The Crimson Talisman

8 The Watcher in the Tower

Cloaked in the shadows of night high above the gorge, the soarwing tilted to pass between rock pinnacles, its unerring instinct guiding it through the high walls beyond the lone tower of Taeris Mordel. Its undead rider could discern the bridge to the elf watchtower below, limned in the moonlight. In that ethereal glow he could see figures upon it. He urged his mount down, swooping closer to the bridge.

Vaddi was the first to realize what was happening. The vampire was no more than a few feet from him, but as Vaddi brandished his dirk in a vain effort to defend himself, he sensed the coming of the huge shadow-shape.

Caerzaal turned, teeth barred in a bestial snarl, to see the huge soarwing gliding down the gorge. The vampire ducked down and called to his servants. They came forward, and an arrow embedded itself in the neck of the nearest, its force catapulting the vampire from the bridge and over its edge. Beside Caerzaal, the next of his servants suffered the same fate.

Caerzaal staggered back a few paces, sword flaring in his hand as the soarwing closed with the bridge. Its rider brought the creature’s rush to a halt, hovering briefly over the span before landing on it, its massive form coming between the vampire and the three fugitives. The head of the soarwing dipped down to the bridge and the dark mouth opened. Caerzaal sprang back, his sword cutting through the air, seeming to dance with bloody fire. The soarwing ducked its head to one side. Caerzaal screamed to his guards. As one they moved back across the bridge.

Satisfied that they were in retreat, the rider turned his mount with extraordinary skill until it faced the three fugitives. They had been watching events in amazement, stunned to silence by the appearance of this formidable creature.

Cellester was the first to gather his wits. Pushing his companions behind him, he faced up to the towering reptile and its rider. It was Aarnamor, who leaned forward, only his serpent-like eyes visible in the darkness.

“The boy! Send the boy to me!” he called, his voice like a whisper of distant thunder.

Vaddi drew back. This rider had rescued them at Voorkesh, but again he asked himself, what was it? Who did it serve? He dare not put his trust in such a creature.

Cellester turned to face Vaddi, a look of bemusement on his face, as though he was unsure of himself for once.

“Quickly!” came the rider’s hiss. A clawed hand reached out. “Time is short!”

Overhead there came what they took to be a crack of thunder, though the skies had been clear, with no hint of a storm. Cellester, Vaddi and Nyam instinctively dropped to their haunches as if a great hand was about to reach down and sweep them from the span. They turned to look back up at the elf tower. A searing flash of light lit its upper ramparts and for a second something was silhouetted there. From out of the blinding light, a zigzag of white fire tore down at the bridge, sizzling and crackling. It struck Aarnamor in the chest with a detonating crash. Everything was caught in the blinding flare of the explosion. The three fugitives were thrown flat to the ground and felt the bridge shuddering, as though it would tear free of its foundations and collapse into the abyss below, but it held.

No more than a few yards in front of him. Vaddi saw the lightning strike Aarnamor again, seemingly disintegrating him, for after the glow subsided, there was no sign of him. Too dazed to scream, the soarwing reeled back along the bridge until it lost its footing. As it fell, it unfolded its wings, curved in mid-air and flew back up the gorge. It was swallowed by distance in a matter of moments. Behind it, Caerzaal’s warriors had regrouped in silence, watching the bridge and the tower beyond.

His head ringing, Vaddi rose to his knees, blinking away tears as he fought to see clearly. Across the bridge, he saw the vampire lord. For the moment Caerzaal and his minions were holding back, wary of another bolt from above.

“To the tower!” said Nyam, spitting dust and shaking a tiny cloud of it from his hair and beard.

Vaddi and Cellester followed him. They reached the end of the bridge and the first steps that led up to the tall door. It had creaked open.

From beyond it, a voice came to them. “Who are you?”

Cellester, trying to see into the shadows, replied, “I am Cellester, a cleric and servant of House Orien. This is Vaddi d’Orien, son of Anzar Kemmal d’Orien and Indreen of the Dendris family.”

“The family of Dendris? It is known to me. Pass within.”

Cellester led his companions to the steps.

“Who is this other?” snapped the voice, taut as a wire.

Nyam pulled up short. “I am nothing, good sir. A mere peddler. Just a wayfarer in these troubled lands.”

“Pass inside. Quickly now. The maggots of the Claw will not be contained for long.”

Someone moved out of the shadows beyond the door, almost too quickly for the eye to follow, then lithely climbed the stairs, turned a corner, and was out of sight. Vaddi and his companions followed. They heard the groaning of machinery as behind them the huge set of doors swung into place, closing off the bridge. As they shut with a loud thud, silence fell over the tower, a deep silence, as if the company had suddenly been rendered deaf. But as they paused on the stair, chests heaving, they heard again the voice of their rescuer.

“Come up! Taeris Mordel must be properly secured. The night has not yet finished spewing up its evils.”

The stairs were ancient, but not dust-choked, as if they had recently been swept clean. The walls of the tower were similarly polished, as though this place was inhabited and no forgotten ruin. At the top of the stair was an area open to the stars, ringed around by a number of huge statues. On seeing these, Vaddi gasped, for they were all of dragons. Each of the statues had been cut from a single block of polished obsidian. They gleamed in the moonlight, so life-like and real. The eyes were cut from emeralds the size of a human head and appeared to study the intruders. Immense wings folded back behind the statues, their working incredibly intricate and delicate. The masons who had created them must have laboured a lifetime to attain such perfection.

Beyond the circle of dragons was a raised balcony that looked out across the Endworld Mountains, the highest points of which were touched with moonlight. On either side of the balcony two larger dragon statues looked out over that vista, as though studying what it contained. Light from a number of cold fire lamps gently fell upon them and the others in the silent ring.

Vaddi, fascinated, was studying the circular inlay of the floor, which itself was polished like glass, apparently impervious to the weather, for there was no roof to Taeris Mordel. There were numerous symbols here, clearly elven work linked to dragon motifs.

Cellester seemed more concerned by the presence of the beings that had rescued them. He waited while they saw fit to reveal themselves. From beside one of the looming dragon statues, a solitary figure stepped into its light. Slightly taller than a ten-year-old child, dressed in tunic and trousers of typical elven design, it was an elf girl, who looked no older then Vaddi. She held a bow in her hand and a quiver of arrows was swung over her shoulder. Her dark hair was cut just below her ears, her features narrow, almost human, but with something more than that—prompted by an arrogance, perhaps, a touch of haughtiness. Vaddi studied her, mesmerised.

She moved with the ease and silence of a huntress, her delicate hands at her side. One word out of place here and Vaddi sensed that those slender fingers would have nocked an arrow and let it fly before anyone was even aware of it.

“We owe you our thanks,” said Cellester, inclining his head.

“So you are a cleric,” she replied tersely. “I am not sure you are welcome. This ground is sacred to my people.” She came closer, studying each of them in turn. “I can see elf blood in the boy.”

Vaddi felt himself flushing under her stern gaze. Boy! Surely he was no younger than she was! But he was unable to frame a retort, instead glad to find himself out of that imperious gaze as the elf turned her attention to the cleric.

Cellester allowed the girl to weigh him for a moment then said, “It was a timely intervention on the bridge.”

“The spells that bind the walls of Taeris Mordel repel the undead. But I wonder why they are here in such great numbers.”

She came again to Vaddi. He had been looking at her, his mouth slightly open, eyes wide, since she had first shown herself. Nyam nudged him with his foot, but it had no effect.

“You are the son of Indreen,” said the girl, as if the fact was of great interest to her. “Vaddi.”

As she spoke his name, Vaddi blinked. “Yes, I, uh, I am. You’re an elf.”

Nyam nudged him again.

Her expression hardened, not quite into contempt. “Very observant of you. I am indeed. I am Zemella of Pylas Maradal. Why does Caerzaal, vampire servant of the Emerald Claw, seek you?”

Vaddi found himself wanting to blurt out the whole story, hypnotised by her eyes, but Cellester stepped in before he could speak.

“House d’Orien has long sought to root out the agents of the Claw. Anzar thwarted their intrigues once too often. They stirred up a rabble army and Marazanath has fallen. Anzar and his family died.”

“Our spy network, as you would know, is very thorough. The Claw’s agents are abnormally active in these mountains,” Zemella said. “They seem intent on wiping out the whole of Anzar’s family. Caerzaal is no menial servant.”

“I believe that Kazzerand is also behind this. I suspect that he has formed an alliance with the vampire.”

“Oh, yes, we know Kazzerand and his deceits well, Caerzaal has pursued you from Marazanath itself, has he not?”

“So it seems,” said Cellester.

Zemella’s right hand came up and she placed it on Vaddi’s heart, gently probing. She had touched the wrappings of the horn within his robes before he could respond, but she jerked away as if she had been scalded, Vaddi simply gaped at her, but Cellester pushed himself between them.

“We are protected,” said the cleric. “Vaddi is the head of his family now, I am taking him to a safer place.”

Zemella’s eyes had widened. She massaged her fingers softly. “It is true, then. He bears Erethindel. That is why Caerzaal seeks him!”

“It must not fall into the hands of the Claw,” said Cellester.

“Nor any evil power.”

“You will help us?”

Vaddi continued to watch her, puzzled. Nyam had said that the elves had wanted to be rid of the horn and had given it into the hands of the Keepers. In which case, the elves of Taeris Mordel might be glad to speed it on its way.

“How many of you guard this tower?” Cellester asked her.

She frowned, as though he had said something doltish. “Me. Why should there be more? Others come by arrangement, to exchange information, to plan, and to bring me supplies.”

“You are alone?” said Vaddi, at last finding his tongue.

She smiled for the first time. “Why should that surprise you? I am trained well in war. I defy any man to loose a better arrow or best me with a blade.”

“Or hurl a bolt of lightning,” muttered Nyam, though he immediately seemed to regret saying it as she stood again before him.

“That, too, peddler.” She looked at him for some moments, amused by something, but then turned back to Vaddi. “We will have to leave soon. Caerzaal will not be content to sit and watch us. Have you eaten?”

Vaddi shook his head. Every time she looked at him, he felt unable to move.

“I’ll prepare something,” she said. “If you need sleep, you should rest. Where will you make for? This safe place you speak of, where is it?”

“Valenar,” said Cellester.

She considered. “Probably the wisest route. Vaddi will have Orien relatives there. The unicorn emblem flies in a few of Valenar’s cities. What do you intend to do with the talisman?”

Cellester turned away from her steely gaze. “Secure it among allies.”

She nodded thoughtfully. “Those in Valenar will know where to send it.” After a moment she turned again to Cellester. “Go to the tower above the gate. Look to see what the undead are about. I have work to do while your companions rest.”

Without another word she left them, disappearing among the enormous statues.

“Stay here,” said the cleric. “I will do as she suggests.”

Nyam stared after him, shaking his head. “If that vampire lord knows that this tower is protected by a single elf warrior, we’ll not be left in peace for long.”

Vaddi grinned. “She’s … well, I’ve never—”

Nyam laughed. “I’d mask your feelings, if I were you, lad.”

Vaddi grimaced. “Nothing wrong in admiring—”

“Admiring her? I thought she had flung one of her bolts of lightning over you, the way you were looking at her.”

“What do you mean? I was surprised, that’s all. One warrior holding this place by herself…”

“She’s a sorceress. That much is obvious. She could snap either of us in half if she had a mind to. I know the Valenar. They like nothing better than a battle.”

“She has no reason to detain us.”

“Don’t let your heart rule your head, Vaddi. She may be the most beautiful creature you’ve ever seen, and I admit, she is very alluring in a masculine sort of way, but— ”

“What are you talking about?” snapped Vaddi. “Masculine? Just because she’s a warrior?”

Nyam laughed. “I am sorry. It has been a long time since I really looked at a woman. And certainly not through the eyes of love.”

Vaddi was about to protest, but something in Nyam’s expression stilled his anger. “But you have known love?”

“Of course! I told you I had a wife. When I first met her, I daresay I looked at her as you have done on this elf. To me she was more beautiful than anything I had ever seen. It took me a long while to tell her—all the time she was cursing me for a wastrel and a buffoon and saying that she, an elf, would have to be out of her wits to consider me. Yet when I asked her to wed me, she asked me in return why I had dithered about so long in asking her.”

“Then she married you?”

“Naturally! They allow you to chase them until you get them exactly where they want you, so beware of this sorceress.”

“You said … your wife died?” said Vaddi, the words tumbling out before he could think to be more diplomatic.

“The War, lad. She and my two sons. Like so many others, they died defending the small town that was our home, in a battle that was ultimately meaningless and forgotten. Though not by me. Not by me.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Well, let’s not speak of these things. I have many happy memories. And long years ahead, I hope.”

“Tell me something. That creature. It all happened so quickly. What was it? Why did it free us from Caerzaal?”

“The undead warrior rode a soarwing. They are huge saurians, but their brains are small, easily controlled. The undead … that I don’t know. It will serve a master, sometimes a sorcerer, a magician of higher powers, or a cleric.”

“You mean Cellester?”

Nyam shrugged. “The cleric’s powers are no small thing.”

Vaddi looked around to be sure they were alone, then leaned close to Nyam and whispered, “You think that … thing serves Cellester?”

Nyam considered a long moment, then replied, “I have told you discreetly that I am not certain of Cellester’s loyalty, yet he has proved himself on this journey to be a worthy ally.”

“Had he not been, both of us would be dead or worse, yet on the bridge, I heard the undead call for Cellester to give me up to him.”

Nyam indicated Vaddi’s robe, where the horn lay hidden. “Others may be seeking what you carry. Watch your step.”

Zemella returned and handed them a tray with food and water. She smiled at them—or rather at Vaddi.

“Have you told him?” she asked Nyam softly, watching to see if the cleric had returned.

Vaddi looked askance at the peddler.

“She has been waiting for us,” Nyam said with a grin. “She is a Keeper.”

“Then why—?”

Nyam shook his head. “Best that our companion does not know.”

Zemella’s eyes met Vaddi’s and he felt a unique glow. “I suspect his motives,” she whispered. “Let him prove himself to me before we give him the truth of our mission.”

“The safety of the horn you mean?”

“And yours,” she said.

Cellester climbed the stair to the tower above the tall doors. From its parapet he could look below, where the bridge loomed in the pale moonlight. Of Caerzaal and his undead, there were no immediate signs, but the cleric was certain they were near. They would spare no efforts to give siege and they would waste little time in doing so. If the company was to escape, it must move very soon.

Something among the shadows peeled itself from the vertical wall below him and Cellester started back, amulet glowing faintly. But he saw that it was not one of Caerzaal’s minions. It was Aarnamor—or what remained of him. The dark form drifted silently up the tower wall to within a few feet of where he stood, his yellow, serpent-eyes fixing Cellester from within the shrouded confines of his nebulous shape.

When he spoke, his words seemed to hang on the wind, as if he were becoming even less substantial, a ghost returning to the bleak domain from which he had been raised.

“The sorceress has unbound me,” came his weak voice.

Cellester watched, seeing Aarnamor’s darkness pulsing, growing ever more mist-like. “The soarwing,” he whispered, careful to keep his voice low. “Where is it?”

“Awaiting my call, though wary of this place. Why did you come this way? If you had gone down to the Plains, I could have taken the boy.”

“I could not force him. He is suspicious, and that infernal peddler is up to something.”

“My powers are draining. I must go back to Urgal Shahiz. We cannot get you away. Not now.”

“And Caerzaal’s forces? Where are they?”

“Rising by the hundreds. This tower will not stem them, for all its spells.” The voice grew faint, the outline of the being wavering.

“Is there a way from this tower?”

“Only the sorceress can answer that, but you must be wary of her. Above all, remember your oath. Do not fail our lord.”

Vaddi and Nyam were eating the frugal meal prepared by Zemella when the cleric returned. She indicated that he should join them.

“What did you see?” she asked.

“Nothing,” said Cellester, “but Caerzaal will have surrounded this tower. There is no telling how many of his servants will be with him. Your sorcery will not hold them indefinitely. Is that bridge the only way off this tower?”

“By foot, yes,” said Zemella.

“What about below us?”

“There are no tunnels or crevices,” she said with a wry smile. “I would not trust them if there were. These mountains are saturated with old magic, poisons akin to what you have seen at Voorkesh. The lizardfolk of Q’barra dwell not far to the east, Taeris Mordel was chosen for its height, its aerial attributes. Tunnels and the dark below are for the undead and their kind.”

“So there’s no way off,” said Nyam, between mouthfuls.

She gave him a withering stare. “I didn’t say that.”

“Then you’ll help us?” said Cellester.

Again she seemed to be weighing the matter very carefully. She paced about the group, her feet silent on the polished floor. She paused at Nyam’s back. “Tell me, peddler, why are you with this company? What is your interest in its quest?”

Nyam scowled. “Me? I am just—”

“A common peddler, yes. I am not blind. It is why I ask you again, what is your interest in House Orien? Why risk your life for them?”

“Initially I helped the boy and the cleric evade some trouble at Rookstack and was paid well for it. Since then … well, I have found myself caught up in their flight. Safety in numbers, especially in the terrain we have had to cross.”

Zemella’s blade whispered from its sheath. “Really? You weren’t thinking of turning a handsome profit from the barter of a certain object? Or Vaddi d’Orien himself? You must have wealthy contacts in Valenar.”

Nyam’s face screwed up into an expression of indignation. “How dare you suggest such a thing!” He stood, only to find Zemella’s swordpoint inches from his neck.

Vaddi stepped forward and pushed Zemella’s sword away, locking eyes with her. It took all his self-control to avoid grinning inanely as he played along with the hastily contrived exchange.

“We have fought side by side,” he said. “All three of us. Had we not done so, we’d likely all be dead, or worse.”

Zemella sheathed her sword. A faint smile touched her lips and again Vaddi felt himself coloring under her gaze. “Very well, son of Orien.”

“Whatever your motives, peddler,” said Cellester, “there’s no denying the debt we owe to your sword. We’ll need it again and soon. Caerzaal’s horde will strike before dawn.” He turned to Zemella. “If you know how to get us away from here …”

“Come this way,” Zemella said.

She led them up beyond the balcony. Above it there was a chamber hollowed from the rock, again without a ceiling. A single huge statue had been cut from the rock there, a superb example of a dragon, wings outspread, gemmed eyes gleaming. In the dim light it seemed almost alive. Zemella waved them back while she knelt before it, as if in the presence of a shrine. She began to sing softly, her voice very low. Vaddi felt his heart lurch, as if the words of the elfsong worked a particular magic for him alone. He found himself watching Zemella as though nothing else existed.

It was the touch of Nyam’s hand that brought him out of this state of wonder.

“What?” said Vaddi, almost glaring at the peddler.

Nyam was looking skyward. “See what comes!”

Vaddi lifted his gaze and gasped. Huge, feathered wings beat at the night air, and the tower echoed to a terrifying, raucous cry. A creature with the torso and hindquarters of a horse and the forelegs, wings and head of a giant eagle was hovering above them, its massive beak poised to snatch its human prey. It was truly huge, with a wingspan of over twenty feet. Vaddi dropped to all fours.

“A hippogriff,” said Nyam.

“Those claws!” cried Vaddi, trying to tug Nyam to safety.

The peddler merely grinned. “It bears a saddle. See. I don’t think we are intended to be its next meal.” He indicated the beautifully wrought leather saddle on the back of the hovering monster, its intricate design woven through with elven runes.

Zemella stood and turned to them. The hippogriff landed behind her, making barely more than a sound even on the hard stone.

“Ashtari Mereen will bear us,” Zemella said, her expression one of wonder as she reached out to touch the head of the hippogriff. “Do not fear her.”

“Can it bear all of us?” said Cellester.

Zemella nodded. “She is a queen among her kind. Come, let us waste no more time.”

