik. His eyes brimmed with worry.

Derrik sighed and shook his head, making Broose curse under his breath. Derrik wished he could go upstairs and collapse on his bed. He wanted to wait for Eriana and Leya to bring news about their search, though, so he sat across from Broose.

A delicious smell of lamb and vegetables crept from the back room. Derrik guessed that stew was boiling there in a large cauldron, but he was too tired and worried to be even hungry. He was thirsty, though, and as Hanike Innkeeper was nowhere to be seen, he took Broose’s mug and took a deep gulp.

Broose always protected his food and drink like a lion, but now he did not even seem to notice. “According to Erwne, being swept by a giant wave is one of the surest ways to die,” he said gloomily, twisting his beard. “Besides, until two days ago, the city teemed with monsters. It would be akin to a miracle if Glen was still alive.”

Suddenly, Derrik was angry. “Don’t speak like that!” he snapped. “Glen is alive, and we will find him. And Erwne can go to the Wrathlands, whoever he is!”

Broose flinched, and for a second, he looked as if he would snap back. Then he gulped and nodded. “I apologize, Brother. I shouldn’t have lost my heart. Of course we will find him alive.”

Derrik hung his head. “No, I apologize. I shouldn’t have snapped at you.”

Broose leaned over and patted Derrik’s forearm. “The strain has taken a toll on both of us.”

Derrik sighed and nodded.

Broose downed his mug and drummed his fingers on the table. Then he closed his book and gave the door to the back room a challenging look. “I’ll go and see why the stew is taking so long.”

Broose had already made friends with Hanike. Derrik guessed that he was going not only for information but also for some appetizer.

As Broose left, Derrik cleared his mind and tried to focus on Glen. Again, the black hole swallowed the tendrils of his thoughts. Derrik sensed that even the relentless Dhra’ack was about to give up the search for today. He sighed and rubbed his face, wishing that the girls would come so he could go to bed.

He knew that sleep would not come easily; besides worrying about Glen, he kept wondering about what had happened to Tarroth. Everyone hoped that the magical battleax was safely buried under the ruins of the turret—but Torsum often warned against complacency.

The door opened, and a fair-haired female walked in. He was surprised to see the beautiful elf Zór’al. He had often thought of her, despite his worry about Glen, wondering whether she had survived.

The elf seemed just fine as she walked to him and sat at Broose’s spot. “I came to thank you for saving my life, Derrik Thon,” she said in her pleasant, seductive voice.

Derrik found himself breathless when she pushed aside Broose’s book and took his hands into hers. She said nothing and only stared at him with her large, light-green eyes, and he felt his face burn.

“How… how did you find me?” he asked, just to break the silence.

She uttered a short laugh. “All elves have a Might, Derrik Thon. And did you forget that I’m a druidess?” He shook his head. He could feel her Might pouring out of her. And he felt other things, a wild energy and boundless passion coursing through her veins.

“I am so grateful for your saving my life, Derrik Thon,” she said in a seductive voice. “And I keep asking myself how to repay you.”

Derrik gulped, wondering what to say. Was this beautiful lady offering a boon of her flesh?

From the corner of his eye, he saw Broose emerging from the back room with a roll of sweetbread. Broose paused and gawked at Zór’al sitting at his spot, holding Derrik’s hands. He moved as if to approach them, but in the end, he leaned against the wall and watched. His hand was raised halfway to his mouth, yet the sweetbread was forgotten.

Derrik did not think that Broose would be jealous. They had often talked about Zór’al on their way to Dar Kahar—whenever Eriana was out of earshot, of course—and Broose always said that, although the elf was stunning, her personality was a bit jarring.

Zór’al cleared her throat as if to prompt Derrik to speak.

“You saved my life first, when that Daemorc was trying to drown me,” Derrik said, his throat tight. “So we are even.”

Broose would surely think it was an honorable thing to say while Glen would think it was stupid. Derrik only hoped that Eriana would not come. He almost wished that the beautiful elf had left.

Zór’al smiled and shook her head. “We can do each other favors until we tire of it. But it’s my turn first.” She winked and gave him the most lascivious smile he had ever seen. “Make a wish!”

Derrik struggled to breathe, as if the Daemorc had plunged his head underwater again. Excitement hollowed a pit in his stomach and a pleasant shiver rushed through his body. The idea of bedding this wild, beautiful lady made him dizzy. Then he thought of his friend Glen. If Zór’al had found Derrik, she could easily find Glen as well, if he was still alive.

He regretted he could not have two wishes. But since he had just one, he had to use it on Glen. But how he could tell her that?

