C91.BOK

ocklear's eyes hardened.
At some level he wanted to believe he'd seen something in the instant of the gate's collapse. It was irrational, no doubt a vision he had conjured for himself to soften the blow of Patrus' death. As a man who had stood against many armies, Locklear knew all too well about last second visions seen on the battlefield. There was absolutely no chance that Patrus could have survived the blast. None.
By some agency beyond his control, he turned back the melancholy that threatened to overtake him, rationality brooking his grief for the lost magician. There was still an army to contend with, still moredhel to slay, still a Kingdom to defend. There would be time for grieving when it was finished.
"Such a dumb way to die," Locklear said, biting off the words bitterly.
Seigneur James nodded. "He died a good death, Locky. I wouldn't have wished for him to go, but he died to save others."
"You say that all the time, James, but there's no good way to die. They're all bad."
James stared at his old friend and saw the coldness that glimmered in Locklear's gaze. He had come to know that look over the years, an expression that had first manifested itself at the Battle of Armengar years before when Locklear's girlfriend, Bronwynn, had been slain by a troll. A bit of Locky had died then and in that place had grown the seed that had bloomed into a deadly and superior knight. But in all that time, he had never forgiven himself for letting the girl die.
"You're not mad Patrus is dead," James said finally. "You're angry that you didn't die in his place."
Locklear's eyes flashed protest, but suddenly he reached for his sword as three flashes appeared in the woods.
"Spellweavers!" Locklear shouted.

C92.BOK

he Lifestone pulsed warmth.
Rays of emerald light touched Owyn's solemn features, deepening the hollows of his face as he approached the blasted turf occupied moments before by Makala's towering rage. Nearby, Pug spoke softly, his voice diffusing off the cavern walls into a thousand bouncing whispers.
"It may be difficult," Pug said, "but don't judge him too harshly, Owyn. I have performed acts nearly as monstrous in the name of common good."
"I find that hard to believe," Owyn replied. "You're a good man."
"So was he, in his own way. Loyalty can sometimes misguide even the finest of men..."
Both magicians flinched in unison as muted sword strikes erupted in the corridors outside the chamber. With startling rapidity the sounds approached, dissolved into pattering desperate footfalls and howling half-screamed oaths.
"Watch yourself!" Pug shouted across the cavern. "Someone's coming!"
Harried by a shadowy assailant Gorath backed into the chamber, his sword flying in a defensive arc before him. Repeatedly, razor-like fists flashed out of the darkness to challenge him, but he skillfully turned the attacks to his advantage. Finding the rhythm of his opponent, he feinted right when he was expected to move left and a warrior barreled past him.
"Delekhan!" Owyn exclaimed.
Tripped up by Gorath, the moredhel leader crashed to the ground, snarling all the while in slavering fury. Attempting to rise, he slashed upward with his gauntleted fist but brutally Gorath stepped inside his guard and delivered a rain of heavy kicks until the older warrior fell quiet.
"I suggest you lie still," Gorath snapped, wiping rivulets of blood from his face. "I may decide to kill you yet."
"I hear you," Delekhan croaked, his voice weak. For a long moment he remained curled in a ball, his breath tearing raggedly from his throat as he clenched and unclenched his fists. With extreme effort he turned his head and looked upon the mesmerizing light of the Lifestone... and froze.
"No!" Pug shook his head, apprehension welling within him like a black lake as he caught the moredhel's expression. Stumbling forward he tried to interpose himself in the way but his failing strength abandoned him. "No!"
Swatting Gorath effortlessly aside as he rose, Delekhan's eyes flashed with reflected radiance. Like a puppet on a string, he began to stagger forward, his steps almost childish in their plodding. Undoubtedly something had control of his mind...
Dazed but alive, Gorath leapt to the attack and jolted hard into the moredhel leader, his miscalculated blow carrying the both of them not down but forward, forward into the Lifestone...
Together they reached for the sword.