The hippogriff arched its beautifully feathered neck. Zemella gestured for the company to climb into the broad saddle. They did so in awe. Zemella mounted last, settling herself at the base of the long neck. She leaned forward and another gentle song drifted over the night, coaxing the awesome creature up from the tower. With silken ease, it was airborne, the huge weight forgotten as the extraordinary beast, streamlined and superbly aerodynamic, flapped silently into the night sky. It gave one imperial shriek, as if pouring scorn on whatever creatures swarmed in the darkness below.

Vaddi felt the blood rushing through his veins, his whole being suffused with fire, an ecstasy beyond anything he had ever experienced before. He sat directly behind Zemella. His hands rested on her waist, but she did not react.

Behind him, Nyam and Cellester rode in silence, their thoughts masked.

Darkness seethed around the crags of Urgal Shahiz, unnatural and riven with flickering bolts of light. Within the central tower, among its broken, time-lost vaults, Zuharrin waited, his mind focusing on the elements, reading the fates of his servants. Above him, fusing itself with the naked rock, the huge soarwing had returned from the distant northeastern lands. Like a small cloud, the withered shape of Aarnamor came into the chamber, his eyes dimming like the last embers of a fire.

“What of Cellester the cleric?” said Zuharrin.

Aarnamor’s shape shifted like mist. “He protects the boy. They have Erethindel. At Taeris Mordel I would have taken them both but was cast down by an elf sorceress.”

“The ancient watchtower! Was she set to wait for the boy? By whom?” Zuharrin’s annoyance almost fanned into anger. Who else interfered in his plans?

“I had no time to learn, I was struck down before I knew she was there. I was barely able to speak to Cellester, but I charged him with remembering his oath.”

The darkness that was Zuharrin pulsed, a promise of torment. “He knows well enough the penalty for betrayal. You must go into the world again, Aarnamor. I will restore your power, and I will send others. If the elves attempt to take Erethindel for themselves, it would be as disastrous for me as if it fell into the hands of the Emerald Claw.”

Aarnamor, nearing complete dissipation, felt a renewed flood of energy as his master gifted him with power, drawing upon the darker places, conjuring a regeneration in the dismal chamber. Zuharrin began the workings that would evoke yet more servants bound to his service. Over Urgal Shahiz, thunder rolled like the voices of dark gods. Far out across the ocean beyond it, ships heard the forbidding sound, and their crews shuddered, hands clasped to protective talismans, invoking lighter powers.

9 House of the Unicorn

As the flight swept them far across the southernmost edges of the Endworld Mountains and over the borderlands of northern Valenar, Vaddi and his companions felt themselves lulled almost to sleep by the ease of the journey. None of them spoke for a long time, though with the wind rushing past them, it would have been difficult. Vaddi, still holding tight to Zemella, felt a mixture of emotions stirring within him. It was as though in crossing into Valenar, something deep had awoken in him—a response, he thought, to his mother’s elf blood. There was an undercurrent of excitement to it, as if it reacted to the power that rose off the land below. Coupled with this was the power inherent in the unicorn horn, which seemed almost alive, a tiny engine of power, humming to itself, in tune with the lands so far beneath it. The combined energies did not stop there.

Zemella. There is power in her, he thought, suddenly conscious of touching her. He felt…

His mind closed out the thoughts, afraid that she would reach around with her own mind and read them. He felt himself flushing, dreading the thought that she would sense this through his touch.

She has power, he thought. A sorceress. My elf blood is responding to hers. Surely it is no more than that.

Again he tore his mind away from contemplating the girl. Nyam had teased him, but was it that obvious that she had struck him dumb with … what? Reverence?

He looked across the cloudy expanses to the east. Rising thermals from the hot land of Valenar turned to banks of cloud up here—an endless quilt of milk, an ocean. The sun heated the company and the skies seemed devoid of other life, but Vaddi sensed something to the east, a huge bulk of movement, just below the white surface of cloud, as though a denizen of this tranquil sky-ocean swam there, effortlessly and lazily. Instinctively he knew what it was. The waking powers within him told him.

Dragon!

“Zemella,” he said in a whisper, so close to her ear that his tips almost touched her neck.

“I know,” she said, turning her head. “It travels on its own secret mission, heading far to the southeast.”

“Has it sensed us?”

“Probably. Who knows the minds of those majestic creatures? Their work is their own. To them we are no more than little birds. You see it?”

“No. I … just know it’s there. I can feel it.”

“In your blood.”

“Yes! That’s it. I can’t explain it.”

“You don’t have to. I understand.”

“Then you sense it also?”

She laughed very softly and his heart lurched.

“Do all elves feel this? Affinity for them?”

She shook her head. “No more than men do—or others in Eberron. There has been much blood spilled between dragons and elves in the past. Some revere them, some would war with them anew. Blood is a strange thing. High magic runs through it in some, none at all in others. Perhaps there is dragon blood in you.”

Then it is in you, too, he thought. We have that in common. It was an idea that elated him. He studied the eastern clouds, eager to catch a physical glimpse of the hidden creature, but he felt it moving away, its shape masked from him.

He felt something else within himself, a very different kind of power. Something negative. A cold presence, a shadow that cloaked his own, stirring emotions and powers. All his life this shadow had shifted within him, a sluggish parasite. I am an Orien, my father’s powers in me. I am dragonmarked, but I cannot yet unlock the powers that should come with this. What is it that holds me back? Why am I thus crippled? Time and time again he had agonized over this but to no avail. Perhaps the elf sorceress would know and could help him, but now was not the time to speak of it.

“Where are we bound for?”

“We will go to my city, Pylas Maradal. Your House has people there. You are related to its main representative, Kalfar Munjati. Do you know him?”

“No.”

“He is distantly related to your family through one of your mother’s brothers, who also married a human. He will give you sanctuary, though I am sure he will seek a fee. These Valenar Oriens are great ones for haggling!”

“Then perhaps I should let Nyam do the talking for me. It is an art form he is well versed in.”

“He is well known in Pylas Maradal. He has rivals there, some of whom would accord him a less than friendly welcome.”

“Then he is a trader?”

“Indeed, and a very successful one, for one reason or another! There will be time enough to explain this when we reach the city. We’ll be there before nightfall.”

“And you, Zemella? What will you do?” He did not want to contemplate the possibility that she would leave them.

“I must report back to my warclan, the Finnarra. They must be told of the movements of Caerzaal and this minions. They will send others to Taeris Mordel to watch the lands there, although now that the horn has eluded him, Caerzaal will quit the mountains. Be warned, Vaddi, you have not seen the last of Caerzaal, I think.”

He shuddered at the thought. “What exactly is the horn?” he said as softly as he could.

“When we reach Pylas Maradal, I will tell you more. It is for you only to know. Its safety is paramount. Let no one know you carry it. Not even Kalfar.”

“You do not trust him?”

“If I were you, Vaddi d’Orien. I would put your trust in no one.”

“I trust you.”

He could feel her smile. “An elf sorceress? You should be more careful.”

When they finally dropped down through the cloudbanks, the sun was falling in the west, spreading the heavens with a tide of color—reds and golds and deeper shades of violet over the sea far to the east. Below them was a land that differed markedly from the great expanses of the Talenta Plains. It was flattish, rolling steppes broken by fertile plains, well forested, with rivers gleaming in the dusk as they wound down to the inlets and shores of the coast. There were small hamlets visible but few major cities, and on the higher slopes. Vaddi was sure that he could discern numerous ruins from another age. He recalled what little he had heard of the Valenar lands and the beasts that were still said to roam them. The elf warclans were very active, and several had to keep a close watch on the lands of the western border, where the notorious Mournland intruded, but on this flight, those grim areas were mercifully out of sight, obscured by distance and twilight.

Pylas Maradal was far to the south of Valenar, on its southwestern coast, a large city sheltered from the storms of Kraken Bay by a curve of land. As they swept down toward its towers and minarets, Vaddi felt the blast of warm air come up to meet them. In spite of the hour, it was hot here, a climate altogether different to what he was used to in the north—humid and dusty. The smells from the city were new to him, too, a strange mixture of spice and sea, the deep blues of which washed up close to the harbor spread out like a map below him.

Zemella guided the hippogriff to one of the numerous towers that rose up from the city like a forest, their amazing architecture matched only by the splendour of their carvings and paintwork. Fascinated, Vaddi was almost disappointed not to be able to drink in more of this compelling vista as the hippogriff glided on to the wide, flat top of the tower, sheltered by a dome overhead, itself supported on four splendidly carved colonnades. These were etched around with dragon motifs, the work of artisans who must have spent incalculable hours perfecting their beauty, their homage to it. Around the rim of the flat space, several tall stone statues, also of dragons, gazed motionlessly out over Pylas Maradal from jewelled eyes.

Once the company had dismounted, Zemella led the hippogriff to the lip of the tower and spoke softly in the Valenar tongue. The beast turned to her and bent its head so that she could run her fingers through the thick mane of feathers. Then it spread its huge wings and took to the skies once more, bound for some private aerie. Vaddi watched, mesmerised more by Zemella than by the magic she had used. He heard Nyam cough discreetly at his elbow.

“Now where?” said the peddler, an insouciant grin on his face.

“I have a relation here by the name of Kalfar Munjati,” said Vaddi. “We should go to him.”

Zemella nodded. “I have to report to my warclan, though I will take you to Kalfar first.”

Cellester was frowning. “In Pylas Maradal, there are many factions, but the house of Kalfar is known to me.”

“While I would be only too pleased to enjoy the hospitality of the esteemed house,” said Nyam. “I would prefer to visit the harbor district. I used to have some friends in this port. Not seen them for years, but I’d wager a cart full of gold that they’re still hanging about the docks.”

Zemella smiled as if at a private joke.

“Only for the night,” added Nyam. “Perhaps I’ll wander back to the house of Kalfar after breakfast?”

Cellester’s frown deepened. “We have said before that we both owe you our thanks for your part in our getting here safely, peddler, but you owe us nothing. Consider all debts repaid.”

“Are you that anxious to be rid of me?” Nyam chuckled.

Cellester shrugged. “No. But I fail to see how Vaddi’s path and yours should interweave from now on. Surely your destiny lies with your own kind.”

“For my part,” said Vaddi. “Nyam is welcome to enjoy our company.”

“This is not the place to debate such things,” said Zemella. “Come to Kalfar’s house. Or not.” She turned on her heel and made for the only opening in the tower, a stairwell down into the tower’s heart.

“Better do as she says,” Nyam grinned at Vaddi, who glared back at him.

Zemella led them around the stairs into the growing gloom of the tower’s very roots. A number of Valenar soldiers were gathered in the room at the foot of the stairway, busily cleaning harness and honing their short swords. They eyed the company coolly but did not comment.

“Always ready for a fight,” Nyam muttered to Vaddi. “Valenar. Born to battle, believe me. Keep well clear of them.”

Vaddi was about to remind him that he had elf blood himself, but Zemella ushered them through a door and out into the street. Even at this time of the evening, the place was heaving with people, all shouting, bustling—busier, it seemed, than at any other time of the day. Vaddi tucked in close behind Zemella, who strode through the press like the prow of a ship cutting through a sea swell. Vaddi wondered if she was using any kind of spell to ease her passage.

“The docks lie that way,” she said, after they had gone info the heart of the city, pointing down a narrow alleyway that seemed half-choked with huge jars. They could smell the sea, pungent and redolent of fish. Masts bobbed up and down in the distance.

“I’ll be on my way, then,” said Nyam, and with no more than a brief pat on the shoulder for Vaddi, he was off down the alley, like a hungry tomcat on the scent of a meal.

Zemella was already pressing on. Some time later, having broken out of the bazaar-lined streets and the cramped stalls, they climbed a wider path that led to a cleaner residential district. There were a number of imposing edifices lining the landward side of the street looking out over the main bay. Zemella brought them to a pair of tall gates set into which was the unmistakable motif of a prancing unicorn. At once, two guards stepped from the shadows, pikes dipping through the rails of the gate.

“Who comes to the House of Kalfar Munjati?” growled one of them.

Zemella stepped forward. “The son of Indreen and distant cousin to your master. Tell him that Zemella of the Finnarra has brought him here, and be quick about it!”

Surprised at her tone, the two guards gaped through the rails at her. They were men themselves, and though they screwed up their faces at sight of the Valenar girl, her manner also instilled in them a degree of fear and respect that Vaddi could almost taste.

“You are related to Kalfar?” one of the guards said.

“Not me, you idiot! Here is Vaddi d’Orien”—she pointed at Vaddi—“from Marazanath.”

“Never heard of it.”

“That comes as no surprise. Now open the gates before I rip them down!”

She held up her fist and to Vaddi’s amazement, the guards reacted as if it contained a fireball that she would hurl at them. The gates swung easily open, the two guards bowing.

“Take Vaddi d’Orien and his companion up to the house,” Zemella ordered the guards. She turned to Vaddi and Cellester as they entered the gateway. “Go to Kalfar. I will return in the morning.”

Cellester stepped close to her. “The matter of Vaddi’s arrival here in Pylas Maradal must be treated with the greatest discretion,” he said softly. “We are grateful to you for your help, but no one other than Kalfar must know he is here.”

Her expression was unreadable. “Of course. Until tomorrow.”

With no more ado, she turned on her heel and melted into the growing shadows. Vaddi felt something of himself going with her, as though he had in that moment suddenly become incomplete, but he had no time to reflect. Cellester was urging him up the hill after the guard. The other clanged shut the gates behind them.

“Be guarded in what you say,” Cellester told him. “Let us hope he will be Orien enough to help you. Valenar thrives on intrigue.”

They waited in the wide atrium of the house while the guard spoke to someone within, and at length another servant met them. A tall, laconic man dressed in a white robe that seemed to depict an office of some importance in the Kalfar household, he bowed and ushered them inside. It was a still, warm night, and their host preferred to meet them in one of his many delightful gardens, which was lit by several cold fire lamps and numerous fireflies that had chosen the fragrant shrubbery as their base.

Kalfar sat on a wide dais, himself corpulent, his many colored robes resplendent, even in this light. He wore a vivid green turban and his face was even more be-whiskered than that of Nyam, his eyes twinkling as he beheld his guests. He struggled to his feet, his legs seemingly too short for his body, and set down the glass from which he had been sipping red wine. He opened his arms to Vaddi.

“My boy, my boy! Indreen’s son! A thousand delights to have you visit my humblest of abodes!” He embraced Vaddi, squashing the youth to his bosom as though the emotion of it all was too much for him.

“You know of me then?”

Kalfar released Vaddi and studied him as though looking over a valuable object, another jewel for his collection. On his fingers a dozen rings gleamed. “Of course, of course! Here in Pylas Maradal nothing escapes our ears. The elves, you know! Finest network of spies in all of Khorvaire. Some of us appreciate their skills.”

Vaddi was suddenly conscious of Cellester behind him. “Please, let me introduce a valuable friend. This is Cellester, a long-time servant of my father, Anzar Kemmal d’Orien.”

Kalfar shuffled before Cellester and eyed him keenly.

“I know of you,” said Kalfar. “You served Anzar and Indreen with distinction.”

“It was my honor,” said Cellester.

“Good, good. Now, before we talk, you must eat, eat!” Kalfar clapped his hands and like emerging wraiths, two servants materialized from the shadows. Kalfar rattled off some instructions to them, then waved his guests to some seats. “Well, well. Here you are then. Good, good. So what brings you to this remotest of outposts, this far-flung bastion of civilization?”

Vaddi smiled. “Pylas Maradal may be remote, sir, but it struck me as the most thriving of places. Its excitement, its pulse, hit me like a wave. I am used to far more modest surroundings.”

“Yes, yes. The north. Or to be precise, the northeast. Karrnath. I went there, once. A bit too gray for my taste, though I mean no disrespect, Vaddi.”

“Of course not. But to answer your question, I have come here out of necessity. My news of Marazanath is not good.”

Kalfar’s eyes lost their twinkle, and he sat back with a deep sigh. “I know what you are going to say. Word reached us already.”

He was interrupted as the servants brought in the first of the food, cold meats and succulent vegetables. Kalfar motioned for his guests to eat and both Vaddi and Cellester helped themselves to the splendid fare. Kalfar watched them, sipping his wine thoughtfully.

Cellester broke the lengthy silence. “You know what has happened at Marazanath?”

Kalfar seemed to be holding down an outburst of deep anger. “I am so sorry, Vaddi,” he said, shaking his head. “Your father and your half-brothers, all murdered. I know who is behind it, as I know who is behind so much of the trouble and the rebellions and the evils in the north. Pah, the north? The accursed minions of the Claw are at work everywhere. Like rats they infest every part of Khorvaire.”

“Cellester and I left Marazanath for fear of being caught up in the Claw’s schemes.”

“The Claw wants no witnesses to its treachery,” Cellester cut in.

“No doubt,” said Kalfar, “but that treachery is known here.”

“Can you tell us what news you have of Marazanath?” Cellester asked. “We left in secret and in haste. Whatever news you have received will undoubtedly be more recent than any we could give you.”

“Yes, yes. Well, as far as I can tell there’s nothing but chaos up there. A local warlord named Kazzerand is sending knights in to disperse the brigands who overran Marazanath. The hold will fall under his stewardship, which means his grip on the lands grows stronger.”

Cellester looked at Vaddi.

“I see what is written on your face, cleric,” said Kalfar, “and what it implies. This Kazzerand is no ally to the Oriens. Not at all.”

“You know the history?”

“Who does not? Kazzerand hated your father, Vaddi. As good as exiled him. Left him isolated. It may even be that Kazzerand is in some way in league with agents of the Claw. You did well to get away.”

“My future is unclear,” said Vaddi, looking into the darkness as though he could see the bleak northern landscape there, “but my family should be avenged.”

“Is your intention to return there?” said Kalfar.

“At the moment I am not sure.”

“Stand against Kazzerand? You would have a claim, as the surviving member of your family there. But it’s risky, risky.”

They ate and drank in silence, each deep in thought for a while.

“What of you, good cleric?” said Kalfar. “You will go with him? Be his shield?”

Cellester nodded. “I am so sworn, but we may not have to travel alone.”

“Ah, you have allies in this potential venture?” said Kalfar, brightening.

“Possibly. I have not been to Pylas Maradal for some time, but there are men here who might assist us.”

“Paladins?” said Kalfar. “You need men of such ilk. I do have my contacts, but alas, the cost of soliciting such men would be prohibitive. Unless you have access to substantial funding?” His eyes gleamed with expectancy.

Vaddi could not help but grin. “I think not, Kalfar.”

Cellester shook his head. “Alas, no, but there may be men here who would stand under the unicorn banner and fight for the honor of Anzar and Marazanath. I will go into the city tonight and begin a search for them.”

“If it’s a fight you want,” said Kalfar, eyes still illuminated, “what about the Valenar? Get a warclan together and let them loose! Teeth of dragons, they’d love a scrap. Got any connections there? Wait, didn’t Abdas, my steward, say that a Valenar warrior-girl brought you here? In fact, didn’t he say it was Zemella?”

“You know her?” said Vaddi.

“Zemella? Yes, of course! From the esteemed Valenar family of Dendris, your mother’s family, Vaddi. Zemella, yes, she’s a fine girl. Hard bargainer! Very hard. Especially where livestock are concerned. I tell you, I’d rather have her bargaining on my behalf than against me. Mind you, she charges commission at criminal, criminal rates.”

Vaddi listened to the flood of words with both confusion and a renewed fascination for the Valenar girl.

Cellester was more guarded. “We must consider her then,” he said. “In the meantime, I hope you will not be offended if I go into the city.”

“Not at all, not at all.” Kalfar nodded. “Do you need a guide? But no, I am sure you prefer to handle things in your own way. No doubt you have connections.”

Once they had eaten, the servants cleared away the plates and Kalfar sent for Abdas, the tall steward who had brought his guests to him. “Cellester is leaving us for a while,” Kalfar told him. “See that he has anything he needs.”

Cellester rose and bowed. “You will be safe here,” he told Vaddi quietly. “I will come to you again soon. Keep certain things hidden,” he whispered.

Vaddi nodded. Moments later he was alone with Kalfar.

“A powerful man,” said his host. “One senses such things. He once served the Church of the Silver Flame before he took post at your father’s house.”