Hanike emerged from the back room to add wood to the fire. She was a short, gray-haired woman with a crooked nose and a toothless smile under a fuzzy mustache. As she worked, she kept giving them curious looks. And she worked very slowly, obviously on purpose. Broose finally remembered his sweet bread and took a large bite, eyeing them as he chewed, breathing hard through his nose.

Seeing Derrik’s hesitation, Zór’al said, “I know you saw me cut and bleeding, but the shamaness healed me so well that I’ve hardly got any scar left. You won’t notice anything by candlelight.” She pulled her shoulders back to make her tunic stretch over her round breasts. “And I assure you that you will have other things to draw your eyes.”

“That’s not it, Zór’al,” he said. “It’s just…” A lump formed in his throat, and he could speak no more.

Her face furrowed as she gave him an annoyed, searching look.

The door opened, and Derrik gasped when he saw Eriana followed by Leya. When they saw him and the elf, they paused and gawked, standing in the doorway. Derrik cursed under his breath. Now he had four pairs of eyes watching them. Hilts and blades! Will anybody else be joining us today? For some reason, he did not dare meet Eriana’s eyes.

Zór’al did not seem to mind the audience. She probed him with her eyes and mind and said, “Your friend. You want me to help you find that boastful, spike-haired human boy.”

Derrik gulped and nodded.

She let go of his hands, and a shadow of anger passed over her face. Then she nodded and said, “It is noble. I will do it, Derrik Thon. I will look for your friend.” She glanced at the darkness gathering behind the window. “I can as well start now, for we elves can see in the shadows. I had other plans for tonight, but…”

She cleared her throat and got up. As she walked to the door, she nodded to Leya and gave Eriana a long, slightly hostile, look, which Eriana returned heartily.

As soon as the door closed behind her, Hanike returned to the back room and all three siblings rushed to Derrik. Broose had stuffed the roll of sweetbread into his mouth and could not speak but the girls asked almost at the same time, “What was that all about?”

While Leya looked curious, Eriana looked as though she could reduce the table into splinters with her teeth.

“I told you I saved her during the battle for the Circle’s palace,” he explained. “And she came to thank me.”

“And why did she hold your hands?” Eriana asked, her dark eyes flashing.

Derrik blushed. “Well… she was so thankful…” Why do you care anyway?

Broose swallowed and said, “I saw her getting angry and frustrated just before she left.” He gave Derrik a searching, slightly amused look. “Any particular reason for that, Brother?”

Derrik felt that his cheeks would catch on fire. “No,” he snapped. “But she promised that she was going to help us find Glen!” The mentioning of their friend seemed to have steered their thoughts from Zór’al, so he quickly asked the girls, “Do you have any news about him?”

Eriana frowned and shook her head. “We don’t.”

“And we seemed to have combed the whole city,” Leya said in a tired, disheartened voice. “And asked everyone we saw.”

The girls hung their heads, and Broose put his arms around their shoulders. “We’ll try again tomorrow, and Zór’al might find him even before that,” he said. “Now we will have some lamb stew, though. Hanike said it would be ready in a moment.”

They sat down and waited for the food in silence, each absorbed in their thoughts. A little later, Hanike brought a large tray with wooden bowls of stew and pewter mugs of ale.

Having served the food and drinks, the ancient woman turned to Broose and rubbed his shoulder. Broose shuddered but gave her a wide smile, and Derrik wondered what his gluttonous friend would not do for extra food.

As the woman left, Leya smirked at her brother over her beer mug. Broose gave her an embarrassed shrug. “A man needs to eat, and a woman needs some tenderness,” he said. “I see it as a fair barter.”

They ate in silence, but Leya kept giving Broose amused smirks, and Eriana often glared at Derrik with annoyance. Derrik wondered why seeing him with Zór’al had made her so angry.

When Eriana opened her mouth, he thought she would scold him. But she said, “I believe that High Mage Torsum is coming.”

Derrik focused on the old mage and sensed him ride toward the inn. Was Torsum coming with news about Glen? Derrik doubted it. Torsum’s powerful Might had failed to locate Glen before, and the mage was too occupied to help them with their search. He had to oversee the clearing of the ruined turret to see whether Tarroth was there—while pacifying the mages and gaining their acceptance as their Archmage.

Torsum entered shortly after they had finished their stew. He still wore his silver chain, and dark bags hung under his eyes. He returned their greetings with a smile, pulled up a chair, and sat beside Broose across from Derrik.

“It is so frustrating, lad, that if I want to see you, I have to come here,” Torsum said to Derrik. “I want you to become the Warrior-Keeper and teach you magic. But the local mages won’t even let me take you to the palace to start your training.”

Derrik nodded, though he was secretly glad because he needed time to find Glen. But he wondered what had brought the High Mage here.