C94.BOK

he battle was against them.
Enraged, Warleader Moraeulf growled orders to his terror stricken lieutenants as he reviewed their weakening lines from the safety of an elm shaded hill, watched with fury as his forward ranks of pikemen retreated under an unexpectedly heavy rain of Kingdom longbow fire. In a short while, the combined mass of Prince Arutha's relief forces and the garrison at Sethanon would be in a position to push them into the only quarter of the city where they would be unable to retreat, and then it would only be a matter of hours before they would be forced to surrender or die in a blaze set to flush them out.
"Warleader Moraeulf, you must come quickly!" Hearing a commotion to his left, he muttered a silent curse on Delekhan's head for leading them on this fool's errand, then snapped his attention to a small group of moredhel who were advancing towards him, faces flushed with excitement. Their leader, a scar faced whelp of twenty summers, knelt reverently at his feet before breathlessly delivering his message. "At the Keep! Your father has taken Prince Arutha! And I believe the marked one is with him! The tide of the battle turns!"
Stalking skeptically after his messengers, he progressed through a ruined avenue and into a cobbled central square filled with conversing moredhel warriors. Above them, Delekhan mounted the fire blackened parapet walk of the keep, preceded by a mysterious robed figure and the Prince of Krondor, the later bound hand and foot, unable to do anything but follow where he was lead.
"Brethren!" Silence fell over the square as the robe clad figure stepped past Arutha and Delekhan and into an archer's turret, a hand placed over his right breast. Ripping open his white garment, he revealed a body made gaunt with hunger, but bearing an unmistakable curling purple birthmark which resembled a dragon and was the mark of legend. Instantly, a chant rose among the moredhel warriors, many of them falling to their knees in ecstatic reverence.
"I have returned, O my children!" Murmandamus shouted from the battlements, revealing a glittering sword of gold, its hilt set with stones of lapis. "Hidden deep in the chambers of earth below our feet, Prince Arutha sought to keep this sword from me, from us, the key to our future! For ten years he imprisoned me in the bowels of this hell against my will, but you have freed me," he said, sweeping the air with the sword. "Ten years ago I promised you the dawning of a new age. I was repaid with abandonment. But today I am free, because you who followed Delekhan believed in our dream. You have demonstrated your worthiness and loyalty, and as a reward you shall all bear witness to the death of the Lord of the West and the final fulfillment of the Prophesy!"
A dark cheer rippled through the crowd as Murmandamus held the sword aloft and faced Arutha, his lips curled back in a wicked smile as he advanced on the dazed prince. Considering the things that had been done to him, the crowd thought it likely their former leader would execute Arutha slowly, and they were ripe for the spectacle.
Abruptly Murmandamus halted. Beneath him, the stones of the keep began to tremble, as if the entirety of the structure were being shaken by an invisible hand. His look of proud defiance suddenly turned to outrage.
"What treachery is this?" Murmandamus screamed. "Who meddles with the Prophesy?"
As if in answer, thunder pealed overhead, announcing the arrival of a great dragon and rider, the pair seemingly having formed from the very air itself. Floating down from dizzying heights, they descended to a point level with the keep's rooftops, the dragon's wings beating great gales of wind against the crowd.
"The Prophesy is false, Murmandamus, as are you!" Pug shouted from the dragon's back. "You have betrayed the folk of the Kingdom and those of your own people for a lie! It is time for your terror to come to an end!"
At Pug's command Arutha ducked, narrowly averting death as the dragon skimmed low overhead, lashing the battlements with its titanic whip-like tail, hurling both Murmandamus and Delekhan, screaming like babes, into the horrified hordes who watched far below. Fanning away from the impact of the two, bystanders hastened to escape, fearing a possible second attack from the flying dragon and its equally menacing rider.
Standing in the midst of the crowd, Moraeulf looked on, void of pain or fear, his voice calm and clear as he addressed a goblin lieutenant who stood near him. "Gather your kin and call the retreat."
"Lord Moraeulf, we may still win! Lead us!"
Collaring the green skinned creature, Moraeulf lifted him off his feet. "I now lead the Nations of the North and my first command is that I shall lead us home. Call the retreat," Moraeulf spat, hurling the goblin backwards. "The day is theirs, but I must see to something first."
Disregarding the panicked warriors who sought egress from the square, Moraeulf picked his way over the burning rubble to where his father lay dead, his wolfish eyes reflecting only the clouds of smoke which drifted through Sethanon. For all his father's grand schemes, for all the things he had thought to accomplish, he was nothing now, nothing but a hulk of dead flesh. He had been a fool to trust the Tsurani magician.
Leaning over the dead body, Moraeulf snatched up the golden sword which Murmandamus had retrieved from the caverns below. Although he knew very little of the Prophesy which had inspired both his father and Murmandamus to their deaths, he had no intention of wasting what little they had gained in the battle. Perhaps when he returned to the Northlands he could still find a way to harness the power of the artifact, assuming it had any powers at all...
"Moraeulf!"
Turning, the moredhel Warleader had no time to react before the lightning-quick assassin was upon him, driving a knife skillfully through his left eye and deep into his brain, killing him instantly. Without a sound, he crumpled to the ground across his dead father, dropping the sword even before he could raise it.
Smiling coldly, Narab withdrew his knife and wiped clean the grey flesh from its bone blade, then snatched Murmandamus' prized sword from where it lay abandoned on the ground. One by one he had borne witness to the destruction of his rivals; Gorath of the Ardanien, his own brother Nago, Delekhan and his son Moraeulf, all destroyed by their own greed or inaction. Now there would be the matter of dealing with the bitch Liallan who had been Delekhan's mate, and then he might even claim the throne of Sar-Sargoth for himself, assuming no bastard get of the former warleader claimed the right. It would be of small consequence, however, for now he possessed what they had all sought. Assuming he lived, he would learn to exploit his new found advantage.
Resheathing his knife in his boot, he spotted a slow moving band of moredhel limping towards the Dimwood, and he hurried to join them, blending in with the crowd in the same manner in which he had come to Sethanon, as an unrecognizable face in a mob of the beaten and the angry.
Arutha watched with mild wonder as Pug conjured the Prince's duplicate into nonexistence, then just as quickly eliminated the remarkably life-like illusions of Delekhan and Murmandamus who lay crumpled on the ground below the Keep. The corpse of Delekhan's son would have to be removed later by less arcane means.
"A shame we didn't have you with us at Armengar, cousin Pug," Arutha said. "A performance such as that before Murmandamus' troops might have won us the battle."
Pug shook his head. "Spectacle won't win your battles, but at least it may prevent the Dark Brothers from plotting another attack against Sethanon. With the dozen or more moredhel witnesses you've left alive on the battlefield, most of them should return alive to the Northlands. Having seen their leaders die and possessing the object Murmandamus sought, they'll have little reason to return here."
"Let us hope," Arutha said. "I have little desire to do this again."
"What about the artifact?" Owyn asked.
"A useless sword," Pug replied with a grin. "The Oracle of Aal indicated a hidden room where I might find it when I asked for assistance with the plan. Shortly after that moredhel gentleman who picked it up returns to Sar-Sargoth, he will discover it useless and curse the names of both of them for having spilled so much moredhel blood on false prophesies."
Seeing James and Locklear poking about in the ruins near the keep, Arutha scowled. "I have a feeling those two are going to keep me busy for months with their questions about this place. Fortunately they're loyal---if I tell them the subject is closed, they'll both trust me enough to leave the issue alone."
"You can always tell them the sword was truly what was buried here," Owyn suggested. "The answer is good enough for the moredhel."
Arutha shook his head. "Locklear will probably forget the matter once he sees a pretty young face in Krondor, but Jimmy is different. He won't accept it, though he will never ask anything more. I don't like that I will have to lie to him. He's as loyal a subject as I've ever had."
"What about the Tsurani?" Owyn asked. Nodding, Arutha seemed equally concerned with Pug's answer.
"I shall have to talk with them. A well-respected member of the Assembly of Magicians named Hochopeppa already knows something of the event and he will help me assuage their fears," Pug said. "Thankfully they have their hands tied with another bothersome individual at the moment."
Satisfied, Arutha said his farewells and moved off to be of assistance in evacuating the remaining soldiers from the area, fearing that some might become too curious and discover things best left unfound. While watching the Prince depart, Pug smiled quietly to himself, gaining Owyn's attention.
"You seem pleased about something," Owyn said. "What is it?"
"You will note that the Prince said nothing about your silence," Pug said. "You know the secret of Sethanon. In all of Midkemia, only Prince Arutha, King Lyam, Duke Martin, Tomas of Elvandar and myself truly know what lies beneath our feet." As if to reinforce the point, Pug tapped his staff at Owyn's feet.
"What are you saying?"
Smiling, Pug began to lead him down the winding path towards the city's smashed southern gate. "What that means is the Prince expects me to guarantee your silence. That will be difficult to do. With you in Tiburn and me at my Academy of Magicians at Stardock, it will require that I make a number of long and tiresome journeys for the sole purpose of ensuring you keep your silence. It seems a waste of time." Stopping to look into the sunset, Pug seemed lost in thought. "Of course, it is possible I could take you on as a student of magic, your living expenses paid in full by Prince Arutha. Are you interested in becoming a true magician, Owyn?"
Laughing for the first time in a great while, Owyn twirled his staff in his hands. "I've never wanted anything else..."