“I take it you know of him, from what you said?”

“It would have been indiscreet of me to say too much. How well do you know him, Vaddi?”

Vaddi felt Kalfar’s eyes upon him, as though they would draw something out of him. Appearances were deceptive. Kalfar was no fool. For a moment Vaddi was lorn between his lingering uncertainties about the cleric and the fact that Kalfar, relation or not, was a complete stranger.

“I daresay that I know less about him than you do.”

“I am glad you are honest with me, Vaddi. I will be honest with you. Your father praised the cleric and called him loyal. He would not have it any other way, but there was one thing he did not know. I will tell you this thing, for you are of my blood.”

Vaddi felt himself stiffen. Something inside him shifted, but he waited, the night utterly silent around them.

“The cleric loved your mother, Indreen. That is not to say that he was her lover, not at all. He revered her too much for that. Many men loved and respected her, but Cellester loved her deeply. It was no crime and he did not speak of it to others. But such feelings cannot remain hidden from those who have the gift of seeing within.”

“Then that is why Caerzaal taunted him,” said Vaddi, a flood of understanding dawning on him.

“Caerzaal?” said Kalfar, as though Vaddi had jabbed him with a hot iron. “Shades of the Dragon! What have you to do with that monster?”

“First finish your tale of Cellester.”

“He masked his love for Indreen, and he served your family well. There were those in your father’s house who did not trust Cellester, who said that he was like an ill omen, a stain on the court. Some went so far as to hint that there was an affair, but my spies tell me that was never so. Your mother and father were devoted. You were born out of their love. Maybe that’s why this cleric protects you as he does.”

“He could never tell me.”

“Of course not! And you must never let him know that you are aware of this.”

“Then I have been wrong not to trust him.”

Kalfar was frowning. “I am not sure, Vaddi. I am a naturally suspicious man. A trader a haggler, a hunter of bargains, I did not win this palatial home without resorting—occasionally—to devious means. There are more than a few who do not trust me entirely. And you! You have met me but a moment ago! Do you trust me?”

Vaddi felt himself coloring, but he covered his embarrassment with a laugh.

“Don’t answer that!” Kalfar chuckled.

“You have no reason to harm me, I think.”

“None at all. We are of one blood. It should be enough, but be careful. There are those you can trust, I promise you. On my blood.”

“The Valenar sorceress?”

“Ah, my boy, do I detect a quickening of the pulse? Zemella? She is a rare gem, is she not?”

“Well, yes, she’s a fine girl.”

Kalfar sat back and guffawed. “A fine girl! One way of putting it. Well, whether your feelings have completely colored your judgement of her or not, I can tell you that she is one you can trust. The blood of Dendris runs through her veins and yours. It is said that it is one of the oldest families of the elves and comes with dragon blood. Such things bind deeply, Vaddi, so you can trust Zemella with your life.” He leaned forward, suddenly very serious. “Mark that. With your life.”

“She was waiting for me at Taeris Mordel.”

Kalfar grunted. “Not a chance meeting then. But enough of this, I want to hear about that other creature, Caerzaal.”

Vaddi spent some time going over his flight from the north ami the meetings with Caerzaal. Kalfar listened enrapt, alternatively gasping and cursing. The vampire lord seemed to be particularly revolting to him, as though he had also once had the misfortune to cross paths with him, Voorkesh seemed to fascinate him, for he had heard of it but assumed that it was the figment of someone’s tortured imagination.

“This peddler intrigues me,” said Kalfar during a break in Vaddi’s narrative. “Nyam Hordath? If he’s been active in Pylas Maradal before, I ought to know of him.”

“He’s gone in search of old cronies.”

“And you say he’s coming back? Here? To meet you here?”

“So he says. I have grown somewhat fond of him.”

“So you trust him?” said Kalfar, brows knitting in a deep frown.

“So far he has done much to help me, and Zemella clearly trusts him.”

“But he’s a common peddler! Does it not occur to you that he’s hitched his wagon to yours in order to capitalize on your fortunes? Nyam Hordath? Why am I not able to recall that name?” He clapped his hands twice and the tall form of Abdas appeared like a mirage. “Abdas, can you think of anyone we have had dealings with, officially or otherwise, by the name of Nyam Hordath? A peddler from the north. No special traffic.”

“I will look into the matter, master,” said Abdas with a bow, and he left as discreetly as he had arrived.

“Stickler for details,” said Kalfar approvingly. “Marvellous brain, marvellous.”

“Do you think that Zemella will help me?”

“Call up her warclan? Maybe. She’s a restless type, like a lot of these Valenar. Your pardon, Vaddi, present company excepted, but you know what I mean. You like her, then?”

“Well, I don’t know her.”

“Ask her to help. Tell her you’re going north to wreak havoc among the Claw’s vermin. The Valenar, especially the Finnarra warclan, love a fight!”

Vaddi grinned. “We were hoping to travel quietly. Would a Valenar warclan be able to slip into Karrnath unnoticed?”

“You’d be surprised! Especially by the Finnarra. Ah, Abdas, that was quick. Very quick. News, I take it?”

The steward came back into the room with no more than a whisper of his robes.

“Indeed, master, Nyam Hordath appears to be the latest alias of, among others, Daal Hashard, Bereth Alendi, Tutos Munnermal … need I go on?”

“Tutos Munnermal? Munnermal? I know that name.”

Vaddi was intrigued. “From where?”

“Abdas will correct me if I am wrong, but three years ago, someone of that very name swindled me out of a whole string of superb clawfoots. A so-called dealer for the Talenta Clans, the halflings. Nasty lot to deal with. Munnermal was the broker.”

“He cheated you?”

“The halflings, too. Swapped thoroughbreds for a scrawny bunch from the Blade Desert. And he is coining to meet you tomorrow? This meeting I will enjoy.”

10 Dockland Intrigue

Vaddi was provided with a huge bedroom, lavishly decorated and stuffed with gorgeous drapes, carvings, rugs and all manner of luxury. Clearly Kalfar believed in enjoying life to the full and spared no expense in ensuring that his home, guest rooms included, was second to none. As Vaddi sank into the huge bed, none of the finery mattered. He could think of only one thing—the Valenar girl. He closed his eyes and fell again the heady pleasure of the flight from Taeris Mordel, their closeness, the scent of her hair. He forced himself to focus on other things.

Kalfar. Apparently a blood relative, so there seemed to be no reason not to trust him. But Nyam! If things were as Kalfar said, it was no wonder he would not come here. He said he would return in the morning, but will he? Perhaps he feels his work is done.

Vaddi sat on the edge of the bed. “Zemella,” he said softly, repeating the name.

Across the thickly carpeted floor, a huge window opened on to the warm night, a spangled sky arching over the city. Bright moonlight flooded in. By its glow. Vaddi saw something move. A long velvet drape partially obscured a pillar by the window. Something hid there, some living thing.

Vaddi eased silently from the bed and picked up his sword. He inched forward, poised to strike. A few feet from the window, the bottom of the curtain flicked out like a huge tongue and wrapped itself around his sword arm. In the few seconds it took him to disentangle it, a swordpoint danced before his eyes.

“If you are to survive in Pylas Maradal, Vaddi d’Orien, you’ll need quicker wits than that,” said a soft voice.

“Zemella? What are you doing here?” he said, immediately feeling stupid for having said it as she stepped out of the shadows.

She sheathed her sword. “I heard you call me.”

“Heard me?”

“There are things I must tell you privately. Sit down. Here.” She picked up his weapon and handed it to him. He took it, still bemused.

“I don’t have long.”

They sat together on the bed and he wondered if she could feel his heart thundering inside his chest, but she made no show of it.

“I have spoken to others in the city. It is a constant hive of activity. Traders from all parts of Khorvaire and beyond come here. Since the War, it has been a center of intrigue and treachery, plot and counterplot. It seems everyone is for sale.”

“And you?”

“Up to a point, but there are things I value. Is the talisman safe?” She was as taut as a bowstring, every inch a warrior.

Her question took him by surprise, but he reached for his shirt, balled up beside the pillow. The horn was inside it, tightly wrapped in leather.

“No, don’t remove it. Better it stays concealed. It is a very dangerous thing.”

“Can you tell me more about it?”

“Erethindel, the sacred horn. It is not what it seems. No one is sure who carved its runes. The Valenar believe it is not a horn but a tooth. A dragon’s tooth.”

Vaddi gaped at her. In the moons’ glow she looked like an exquisite statue, her lines perfect. He felt himself trembling, not daring to move.

“It has been disguised as a unicorn’s horn, and some time in the past was given to Indreen, your mother, to protect. It houses great power, but this power is impotent on its own. If it is to be released, Erethindel must be wielded by someone of the blood.”

“Dragon blood?”

“Yes. Have you used its power?”

Slowly he nodded. He told her about the island of the undead.

“You risked much in this.”

“Then there is dragon blood in me?”

“Yes.” She seemed cool, almost aloof.

“What does it mean?”

“No one is certain, but Erethindel seems to have been empowered by the dragons of Argonnessen either to control elven magic or to combine with it. It is an enigma to us. Perhaps Erethindel is a relic of former times. It is said to be capable of great good or great evil, depending who wields it. For this reason, the elves were reluctant to put it to use, not trusting its powers. It was given to Indreen to keep safe, far from Aerenal and Valenar.”

“Then that is why Caerzaal wanted me alive!”

“The vampire lord. Yes, when I realized just how much of a force he had drawn up around Taeris Mordel, I knew the Emerald Claw was desperate.”

“What would Caerzaal have done?”

“Bound you to him and the Claw. You would have become one of the undead. As Caerzaal’s slave, you would have been forced to use the horn. To give blood, dragon blood, to him and his vile army through the horn. Once you fill the horn with your blood, those who drink from it are empowered.”

Vaddi stared at the shirt bundle in horror. “Perhaps it should be destroyed.”

“Perhaps. But you cannot remain here in Pylas Maradal. A thousand eyes will be on you. Mostly enemies. Caerzaal would not dare set foot here himself, but the Claw has agents everywhere. I have seen them already.”

“Then I must leave with all haste. And you? Will you help me?” And come with me? he wanted to add.

“I will go back now. There are friends I must speak to, and I will arrange for us to leave Pylas Maradal secretly.”

“What of the others? Cellester and Nyam?”

“We can only wait for so long. If they are not here tomorrow, we’ll leave word for them with Kalfar. He can be trusted, but he does not need to know that you carry Erethindel! He would not take it from you by force, Vaddi, but he might think it would be safer with him.”

“Where should it go?”

“I am not sure, but it must never leave you.”

She rose slowly, stretching like a cat. He made to get up, but she put a hand on his shoulder, gently but firmly keeping him down. He reached for her fingers and touched them.

“Sleep now,” she said.

“Sleep? I cannot sleep, not knowing you are out there—”

She laughed, bent down, and brushed his lips with hers before he realized what she had done. At once he felt a warm glow, as if she had released a spell to calm him. Slowly, inch by inch, he slipped back into the folds of the cushions. He was asleep before she reached the window.

The sound of thunder woke him, then he realized with a start that it was the thick wooden door to his chamber. Someone was outside, knocking on it. As he got out of bed, he could still taste the swift kiss of the sorceress. She had imparted something with it, a breath of power, perhaps, that had entered his very blood. He could almost hear it singing in his veins. And something else … the shadow, the ever-present block that constantly held him in check. It was still there, but it had weakened.

“I’m coming!” he called, going to the door. Yes, there could be no doubt of it: he felt lighter of foot, clearer of head. Zemella had brushed him with power. Beyond the door, one of Kalfar’s servants stood.

“Lord, Master Kalfar desires your presence as soon as is convenient. We have a visitor, lord. One who is known to you.”

Downstairs, Kalfar waited, dressed no less magnificently than the previous evening—this time with a rich, purple turban encrusted with a burst of gemstones, as though he were the overlord of the city. Vaddi’s eyes went from the portly figure to the others in the chamber. In its center, flanked by two armed guards, their pikes hovering at his back, was Nyam, eyes blazing, beard bristling with indignation.

As Vaddi approached, the peddler waved his hat about, the feathers flapping in the air. “Vaddi, will you tell this lunatic who I am?”

Vaddi turned to Kalfar. “What has happened?”

Kalfar folded his arms over his broad chest and chewed his lip for a moment. “It seems that this fellow was caught lurking about in the street outside my home.”

“Lurking?” Nyam gasped. “Lurking? That is outrageous!”

“Lurking, skulking, creeping about … it’s all the same to me. An honest man would have come to the gates and called for egress.”

“Preposterous,” insisted Nyam. “I am in a strange city. These are perilous times. I am a cautious man, as any sensible fellow would be.”

“Pah! Let us dispense with deceit. Vaddi, this man claims to know you. Is he that same Nyam Hordath who lately fled with you from Karrnath?”

“Indeed, Kalfar,” Vaddi replied, trying to sound solemn, though he could not help but smile. “The very same. I am sure he is right about caution. We have both had good reason to go about our business carefully.”

“There!” said Nyam. “My identity is confirmed.”

Kalfar drew from its sheath a huge, curved scimitar and tested the sharpness of its blade. “Were I to remove that expansive bird’s nest of a beard, what other identity would be confirmed? Are there any clawfoot traders buried beneath that avalanche of hair?”

Nyam sustained his indignation. “Clawfoot trader? Do I look like one?”

“Are you a man of honor?” Kalfar snapped. “Well?”

Nyam looked to Vaddi. “I trust that Vaddi will vouch for me on that score.”

Vaddi stepped closer to the peddler. “The truth, Nyam. I have trusted you. Have you been to Pylas Maradal before under another name?”

Nyam drew himself up, preparing to unleash a stream of denials, but as his eyes met Vaddi’s, he instead released a huge breath, which seemed to reduce him to almost half his size. His hands flapped briefly at his sides.

“Ah, what is the point of deception?”

“You were once known as Tutos Munnermal?” said Vaddi, still unable to remove the smile from his face entirely.

“Possibly,” muttered Nyam.

“Speak up, speak up!” growled Kalfar.

“Oh, yes, yes. You have me at a disadvantage. Yes, I once used that name.”

“When you swindled me! You were supposed to bring me a string of thoroughbred clawfoots, and you duped me with creatures fit only to be boiled down for soup! I spent six months hunting you.”

“I can only offer my deepest apologies. I did it for good reason.”

“Good reason? Yes, to fatten your purse. Where did the string end up?”

“It was during the War,” said Nyam.

“I know that!” thundered Kalfar. “They were for the halflings!”

“There were others in the north who needed them more. People less fortunate, whose homes were being overrun.”

Kalfar was spluttering with rage.

He means his family! thought Vaddi. Their land, his wife, his sons …

“I am in your debt,” Nyam told Kalfar, bowing his head.

“Yes, indeed. Indeed you are. So how will you pay me?” The huge sword hovered menacingly.

“Kill me if you must, but I doubt that you’ll profit much.”

“No,” said Vaddi. “Kalfar—”

“You are bound to me, Nyam Hordath. A debt of honor. You agree?”

“How could I not?”

“Then you can discharge it. If you are honorable.”

“You have only to say—”

“The time of words is over. Time for deeds. Now you have a remarkable network. You must have to have evaded me for as long as you did. You seem capable of slipping in and out of every nook and cranny the length and breadth of Khorvaire. I want you to use that skill now. You see this young man? He needs to travel to Thrane, secretly, deviously. Who better to shield him and guide him but you? Do this, be his protector at all times, and your debt to me is discharged.”

Nyam looked at Kalfar in surprise. “Would Vaddi not be safer in the hands of a real escort, armed men, a warclan even?”

Vaddi was also looking askance at Kalfar.

“I think not. If you can move about so freely, so much the better for Vaddi. Armed warriors, elves or men, would stand out and attract attention from every eye. And as the agents of the Emerald Claw are also eager to get their talons on you, an armed parly would be like a beacon to them. So do we have a deal?”

Nyam turned to Vaddi. “Have you decided on a course?”

Vaddi nodded. “My family must be avenged.”

“Very well,” said Nyam. “I promise to undertake this.”

The momentary silence was broken by a discreet cough. It was Abdas and he held a letter. Kalfar nodded and the steward handed the missive to his master.

“This is for Vaddi. An educated hand.” Kalfar passed it to Vaddi.

Vaddi opened if, surprised by its message. “It is from Cellester. He has been delayed. He seeks aid for us, but it will be a week before he is able to join me here. He urges me to prevail upon you, Kalfar, to host me until then.”

“Does he indeed? You may stay in my house as long as you wish, but I am not so sure that is wise. Your enemies are bound to learn you are here.”

“Since you have bought my service,” said Nyam, again inflating himself. “I should begin at once. I know a safe house or two in the city.”

“Yes,” agreed Kalfar. “Move quickly. What of this … Cellester? Is he to join you?”

Nyam looked at Vaddi. “It’s your decision.”

“I am unsure of him,” said Vaddi, “but I will not abandon him. Not yet anyway.”

“Then when he comes,” Nyam said to Kalfar, “tell him to find word of me at the Black Mare’s Nest.”

“Ha!” Kalfar guffawed. “That poxy rat hole! I should have known. I doubt that there’s a rougher, more run-down, shoddy pit on the entire waterfront! It’s a brave man who ducks his head under those beams.”

“It has its advantages.” Nyam grinned. “Shall we go?”

Vaddi embraced Kalfar, who muttered something about not even bothering to stay for breakfast.

“Tell Cellester where we are, and if Zemella should seek me—”

“Of course, my boy.” Kalfar grinned enormously. “Of course.”

An hour before dawn, before Vaddi had awakened, Pylas Maradal fell quiet, though not altogether silent, for there were always those who prowled its streets on secret errands or on dubious business. Dark bargains were struck and strange, exotic commodities exchanged hands while the majority of the Valenar slept. Fortunes were won and lost at the turn of a blade.

Weaving cat-like through the alleyways near the docks, the girl blended with the shadows, well used to the mysteries of her city. Many of the remaining night prowlers did not even see her, but those who did pretended not to notice. This was not an hour for conversation.

Zemella was conscious, however, that she had attracted the attention of someone. More than one of them, she sensed. She slipped her sword from its scabbard, ready to use it. It would not have been the first time she had fought her way out of an alley scrap. A smile played on her lips. A little exercise before dawn would not be unwelcome.

The smile dissolved as she saw the three figures slide from the shadows ahead of her. They were no common thieves. Nor were they Valenar. But they were elves—faces painted deathly white, hands equally as pale, swords at the ready. She eschewed any discussion and launched herself at them, her own blade a blur. The air hummed and she could taste the sorcery in it.

Behind her, others closed in, mouthing spells. She wove her own net of magic about her, but these creatures were powerful and the air continued to crackle, drowning out the clash of blades. Ordinarily Zemella would have been more than a match for any skulking band of cutthroats and they would have been dead or maimed in a matter of moments.

Not so this dark brethren. They kept her at bay, front and back, but drew her onward down the alley to a low doorway that opened into darkness. Zemella could smell deeper sorcery within. Spells like thick spider webs threatened to engulf her, her blade forced to weave an even tighter protective circle. She wounded two of her opponents, but others stepped into their breach. They said nothing, wide eyes fixed upon her.

She redoubled her efforts, her blade whirling, drawing thin blood on more than one opponent, but the combination of numbers closed in like the coils of a serpent. A sudden bolt of light burst over her shoulder, blinding her. Dazed, her arm went numb and her blade clattered to the cobblestone. At once she fell swords at her throat and a knife held against her midriff.

“Come with us and live,” said a sibilant voice through the haze of the spell.

Gripped by their twisted power, she had no alternative.

“Kalfar Munjati is as parsimonious as they come, relative or not!” Nyam snorted between mouthfuls of hot broth and freshly baked bread.

He sat opposite Vaddi in a cramped booth in the notorious dockside inn, the Black Mare’s Nest. Although it was still the breakfasting hour, the inn was stuffed with sailors, travellers and others of questionable trade and disposition. The morning pipesmoke curdled overhead among low beams, mingling with the remnants of the previous night’s.