“There is still too much friction among the mages,” Torsum said. He clearly needed to vent his frustration, though Derrik doubted it was the reason for his visit. “I never had the ambition of becoming the Archmage. I was happy in my beautiful palace in Cahes and never felt tempted to move to Dar Kahar. Agrader made his decision, though. And since the Circle now needs a leader more than ever, I have to accept the post. Unfortunately, most mages keep fighting it, and just because I’m an outlander. They argue that the post of an Archmage is traditionally confirmed by at least three High Mages, which hasn’t happened. The only support I get is from other outlanders. But they are a minority.”

Derrik and his friends nodded and murmured it was a shame, but Torsum did not seem to hear them.

“And that’s not the worst,” the mage said, tugging on his white beard. “Most mages and guards think that Tarroth is buried under tons of debris, and they think it’s for the better. The most optimistic think that Lanfareth is buried there as well, but I’m far from convinced.”

Derrik and the siblings looked at each other and paled at hearing the name of the traitor. They had nearly lost their lives several times to Lanfareth, and they feared it was just a matter of time before she succeeded in killing them. She was certainly unlikely to stop trying.

“I thought you said she had got into the turret to steal Tarroth,” Broose said. “There is a chance she is buried there.”

“Wishful thinking, lad,” Torsum said. His tone was uncharacteristically sharp. “I fear that, while we were battling the monsters to protect Tarroth, the magical battleax was already gone.”

Derrik breathed hard with dread. “There are no proofs of that,” he said in a thin voice.

Torsum inhaled to reply, but he clenched his lips when Hanike came with five mugs of ale.

Everyone fidgeted and glared at her as she cleared the table. She did not seem to mind, whistling under her breath and taking her time.

As she finally left, Torsum leaned to Derrik. “How else do you explain that the monsters suddenly abandoned the attack on the Circle’s palace, lad? Saitaan must have sensed that Tarroth was no longer there. And since he wasn’t sure of victory, he ordered his troops to recede.”

Derrik gulped and nodded. He had to admit it made sense, horrid as the implications were.

Torsum said in a milder tone. “The servants are clearing the debris, but it will take days before they even reach the ground level. We will have to wait and see.”

“So you do admit that Tarroth and Lanfareth might be buried there, High Mage?” Eriana asked.

Torsum shrugged his shoulders. “Hope dies last. But I’m very nervous.”

The High Mage took a gulp from his mug, and the others followed suit. A group of men came and sat at the table closest to the door, but they paid Derrik and his group no attention. Soon, dice rattled in a wooden cup and rolled over their table.

“Anyway, I’ve brought you something, Derrik,” Torsum said, reaching under his cloak and pulling out a scroll. “A messenger brought it to the Magic Circle’s palace, but it is addressed to you.”

Derrik experienced an inexplicable sense of dread as he took the scroll and broke the plain black seal. It was two scrolls actually. The inner one looked like a map. The outer one was blank on the outside but had a strange symbol sketched on the inside, a horned raven with a snake’s tail. The raven’s left wing was outstretched under a red circle, the only colorful part of the black and white picture.

“That’s the insignia of the Dark Overlord,” Eriana said with a frown. “It is worn by Wrathlords and high-ranking humans walking the Darkside. But what is the thing above the wing? I’ve never seen that before. Normally the wings are folded.”

“I know,” Broose said. “It’s the sign of the Blood Moon, when Wrathlords and traitors perform gory rituals and commit murders and other crimes to appease Saitaan.”

Eriana and Leya flinched. Lanfareth had nearly murdered them at a Blood Moon several months ago.

Broose frowned and scratched his cheek. “Members of the Darkside use this symbol as a sign that they intend to commit a crime or bring a sacrifice on the upcoming Blood Moon.”

“That is correct, lad, and I’ve sensed that the letter would contain something like that,” Torsum said with a frown. “I’ve tried to find out who sent it, but the scroll is protected by an extremely powerful spell.”

Derrik felt his guts going liquid with fear. Whoever sent the letter had to be a mage of terrifying mastery—and one who sought his death.

“Anyway, let’s see the other scroll, lad,” Torsum said in a grave voice.

Derrik’s hands shook as he unrolled it. The scroll depicted a map of the former empire of Aganopea, with the Northeast Kingdom, Araton, Ag-Hur, and the Elven Kingdoms etched on the top, from right to left. Below the Elven Kingdoms, there were outlined the Dwarfish Realms, bordered in the west by Gaaltor and Renekah, and with Toldor, Al’Tarin, and the enormous Kalhan Desert depicted on the bottom. The Wrathlands sprawled on the right side of the map like an ominous stain, separated from the Elven Kingdoms and the Dwarfish Realms by a stretch of haunted wasteland called the Chasm.