C23.BOK

he scroll smelled of dust.
Scrawled in chicken scratches and spider tracks, tiny lines staggered across the moth-eaten paper, indicating the paths that were the major roads within the Kingdom.
Pointer in hand, Arutha bent over the map and pointed to a large black dot. "We are here in Krondor. At dawn tomorrow you will leave through the main gate and rendezvous with your escort, Seigneur James. I know you might have preferred Locklear's company, but he has business elsewhere.
"You will head to Romney. Providing one of Delekhan's assassins doesn't slit your throat first, you should reach the Ursine Ford within the month. In Romney you will join a special detachment of King Lyam's soldiers staying at the Black Sheep Tavern. They may be of service to you."
Nodding, Gorath took in Arutha's advice, listening studiously as the Prince reviewed the details. "If you find the evidence, I will act only when James has conveyed the information to me. Is that clear? Only when I receive James' word. Until then, I wait."
"Understood," Gorath replied.
"Good," Arutha replied, slapping the surface of the table with his palm. Looking around the council chamber, he noted the wearied expressions of all who sat around the map. "Why don't you let Gamina and Makala show you around Krondor? I have a few things I need to consider alone."
Reading the offer as a polite dismissal, the worn council members began to file out the door, most glad to be on their feet again following the grueling session. As Pug passed by, however, Arutha snagged his sleeve and drew him back to the table. "If you don't mind, I would have your council cousin Pug."
"Certainly,"  Pug replied, resuming his seat. "I am all attention."

C31.BOK

he coppery smell of burning flesh filled the air.
Embers leapt from the funeral pyre into the growing dusk, joined the winking points of light that would later become a blaze of crystalline stars. Around the flames villagers gathered in dark clots, their faces overwritten with blank, unreadable expressions. Like moths to a candle they drifted near and mourned and thought and sniffed. They had come to watch the flames feed.
Gorath's fathomless green eyes nictitated in the firelight as he turned and gazed at Owyn who flinched uncomfortably at his side.
"There can be no uneasier sleep than a warrior murdered in his cups," Gorath said, his voice only slightly louder than the spitting hiss of scorched bone. "They nipped at the heels of the Nighthawks, be certain of that."
"So you think we're getting close?" Owyn asked.
Gorath began to speak, but his words congealed on his lips as his eyes locked with the burning gaze of Seigneur James.