Vaddi, eyes streaming, concentrated on his food, which was good, and closed out the reek and the noise around him. “Why do you say that? We could have eaten with him.”

“Aye. But he has spared his purse by hiring me. At no cost. Whatever family ties he has with you and whatever obligation he might feel toward you, he has discharged cheaply! Cleverly done.”

“He owes me nothing.”

“He’s an Orien!”

“Only by marriage. He’s no heir. So what was all that about clawfoot trading and swindling him?”

Nyam looked sheepish. “It’s a long story. I did put one over on the old skinflint, it’s true, but it was no more than he deserved.”

“Well, I won’t hold you to your agreement with him.”

Nyam chewed hungrily, watching Vaddi, frowning.

“I can’t expect you to tie yourself to me and my cause,” said Vaddi.

“You have doubts about returning to the north?”

Vaddi’s look hardened. “Those who murdered my family will be brought to account.”

“I will do as I promised and stay with you. To protect what you carry.”

“Tell me, why did you come to his house? They caught you outside it. You must have known you would be in trouble with Kalfar if he saw you.”

Nyam chuckled. “Thought my beard would fool him. But I wanted to give you some news. After I left you last evening, I thought I’d find out what the cleric was about.”

“You followed him?” said Vaddi, surprised.

“Up to a point. Then I had some friends of mine keep an eye on him, I would like to believe he is your ally, but his knowledge of that undead … thing disturbs me. We have saved each others’ lives, yes, but it was in his interest, too.”

“I cannot be sure of him either.”

“My contacts will be here soon. More food?”

“No, thank you. That’s another thing. I have no money.”

Nyam patted his robe and it jingled. “That’s no problem. I found a little something on that airship.”

“You stole it?”

“Dead men don’t need coins.” Nyam laughed. “I can see I’ve a lot to leach you if you’re to survive, especially in this part of the world. I’ve deflected half a dozen grasping fingers already. Pickpockets. Pylas Maradal seethes with them.”

“So where are we to go now?”

“After we have seen my contacts, I suggest we consider passage on another airship. We can travel as traders. This time we’ll take some support so that we’ll deter any of Caerzaal’s minions from open attack.”

“We travel today?”

Nyam grinned. “Why? Is there someone you wish to see first? A certain sorceress, by any chance?”

Vaddi was about to retort but sat back with a laugh. “Yes, all right. You know I like her—”

“Like her? Is that what you call it!”

“Nyam!” said Vaddi, flushing and looking around at the press of bodies, expecting to see everyone grinning at him. “Of course I like her. I can’t just walk out of here without seeing her.”

Nyam leaned forward, his grin for a moment set aside. “You are sure? Safer if we slip away like mist.”

“I must see her, Nyam.”

Nyam nodded slowly. “I understand.”

“Last night she visited me.”

“Oh-ho! Did she indeed?”

Vaddi colored. “Only briefly! Just to explain something of the history of—” he tapped his chest. “She spoke of helping me to leave. She was going to try and arrange for something, so I can’t just go.”

“No.”

“She kissed me,” he said softly, as if to himself, and in saying it he felt again the magic of that fleeting moment, the strange power that it had awakened in him.

Nyam was scratching his beard. “I see. Passions are aroused …”

“No, it was a brief kiss, barely a touch.”

“Not a real kiss then?”

“No … well, yes! I don’t know, it unlocked something—”

Nyam groaned.

“What?”

“Nothing, nothing. Go on.”

“I have felt constrained for so long, yet now, something is working loose in me. Like … I don’t know. Like a thorn in the flesh, set in deep, and then it slowly rises to the surface.”

“It’s called love, Vaddi.”

“No, not that. Well, yes, it is that, but there is more.”

“Well, I can see a difference in you. A glow. Must be your elf blood.”

Before they could continue their conversation, two burly ruffians elbowed their way to the table and squeezed themselves on to a bench, swapping crude curses with the existing occupants. Just when it seemed there would be a brawl, the former occupants edged up the bench, grumbling about it never being too early for sticking warthogs. Like dogs growling over a bone, all parties settled down to an uneasy truce. Vaddi tried not to gape at the two newcomers and Nyam laughed aloud.

“Allow me to introduce Skaab and Thucknor. Vaddi.”

The two pirates, for Vaddi thought they could be nothing but freebooters, given that their rough dress, sea-beaten features and gnarled hands proclaimed it for all to see, grunted their rude greetings to the youth, showing their teeth, such as they were, in brief but ghastly grins.

Vaddi nodded but found it hard to speak.

“What news have you brought me?” said Nyam.

The bigger of the two, Skaab, was a man twice the girth of most, with a striped shirt that had long since given up being buttoned. His enormous gut, singularly hairy, bulged. He leaned forward, though with difficulty. “We ’ad your man followed. The cleric. Last night. ’E was a busy bird, that one.”

Someone from the bar leaned over the table and prepared to set down a tray of huge tankards, foam slopping over their rims. Skaab and Thucknor scooped up a tankard each before they had been set down. Nyam produced a coin and gave it to the barman. Vaddi tried not to grimace at the treacle-like ale. Nyam sipped his own.

“Go on, Skaab.”

“ ’E came down ’ere to the docks.”

“Aye,” snorted Thucknor, who was marginally less rotund than his mate. “Keeps strange company.”

Nyam leaned forward. “Quietly now.”

“Y’know Vortermars? Captains a privateer up and down this southern coast, between Darguun and Q’barra.”

“Yes, I know him,” said Nyam with a deep scowl. He glanced at Vaddi. “As big a roach as ever crawled out from under a barrel.”

Both Skaab and Thucknor laughed, an unnerving sound. “Well, the cleric met with his first mate, Gez Muhallah. Planned a little trip.”

“To where?”

Skaab looked around, but no one appeared to be trying to listen to them. “We know Gez. ’E’s a tight-lipped monkey, but we ’ad a few ales with ’im. It’s no secret that Vortermars makes the Aerenal run when it suits ’im.”

“What trade does he ply there?” said Nyam.

“Anything that others won’t touch,” grinned Skaab. “Forbidden stuff, like the rarer woods, drugs, artifacts …”

“So the cleric is bound for Aerenal?”

“Aye, with a valuable cargo, if Gez was to be believed.”

“Which was?”

“It took us a while to find out,” sniffed Thucknor, draining his ale and leaning back, as big a hint as he could give that he was still thirsty.

“You’ll have all the ale you can drink for a week, you dogs! Just tell me what you know.”

Skaab nodded. “Aye. We went down to the docks where the Sea Harlot was anchored up. Vortermars’s ship. Nice lines. Trim, fast.”

“Get on with it!” said Nyam.

“The cleric met elves, but they weren’t the ordinary types, not like you see all round Pylas Maradal. These were weird. Can’t put me finger on it. Painted for one thing. Cold fish. Didn’t like the smell of them.” Skaab sat back, shaking his head as though the thought of these elves disturbed him.

Nyam, too, looked deeply uneasy.

“What is it?” said Vaddi.

“If it is what I think, I am puzzled as to why the cleric should be trafficking with them. It can only mean the worse for us. So what happened?”

Thucknor took up the tale. “The cleric must have done some deal with these elves. We couldn’t hear it all, but we saw them agreeing something.”

“What was this cargo you spoke of?”

“A girl. Elf girl.”

Vaddi looked askance at Nyam, but then something crossed his mind, a grim shadow. He felt himself growing cold. “A girl? What did she look like?”

“Pretty piece,” said Skaab. “We saw ’er with the elves at dawn. They were taking ’er onboard the Sea Harlot. At swordpoint. And the air was ’umming with sorcery! Spells locking with spells. Six elves, all with power, otherwise she would’ve been too much to ’andle. She was … well, about the same age as the boy ’ere. Short, dark ’air, slim build.”

“Zemella!” breathed Vaddi, an icy fist gripping his heart.

“Aye, that was her name!” said Thucknor. “I heard the cleric say it.”

Vaddi’s mouth went dry. He turned a devastated look on Nyam. “Then Cellester is no ally after all. It has all been a deception!”

“Softly, my boy. What happened? The elves sailed with the girl. And the cleric?”

“He went with them. Bound for Aerenal.”

“Do you know which port?”

“Shae Thoridor initially. Unload a legitimate cargo. After that, the east coast, maybe. Even Gez Muhallah don’t pass on everything.”

“The girl was to be delivered to Shae Thoridor?”

“Dunno,” said Skaab and Thucknor in unison. “Unlikely. All the under’and stuff goes on elsewhere. You should know that, Nyam.”

Nyam sat back with a sigh. “Yes, I know it only too well.”

“What now?” said Skaab.

Vaddi looked intently at the peddler. “We must follow,” he said. “Wherever they have taken her, we follow. I cannot believe that Cellester means Zemella anything but harm.”

“Khyber’s shadows! I fear you are right, but why? Why has he abducted her?”

“So you’ll want passage to Aerenal?” said Skaab.

Nyam glanced at Vaddi. “Can you arrange it, promptly?”

“If you mean to give chase to the Sea Harlot and get into a ruckus with ’er, forget it. No one ’ereabouts will mess with Vortermars, especially as ’is ship is now dripping with sorcery. It’s faster than a gale with that accursed crew! Best go as a trader. In disguise, if you get me.”

“How soon?”

“We can get you on a ship before noon. Earlier if the money’s right.”

Nyam patted his robes and his coins clinked. He frowned at Vaddi. “The sooner we go, the better, Vaddi?”

Vaddi glared at him. “There’s no other course.”

“Yes, I thought as much. I fear that kiss is going to prove very expensive.”

11 Dark Crossings

In Xen’drik, in what had once been a gigantic temple to powers long buried under the weight of aeons, figures gathered, acolytes in a ritual they had been performing for days. They lit the braziers wherein strange and baleful fires glowed, filling the air above them with writhing mists and aerial phantoms, warped and misshapen. The cloaked ones chanted, the rhythm of their incantations ebbing and flowing, swelling the smoke-shapes in the air, giving life to them. Faces flowed out of that crawling fog—tortured faces, faces that contorted in pain, ethereal bodies straining to be corporeal, like prisoners desperate to be free of bonds that had gripped them for centuries. In the wide circle that was the floor of the ruin, cleaned of its debris and weeds, an immense pentacle had been unearthed, its etchings reeking with sorcery, the sigils and designs of its inner heart alien and blasphemous. They pulsed with life, like the veins of some gigantic beast on the edge of wakefulness.

High above this grim scene, a balcony jutted out from the tallest of the temple walls, where monstrous carvings had been cut into its height. The frozen grimaces of demons from beyond time’s long-lost edge howled silently over the gathering, as if adding fuel to the exhortations. A solitary shape leaned on the balustrade, looking down at its minions, watching with deep satisfaction their workings. Around the arena, hunched on its waits, black-winged creatures glared down, restrained by whatever sorcery crackled in the air. Soarwings, bred for warriors of the darkest kind, with sharpened claws and beaks like swords, had the appearance of demonic dragons, as though they would challenge even those masters of the skies if unleashed upon them.

Zuharrin smiled, but his eyes were like coals, hot and filled with power-lust, no hint of humanity in them. Steeped in the powers of ritual magic and demonology, the sorcerer had long ago forsworn his human heritage in search of darker paths to immortality and power. Soon he would be ready to perform the ultimate summoning of that power. As night gathers after sunset, so his power would follow from this working. Below him the acolytes continued with the endless preliminaries, preparing this once hallowed sanctuary, deep in the heart of time-ravaged Xen’drik, for the army that was to be born here. Below them, in the fathomless depths of Khyber itself, the great demon lord T’saagash Mal shrieked and howled in its snare, the dragon chains that had bound it there an eternity ago.

Soon! Zuharrin told himself. Aarnamor will bring the youth and that which he carries—the tools that will unlock this well and bring life anew to T’saagash Mal.

Movement behind him made him turn, his tall, bat-like frame blotting out the grey of the day. A grotesque figure approached from the tunnel, its gargoyle-face grinning up at him. Barely over a foot tall, like some misshapen dwarf, it was a homunculus, created by Zuharrin to run messages for him. It scraped its forehead on the stone floor, spreading scaly arms in supplication.

“Word from Valenar?” said Zuharrin.

When the creature spoke, its voice struggled with human tongue. “Yes, lord. The scouts you loosed sent back messages.”

“Does Aarnamor have the boy?”

“Not yet, lord. The Orien cur fell under the protection of an elf sorceress, but Aarnamor reports that in Pylas Maradal she was taken. Removed.”

“Killed?”

“No, lord. Not yet. She has been shipped to Aerenal. The cleric has seen to it.”

“Where is the Orien whelp?” snapped Zuharrin, his voice carrying the threat of pain.

“In Pylas Maradal, where he is among allies. Too dangerous to capture him there, but now he will follow her, lord. He knows she has been abducted, but not that the cleric was responsible. He has set the trap well.”

“To Aerenal! That is even more dangerous! If the elves recover the horn, I cannot secure it. Where is Aarnamor?”

“Waiting, lord. When the time is right, he will meet the cleric. There are many elves in Aerenal, lord. Some can be bought. The boy is of no value to them, except to sell to your servants.”

“The sorceress is not a threat?”

“No,” sniggered the creature. “A place is prepared for her, a bad place, where her magic will be of no avail. The Madwood.”

Zuharrin’s face shaped itself into a mirthless grin. The Madwood! Yes, that would be perfect. The wild forest, a living nightmare, remote from the world. The cleric had indeed done his work well.

“The boy will be easy meal, once he reaches Shae Thoridor. The Murughel elves, the Stillborn, will simply snare him there. There will be a trap set in the city with the promise of the elf girl as the bait. The Orien youth will not be able to resist it. Then he will be in the cleric’s hands once again. There are many places on the outskirts of Shae Thoridor where Aarnamor can meet them in secret. He will bring the boy and that which he carries to you.”

Zuharrin nodded. “Then I am content.”

The homunculus shuffled away and Zuharrin turned back to the mustering below, watching its movements with renewed relish. Soon. The great rebirth will be soon, and the dragons themselves will shudder, knowing their power is no longer supreme.

Cellester gripped the prow of the privateer and stared ahead at the heaving seas. They rose and fell in great swells, their tops breaking up into white spume that the wind flung away in tatters. The Sea Harlot was in the grip of greater powers, its sleek form like a living thing, magic propelling it at thrice its normal sailing speed through these waters. The cleric’s amulet glowed, adding to the powers at work, those of the dark elves and those of the captain, Vortermars. Cellester brooded on the events of the previous night, his face devoid of expression but his mind in turmoil.

“Pity my ship don’t always shift this quick, eh?” sniffed a voice at his back.

The cleric turned to meet the broken grin of the captain. He was dressed in plain clothes, proof against the gales and testing weather of these seas, coat belted tight. Twin swords and a long dirk hung from it, a reminder of his dubious trade.

“There is always a heavy price to pay for the use of such spells,” said Cellester.

Vortermars indicated the deck and the prisoner stowed below it. “She must be worth it. Special, is she?”

“All you need to know is that she is very dangerous.”

Vortermars screwed up his sea-tanned face. “That’s no lie! Wouldn’t have touched her but for the other elves. Know what you’re dealing with, eh? Murughel. Nasty bastards, but it took all their black power to keep her in check.”

“You’ll be paid well enough.”

“I ain’t complainin’. Your gold’s no different to anyone else’s. Don’t suppose it’ll be the last time I deal with the Stillborn. Since the War ended, Khorvaire’s a smoking ruin. Everyone’s looking after himself. Dog eat dog, eh?”

Cellester didn’t answer, eyes fixed on the horizon where Aerenal would eventually rise up.

“I could be of further service to you,” Vortermars went on, spitting over the rail. “There’ll be a hunt for this girl, no? Family, warclan, whatever. Eh?”

“Perhaps.”

“Sure as the sea’s the sea. Someone will miss her.”

Cellester eyed him coldly. “You are certain that I was not implicated in this? It is important that no one knows it was my work.”

“Crew’s as tight-lipped as they come, but she’s a sorceress. They’ll follow. If it’s just one ship, I could sink it and all its crew for you, elves or no. If it’s a fleet, I could lead it a right dance until it was way off the scent, eh?”

Cellester’s eyes widened. “No. I don’t want that, but there is more I need you to do.”

Vortermars scowled. “You want to be followed?”

“There’ll be a youth, an Orien, possibly in the company of a peddler. They may be protected.”

“Peddler, eh? Got a name?”

“Does it matter?”

“I stay alive by knowing who’s skulking about in my waters.”

“His name is Nyam Hordath.”

Vortermars snorted, again spitting into the sea. “Nyam Hordath, eh? Well, well. What’s that old fox sniffing around here for?”

Cellester masked his unease. “You know him?”

“There’s not a pirate sinkhole on these coasts that don’t. Been wheeling and dealing for years. Must have a bigger stash than any of us. So he’s with this Orien boy, eh?”

“Probably. The boy may also have help from a relative, Kalfar Munjati.”

Vortermars screwed his face up in confusion. “That don’t make no sense! Kalfar and Nyam Hordath don’t mix. Rival traders. If Nyam Hordath is with this Orien boy, Kalfar won’t be helping them.”

Cellester masked his relief. “Then it is likely that Vaddi Orien pursues us alone or with minimal support.” Even better, he thought.

“Like I said, easy matter for me to dispose of him for you, eh?”

“No. I want him to follow, but if you want to earn more gold, there is a way.”

Vortermars chuckled. “Always is.”

“Make sure that the youth reaches Aerenal safely. Keep your distance and don’t be seen. If anyone else has any ideas about waylaying him, forestall them.”

“Just to Aerenal? Shae Thoridor?”

“Yes. Once the boy has landed, I’ll deal with him.”

Vortermars nodded. “Easy money.”

I should have followed my instincts! Zemella said to herself, over and over again. The cleric. I knew there was something about him. Vaddi was not sure of him. I should have made sure he was watched in Pylas Maradal. Furious with herself, she pounded her fist into her palm.

Here, in this cramped cabin fit only for a dog, she was trapped, pinned down by stronger spells. They were the worst kind, Murughel, steeped in the black arts. They’d been little more than a sect of malcontents at first, but over the past few years they had become dangerous and ever more bold.

There was no point trying to batter the door down, either with her fists or with spells of her own. They had combined their powers to pen her in. Somewhere ahead, wherever they were bound for in Aerenal, for it was there they would take her, she knew, they would slip up. Inevitably, they would provide her with some kind of opening, and then, by the dragons, she would teach them to interfere with a warrior of the Finnarra.

She would will deal with this treacherous cleric. She was sure she knew why she had been abducted. The cleric had no wish to see Vaddi and his burden fall into the hands of the Emerald Claw. Nor did he want him to be welcomed into the halls of the Undying Elves, either in Valenar or in Aerenal. The cleric must have known that they did not seek Erethindel. It was her that Cellester feared! He realized she would become Vaddi’s guide—more than that, perhaps. Thus the cleric would lose his hold on Vaddi.

She began to piece it together. Vaddi said he had felt constrained, his power never properly loosened, like a knot inside him. Of course! The cleric has done this, held him in check for his own purposes. Why does he want control of Vaddi? Erethindel. Useless without Vaddi or one of dragon blood. He desires that power for himself or for someone else.

As the ship ploughed swiftly on to the elf homeland, she dug deeper into the mystery, its shrouds dissipating. The undead warrior, Aarnamor, is part of this! He came for Vaddi. If she had not struck him, crippling him on the bridge at Taeris Mordel, he would have taken Vaddi there and then. And the horn! Not for Cellester, but for whoever it is he serves. She tried to focus her mind, but there was nothing to indicate who this could be.

He was taking her out of Vaddi’s reach, where she could no longer be of help to him. Then, when Vaddi was helpless in Pylas Maradal, he would go back to him, begin again his deceit and lead him and his burden to his own master. Yet there was more to this. Why was the cleric onboard? She felt his presence, the stirring of the power he exercised in his own defense and in speeding the vessel onward.