Derrik frowned when he noticed that their kingdom of Gaaltor was circled. What in the Wrathlands is going on? he thought.

“Turn it over, Derrik,” Leya said in a thin voice.

Derrik complied—and thought he would be sick. On the other side, there was the map of Gaaltor, with the capital of Rugu in the south and the large city of Galenzia in the east, not far from Renekah. It was detailed enough to include their small village of New Thorstorm, nestled in woods that stretched toward the Al’Rayleh Mountains.

The village was crossed out in black ink.

Thank you for reading! The story continues with Of Chaos and Doom.

Thank you! Please read!

Thank you so much for lending your time to Of Ashes and Blood. Your attention means more than I can easily express.

I have been writing fantasy since I learned my letters, and I’ve always longed to write an epic series. And now, decades later, you’re holding the first installment of my second fantasy project.

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Shattered Empire is a spinoff of the Magic Circle series:

The Wizard's Blade

The Dragon's Eye

The Traitor's Spell

The Warrior's Call

The Circle's End

.

The series is available on your local Amazon in epub, paperback, and hardback. Click here to check it out,

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Acknowledgments:

I want to thank Janet Neihart, Judith Jenkins, Trudie Collins, and Debbie Harris for taking the time to proofread the book – and doing an amazing job at it.

To my awesome advance readers, Lesley Leachman, Jim Bates, Leanne Pert, Douglas Brown, Sheri Maimone, Hernan Salvarezza, and Susan May for cheering me on, plowing through my drafts, and looking for plot holes.

To blogger Rose Auburn and my Facebook reader group for their support.

To mailing list subscribers for their loyalty.

To Rosa for her love and patience.

I'll never forget your friendship, hard work, dedication, and enthusiasm for my stories.

GLOSSARY

Adrix Blastblade: the creator of Tarroth

Ag-Hur: a kingdom of Aganopea

Aganopean Empire, the: a vast empire south of Thorstorm

Agrader: the Archmage of the Magic Circle

Al’Anark: the chieftain of elves

Araton: a kingdom of Aganopea

Arila: a circus performer

Ard’Heretir: Wrathlord in Ancient Tongue

Arnub: a ringmaster

Baard Thon: Derrik's father

Balabor: the capital of Ag-Hur

Broose Erstrog: Derrik's friend

Cahes: the capital of Araton

Carez: a circus performer

Corpsegrinder: a Wrathlord

Corpsentinel: an antlered warrior of the Darkside

Daemorc: a towering, horned creature

Dar Kahar, the seat of the Magic Circle

Dark Overlord, the: the ruler of all Wrathlords

Derrik Thon: a logger from New Thorstorm

Dhra’ack: Derrik’s dragon

Diara Thon: Derrik's mother

Eriana Erstrog: Derrik's friend

Farheim: a treacherous mage

Gaaltor: a kingdom of Aganopea

Gandre: a city in the Northeast Kingdom

Gravelacker: a living dead; a human killed by a Wrathlord

Glen Hammersmith: Derrik's friend

Hargo’oden: elf in the Ancient Tongue

Iranxa: a mage

Kenate: a harborer of criminals

Krabator: a Wrathlord

Lagarrion: a giant lizard, the Wrathlords’ mount

Lanfareth Etarrat: a mage walking the Darkside

Leya Erstrog: Derrik's friend

Madér'al: a female elf, Al'Anark's best friend

Magic Circle, the: a society of mages

Mardok: the mother of Broose, Eriana, and Leya

Myrlan: a treacherous mage

New Thorstorm: Derrik's village

Northeast Kingdom, the: a realm of Aganopea

Potkan: a harborer of criminals

Remogan: the High Mage of Gandre

Renekah: the former capital of the empire

Ruah: the soothsayer of New Thorstorm

Sandpeople, the: nomadic tribes of the Kalhan desert

Sisters-at-arms: a religious order of female warriors

Tarroth: a magical battleax

Torsum: the High Mage of Araton

Tik'Ereeny: see Sandpeople, the

Ufi Erstrog: the father of Broose, Eriana, and Leya

Vahash: the mayor of New Thorstorm

Warrior Nuns: see Sisters-at-arms

Wrathbane: Derrik's magical sword

Wrathlands, the: a territory occupied by Wrathlords

Wrathlord: a horned creature with magic powers

Yaztrac: the High Mage of Renekah

Ylaha: the chieftess of dwarfs

Zór'al: an elven lady

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, business, events and incidents are the products of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

Of Ashes and Blood

Book One of the Shattered Empire series

Copyright 2025 by P.C. Darkcliff

All rights reserved.

www.pcdarkcliff.com