C32.BOK

piders scurried out of the opened chest.
Careful to avoid the miniature albino menaces, James snatched a fresh-looking scroll out of the box and unrolled it on the floor. As his dark eyes darted across the page, his lips moved in an incantation of places, names, figures and dates.
"Northwarden," James whispered. "The attack will come at Northwarden very soon. But...this is all wrong..."
"What is it?" Gorath asked, also bending to see the page.
"These figures. If Delekhan takes a force this small to Northwarden, he hasn't a hope of taking the castle. Far too few soldiers. Baron Gabot will maul him unless Delekhan can bring something serious to bear. What could the moredhel have?"
"Maybe the Nighthawks have infiltrated the castle." Owyn said. "Why else would they be so helpful to the moredhel unless their own necks were on the line too?"
Paling, James suddenly snatched an ink horn from his pack and began to scribble an addendum to the Nighthawk note.
"It is very important that this note reach Arutha. Although you were not told this, he has stationed an army outside of the Dimwood to await my word about the attack," James said, finishing his note. Fixing his gaze on Gorath, he handed it firmly over. "I want you to make sure that it gets there. I'm going to have to trust you."
Owyn gaped. "But what about..."
"I've got to go to Northwarden. If there are Nighthawks in Baron Gabot's castle, we stand a good chance of losing it in an attack. I have to ensure that doesn't happen.
"Remember, Arutha is outside the Dimwood forest near Sethanon. When you give him the note, tell him there's a party at Mothers."
"What?" Owyn sputtered.
"Just do it. I haven't got time to explain. Good luck, the both of you."
In a moment the Seigneur was gone, his shadows chasing after him down the long dark tunnel.
An hour later, Owyn yawned expansively, his vision growing dim with each step taken further down the road. Next to him, Gorath trudged without complaint, his eyes fixed on the dusty cow track.
"Enough, enough." Owyn murmured. "I think my legs are going to crumble. We can't reach Arutha tonight. Let's stop for a while."
"Quiet," Gorath snapped, seizing Owyn by the arm. Beneath his hood, his feral eyes glowed like blood tinged emeralds. "Someone's near..."
Abruptly patches of darkness detached themselves from the woods, ambled into the pale moonlight, huddled onto the roadbed. In the shadows, arrow points gleamed, aligned in deadly sights, quivered...
 there?"
Suddenly the jangle rattled louder, this time accompanied by a loud creak and a flood of torchlight as bright as the sun. Out of that glowing corona lumbered the largest moredhel he had yet seen...

C41.BOK

he war drums had begun at dawn.
Stalking quietly the corridors of the ancient fortress, Narab carried a witchlight to illumine his way. As he approached the doors to the Great Hall, two moredhel guards dressed in full battle regalia stood away. They made no sound as he whisked past nor blinked at the sight of him.
"Greetings, Narab," a cold voice called from the throne. "It has long been since I have seen your face in Sar-Sargoth. Have you grown bolder or more the fool?"
Narab knelt at the base of the throne and kissed Delekhan's foot. "That is for you to decide. If my words are not to your liking, then my life is yours."
"It is already mine." Delekhan's wolfish eyes blazed in the darkness. "Speak," he commanded.
"I have just returned from a journey into the Kingdom. I bring a prize."
"I have no interest in valueless baubles..."
"This is no bauble," Narab said, cutting off Delekhan, "and I think you will find it is of great value."
"And would it have name, this thing?"
"Yes, my lord. Its name is Gorath!" Narab sneered pridefully as he awaited his leader's praise, awaited the words that would restore his place in moredhel favor and rescind the order of death on his head. Perhaps he would even have a place among the new lords...
Delekhan lunged from his throne, his razor edged gauntlet tilling a bloody seam across Narab's face as he lashed him backwards.
"You've wrecked everything you dog!" Delekhan bellowed.
"But...I have brought back the enemy of the Northlands!" Narab sputtered, blood dripping from his torn lips. "With Gorath captive we can proceed with our..."
"You...know...nothing!"
Narab retreated, suddenly aware that his efforts were wasted, that his oath of loyalty meant nothing to his hateful lord. Resolutely he stifled a flash of pain as the moredhel leader thundered towards the doors.
"And what of my life?" Narab whispered.
Halting, Delekhan turned and hissed, "It is forfeit!"
Owyn didn't want to be awake.
Perhaps it was the drugs they had given him or the endless walking that he'd done in the past month and a half. All he could think about was sleeping now, that restful non-existence that interrupted the beatings and the hauling and the exhaustion. He just wanted to sleep but that irritating jangle wouldn't let him. Where was it coming from?
"Gorath?" Owyn asked. "Are you there?"
Suddenly the jangle rattled louder, this time accompanied by a loud creak and a flood of torchlight as bright as the sun. Out of that glowing corona lumbered the largest moredhel he had yet seen...

C43.BOK

wyn didn't want to be awake.
Perhaps it was the drugs they had given him or the endless walking that he'd done in the past month and a half. All he could think about was sleeping now, that restful non-existence that interrupted the beatings and the hauling and the exhaustion. He just wanted to sleep but that irritating jangle wouldn't let him. Where was it coming from?
"Gorath?" Owyn asked. "Are you there?"
Suddenly the jangle rattled louder, this time accompanied by a loud creak and a flood of torchlight as bright as the sun. Out of that glowing corona lumbered the largest moredhel he had yet seen...