He has allied himself to the Murughel, she thought. Does he labor for the ends of their vile cult? Is Erethindel for them? If so, then I am not merely being removed, I am a lure. Bait for Vaddi.

She stood, a fresh wave of fury washing over her. They would be in Shae Thoridor in another day. If she were to free herself, it must be there, before they could plunge her into whatever pit they had prepared for her.

Not for the first time that day, Vaddi was amazed at Nyam’s resourcefulness. He seemed to be able to pull from thin air the clothes, weapons, and provisions they needed for their pursuit of the Sea Harlot. The peddler’s connections in Pylas Maradal were remarkable and his credit was no less so. More than ever Vaddi was aware that Nyam was not the simple peddler he affected.

“Not that I’m prying into your past, Nyam,” said Vaddi, once he had changed into the nondescript but comfortable robes of a trader and strapped to a concealed belt a fresh dirk plus two other short swords, “but you seem well known to these people.”

Nyam grinned. “I confess I have had more than a few dealings along this seaboard, some that I’d rather not discuss! I’m just calling in a few favors, and I do have something set aside, as it were, against my needs.”

“And the ship?”

“There’s an elven trader bound for Shae Thoridor. Just delivered its cargo to the docks. Ostensibly rare woods from Aerenal.”

“You mean there was another cargo?”

“I know the captain. He wouldn’t miss a chance to earn some real gold. I suspect there was a weighty supply of contraband weapons onboard. The officials in Pylas Maradal try to control such things, but there’s a big demand for elf bows with certain forbidden spells woven into their grain. Dramman Wandel would prefer no passengers on the return, but he’ll take us.”

“Are you sure?”

Again Nyam laughed. “Oh, yes. We go back a long way, and what’s more, he’ll vouch for us in our new guises as traders.”

“And what are we trading in?”

“Rare woods. They have some of the finest in Eberron. We need a valid reason to be in Aerenal, and trading for wood will satisfy the authorities there.”

“What do we have?”

“We are negotiating on behalf of a certain Lord Kazzerand.”

“We are?”

“Indeed. We have the seal of Kazzerand himself.”

Vaddi’s eyes bulged as Nyam proffered a disc that seemed to be made of beaten silver. “But where did you get such a thing?”

“There are smiths in a certain quarter of Pylas Maradal who can reproduce anything. For a price, of course, but my credit is good.” He slipped the disc away.

Vaddi grinned, but inwardly his mind was in turmoil. There was so much about Nyam that he knew nothing about. True, he’d have been helpless here without him. But what did the peddler really want? Was he working for someone else? Surely not Kazzerand. That seal! Maybe it was genuine and he was in the warlord’s employ.

But no, Vaddi thought, I can’t believe it of him. And Zemella trusts him.

There was little time to deliberate, for they had to get to the harbor. Nyam led them through the maze of bazaars that were the perpetual flow of the lifeblood of Pylas Maradal. At last they fought their way to a narrow alleyway that led to a wharf where a ship buzzed with activity. As they went down the alley, a group of elf warriors materialized, blocking their retreat on either aide.

Nyam’s fingers closed over the haft of his sword, but these elves were armed and not to be provoked. Their spokesmen came close, deep green eyes locking with the peddler’s.

“Nyam Hordath,” he said in a cold, crisp voice. Although not as tall as a man, he exuded power and seemed to overshadow the peddler.

“What business do you have with me?”

“I am Ardal Barragond. You do not know me. These elves are part of the Finnarra. You are sailing on yon trader?”

“What if I am?”

“I know the cargo you seek. On Vortermars’s ship.” The elf lowered his voice to just above a whisper.

“What about it?” Nyam held Vaddi gently in check, sensing the youth’s sudden concern.

“She is of our clan. If she is harmed, there will be much blood spilt in her name. I would not have her harmed.”

“Nor I,” said Nyam. “We seek to free her.”

“As do I.”

“We dare not go in force. This has to be done very carefully. If our enemies suspect we are close, they will outnumber us. Even your warriors would be compromised.”

Ardal nodded. “I am sure you are right, but one of us will go with you. Perhaps not by your side, as that would invite suspicion, but it would not be unusual for a Finnarra to travel to Aerenal.”

Nyam hesitated, but then nodded. “You know that the Murughel are involved in this?”

“Yes. They have grown in power in Aerenal. They have made alliances that other elves would shudder at.”

“Which of you is to go?”

“I myself,” said Ardal.

“Then come.” Without further ado, Nyam brushed past the Finnarra warriors. Ardal spoke briefly to them and followed the peddler and Vaddi.

Vaddi was beset by new doubts. What, precisely was the relationship of this elf to Zemella? They were in the same warband, yes, but was there more to it than that? Could Ardal be Zemella’s lover? The thought filled him with horror. He had never even considered the possibility that she already had someone, but why should he have been so unreasonable! Of course, it made perfect sense.

But he had no time to torment himself further. Nyam was finalizing the arrangements for them to get aboard the ship. Once they had embarked, Vaddi settled near the prow. The ship cast off from the harbor and Pylas Maradal was soon a distant outline on the receding shore.

Vaddi felt the power of the sea around them, the enormous energies locked beneath the waves. They seemed to speak to him, and again he felt the gradual release of power within himself, that knot that had restricted him for so long untangling. The ship was knifing through the seas at an unnatural speed, urged on by the power the crewmen used. Instinctively he released power of his own, a subconscious working, to add to the flow.

“It feels good, does it not?” said Nyam beside him, his hair streaming out behind him like a flag.

For a while Vaddi had tried to set aside his anxieties for Zemella, wanting to revel in this release. “A darkness within me is lifting, Nyam.”

“I wondered at it. Now I understand it. It was the cleric. For years he has controlled you. Think of it. He shaped our journey, but he lost control in the skies over the Talenta Plains. But always he had a purpose. To take you away from Thrane.”

“Where did he intend to take me? And why?”

“It is all to do with what you carry and your link to it. Cellester intends to deliver you both to someone, and obviously it is not Caerzaal or anyone else connected with the Emerald Claw.”

“These elves that have taken Zemella?”

“Possibly, although the word in Pylas Maradal is that their links with the Claw have strengthened. I fear there are other powers at work here.”

In his mind’s eye. Vaddi saw again the huge soarwing that had hung over him on the bridge at Taeris Mordel. “That creature that helped us at Voorkesh and Taeris Mordel, the one that Cellester called Aarnamor?”

“He serves whoever seeks you and the horn. Cellester would possibly have delivered you both to it there and then had not Zemella intervened.”

“But who is behind this?”

Nyam shook his head. “In Pylas Maradal I tried every avenue of enquiry. I have contacts with contacts. Even inside information in House Phiarlan—and there are no better ones than they! But Aarnamor is not known in Valenar, and I am sure that he is not known in Aerenal—at least, not in Shae Thoridor.” The peddler scowled, lost in dark thoughts for a moment, watching the rise and fall of the seas as if in their turbulence he would descry an answer.

“Is there any clue to this mystery?”

“For such a power to maintain anonymity, high sorcery must be employed. Whoever or whatever this is, it must be immensely powerful. To have so cloaked itself, it is almost unprecedented. Like the dragons themselves.”

“The dragons?”

“No, no, it is not they. They would never employ such base means as the cleric or the undead, and they would not involve themselves in our affairs.”

“The horn is the key to this?”

“I am sure of it. You must keep it hidden. Although its powers have been so vital to our survival so far, I am sure it would be highly unwise of you to exercise them again, unless your very life is threatened. Even then, it may not be wise.”

“I confess I am afraid of its power.”

“I think there is one advantage you have. While you are free and carry it, your enemy, this unseen power, fears it, just as Caerzaal clearly feared it. Otherwise you would have been an easy target, taken any one of a dozen times on our journey. Power and counter-power, Vaddi, but if the enemy controlled you and the horn, what would that do to the balance of power in Eberron?”

Vaddi was frightened by Nyam’s words. What else does he know? He turned back to the sea, hiding his misgivings. Zemella. Where are you now? Have they harmed you?

Dawn was the faintest hint on the shifting eastern horizon, the cloud underbelly touched with a blood red glow. From the prow of the Sea Harlot, the cleric watched the long, low shape of the oncoming ship clip the waves and ease alongside the slowing trader. Sheathed in shadows, like a predator from the deeps, the craft moved in silence, seeming to drip with sorcery and power. A single occupant came aboard, brought to Cellester by the scowling Vortermars. Dark-robed and hooded, this sinister figure bowed.

“You have brought the relic?” it said.

The face within the hood was white, almost painted, the eyes ringed darkly, as though the being had addicted itself to some dangerous narcotic. Bloodshot eyes locked with those of the cleric, but his own expression was impassive.

“I have.” Cellester took from within his robe a small leather package, which he undid. Something within it gleamed in the bloody rays of the rising sun, like an omen of unease. “From Xen’drik,” he said.

The hand of the dark-robed one reached out, thin and emaciated, like the hand of one of the undead, reminding Cellester for one grim moment of the Emerald Claw, though he knew this creature to be one of the Murughel. The skeletal fingers lifted the small object, which was made of a black metal, set with a bright gemstone at its end, a miniature scepter. In the pallid light, it had the appearance of a human bone.

“Be wary of its latent powers,” said the cleric.

“I feel them.”

“Though it is small, it was cast by giants in the days when elves were enslaved in Xen’drik. Its true purpose has become lost, but in the ruins of Xen’drik, there are many such objects made by the ancestors so revered by you. When you have done your work, I will provide you with more.”

The dark one shuddered, though not with fear. A strange kind of ecstasy seemed to flow through him as he clutched the artefact more tightly. Then he had slipped it inside his own robe. “And the Valenar sorceress?”

Cellester nodded to Vortermars, who promptly left the deck.

“Treat her with extreme care,” said Cellester. “She burns with a fierce desire to unleash her own power, which is no small thing.”

The hooded one hissed, a derisive sound. “We have powers enough to bind a dozen such as she.” As he spoke, there was a scuffle behind him.

Zemella had been brought to the deck, her hands bound, an escort of Murughel warding off her curses and powers, her spells breaking like waves on an invisible barrier. She favoured the cleric with a withering glare, but he turned away, looking out at the sea.

“This treachery will be your bane, cleric!” she snarled at him as she was manhandled down to more hooded figures waiting in the low craft alongside.

Though Cellester shivered as if a cold wind had blown over him, he was very still. Zemella’s last curse was lost as her captors took her aboard their own vessel and stowed her below.

Vortermars came to stand beside him. “Cursed relief to have her disposed of. Can we proceed to Shae Thoridor, eh? Sooner we are away from those black creatures, the better.”

As he spoke, the long ship slid away from the Sea Harlot, her decks empty, her bleak crew hidden from view.

“Yes, get us to the port with all haste.”

Vortermars gave a signal to his unseen pilot and at once his own ship was moving, again picking up unnatural speed. “She must have served you ill. Wouldn’t give a dog to the Stillborn. Sooner have nothing to do with them. There’s bad and there’s evil. They serve evil. The Claw is bad enough, but—”

“I know well enough who they are,” snapped Cellester, his gaze still fixed on the seas ahead.

“Then you know what you’re about, eh?”

“Just do what you’re paid to do.”

Vortermars shrugged and left the brooding cleric alone.

In the cramped, cloying darkness of the hold, the hooded one sal silently. The Valenar bitch was secured—although, as promised, it had taken significant power to achieve it. She was abnormally strong, but the cleric had paid well for her capture.

Beyond the hooded one, another figure stirred, as though it were composed of little more than shadow and smoke, but the face that leered from the fetid dark was real enough.

“The cleric made the venture worth your while?”

The Murughel elf nodded. “There will be other relics released to me when this business is over.”

“I can promise you so much more.”

The hooded one nodded again. “Our alliance is preferred to that with the cleric. It is much welcomed. The secrets of the Claw and those of the Murughel will be a mixture of the most puissant kind.”

“The cleric has defied me for the last time. The Orien boy will follow this Valenar bitch, even to the Madwood, and it will be me who snares him there. We will celebrate our success by sharing in the power of the sacred blood.”

“The boy is coming, but he has only one companion.”

“Yes. The interfering peddler. I will have his head for a goblet before this is over.”

There was no trace of a smile on the white face of the hooded Murughel elf. “As you say, Caerzaal.”

12 Bloodshed in Shae Thoridor

Early evening was cloaking the world in its first shadows as the trader came in sight of the long outline of Aerenal. Aided by the powers of the traders and by Vaddi’s own release of supernatural energy, the ship had raced across the sea to the home of the elves. By Nyam’s estimate they were less than a day behind the Sea Harlot, which he swore could have docked in Shae Thoridor no earlier than dawn that same day. For a time they followed the northwestern coastline before sweeping around a broad headland and down into its lee, on toward the city. From the steep cliffs of the shoreline, Shae Thoridor rose up in tiers, and Vaddi marvelled at its architecture. From the very quays themselves, layer upon layer of carved buildings lifted up to the bright sky, like living things, giant trunks or roots. Shae Thoridor seemed somehow to grow from the cliff side, as though it were a natural thing, an enhancement of the crags and stone. The buildings themselves, dotted with windows, galleries, and walkways, had been crafted with intricate skill, each one part of the whole, both retaining individuality and unity. Above all, pulsing through the sap of the wood, its lifeblood, Vaddi felt the power of the elves, the energy that spoke to his own blood of a unique magic.

“Beautiful, is it not?” said Nyam beside him.

Vaddi nodded, lost in the wonders of this place. In the long harbor, numerous Aereni craft bobbed on the sheltered waters, sleek and built for speed, most with their sails furled. Their sailors moved about them busily, and on the quay others were equally as active so that the entire scene unfolded like the workings of a huge hive.

“From what trees were these buildings born?” said Vaddi. “I have never seen their like, nor could I have imagined such perfection.”

“Livewood and soarwood mostly,” said Nyam. “I could spend a week telling you of their histories, but we will be docking soon.”

He looked over his shoulder. Ardal was not far away. The Valenar from Pylas Maradal had neither spoken to nor acknowledged them on the journey, but a brief nod of his head signalled to Nyam that he was going to keep pace with them in this place of dangers.

There was no sign of the Sea Harlot, but that was as Nyam had expected. She would have deposited her cargo promptly and Vortermars would have gone elsewhere to berth, across the bay to the smaller towns where a degree of privacy would have been more readily attainable. Nyam and Vaddi were leaving their ship, walking down her gangway to the quayside, when two Aereni warriors placed themselves in their path. With them was an official, a sharp-eyed Aereni who brandished a quill and a parchment as though in lieu of a weapon.

“Names?” he said in a cutting, haughty voice.

Nyam had invented something appropriate for both of them and gave them.

“Business in Shae Thoridor?”

“Trader, worthiness,” said Nyam, bowing. “Drawn to this estimable clime by your excellent and incomparable woods.”

“On whose behalf? We do not traffic with the flotsam and jetsam of the oceans. Our woods are sacred.” He focused his supercilious gaze elsewhere.

“Yes,” Nyam spluttered nervously, and Vaddi had to mask his amusement as Nyam dropped into the bumbling character that he was so adept at calling up when circumstances required. “Yes, of course, worthiness. I have this seal.” He fumbled with his cloak, surreptitiously showing to the official the counterfeit seal. “I trust you appreciate the level of funding that I am commissioned to tap into for this venture.”

The official reached forward a slender hand, brilliant emeralds sparkling from at least three rings, and clasped the seal, pulling it to him with little regard for Nyam’s comfort. He gripped it as an eagle grips its prey, studying it for a moment. The official, blinked, scratched something with his quill on the parchment, and both he and the two Aereni warriors stepped aside.

Neither Nyam nor Vaddi looked back as they entered the port. As usual, Nyam knew where to go. Vaddi sensed that Ardal was not far behind them. Now that they were on Aerenal’s soil, something else was striving to come alive in Vaddi, a new energy that almost surged. His ties with the elves, his dragon blood, perhaps. On his arm, his dragonmark itched for a moment.

Through his quickening powers, Vaddi was even more conscious of the Aereni about them, knowing that they were studied openly. The Aereni were not hostile to traders, but they had no real love for men or the other races, holding themselves superior and aloof. Men who came here found trading difficult, usually having to concede to demands that they would have rejected in other lands. Aerenal itself rose up behind the city. Far across the inlet beyond stood the shadow-clung shores of Jaelarthal Orioth, the Moonsword Jungle, an immense, living entity, thrumming with energy, secretive and distant, both forbidding and evocative. Its unseen depths called to Vaddi, a promise of strange destinies in that silent but potent calling.

Not far from the quayside, Nyam led them into a huge, low-beamed hall, which combined as both trading house and hostelry. The Aereni of Shae Thoridor controlled the movements of their visitors closely, restricting their movements in the city. Almost without exception, trading was done in this place under the ever-watchful eyes of the officials, duplicates of the cold-eyed being that had met Nyam and Vaddi at the quay. Hanging from the beams were several flags and similar banners, representing the emblems of houses on the mainland of Khorvaire, though most of them were soot-stained and ill kept. The Aereni banners and beautiful carvings were of the most exquisite workmanship, a reminder that in Aerenal, all bowed to the glory of the elves.

“This is not the healthiest of places,” Nyam told Vaddi. “Built and run by men, although the Aereni keep a close eye on it, as you can see. To them, it’s a sty and you’d never see them lowering themselves to drink or socialize here. They trade with us here, though reluctantly. It is a dump, but the chances are, we’ll bump into some useful contacts.”

Nyam, true to his word, had credit in this inn, and after a brief discussion with one of the human hosts, led Vaddi to a table that was as discreet as it could be in such a thriving hall. There was nowhere in here that was far from the glance of an Aereni warrior, whether a guard standing stiffly on watch or leaning against one of the fat, graven pillars.

Nyam brought some food and chewed it slowly, but Vaddi was not hungry, thinking only of Zemella and her potential plight.

“What are we waiting for?” he whispered.

“Ardal is our best hope here. He will have contacts among the Aereni. If the object of our search has landed, he will find out. We have to be patient. If the guards see us as anything but wood traders, they wont bother with an interrogation. They’ll let the sharks in the bay do that. Eat.”

Vaddi scowled and chewed on the bread. “Then tell me, who or what are these Murughel elves that you seem to fear so much?”

Nyam put a finger to his lips. “Never speak that name aloud in here. The name is a spell in itself.” He leaned closer. “They are a faction, broken away from the pure strains of the elves.” As he spoke, his eyes never left the movements in the hall, ever watchful. “Although there is elf blood in you, Vaddi, you know very little about their race and their beliefs.”

Vaddi nodded.

“For the elves of Aerenal, death is not something to be feared. Rather it is something to be embraced. Here, necromantic energies flow as deeply as the rocks and underground streams. The Aereni have used these powers to preserve life through rite and ritual and to create the undying. You need to understand what this means. The undying elves are hallowed beings, charged with positive energy and are gifted with longevity. They are a more natural being—healthy, born of an enervating life force. What you and I have seen on our journey here is something else, something very dark.”

“The undead?” breathed Vaddi.

“Yes. Vampires, zombies, liches, and their ilk. Loathed by the undying, seen—quite rightly—as perversions. Negative energy, feeding on the living as maggots feed on a carcass. The elves despise them even more then we do. They would stop at nothing to destroy them.”

“And the…others?”

“The status of being undying is not given to all elves. There are some who bitterly resent the withdrawal of this status. A movement has risen among some of the younger, disaffected Aereni, arrogant and proud, who seek necromantic powers for themselves. They accept vampirism and lichdom in lieu of becoming deathless.”

“They voluntarily accept this?”

“Sadly, yes, and what is worse, I fear the Emerald Claw has formed an alliance with some of them. The Claw has long harbored the desire to control Aerenal. With the aid of these I have spoken of, it could wreak havoc here.”

Vaddi pushed aside the remains of his food and sipped thoughtfully at his cup of water. “You think the Claw is behind this, after all? Cellester is working for the Claw?”

“No, I don’t believe that, but these others are as devious as the Claw. They may have other dark designs.”