C44.BOK

elekhan stalked away.
Still rattled by his interrogation, Owyn tried to collect his fuzz coated thoughts into a coherent whole. Thankfully, his wits had provided the lies as needed, but only narrowly had he avoided the impulse to tell everything he knew. It was almost as if he was being prodded, coerced, bewitched...
Magic?
Astonished he had been unaware of it at the time, the boy looked again at the bulky warrior who now stood whispering over Gorath's limp form. At first he believed Delekhan was incanting a spell, one perhaps intended to coerce the truth from his victim, but after a few moments it became clear the warlord was conversing with his barely conscious friend.
"No!" Gorath croaked, shaking his head.
"...plans...unfulfilled," Delekhan whispered finally. Abruptly he struck...

C45.BOK

t was too much to absorb.
Even if the events unfurling before him weren't openly damning, Owyn had seen enough to keep him swimming in a sea of doubts, all of them centering on the loyalty of his friend and traveling companion. Worse still, he had to deliver the message to Prince Arutha outside the Dimwood and he would need Gorath's help to do it. Desperately he wished he had time to sort things out, but time was the one commodity he didn't have.
"Enjoy your deaths. I know I shall." Delekhan's scratchy voice snatched Owyn out of his thoughts, directed his attention to where the moredhel stood in the doorway gesturing to someone in the dungeon corridor. From nowhere a monolithic door swung into place and once again the room was a land of shadows.
Experimentally, Owyn struck the bars of his cage, knowing full well the corroded structure was too solid to yield. But even as his fingertips came away from the metal, the bars began a keening vibration, the iron harmonies evocative of distant temple bells.
Someone was working magic... and it wasn't him.
d from his lips as a frosty white cloud.
Below him, Seigneur Locklear negotiated scrub brush as he worked his way up the winding mountain path. He cursed expansively as a thorn bush caught in the chinks of his leg guards and he paused to throw his friend an exasperated frown. James smiled, then turned to look out over the snowy peaks that marked the boundary of moredhel territory.
Five hours after arriving at Northwarden, Baron Gabot had called both he and Locklear into his meeting room. While worried about James' story of Nighthawks, he was far more concerned that his magical adviser had not reported back from investigating possible moredhel activity. With a large band of the Dark Brothers approaching his castle, he feared that the old magician might have fallen into enemy hands, and so, reluctantly, he had asked the two Seigneurs to finish Patrus' job.
Locklear arrived puffing, his face haloed by mist.
"I thought I was going to have to come down there and carry you up," James said grinning. "You shouldn't have stayed up all night with that serving girl."
"I didn't expect to have to get up at the crack of dawn," Locklear growled, yanking a twig from his chain mail. "Mountain climbing and armor do not mix."
Suddenly, the two Seigneurs wheeled to the sound of a horrible mewling...

C46.BOK

Owyn wasted no time.
Later, he could debate to his heart's content about who it was that had set them free and what their reasons for doing so might be, but at the moment he had no thought in him but finding a means to get them out of the darkened cell alive. Hurrying to Gorath, he freed him of his iron manacles and allowed the moredhel to lean against his shoulder as they limped together towards the heavy dungeon door. Again, tugging at the handle, they found that the lock was undone, another gift from their unknown benefactor.
"What about the guard?" Owyn whispered, allowing Gorath to stand once more on his own.
Gorath lifted his head and spoke, his speech still slurred by the drugs that had been administered to them. "Keep moving," he said, waving a hand at the door. "No one is there."
Pushing out the door, they found themselves confronting a wide hallway with passages leading in three other directions....

C51.BOK

ames' breath emerged from his lips as a frosty white cloud.
Below him, Seigneur Locklear negotiated scrub brush as he worked his way up the winding mountain path. He cursed expansively as a thorn bush caught in the chinks of his leg guards and he paused to throw his friend an exasperated frown. James smiled, then turned to look out over the snowy peaks that marked the boundary of moredhel territory.
Five hours after arriving at Northwarden, Baron Gabot had called both he and Locklear into his meeting room. While worried about James' story of Nighthawks, he was far more concerned that his magical adviser had not reported back from investigating possible moredhel activity. With a large band of the Dark Brothers approaching his castle, he feared that the old magician might have fallen into enemy hands, and so, reluctantly, he had asked the two Seigneurs to finish Patrus' job.
Locklear arrived puffing, his face haloed by mist.
"I thought I was going to have to come down there and carry you up," James said grinning. "You shouldn't have stayed up all night with that serving girl."
"I didn't expect to have to get up at the crack of dawn," Locklear growled, yanking a twig from his chain mail. "Mountain climbing and armor do not mix."
Suddenly, the two Seigneurs wheeled to the sound of a horrible mewling...

C52.BOK

he portcullis creaked.
An ashen faced soldier trembled as he labored at the monolithic peg wheel, his back arched backwards taut as a bowstring as he hauled the iron gate upwards. With a jerk of his neck, he gasped between clenched teeth for James and his companions to hurry inside.
Within, a handful of soldiers hurried to various tasks on the battlements and panicked captains attempted to rally the surviving contingents of the day's fighting.
"Something's wrong," James muttered, observing the disarray. "What's happened?"
"Baron Gabot's been murdered, that's what's happened!" a nearby soldier shouted, glancing up from where he worked feverishly at unplugging a keg of oil. "We found a bloody nest of Nighthawks in our midst! They murdered the Baron's staff and three of the captains before we cornered 'em in a storeroom."
"Torch those corpses immediately," James ordered. "They might be Black Slayers. Where is Duke Martin?"
"Don't know. You're the closest thing we have to nobility at the moment. Guess that puts you in command, Seigneur."
James said nothing as a rumble of thunder split the sky.
Half dead soldiers trumped past, their eyes hollowed with exhaustion as they traded places with equally worn men brought from the dining hall-turned-infirmary. Few men still possessed clothing unstained by blood.
Dour with the turn of events, James eyed the horizon for any sign of help. In all likelihood, the moredhel would attempt to breach the wall today and there was little he could do about it. Nighthawk treachery had silenced their cannons and too many men had fallen in four days of heavy fighting.
"Attack!" a voice screamed in the stillness. "Attack! Men on the south face!"
James cast a fuming curse into the sunrise. He might die, but he would send as many moredhel as he could reach into the halls of the Death Goddess before he would go down...

C53.BOK

he moredhel thrashed.
As life dimmed in his horrified eyes he toppled backwards into a wooden balustrade. With an ear splitting shriek the railing sundered into flying splinters, tumbled after his flailing feet as he disappeared into nothingness.
Almost too dazed to breathe, James bolted to the wall to sight his fallen opponent. A crumpled heap of armor lay far below, splashed in gore and a spreading stain of red. Close by, a grim looking figure lowered his crossbow and tilted up his shaggy dark head to favor the Seigneur with a rare smile.
Arutha!

C61.BOK

ug concentrated on the storm.
Whitecaps curled on the face of the Bitter Sea as furious jags of lightning slashed down from a darkening sky. Far off, the wobbling sails of ships leapt in the troughs of grey waves, struggling desperately against winds that threatened to shear them into ragged scraps. Fishermen and frenzied ship masters busied themselves along Krondor's docks as they raced to batten down flapping hatches and prevent unsecured goods from pitching into the churning seas. Everywhere there were planks and hammers and ropes, but among the workers not a soul dared utter a word.
Wrongness. Pug sensed it as clearly as he smelled the salt in the air, and felt the hardwood railing under his hand. What had begun three days ago as a seemingly weak summer squall was intensifying into a threshing eye of violence. Within hours it would make landfall, doubtless bruising the livelihoods of many coastal towns, Krondor among them.
Perhaps it can be tamed, Pug thought, his face twisting into a frown. More of a Lesser Path affair but it should be simple enough...
Even as he extended his hand the image of another storm formed in his mind unbidden, a terrifying storm that had raged over his head as he came into the greatness of his power in a far distant Empire called Tsuranuanni, a storm that had tested his right to be a member of the alien Assembly of Magicians, a storm that had rent open the heavens and forever set him apart from other mortal men.
Energy leapt from Pug's outstretched fingers into the heart of the storm, exploding within it a glorious rainbow pattern that illuminated the clouds in a throbbing elemental display. Greenish bands of color danced the sky as the wind began to abate, the torrential rains quickly softening to a mild patter as blue blasts of energy moved between sea and sky. Gently the ocean stilled of its own accord.
Satisfied the threat was reduced, Pug discontinued the spell with a slicing gesture and stepped back to watch the storm's progress. The sight eased his mind and allowed him time to mull over a series of issues, not the least of which was the ruined vacation that he, his wife Katala and daughter Gamina, had intended on making in Krondor, but like a lodestone to metal he found his thoughts returning again and again to recollections of the Empire...
, you are no longer moredhel, Gorath," Aglaranna said. "You are a member of the family of Elvandar and of the Eledehel. When your quest is done, you will return here to be one with us. That is our desire."
"What is this news of...Pug?" As if wakening from a dream, the elven Warleader spoke the magician's name with great concern, his dark eyebrows rising in interest as Owyn began to elaborate the details. At times he would request that certain details be repeated, but always his glassy eyes became sharply focused when Owyn spoke the names of Pug and members of Arutha's court.
"By the moons that means...trouble," Tomas coughed as the boy finished his tale. "The Book of Macros is not a book but instead a gift that Pug gave to me long ago. I was to use it to come to him if ever he left that message for me. I must go..."
"You cannot, love. Even now I can sense the effects of the painkilling herbs beginning to wear off," Aglaranna said, laying a pale hand on Tomas' shoulder. As if broaching a delicate subject, she continued quietly. "Three days ago the Warleader was struck with a poisoned blade. Only last evening did his fever abate but he demanded to be brought here when he heard that a moredhel was returning. He hasn't the strength for the trip. You must go in his stead.
"Don't try my patience, Aglaranna. Pug needs my help and I shall go!" Struggling to gain his feet, he blanched with the effort, standing straight only by groping the back of his throne.
"How many of our kin carried you here, my Warlord?" the Queen asked, her voice laced with concern. "Was it five or six? You are no longer possessed by the soul of Ashen-Shugar and you are not gifted with immortality! None doubt your strength or loyalty Tomas, but you owe it to Pug to send able help."
"As always my love, you are wise," Tomas whispered, his strength beginning to fail him. Reaching beneath the seat of his throne, he brought forth a leather tome covered with dust...