As Nyam was speaking, he swept an arm out and wrapped it around the shoulders of a hunched figure that was passing their table, drawing the being close to him in an unexpected hug.

“Sfarrag! Dear friend!” he boomed into the ear of the small figure. “Whatever brings you here?”

The diminutive but broad-shouldered being, which Vaddi could now see to be a dwarf, struggled indignantly for a few moments, but perceiving himself to be gripped firmly, snorted and banged his well-stacked tray of food down on the table. His thick beard bristled, brown eyes glaring at his captor. “Daal Hashard.”

Nyam shook his head. “I don’t go by that name any more.”

“Well, then, Bereth Al—”

Again Nyam shook his head. “Nor that. But how are you? Sit down, sit down. You are in good company here. This is my friend and apprentice, Lummis Ortis.”

Vaddi managed a curt nod.

The dwarf drew up a stool. He was evidently more interested in feeding than arguing and set to with a will, as though this was his first meal in a month.

“Trading?” said Nyam.

The dwarf nodded.

“Don’t suppose you came over on the Sea Harlot, by any chance?”

The dwarf shook his head, chewed, chewed some more, then took a hearty swig of his ale. At length he spoke. “Been here a week or so. Usual thing. Ore. They’ve never got enough of the right stuff in Aerenal. Ironroot ore. Best in Khorvaire.”

“True enough, my friend, I’ve dealt in it myself, as you know.”

Sfarrag eyed Nyam suspiciously, but his attention was distracted by a chunk of meat in his stew, which he speared expertly.

“Not on the Sea Harlot, then? Not seen that worthy craft, have you?”

“Sure. She berthed this very day. Unloaded and then sailed up the inlet.” He grinned, huge teeth smeared with gravy. “Vortermars no doubt had private stuff to unload where the officials wouldn’t bother him.”

“What did he unload here?”

Sfarrag stopped chewing and gazed even more dubiously at Nyam. “Lot of questions. What’s it to you?”

Nyam slipped a small purse from his pocket and slid it over the table. The dwarf snatched at it, fast as a cat, slipping open the drawstrings and peering inside. “These fake?” he snapped.

Nyam drew back, face clouded in horror. “You ask me that? When have I ever dealt in fakes?”

Vaddi could not see what was in the bag, but he assumed it must be more loot filched from the airship.

Sfarrag snorted. “Vortermars dropped off a few casks, a trunk or two. No idea what was in ’em. A few of his crew, including his first mate, Gez Muhallah.” The dwarf leaned forward, voice dropping. “And there was them elves. Some of them too, but they had a dark look about ’em. I didn’t stop around.”

“Any elf women?”

The dwarf scowled even more deeply, guzzling down the last of his food with remarkable speed. “Dunno. Maybe. Best not to stick yer nose in some places.” He slipped the purse into his pocket, swigged at his ale and then got to his feet, easing back out of Nyam’s reach. “Must get to business. Pleasure to see you again, Daal—or whatever you call yourself now.”

In a moment the throng had absorbed him.

“She may be here?” said Vaddi. It was all he could do to keep still.

“I suspect so.” Nyam’s gaze raked the hall and he sat back, eyes filing on someone near the long bar. “And I suspect that little worm was put here to watch out for us. He won’t be the only one.”

“You’re expecting trouble?”

“Vortermars is far too cunning to leave his back exposed. He would want someone like me watched. Ah, as I thought, there is one of his cronies over there. He will play his hand as though this is purely a chance meeting.”

“Who is it?”

“Vortermars’s first mate. We’ll have to speak to him, but it will be dangerous. Keep quiet throughout this.”

“And I’m Lummis Ortis?”

“Good a name as any.” Nyam bided his time, watching the first mate of the Sea Harlot as he himself studied the many occupants of the long hall. Nyam’s eyes and his met a few times, but at length the freebooter thrust himself through the crowd and came to the table.

“I know that face,” he said.

He was a tall, rangy man, with a drinker’s pronounced stomach. His clothes were shabby, once rich, probably filched from a more noble man’s wardrobe. His face was burned brown by the sun and sea, one eye pulled down by a scar cut there, doubtless, by the sweep of a cutlass.

“Gez Muhallah!” said Nyam, getting up and pumping the fellow’s arm. “Good to see you! This is Lummis Ortis, my companion. Learning the trade.”

“You’re in good hands, son. This peddler knows every trick in the book, and plenty that aren’t.”

“Draw up a seat,” said Nyam. “How is your esteemed captain?”

“Vortermars?” said Gez Muhallah, sitting, his twin blades rattling as he did so. Vaddi tried not to gawp at them. They looked as though they were frequently in use. “Same as ever. One jump ahead of the game. And yourself?”

“So-so. We’re heading south on the dawn tide. Sailing round to Pylas Talaer. Little deal in darkwood,” Nyam tapped the side of his nose. “Can’t say too much.”

Muhallah laughed. “Of course. Not quite above board, eh?”

“You know how it is. I didn’t notice the Sea Harlot on the quay.”

Muhallah grinned. “Gone farther along the coast. We’ve dropped the official cargo here. And a few passengers.”

Nyam had caught the eye of one of the barmen and within moments he had come across, laden with tankards, knowing a good customer when he saw one, Nyam’s plentiful coins exchanged hands and Muhallah began downing the ale at a rate that made Vaddi grimace.

“Anything interesting?” said Nyam nonchalantly.

“I shouldn’t say anything.”

“Come, there’s plenty of drink here, Gez. Surely you can swap a few tales with old friends. We’ve got the whole night to kill.”

Vaddi could see the gleam in Muhallah’s eye. The man found it impossible to resist a drink. The sagging paunch and partially rotted teeth attested to that.

“Well,” the man yawned. “We did have a few weird customers aboard.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “These … Stillborn they call themselves. Creepy lot.”

Nyam nodded. “I’ve seen them. Undead some of them.”

“Something like that. I let Vortermars deal with ’em, I kept well out of it.”

“I suppose they have to travel privately, seeing as the regular Aereni don’t think a lot of them,” said Nyam, pushing another tankard across the table.

“You’re right.”

“You ferry them regularly?”

“Not if I can help it, but they brought this girl with ’em. Valenar. Reckon they was bent on initialing her into their weird sect.” He smirked suggestively.

Nyam could sense Vaddi’s fury, knowing that it was taking the youth every effort to control it. He feigned slight interest. “Valenar girl? Reluctant recruit?”

“Can’t blame her for squirmin’. Nasty lot.”

“How did they get her ashore? The officials are pretty sharp here. Not too keen on bribes, either.”

“Depends who you know.” Muhallah winked. “They had her in a casket. It wasn’t opened. Don’t know where they went. Can’t say I care.”

He swigged at his ale, leaning back. For a white the conversation lagged, the freebooter drinking more ale and getting progressively more sluggish and sullen. Almost an hour passed before he hauled himself up and excused himself.

As soon as he was out of earshot, Vaddi leaned forward. “She’s here! Sold to those filthy—!”

“Softly,” warned Nyam. “Gez is no fool. A drunkard, aye, but he’s as slippery as any eel. I don’t relish spending any more time with him, but when he leaves here, we must follow him. He may contact them. It’s our one hope of finding Zemella,”

“But what if they’re already gone? Cellester wanted her out of the way. He’s achieved that. She could be anywhere. She could be dead.”

“Be patient,” Nyam admonished. “I wish I knew where Ardal Barragond was. If they knew who he was and were watching for him, he could be in danger.”

“Why don’t we get Muhallah outside and force him to take us to them?”

“He may not know where they are, and I don’t want to risk getting on the wrong side of Vortermars. Not here. We have to be patient.”

It was evident to Nyam that Vaddi’s patience was being torn to shreds. The youth kept looking around, drumming his fingers on the table, grunting with frustration at their non-activity.

The night wore on and there was still no sign of Ardal. Although he did not say so, Nyam feared that the Valenar must have run into problems. He was beginning to think that he and Vaddi would have to leave and begin a new line of search.

Gez Muhallah was circulating, gleaning drinks from others here. Nyam kept an eye on him, watching the first mate getting more and more drunk. It was amazing that the man was still able to stand. At long last he began waving his temporary goodbyes to people.

“He’s leaving,” said Nyam. “We follow. Discreetly! Though in his condition, that should be easy enough. Have a care, Vaddi. If we tread on his toes, he’ll be like a trapped rat. Very dangerous. He knows how to use a sword, drunk or not. I wouldn’t like to list the men he’s gutted.”

Vaddi nodded, plainly relieved to be doing something. They waited until Gez Muhallah left then rose and followed at a distance. Outside the air was blessedly cool, the sounds and smells of the hall snuffed out by a gentle breeze from off the sea, which slightly eased Vaddi’s nerves. Patience, patience, he kept telling himself. They followed Gez Muhallah, who was weaving unsteadily through the first of the narrow streets, turning to begin a steep climb that seemed must surely be too much for him, but the first mate was used to such rigors and trudged ever upward into the higher reaches of Shae Thoridor.

As Nyam and Vaddi followed, keeping out of sight, they passed a few Aereni warriors who either glanced coldly at them or ignored them completely. Not all Aereni in the port tolerated men and the other non-elf races, but they were not halted or questioned.

High above the last dwellings of the port, the path became a narrow passage between two walls cut from solid wood, leading to a gateway. The gate, itself cut from the marvellous wood of the elves and carved with the most beautiful elven designs, was not locked. Gez passed within and could be heard coughing and cursing. Nyam led the way to the gate and from its obscuring shadows, looked beyond.

“What is this place?” whispered Vaddi, cautiously craning his neck to see.

“Old place of worship. Not used much, not at night. There are a few of these up here in the heights. Some of the crews hole up here, away from the night watches. My guess is that Muhallah and his cronies will be here, snoring in one of the old buildings.”

Vaddi sniffed at the night air, the brilliant light from several moons glossing a wide courtyard beyond. “It’s almost derelict,” he said, an inner instinct taking over. “Elves have not worshipped here for many years.”

“You can tell that?” Nyam asked.

“Yes. There is a taint to it. Decay, decline.”

“Then it’s ideal for the freebooters. Ah, I see Muhallah. He’s heading for the old temple beyond. Let us go around the courtyard and catch a glimpse of what is within. Draw your dirk, Vaddi. Are you ready to use it if you have to?”

“I am ready,” said Vaddi, a grim look about him that made the peddler wince.

Then they were off, moving around the perimeter of the courtyard, clinging to the shadows under its perimeter wall where ivy and other tangled growths had run amok over the years. They had reached halfway around this wall when Gez suddenly reappeared from the broken doorway. He came out, framed now in the vivid light, hands on hips, and stood grinning at the shadows around the walls.

“So you did follow me?” he growled. “No need to be shy. Nyam Hordath. And tell the boy to come out where I can see him.”

Behind him, another shape moved, a diminutive but broad figure.

“Sfarrag,” said Nyam. “I should have known that little rat was mixed up in this business.”

The dwarf stood alongside Muhallah, hawking and spitting. In his hands he held a weighty axe.

Nyam and Vaddi eased out from the wall, both holding their blades. “Let’s cut to the chase, Muhallah,” said Nyam. “Where’s the girl?”

The first mate strode forward a few steps. Already it was clear that he and the dwarf were not alone—the shuffling and scraping sounds in the building were evidence of a number of others. As these figures emerged, Vaddi saw to his horror that they were not freebooters but Aereni. But they were no ordinary Aereni.

“Murughel,” breathed Nyam.

A dozen or more of these creatures lined up behind Muhallah. They were tall and angular, dressed in gray robes, studded with silver; their faces were painted bright white, gaudy and shocking, a celebration of being undead. Each carried a long sword.

“You’re a bigger fool than I took you for if you think we’ve got the girl.” Muhallah laughed. “She’s far from here. They took her off the Sea Harlot well before we reached Aerenal.”

“Is she alive?” said Vaddi, barely suppressing his fury.

“She won’t die, but you should forget about her, son. She’ll soon serve new masters—whether she likes it or not.”

Nyam had to restrain Vaddi, laying a hand on him. In doing so, he could feel the sudden blaze of power within the youth, the killing fury. It almost scorched his fingers.

“Be careful,” he whispered, “and whatever you do, do not use the horn. We must fight our way out of this trap.”

I must protect him with my life, thought Nyam. Whatever happens here, neither he nor the horn must fall into their hands. I must die before I can let that happen. He looked around, searching for a way to the gate, but more of the Murughel had stepped through it.

Nyam watched as Gez Muhallah came closer, a look of confidence on his face as the trap closed. He held out his left hand, a cutlass in his right. “Come, Vaddi d’Orien. Give me what you carry. Spare yourself unnecessary pain. I might even let the peddler live.”

“I will cut that hand from your arm before I part with anything,” Vaddi told him coldly, Nyam sensed his eagerness to fight.

“Really?” said the freebooter. He showed no signs of drunkenness now, instead bearing all the signs of a trained predator. “Brave words. My brief is not to slay you, Orien, but simply to take you. The clerk said nothing about leaving you in one piece. I may cut your arm from you. Both perhaps.”

“The cleric?” said Nyam, feigning ignorance. “What are you talking about?”

Muhallah laughed. “Of course. You thought him to be your friend. How easily you are duped. You’re losing your grip, Hordath. Not the wily old fox you once were. It is time you bowed out. I’ll hang you up for the gulls at daybreak.”

“Back to back,” Nyam whispered to Vaddi. “Try and ease our way to the gate.”

Muhallah waved the first of the Murughel forward. They attacked in threes, those who fought Nyam seeking his quick death, while those assailing Vaddi more cautious. Nyam could see that it gave the youth an advantage. Control your anger, he wanted to say to him. Channel it into a positive force.

Vaddi attacked with a unique tenacity, his dirk a blur of reflected moonlight. It ripped the throat of an attacker, tearing flesh and bone, almost severing the head in the ferocity of the strike, then he ducked aside and hamstrung the second of the Murughel, who crashed to the dust, mouthing his silent agony like one struck dumb.

“All those years of hard work under Anzar’s weapon’s master were not wasted, I see!” Nyam laughed.

He was no slouch with the blade himself, and in a dazzling counter-attack, kept back his tormentors, blades ringing in the night, stars of ozone sizzling in a halo about him. He and Vaddi inched their way toward the gate, one eye on Muhallah and the traitorous Sfarrag, who were watching the fight with interest.

“Give it up, peddler!” shouted the pirate.

Nyam edged Vaddi toward the gate, but a number of Murughel blocked the way. One ran a chain around the gate and one of its posts, snapping shut a lock that effectively sealed off the retreat.

Again Vaddi was beset by three opponents. Once more he ripped open the flesh of a Murughel, kicking it aside as he narrowly ducked the slicing blade of another. They did mean to cut his arms off, but Nyam could see they were no match for his speed. Vaddi must be drawing on elf powers—and something else. He had not used the horn, but whatever the powers were within him that Cellester had repressed for so long, they burst now like a damn.

He has become a killing machine! Nyam’s mind cried, almost horrified by the unleashing of those powers. It is a kind of madness that takes him out of himself.

Above them, from a rotting window in the tower, a solitary figure watched, Cellester kept out of sight, but he focused his own powers on the youth, once more seeking to subdue him. He raised his right arm. On his wrist, the amulet glowed, sending a thin beam of green tight down to the youth.

Nyam sensed that something supernatural was happening. He saw Vaddi countering this new wave of negative energy, cutting the sword from the hand of another Murughel, whose nerveless fingers dropped with the steel into the churned earth.

“Give it up, Muhallah! Your rabble are getting carved to pieces!” Nyam cried.

He had been keeping his assailants at bay, but he was tiring. An abrupt probe by one of the Murughel scored a hit high up near his shoulder and the peddler gasped, staggering back, almost into Vaddi. The youth swung round and drove his dirk through the mask of the Murughel. The creature screamed and toppled back, hands clawing at his ruined face.

Yes, Nyam thought, this is why Cellester and his master want him and Erethindel. Combined, they will be a weapon of horrendous power.

Nyam recovered, but the wound hurt him sorely. His defense became more desperate. Vaddi did his best to protect him, but they were both forced into the courtyard nearer its center. They were beset on all sides, unable to use the wall to protect themselves. Nyam was weakening, his blood leaking freely from his wound, though his voluminous clothes soaked it up.

Gez Muhallah called a momentary halt, stepping forward. His cutlass was no more than two feet from engaging Vaddi’s weapon. “Give it up, boy. You can’t win this. Give me the horn and the peddler goes free.”

Nyam swung his blade in a desperate arc, but Muhallah simply stepped back, out of reach. Behind him, the dwarf hefted his axe.

Nyam sensed Vaddi, coiled like a spring, about to unleash himself upon the freebooter, but something seemed to be staying the boy’s arm. Nyam tasted sorcery in the air, striving to enervate him. Of course! The cleric must be here!

Nyam swung his blade, but this time Muhallah splintered it. One of the Murughel plunged his blade into Nyam’s calf, and the peddler tumbled to the ground, his face gray.

“Your call, Orien,” said Muhallah, cutlass preparing to sheer Nyam’s head from its shoulders.

13 Death After Midnight

Vaddi’s fingers slipped inside his tunic, inches from the horn. If he didn’t act now, Nyam would die. As Vaddi reached for the horn, he felt something trying to grasp it with him—a duplicate, shadow hand, almost superimposed upon his own. From the tower he saw at last the beam of green light, trained on hint. Cellester! The cleric was up there, working to foil the use of the horn.

Vaddi locked gazes with Muhallah. Muhallah was smirking at the puzzled look on the youth’s face as he waited for his answer, in complete control of the situation.

Something cut the night air like a knife through soft bread. Vaddi saw an arrow rip into one side of Muhallah’s neck and out the other, driving the pirate sideways as if an invisible fist had smashed him off his feet. Muhallah lurched to his feet, dropping the cutlass and clawing with both hands at the lodged arrow. Blood gushed from his mouth and nose. He managed two steps, then his eyes bulged and he buckled over. To Vaddi’s relief, Muhallah’s death served to put new energy into Nyam, who snatched up the cutlass and cut through the lower legs of two of the Murughel and ran to Vaddi.

Vaddi felt the negative cloud dissipate. His own power surged and he cut down another of the Murughel that lunged at them. Other forces were at work here now, for more arrows rained down on their foes, driving them back. The dwarf had already withdrawn into the buildings, his retreat masked by more of the Murughel, who had closed ranks to protect him.

The locked gate burst in a cloud of splintered wood, torn from its posts. From beyond came a group of new figures. Dressed in flowing robes, their heads covered in ghastly masks fashioned in the shape of skulls, they unleashed a hail of arrows as they came. The Murughel fell back, the light armor beneath their cloaks no barrier to the shafts. Some took arrows in the eyes and neck. They toppled in silence, but most raced to meet this new attack, swords before them.

In the courtyard, a ferocious battle ensued as the skull-masked warriors drew their own swords. Steel rang and sparks zipped through the night air. The incoming warriors were clearly outnumbered, but it was the Murughel who suffered, their skill no match for the power and tenacity of the newcomers. The latter carried strange blades that flickered in the moonlight with an eerie glow, a green tint of light like subdued fire. As these blades cut through the air and bit into Murughel flesh, they sizzled, casting a web of spells and sorcery about the conflict.

Vaddi’s attention turned to the tower, but the beam of light had gone. He dared not leave Nyam, who had sank down again, head bowed in ill-suppressed agony.

The furious conflict was brought to an end after no more than a few minutes. Eschewing the use of their bows at such close quarters, the skull-masked warriors were merciless in their use of their glowing weapons, driving the Murughel back to the walls or the tower, then running them through. There must have been three times as many of the Stillborn, but they were unable to make their advantage count. They fought in an uncanny silence, like solid phantoms, but the skull-masked warriors tore into them without a pause, hounds determined on the merciless destruction of cornered rodents. There would be no quarter here.

One Murughel made a final slab at Vaddi, but he ducked the blade and plunged his dirk into the exposed neck, tearing it open, letting his victim sag down before him, dust spewing out in place of blood, ripped flesh like rags. The body toppled, and Vaddi looked up to see a familiar face near at hand, the only one that was not masked.