C63.BOK

wyn gaped.
Awash in light Elvandar glistened, its circuitous faerie walkways decked in glowing lanterns of brushed gold and crystal. Above, a canopy of silver white leaves arched over the whole of the tree-top city, masking from view whether sun or moon reigned in the skies beyond.
"Gorath, isn't this the most perfect place you've ever seen?" Owyn exclaimed. "I've never dreamt of anything like this!"
"Squire, if you can hold your tongue for a moment," Gorath said, "it might behoove you to bow to their Queen."
Flushed with embarrassment Owyn turned heel, shriveling as he noticed the cloaked figures who waited patiently upon their thrones. Quickly he folded in obeisance, hoping sincerely that human manners would be appropriate in the elven court.
"We have come from Krondor with news about Pug of Stardock," Owyn said. "We were in hopes..."
"Silence child." Queen Aglaranna spoke gently, her pale blue eyes glowing in the shadows. "Though we would hear of our dear friend, Pug, we first must attend to the unraveling of eons." Inclining her head towards Gorath, her voice and composure took on a grave edge. "You have come before us as a moredhel, but never may you leave Elvandar as such. Are you willing to return to us, your ancient kin, cousin?"
Rage flashed in his eyes. Trembling with emotion Gorath advanced on the Queen, his hand darting to the hilt of his sword.
"No, Gorath!" Owyn gasped, knowing his voice was too small to stay his friend's wrath. "You can't!"
"I was Gorath of the Clan Ardanien," he spat, his voice thick with an ageless contempt. Color drained from his face as he gripped ever more tightly the sword at his side. "I am Gorath and I formally return to the Eledehel and swear fealty to Aglaranna, Queen of Elves and to Tomas, Prince Consort and Warleader." Falling to one knee, he knelt low before Aglaranna's feet. "I am yours to command, lady."
His heart hammering an unsteady tattoo in his chest, Owyn stared in frank appraisal of the elves before him. Except for a glazed expression lingering on Prince Consort Tomas' face, he saw no evidence that any of them had witnessed anything unusual.
"Rise. From this day forward, you are no longer moredhel, Gorath," Aglaranna said. "You are a member of the family of Elvandar and of the Eledehel. When your quest is done, you will return here to be one with us. That is our desire."
"What is this news of...Pug?" As if wakening from a dream, the elven Warleader spoke the magician's name with great concern, his dark eyebrows rising in interest as Owyn began to elaborate the details. At times he would request that certain details be repeated, but always his glassy eyes became sharply focused when Owyn spoke the names of Pug and members of Arutha's court.
"By the moons that means...trouble," Tomas coughed as the boy finished his tale. "The Book of Macros is not a book but instead a gift that Pug gave to me long ago. I was to use it to come to him if ever he left that message for me. I must go..."
"You cannot, love. Even now I can sense the effects of the painkilling herbs beginning to wear off," Aglaranna said, laying a pale hand on Tomas' shoulder. As if broaching a delicate subject, she continued quietly. "Three days ago the Warleader was struck with a poisoned blade. Only last evening did his fever abate but he demanded to be brought here when he heard that a moredhel was returning. He hasn't the strength for the trip. You must go in his stead.
"Don't try my patience, Aglaranna. Pug needs my help and I shall go!" Struggling to gain his feet, he blanched with the effort, standing straight only by groping the back of his throne.
"How many of our kin carried you here, my Warlord?" the Queen asked, her voice laced with concern. "Was it five or six? You are no longer possessed by the soul of Ashen-Shugar and you are not gifted with immortality! None doubt your strength or loyalty Tomas, but you owe it to Pug to send able help."
"As always my love, you are wise," Tomas whispered, his strength beginning to fail him. Reaching beneath the seat of his throne, he brought forth a leather tome covered with dust...
r a long moment he simply held her, his head resting in her silver-white mane of hair, while he mulled through recent events. At last he slipped a finger beneath her chin, gently lifted, and allowed his gaze to lock with hers as they initiated the special mind-speech that had been Gamina's gift since birth.
He was lying father, all that time, Gamina thought. Even when he brought me here. He was trying to get you away from Krondor!
I know, I know, Pug thought in return, pushing a stray wisp of her hair into place. I shall have to see you better guarded in the future. I had always supposed that your gifts would keep you safe from harm, but I see my pride in you sometimes borders on the dangerously arrogant. We must be more careful. Agreed?
Agreed. Again she hugged herself to him. Feeling her faint nod, he released her and kissed her forehead, looked to where Owyn and Gorath stood at the cave mouth. Curiously, the squire was bent double, his face buried in his hands as he shook with violent coughs.
"I'm okay," Owyn wheezed, waving his hands, occasionally stealing glances at Gamina. "Really, I'll be fine."
Pug smiled. The boy's theatrics were poor, but it was manifestly obvious he wished an introduction before his lungs collapsed. "Gamina, this hacking young ruffian is Squire Owyn Beleforte of Tiburn. Both he and Gorath have been instrumental in helping find you. Perhaps we should have them down to Stardock for dinner someday."
"Stardock?" Owyn's performance faltered at the mention of Pug's Academy of Magic. Realizing his lapse, he coughed tentatively into his hand. "You mean, the Stardock?"
"None other." Pug frowned as he drew out a small multi-faceted stone from the folds of his robe. "This special pattern stone should take us there, but we have to drop off Gamina before we attend to our business."
"We will go to join Prince Arutha?" Gorath asked.
"No," Pug replied, clapping his hands overhead. "We go to Sethanon!"