“Ardal!” he gasped, for it was indeed the elf from Valenar.

The elf bowed, withdrawing his blade from the gut of a fallen Murughel. Seeing that the fray was over, he slid it back into its scabbard. “You are not injured, Vaddi d’Orien?”

Vaddi stepped aside. “No, but my friend is badly wounded.” He bent down and lifted Nyam’s head. “Nyam! How is it?”

The peddler’s face was ashen, his eyes squeezed almost shut with the pain. “Not good, Vaddi. Missed my vital organs, but it caught my shoulder. Hurts like fury, I can’t move my arm.”

Ardal barked something to the warriors who were drawing up behind him, and one of them disappeared into the night, swift and silent as a ghost. Ardal turned back to Vaddi.

“A healer will be here soon.”

“You followed us?” said Vaddi.

“I suspected they would set a trap for you and the peddler.”

“Who are these warriors?”

Ardal’s grim expression softened slightly. “They are members of the Deathguard, an elite force, protectors of the Undying Council’s laws in Aerenal. There is no body of elves more devoted to the killing of those who defile the dead. When I told them that there were Murughel at work here in Shae Thoridor, they were quick to investigate. It seems we arrived barely in time.”

Vaddi indicated the tower. “There was a cleric among these creatures. You must find him. Zemella’s life depends upon it.”

“The Deathguard are already searching for him. He has used a cloaking spell to hide himself, but they have powers of their own.”

Another figure stepped forward. He was the healer and he wore no mask, his long, patrician face marking him as an Aereni. He bent down to Nyam without a word. The peddler winced as the healer touched his wound then cut into his robes to expose clotting blood.

“Your companion will recover,” said Ardal, taking Vaddi away from the healer as he began his work. “Vaddi, this is Fallarond, captain of the Deathguard.”

The elf bowed slightly. Although he was no taller than Vaddi and had the lithe frame of his race, his bearing and manner spoke of considerable power. Vaddi had already seen the unique strength and speed of his fighting ability. Now that he stood before one of the newcomers, Vaddi saw that Fallarond was not wearing a skull-mask after all. His aquiline head had been tattooed to resemble a skull. His long, golden hair swept back from his forehead. His eyes, even by the light of the moons, were a deep green, piercing as if they could look into a man’s soul.

“An honor to meet you, Vaddi d’Orien,” he said in a surprisingly deep but musical voice.

“Fallarond is of the Dendris family,” said Ardal. “He knew your mother.”

“Zemella—” Vaddi said suddenly, turning to the shadows as though expecting to see some clue to her whereabouts.

“We’ll find her,” said Fallarond. “On my life.”

“She, too, is related to the Dendris family,” said Ardal. “Vaddi, this is a personal matter to all of us.”

And you? Vaddi wanted to ask him. What is your relationship to her? Are you her lover, her betrothed? What has passed between you? But he could not bring himself to frame the words.

Fallarond called out to his warriors. “Gather the fallen!” He turned back to Vaddi. “We are not far from the city limits. We will go up into the forest to a private place and collect timber and brushwood. We’ll celebrate this killing tonight with a pyre.”

Vaddi followed and watched while the Deathguard worked. In no time they had collected the tangled remains of their enemies together, some of them still twitching, and moved off into the forest beyond the ruins. Well away from the city, the Deathguard heaped up a huge bonfire. The dead Murughel were dragged before it and each of them beheaded before being tossed on to the pyre like so many rag dolls. The grisly severed heads were put to one side in a pile.

While the Murughel corpses burned, filling the night air with a particularly noxious stench, Vaddi turned back to see how the heater was faring with Nyam. The elf had sat the peddler down on a fallen trunk, fingers still dabbing at the wound over which he had placed leaves smeared with a thick paste. Nyam grimaced as Vaddi approached him.

“Close one,” he said through gritted teeth. “Thought we’d had it, Vaddi. You timed it a bit fine, Ardal. I thought you were supposed to be looking out for us.”

Ardal shook his head and grinned. “Be content, peddler. You’re alive.” He turned to the healer. “How badly is he hurt?”

“Not as badly as he imagines. He will be stiff for a day or two. After that, as good as new. He is well preserved for a human. The shoulder bone was cracked, but I’ve repaired it. As with the calf, it will soon be strong again. The peddler is far younger than he might have you believe.”

Nyam scowled. “You think so? Just because I look after myself and remain fit, you think me young? Preposterous!”

“Then you’ll have energy enough for the pursuit,” said Vaddi.

Back at the ruins, the Deathguard had dragged aside a last body. It was Gez Muhallah, his face fixed in a rictus of death, eyes gazing lifelessly at the moons overhead. The arrow that had ended his life still pierced his neck. One of the Deathguard rammed a long spear into the ground, splintering slabs with the force of the blow. He and another of the warriors tied the body of Gez Muhallah upright to the spear, its head lolling forward onto the chest.

From the shadows came another of the company. The elf was draped from head to foot in a dark green cloak, head cowled, only the eyes visible. He carried a tall staff that appeared to be cut from bone, though what bone it was, Vaddi could not tell. He watched, not daring to move, as the unnerving figure stood before the dead pirate and began to chant, eyes raised to the moons that now daubed the skies overhead in garish light. Vaddi and Nyam stood back, puzzled and slightly alarmed by these proceedings. Beside them, Ardal and Fallarond also watched. The air crackled with ancient magic.

“This sea rat knew where Zemella was taken,” said Fallarond, “so he will impart that knowledge to us—even if we have to rip it from him.”

Vaddi felt the hackles on the back of his neck rising as the necromancer produced a small chalice. Yellow light gleamed briefly on its contents as the sorcerer smeared them over the cheeks and chest of the dead pirate. Using his forefinger, he made sigils with the substance, which Vaddi guessed was blood from those who had fallen in the fight.

The necromancer stood back, set down the chalice, and renewed his chant. The other Deathguard gathered in a semicircle behind their leader silent as menhirs. Light from the moons glistened on the blood.

Gez Muhallah’s head moved. It swung gently to and fro as if on a broken neck, but then it lifted to the night skies, those bulging eyes still wide, though in them now there seemed to glow a fresh light, sickly and haunted.

“You are Gez Muhallah, first mate of the Sea Harlot?” said the necromancer. He lifted his hand and the dead pirate jerked like a puppet, eyes widening even more, as though he looked upon some impossibly horrible sight.

“I am he,” came the voice of the dead man, spittle running down over his chin.

Vaddi drew back, appalled, but Nyam gripped his arm.

The necromancer turned to Ardal, nodding to him. “His resistance is drained. Interrogate him. He is bound by my sorcery to answer you.”

Ardal went as close to the dead pirate as he dared, himself disturbed by this dreadful working.

“When you left Pylas Maradal, you had a Valenar girl onboard. Is that so?”

The pirate writhed but could not fight the necromancer’s will. “We did. A Valenar girl, yes.” Blood had begun to seep freshly from the arrow wounds on either side of his neck.

“What happened to her?”

“We were met at sea by more of the Murughel. North of Aerenal, they took her on their craft,”

“Bound for where?”

The mad eyes swung round and picked out Vaddi in the shadows. A frightful laugh burst from the drooling, bloodied lips of the pirate. “She is bound for Dolurrh!”

“As are you,” Ardal said. “Where is the girl?”

“They … took … her. To the east of Aerenal. To the … Madwood.”

Ardal’s face clouded as if he had been stabbed. “You lie!”

“I give you the truth! There are more Murughel there, serving the cleric. She is alive, to be kept there.”

“For what purpose?” said Ardal, though it came out almost as a snarl.

But the head was beginning to sag, the artificial life that had been instilled in it fading quickly, like a guttering candle about to go out. Ardal reached forward in his fury and forced the head up again, but the eyes had closed. Only a ragged last gasp of breath escaped the bruised lips.

Vaddi turned to Nyam and spoke quietly. “What is this Madwood?”

Nyam shuddered, clutching at his wounded shoulder as if it troubled him anew. “It is the nearest thing to Xoriat in this world that you can imagine. I have seen some of the horrors of the Mournland, but the Madwood is in some ways more terrible. If they have indeed taken Zemella there, they must have either skirted its borders or gained some deep supernatural power to shield them.”

Ardal, finished with the bizarre interrogation, turned back to the necromancer and nodded. The latter indicated a place at the edge of the courtyard where a pit had been prepared. Two of the Deathguard pulled up the spear and the broken body and carried it to this pit. They tossed it in and the necromancer sprinkled the blood from the chalice over the corpse. Gez Muhallah’s body collapsed in on itself within seconds, bursting and popping, the haggard face the last image to dissolve. The Deathguard buried it quickly and the necromancer made a final incantation over the place.

“There was another involved in this,” said Fallarond. “A dwarf, I will have the city scoured for him.”

“A waste of time!” Nyam snorted. “Sfarrag is a treacherous wart, it is true, but he will know little of Cellester’s plans. I’m sure he has played his part. Vortermars, too. A link in the chain, no more. It is the cleric we must find.”

“Nevertheless, Shae Thoridor will be searched. In the meantime, come. We must return to the city and plan.”

Vaddi was watching Ardal’s face. He could see on the elf’s bleak features a look of deep sadness, mixed with horror at the fate of Zemella. Surely it was a look of anguish for the fate of a loved one.

The Deathguard base to which they were taken was cut from a single massive tree bole. A high tower, its outer walls were carved in the exquisite workings of the Aereni, where dragons interlaced with other monstrous creatures. Its interior was far more austere, a barracks for the Deathguard of the city, its contents spare and economical, as though these warriors were always on a war footing, prepared to ride out to battle at a moment’s notice. Deep inside the secure hold, Vaddi and Nyam were taken to quarters that at least afforded them the comfort of a hot bath. They luxuriated in the steaming waters, while Ardal waited for them in vaguely amused silence.

Afterwards, alone with the Valenar, Vaddi checked Nyam’s wounds, amazed at the results of the healer’s work. Both shoulder and calf now seemed to be no more than nasty bruises, though the peddler winced and grimaced as though every bone and muscle in his body ached.

“How soon can we set out?” Vaddi asked Ardal.

“We leave before dawn. Fallarond has business to attend to first in the city.”

“There’s no time!” Vaddi snapped. “Every moment that Zemella is in their hands, she is in mortal danger. What business is more important than following her?”

From the opening doorway, Fallarond himself answered. “Softly, young one,” he said, coming forward. Try as he might, Vaddi still found the elf’s ghoulish skull-face unsettling. “If I am to leave the city with a company of the Deathguard, my superiors need to sanction it. I have seen them and they have agreed, provided I am satisfied your cause is a worthy one.”

“What do you mean? I seek Zemella’s rescue—”

“Why?” said Fallarond, his voice hardening. “What is she to you?”

Vaddi’s mouth hung open as he groped for an answer.

“She is a Valenar,” said Ardal. “This is a matter of honor for us. And pride. I have said it is a family affair. You are related to the Dendris family, but not to Zemella, so why have you and the peddler come here, alone, to face odds that you could never have hoped to overcome?”

Nyam came to his rescue. “You speak of honor. You think that men and half-elves have no understanding of honor? Zemella saved us from the Claw. She protected us and led us to safely in Pylas Maradal. And she would have put her life at risk again to lead us out of Valenar. She has more than earned our loyalty.”

Fallarond came closer, his face showing no sign of having been touched by Nyam’s outburst. “That is a fair answer, but tell me something else. You are a well-travelled peddler, I think. You know something of Aerenal, as much as any man from the outside. You know of its powers and grave dangers, especially to your race.”

“And… ?”

“And you came here with Vaddi d’Orien, alone, with no real hope of success. Why have you tied yourself to him?”

Vaddi would have protested, but Nyam eased him aside, meeting the cool challenge of Fallarond’s gaze. “He has saved my life more times than I can remember, and I have taken an oath to protect him. In Pylas Maradal. I take my oaths seriously.”

“And what is your interest in that which he carries?” said Ardal, his voice barely above a whisper.

Nyam glared at him. “You know?”

Ardal nodded. “Zemella warned me. I know she was a Keeper. She was watching for its coming. It was sent away from Aerenal many years ago. The Undying Court proclaimed it too dangerous to remain here.”

“It is what our enemies want,” said Vaddi. “That … and me.”

Again Ardal nodded, indicating Vaddi’s robed arm. “You are marked. I saw it when you were bathing. There is power in you, dormant though it may be.”

Fallarond frowned. “Marked? In what way?”

“Show him, Vaddi,” Ardal said. Beside him, Nyam nodded.

Vaddi removed his robe and rolled up the loose sleeve of his shirt to reveal the dragonmark. Its beautifully intricate web of interlocking lines was clear to see, a birthmark that looked to be a natural part of him. There was power in those crafted lines, though for now it slept.

Fallarond’s eyes widened for a moment. “Where is the horn?”

Vaddi tapped his chest. “It stays with me.”

“If we venture into the Madwood, we will face horrors that you can scarcely imagine. Whatever awaits us there will do its uttermost to take that from you. They are the worst kinds of evil in all of Eberron. If they take the horn—”

“Not while I hold it,” said Vaddi.

“Perhaps you should leave it here.”

“I think not,” said Ardal. “Zemella said that it should not be separated from Vaddi. If it is and we all perish in the Madwood, it will be diminished, no more than a token power for some new force.”

“This is a dangerous game,” said the Deathguard, shaking his head with deep unease.

“Are we going in pursuit of Zemella?” said Vaddi.

Fallarond nodded. “So be it. I can take a score of my best Deathguard. You will come with us, Ardal Barragond?”

Ardal looked directly at Vaddi, almost as if throwing down a challenge to him. “I will. I have a responsibility to Zemella.”

Vaddi felt his heart lurch at the words. Then he is her lover! He has read my thoughts and I can see his anger behind his eyes. It is for her he goes, not for any fealty to me.

“Get some rest,” said Fallarond. “The best steeds will be ready before dawn.”

“We go overland?” said Ardal.

“Even with the fastest ship we have, it would take far too long to sail around the northern lands and south to the coast of the Madwood. We ride across the steppes of the Tairnadal. I have sent word to them already.”

Ardal frowned. “The Tairnadal have not always been cooperative. Are you sure of their compliance? I would not want to fall foul of one of their warclans.”

“We can trust them. After all, it is their steeds that we will be riding. Now rest, all of you. It will be a hard ride.”

When he had gone, Ardal also prepared to depart for the remainder of the night. “We are seeking word of Zemella and those who abducted her.”

“Pardon what may seem a naïve question,” said Nyam, “but where, precisely, are we to enter the Madwood? As I understand it, the place is vast! Every foot of it crawls with danger.”

“We will ask it,” replied Ardal. “Do as Fallarond suggests. Rest.” He grinned and left them to their thoughts.

“Ask it?” Nyam grunted. “Ask it? What is he talking about? We are to converse with a forest? A lunatic one at that?”

High above Shae Thoridor, on the uppermost crags of the escarpment that overlooked the night-shrouded harbors and quays, a huge shadow shifted among the trees. Great wings lifted and sank back as the soarwing eased itself into its hiding place. It would have been invisible to any but the keenest observer. Nearby, perched on a rock outcrop like an extension of it. Aarnamor studied the gnarled trees below.

Something was coming. Bushes shivered with more than the stirring of the breeze. Stones were loosened, slipping downhill with no more than the sound a mouse makes, but Aarnamor noticed everything.

From the steep slopes below, a cloaked figure hauled himself up the last of the vertical incline. His face was pale, features haggard with effort. The eyes were dulled with near-exhaustion.

Aarnamor watched as the cleric gazed up through a fog of pain to see his shape up on the crags, forcing himself to go on until he had come to within a few yards of the undead warrior. Cellester sagged, gripping a wiry gorse branch as he perched himself on a narrow ledge.

“You are late,” said Aarnamor.

Cellester’s mouth was dry. He licked his lips in an attempt to find his own voice, his chest still heaving.

“You are alone,” Aarnamor added. “The boy is not with you.”

Cellester shook his head. “The trap was well set,” he said through gritted teeth. “I did all that could be expected of me.”

“Well?”

“There was a counter trap. The boy has allies here.”

“Allies?”

“The Deathguard. The Murughel were no match for them.”

Aarnamor turned his attention to the city below end the forests above it. He could discern a thin haze of smoke where the forest met a stand of old ruins. He sniffed the hot air rising off the cliffs and sensed the scorched stench of flesh.

“Yes, I understand. In a sacred Aereni grove. The Stillborn have been thrown upon a pyre.”

“I could do nothing. I sought to bring the boy under my influence, but here, in this accursed Aereni domain, I am no match for him.”

“Then you should have taken him in Valenar,” said Aarnamor.

“Half the city would have risen against me. No. Coming here was the best strategy.”

“Where is he now?”

“With the Deathguard, I imagine.”

“And the girl?”

Cellester paused for breath, wiping sweat from his face. “Other Murughel took her, far out at sea. The trap I set in the ruins had Vaddi believe she was here in Shae Thoridor. I did not need her. I thought it would be safer to have her removed elsewhere, as insurance. The Murughel will have taken her to the Madwood.”

“Why there?”

“She will be out of the clutches of the Deathguard and other Aereni who might seek her. She can still be the bait in the trap for Vaddi d’Orien.”

“Does the boy know?”

“I don’t know.” Cellester sagged down on the ledge. Nor do I care, he thought. I have had enough of this wretched affair. Let me sleep here and not wake. It is over.

But Aarnamor’s voice grated along his nerves like raw steel.

“Once he knows—and the elves will know—Vaddi d’Orien will continue the pursuit. If he and the peddler travel to the Madwood, especially if they go alone, they will be easy prey.”

“I suspect that they will have Aereni with them, possibly even the Deathguard. The Valenar elf raised enough of them to spring my trap.”

“Then another trap must be set.”

“I cannot go farther. Not now. I need rest.”

Aarnamor rose up like the threat of a storm. “You will rest when you deserve it. If you earn the wrath of Zuharrin, you will never know rest again. Stand! Prepare yourself.”

Reluctantly Cellester did as bidden.

14 The Edge of Madness

Within the tower of Fallarond, the air worked like a spell on the exhausted travellers. Vaddi, at first unable to sleep, was finally caught in this web, his mind soothed, his fears for Zemella and desperation to be on the move again pushed back like a slow tide until his head fell forward and he slept. A distant sound, like the ebb and flow of soft waves up and down a beach, worked on him like a soporific, holding him until the dark hours just prior to dawn. Then, drifting away from the tranquillity, he was wide awake in the chamber. Nearby Nyam was snoring.

Vaddi grinned at the recumbent figure and nudging him with his boot. “Wake up, Nyam.”

While the peddler tossed and turned, struggling to resist full awakening, the door to the chamber opened. By the cold fire lamp beside it, Vaddi made out the figure of Ardal as he entered, closely followed by Fallarond. Both wore their light armor, twin swords strapped to their belts.

“Are you ready to ride?” said Ardal.

Nyam grunted something unintelligible, but Vaddi spoke for both of them. “We are.”

“We eat on the road,” said Fallarond, no less brusque than usual.

Vaddi went to the raised basin by the wall and tossed cold water over his face. Nyam was less eager to wash but did so with another grunt.

Ardal held out a scabbard of light leather from which the haft of a weapon protruded. “A gift for you,” he said. “Draw the blade.”

Vaddi did so, aware of the keen eye of Fallarond. It was an elven sword, made not from metal but from bronzewood, the prized wood of Aerenal. As Vaddi wrapped his fingers around the haft and turned the blade in the air, he saw it glow in the dawn light, its length decorated with the most intricate runes. They were of the same script as that of Erethindel, and as the blade passed through the air, it left a brief line of runes behind it, slowly winking out like embers.

“It is beautiful,” Vaddi said, feeling that somehow a part of him that had been missing for years had been recovered.

“It is both beautiful and terrible,” said Fallarond. “It pleases me to see that the blade might have been made for you. If you did not have elf blood, it would be no more than base wood in your hands.”

“Can you read the runes?” said Ardal.

“A little, though some are strange to me.”

“Do not speak them aloud. We cannot read them all. They are more than elf runes. Some are draconian. When you use the blade, the runes will empower you, but there is danger in them.”

Ardal turned to Nyam, who had been watching with interest. “We have no blade for you, Nyam Hordath, but while you ride and fight with us, you are under our protection.”

Nyam grinned, patting the haft of his own weapon. “I’ll put my trust in what I have, thank you. Cold steel has served me well enough.”

Fallarond motioned to the door. “Then let us go.”

Moments later they were out in the morning air, crossing a narrow courtyard to where the Deathguard was already mounted. In the light of day Vaddi saw that they, too, had faces either painted or tattooed to resemble grisly skulls, and more than a few of them bore scars along their faces and hands.

Other steeds had been prepared, and in silence Vaddi and the others mounted. Vaddi stroked the mane of the huge stallion that had been chosen for him, and he felt the vital energy flowing through the creature’s muscles and flanks.

The gates of the courtyard swung open, and the company, twenty strong, rode out into the mists of daybreak, hooves drumming on the streets as they made their swift way along the upper passages of the Shae Thoridor, bound for its edge and the sloping hills that curved away eastward to the new dawn. Aside from their swords, each of the Deathguard had a bow slung over his back, accompanied by a quiver full of arrows, their iridescent green feathers picking up the sunlight. Strapped to the flanks of their steeds were their shields, each embossed with the skull mask emblem of their station. Vaddi and Nyam had also been provided with shields, though these had the plain markings and sigils of the city painted upon them. Although there was no time on the rapid journey to study them, Vaddi could see that they were also made of wood, but of a type so hard that they must be almost impenetrable—bronzewood most likely, though they might’ve been densewood.

Once they were up on the higher slopes of the hills, the warriors tossed small loaves to and fro. It was like a game to them played at fantastic speed. They caught the loaves and tore pieces from them with their teeth, laughing musically as they chewed. Vaddi was thrown a half loaf and caught it instinctively, biting into its delicious flavour, savoring its heat. It needed no butter, for it almost melted in his mouth as he swallowed. He could feel his whole being reacting to it, as though he had been given a drug. But this was no drug, it was wholesome power—the clean, invigorating magic of the Aereni.

Beside him, hair streaming behind him, face enrapt by the thrill of the ride, Nyam was also tossed bread. He almost fumbled it but caught it and stuffed a thick chunk in his mouth, eyes streaming. He tried to shout his appreciation, but the words were lost in the chewing.

Once the bread had been eaten, the Aereni passed to each other a number of waterskins, and again Vaddi and Nyam partook. It was icy water, the purest they had yet tasted, but its effect was more potent than any wine.

“Wonderful! I am reborn!” Nyam cried to the wind, and the Deathguard around him smiled.

“How sad to be a man,” Ardal called to him, “to spend your life asleep except for moments such as these.” But he was smiling as he said it.

Nyam responded, but his words were lost in a spray of crumbs.

Vaddi was aware that their stallions rode at an unnatural rate, infused with powers that he could not begin to guess at. This was, after all, Aerenal, a land of magic so ancient and powerful that it surpassed almost all supernatural powers known in Khorvaire. What last vestiges of torpor had been forced into his veins by the tampering of Cellester were shredded in this almost ethereal ride, and he knew for the first time the awakening of his true nature. He felt the earth beneath him, the power of this ancient land, as if it not only spoke to him but claimed him. It was as though his very flesh had been molded from it. As he thought of Zemella and those who had stolen her, his anger arose afresh, fed by darker emotions, no less powerful than his new zest for life. The sword at his belt pulsed with energies that hungered for satisfaction.

An hour flew by, then two, but they seemed no more than the fleeting passage of seconds, as if the company had slipped out of time altogether and sped down some separate stream. The land around them was a blur, a rushing, whirling flicker of colors. From time to time Nyam looked across at Vaddi, his face crinkled up in wonder and sheer joy, like an adolescent revelling in unbridled freedom.

When the company at last stopped, taking cover in a small copse that overlooked a deep inlet far below them, Fallarond bid them all dismount.

“So soon?” said Nyam.

“It is mid-morning.” Vaddi indicated the sun.

Ardal joined them. “Fallarond sent watchers ahead of us last night. Their hawks will meet us here shortly.”

“How long before we reach the forest?” Vaddi asked.

Ardal pointed down the hillside. The inlet wound further eastward, its far shore very dark, as though the sunlight made little impact on us thick, endless forest. “That is the Jaelarthal Orioth, the Moonsword Jungle. We ride far through it until we reach the river Naalbarak, which is called the River of Whispering Evil, being a deeply cursed place. On its eastern shores, the Madwood begins. Naalbarak is one way into it, though it is a terrible, living thing and would test our sanity to its limit. It is a consolation that our enemies also risk much by entering the Madwood.”

“They come!” called one of the Deathguard.

Vaddi, Nyam, and Ardal turned to see two winged shapes plummeting from the skies, dropping like stones out of the sun. They were hawks, companions of the watchers who had gone on ahead the previous night. Fallarond stretched out his arm and both hawks alighted, talons gripping the arm, heads bowing to the Deathguard. Fallarond cocked his head, listening, reminiscent of a huge predatory bird himself. Then he handed the hawks to one of his warriors, who fed them with the meat of a fat lizard they had just killed.

Fallarond joined Vaddi and the others. “There is news. Thumeridor has been watching the far coast and the birds come from him. Zemella has been seen. She is alive, though a prisoner.”

“In the Madwood?” said Ardal.

“I fear so, but we are not so far behind. The Murughel who took her from Vortermars’s ship sailed around the east of Aerenal no more than half a day ahead of the ship that brought Vaddi and Nyam to Shae Thoridor. The Murughel landed in Valen Bay, at its southern tip. This was at dawn yesterday. There is a path there into the jungle. If we ride throughout the day and tonight, we can be there by dawn tomorrow.”

“They’ll have two days start on us,” said Ardal, “but if they have entered the Madwood, they will have to return the same way, will they not?”

Fallarond nodded. “It is likely. To move from the path is suicide.”

“How many?” said Vaddi.

“From the ship, no more than a dozen, but they were met at Valen Bay by a number of ships. Altogether there are at least a hundred of the Murughel gathered. They mean to hold what they have.”

Ardal scowled. “A hundred?”

“The hawks have seen other ships beyond the bay, sheltered by the islands beyond it in the east. They may not be Murughel, but I smell the reek of some dark alliance.”

Vaddi felt himself turning cold in spite of the strength of the sun. “Could it be agents of the Emerald Claw?”

“There is nowhere safe from their machinations. We know they lust after the necromantic powers of Aerenal,” said Fallarond. “The Murughel drink the Blood of Vol.”

Nyam tugged at his beard. “It’s a trap, of course. Zemella is the bait. You’ll need an army to spring it.”

Fallarond spoke coldly. “The Undying will not sanction the release of any more of the Deathguard than you see here.”

“But Zemella is an elf!” said Vaddi. “One of their own kind—”

“This is not Valenar,” said Fallarond. “The Undying Court would act, in time, but it does not know that Erethindel has returned to Aerenal. Better it does not know or else it may consider taking it from you. Thus your role as Keeper would be over, and the Court would see this pursuit of Zemella as unimportant in itself, a mere family dispute. Ties with Valenar are not strong. Some of us wish it were otherwise.”

“Elf pride, elf arrogance,” muttered Nyam.

“A small unit may be better,” said Fallarond, ignoring the comment. “A campaign of stealth, a wearing down.”

“There is something that puzzles me,” said Vaddi. “Why has the cleric delivered Zemella to the Claw, his enemy? You say the Murughel took her from Vortermars’s ship. All Cellester wanted was to have her taken away, bait for me, but suppose he had no knowledge that agents of the Claw had forged an alliance with the same Murughel.”

“Then,” said Nyam, “it is not the cleric we are dealing with here but the Claw, which can only mean Caerzaal. Those ships must be his.”

“Where is this cleric?” said Ardal.

“My watchers have not found him,” said Fallarond. “He left the place where we fought the Murughel last night, but he has covered his trail.”

“If the Murughel have betrayed him,” said Vaddi, “then he is cut off, for all his powers.”

“I wouldn’t say that,” warned Nyam. “His master will not want to give up the hunt so readily. His undead warriors are abroad. We know that.” He told Ardal and Fallarond of Aarnamor and his part in Cellester’s intrigues.

“We must act swiftly,” said Fallarond. “We will go east and cross the highlands between the headwaters of the Naalbarak. Soon after that, the fringes of the Madwood will be below us.”

“What do you propose?” said Ardal, as the whole company remounted.

“We skirt the jungle. Somewhere, midway between the Naalbarak and Valen Bay, we must find a way in. Carve our own, if we have to.”

The wild ride began anew and the miles flew past. The afternoon sun was lowering in the west behind them as they crested a final ridge that fell away to a deep declivity in the landscape. There, far below them, like an immense stain on the landscape, stretching as far to the east and south as the eye could see, was the darkness that was the Madwood.

Even from here, high above its vastness, Vaddi and Nyam could feel the power of the place. Waves of it lapped at them, as though the primal jungle emitted thick clouds of invisible energy, a dense miasma that was both chilling and poisonous. Instinctively Vaddi clutched at Erethindel, feeling its glow, a counterspell against the dreadful forces at play below. Nyam shivered, the steed beneath him also shuddering and shying away from the sight of the Madwood. Ardal was beside them, his face pale, his grim expression one of doubt.

He shook his head. “I have heard so much of this frightful domain, but seeing it for the first time, it fills me with an overwhelming dread. It is alive, watching us. What kind of twisted powers could have created such a realm?”

Fallarond grunted. “What else but war? But this was a war that took place long before the Last War that recently ended. The Madwood was born out of a long lost clash of dark energies, sorcery run amok. Dragons warred with demons in ages beyond our memory. The creatures that twisted the very laws of nature itself are no more than whispered myths today. The Madwood may once have been a clean forest, a healthy place, but no more. It is a corpse, an undead corpse, riddled with necromantic powers, and its denizens have become perversions of nature, mutated by the supernatural discharges that saturate its very soil.”

Nyam grimaced. “Are we certain that the Murughel have taken Zemella there?”

“We are.”

Vaddi shook his head. “I can feel it … breathing, I can feel its hate.”

“Oh, yes,” said Fallarond, “but we will enter it. Elves have done so before and lived.”

Nyam turned to Ardal. “Back in Shae Thoridor, you said we would ask for permission to enter.”

Ardal looked even more disturbed. “Yes. There is a way. The jungle is inhabited by many types of creature, some of which are prisoners. Once there were dryads and other tree spirits there, but over time they have become vampiric, slaves to the powers of the Madwood. They are torn between their dependence on the energy of the jungle and their craving to be set free. Their dilemma enables us to bargain with them.”

“If we can find one,” Fallarond said, “lure it to us, we can offer it freedom in exchange for aid. It will guide us in, but we must go down without further delay. The best time to lay a trap is at twilight.”

The company began the descent, dropping down into one of the many narrow gorges that ended at the borders of the Madwood. Their steeds followed the course of a winding brook, splashing along its contours. It plunged over a few small falls and on into the jungle itself. Vaddi could see across the black canopy, but there were no birds circling and no sound disturbed the air. Time had become frozen, the air utterly motionless, a chill enveloping all the company.

“How far are we from Valen Bay?” Vaddi asked Fallarond.

“Half a day on foot. As close as we dare go to it, for the Murughel will have scouts watching for us. They know we will be coming. Just as our hawks have been watching, so will theirs. And something else has crossed the skies this day—some huge, winged thing. Did you not sense it?”

“The undead warrior on its soarwing, yes, that must have been it,” said Vaddi.

“Once we are within the Madwood, we will be seen only by the jungle itself—and what festers there.”

At the foot of the gorge, there was a narrow pool, the last healthy area of landscape before the first trees rose up, gnarled and interwoven, unnaturally fused into a solid wall. The stream bubbled silently along its course and under the lowest of their branches, which formed an archway to the pitch darkness within. Fallarond gave a signal to the Deathguard and they all dismounted and lead their horses to the water. None of the stallions would drink, turning their heads away, their eyes wild.

“We must let the horses go back to the highlands,” said Fallarond. “The Madwood is no place for them.”

Reluctantly Nyam and Vaddi dismounted. They said their quiet goodbyes to the steeds, but it was evident that they were all eager to leaver this haunted place. A last word from Fallarond released them, and as one the horses cantered back along the stream and were soon climbing back up into the hills, Fallarond drew his sword and everyone else in the company did the same.

Tallamorn, the Deathguard necromancer who had interrogated Muhallah’s corpse, led them around the pool to the very edge of the jungle. He took from his robes a slender rod forged from pure silver, its length cut with symbols. The company stood back while Tallamorn murmured a spell under his breath.

Vaddi tensed beside Nyam, and even Ardal looked deeply uneasy.

Tallamorn bent down and dipped the tip of his silver rod into the pool, which was deep, shadow-filled in the coming twilight. Light rippled out from the rod and spread. In its glow at the heart of the pool, something swam below the surface, circling. Tallamorn stood, raising the rod above him as a fisherman plays his catch and at once the waters of the pool burst up in a bright fountain, but it was no fish that erupted with the waters. It was man-like, though not a man. Vaddi and Nyam jumped back in shock, but the Deathguard had been prepared for this.

Tallamorn called out sharp commands to the figure, which writhed this way and that, flinging water from itself like a dog shaking itself dry. Scaled like a fish, with long talons and a sharp spine running down its back, the being glared at its tormenter. The face may once have been human, but now its eyes were huge, its nose a gash and its mouth a thin line that opened to reveal twin rows of sharply pointed teeth. The thing clawed at the air, hissing at Tallamorn, wriggling across the surface slowly but unable to get close to him.

“Who dares summon Ezrekuul?” snarled the twisted mouth.

“You see how this accursed jungle treats those it traps,” whispered Ardal to Vaddi. “How perverse is its magic.”

Tallamorn pointed his silver rod at the creature, which writhed even more, cowed by its power. “We are the Deathguard,” the necromancer told it, his voice low but filled with chilling power. “Your time has come.”

“I serve Madwood, I am Madwood. Everything is Madwood.”

“No, Ezrekuul. You are no more than a part of it. We have come to free you.”

A long silence followed, then the creature writhed anew, as though fires licked at it, or some other power gripped it and twisted it, tormenting it. “You cannot. Only Wood commands!”

“No. It crushes you, grinds you under its roots, wraps you in its coils. It sucks the blood from you, as you suck the blood of the unwary. It chains your soul, your essence. It saps your will.”

“Deceiver!”

“No,” said Tallamorn, his words like a litany, a part of his working. Vaddi felt the aura about the necromancer, the weaving of magic, centered on the silver rod. “Your desires are twisted away from you. You are not permitted choice. You are damned. The Madwood has cursed you. You long for true freedom.”

“It is you who are cursed,” sneered the creature, but it had shrunk down, its voice dropping. “I am … not to be fooled.”

“Your time has come. I offer you release from this nightmare. I will rip your false guise from you and show you. The spirit of the Holy Ancestors will purge you, if you so desire.”

Tallamorn pointed again with the rod. As he did so, the creature began to blur, to shapechange.

Vaddi gasped at what it was becoming. At first it seemed to become no more than a pillar of shapeless clay, but then, encouraged by Tallamorn’s working, it sculpted itself into a human form, an androgynous being, young and slender. Its beauty was marred by the intense sorrow in its face, which intensified as it looked down at itself and its new form.

“This is as you were, as you should be,” said Tallamorn, “before you were corrupted by the evil of the Madwood. You were a dryad, Ezrekuul, and you shared the life of the great trees before they, too, succumbed to the horrors of this place.”

“Yes, I remember. It was … before the darkness.”

“Your time has come. I can release you from that darkness.”

There were tears now in the eyes of the dryad. “But my trees … they are dead. Worse, they are undead, twisted. I cannot go back to them. I can only dwell in the stream.”

“Would you be free of this life, this living death?”

The creature gazed at the last rays of the sinking sun beyond the hill, fingers reaching out in sudden longing, as if to catch the disappearing light. It shuddered, breathing a soft affirmative.

“Very well, but first you must serve us. A small price for your freedom.”

“What must I do?”

“Guide us into the Madwood.”

“Where do you go?”

“Where does this stream lead?”

“Into the heart of the jungle, then it divides. To the southwest it flows into the Naalbarak. The other way it flows east, entering the sea beyond the jungle’s edge.”

“South of Valen Bay,” said Fallarond softly beside Vaddi.

“It is this second way that we would go,” Tallamorn told the dryad. “To the ruins, which are near it, are they not?”

“Khamaz Durrafal?” said the dryad with genuine fear in its voice. “But I cannot enter them! The river runs near to them. The city is overgrown, choked with the death-weeds of the jungle. It is tempting oblivion to set foot near it.”

“Take us along the river as far as you can. When it is no longer safe for you, I will free you.”

“You promise this?” said the dryad, eyes full of pleading.

“In the name of the true Undying and my revered ancestors, I so swear.”

“Very well.”

“You must be again what you have become until I free you. In the Madwood, you must don the guise of its slave, though you are mine now.”

Tallamorn worked yet another series of spells and the others watched more in pity than in horror as the dryad was transformed back into its original, twisted shape, flinching away from the same rays that it had groped for.

Vaddi spoke quietly to Ardal. “What is this place that Tallamorn named?”

“Khamaz Durrafal. There were cities in the Madwood once. We suspect it is there that the Murughel have taken Zemella. Its ruins are the nearest to Valen Bay. They are as far as the Murughel would dare venture into the Madwood.”

“Are they safe?” said Nyam.

Ardal grunted. “Safe? Nowhere in there is safe, but in the past, there have been attempts to make pacts with the jungle. Such unhealthy alliances have usually centered on former Aereni cities. Khamaz Durrafal may offer a brief respite from the worst excesses of the Madwood—that or it will be a focus for them.”

Nyam groaned. “You would risk that?”

“We have no choice, but this dryad will guide us.”

“Yes, well that fills me with confidence,” muttered the peddler, taking an even firmer grip on his sword.

Shortly thereafter, the dryad Ezrekuul led the way under the arch of boughs and into the gloom of the Madwood. Tallamorn and Fallarond were close behind the creature, the healer keeping his silver rod to hand. Vaddi, Nyam, and Ardal followed behind them, with the remainder of the Deathguard bringing up the rear. It was tike entering a cave, hundreds of feet below the earth, so intense was the silence. For long minutes they were unable to see anything, but gradually light began to diffuse their surroundings, a corpse-light glow, eerie and unwavering, as if the very trees and weeds that choked everywhere were imbued with it.

Vaddi imagined he could hear the deep breathing of a huge animal far below the surface of the earth. The first real sounds that any of the company heard were the shufflings and slitherings from the matted undergrowth, as unseen denizens of this place, large and small, drew back from the hated intruders. It was as though a monstrous, amorphous entity tensed its coils. As the company grew accustomed to the bizarre light, they could see above them the trunks of the trees, most of which were immense, like the columns of temples, bending and twisting upward, solid as stone, to a vaulted ceiling that allowed in not a single chink of natural light. In the convoluted branches that ran like beams far overhead, there were more scuttlings, more half-glimpsed movements of creatures best left unseen.

The company went along the matted bank of the stream, which had already widened into a small river, its black surface choked with rank weeds, broken only by the sharp fang of a rock. Ezrekuul swam slowly along, eyes fixed on the endless corridors ahead. On the shore, Tallamorn and a number of the other Deathguard were murmuring to themselves, spells to ward off the intense scrutiny of the Madwood.

Nyam felt a sudden stab of pain in his wounded shoulder, as though the jungle was testing him, looking for every weakness. He bent down and massaged his calf, unaware that Vaddi was watching him, but the youth said nothing. He himself had grown sullen. He tried to draw on the anger and bitterness that burned within him, but here in this ultimate domain of despair even the embers of that fire burned low.