C71.BOK

ells tolled in the towers of Northwarden.
Jubilant guards shouted from the walls, slapped backs, exchanged war stories only days old. Already a bard was milling through the crowd, gathering names and places, scribbling them down as fast as he could. Tonight they would gather, and they would drink, and they would pay old Tamney the Minstrel each time he sang their names.
Listening to the general hubbub drifting in through an opened shutter, Seigneur James allowed himself a grim smile as he dropped down to where Arutha and Locklear conferred over a battle map.
"By days end, I warrant that Delekhan will have died on the sword point of every man here," James said. "It's a shame he wasn't really leading that raid."
"Indeed," Arutha agreed, his eyes shrouded as he brooded about something. "I would like to ask him a few questions.
"I leave for Highcastle at noon. Even though the moredhel have turned from here, I am certain that the first of them will be upon our troops there by sunup tomorrow. Fortunately, my army will be there to greet them. Still, I wish I knew what they were up to..."
Arutha glanced up, startled, as a page boy skidded into the chamber.
"Your p-p-ardon my lord!" the boy stuttered. "They have captured the moredhel raiding leader!"
Without pause, Arutha's eyes hardened. "Prepare him for questioning."

C81.BOK

olden sweat traced his jawline.
Discomforted in the unrelenting heat he stripped back his shirt sleeves and with passing humor noted the development of his sunburns. Within a month he doubted even his closest of kin would recognize him; his moonlight pale skin tinged a light almond color and his brownish hair streaked with golden highlights. All things considered, he felt very differently about himself now, felt more aware that there were bigger problems in the world than his own. Still, it was difficult not to dwell on his sudden...disability.
Owyn contemplated resuming the meditations that had occupied him the length of the morning, but decided that in the space of four hours he had learned nothing he hadn't already deduced intuitively. For some reason, his magical abilities were useless in this alien environment and the prospect frightened him nearly beyond reason.
"Another week beneath this strange sun and I shall seem pale next to you." Gorath shouted as he hiked back up the path, the dark strands of his hair dancing in a hot breeze. "This magician Pug must walk without leaving footprints! I can find no evidence of him. How progress your meditations?"
Owyn shrugged. "No luck. I've tried everything from lesser path cantrips to greater path incantations. Nothing works. It's almost as if there were no manna here."
Arching his brows inquisitively, Gorath motioned for the boy to continue.
"Most people misunderstand the way that magic works," Owyn explained. "As a magician, I don't have power within me. All I know are a series of words and actions that help me gather the power, or manna, from the natural world. If, however, there is no manna for me to collect, then all of my magical training is futile. I'm powerless."
"Would the same be true of Pug?"
Owyn nodded. "He would be as helpless as I am, worse perhaps. If I were accustomed to having the kind of command that he has and suddenly lost it..."
"He could be in very dire danger," Gorath said, finishing the thought. Leaning over, he fetched Owyn's staff from where it lay discarded in the sand. "I think that makes our journey all the more urgent."

C83.BOK

ug took Gamina into his arms.
Eyes glistening with relieved tears, he hugged the girl tight to his chest and for a long moment he simply held her, his head resting in her silver-white mane of hair, while he mulled through recent events. At last he slipped a finger beneath her chin, gently lifted, and allowed his gaze to lock with hers as they initiated the special mind-speech that had been Gamina's gift since birth.
He was lying father, all that time, Gamina thought. Even when he brought me here. He was trying to get you away from Krondor!
I know, I know, Pug thought in return, pushing a stray wisp of her hair into place. I shall have to see you better guarded in the future. I had always supposed that your gifts would keep you safe from harm, but I see my pride in you sometimes borders on the dangerously arrogant. We must be more careful. Agreed?
Agreed. Again she hugged herself to him. Feeling her faint nod, he released her and kissed her forehead, looked to where Owyn and Gorath stood at the cave mouth. Curiously, the squire was bent double, his face buried in his hands as he shook with violent coughs.
"I'm okay," Owyn wheezed, waving his hands, occasionally stealing glances at Gamina. "Really, I'll be fine."
Pug smiled. The boy's theatrics were poor, but it was manifestly obvious he wished an introduction before his lungs collapsed. "Gamina, this hacking young ruffian is Squire Owyn Beleforte of Tiburn. Both he and Gorath have been instrumental in helping find you. Perhaps we should have them down to Stardock for dinner someday."
"Stardock?" Owyn's performance faltered at the mention of Pug's Academy of Magic. Realizing his lapse, he coughed tentatively into his hand. "You mean, the Stardock?"
"None other." Pug frowned as he drew out a small multi-faceted stone from the folds of his robe. "This special pattern stone should take us there, but we have to drop off Gamina before we attend to our business."
"We will go to join Prince Arutha?" Gorath asked.
"No," Pug replied, clapping his hands overhead. "We go to Sethanon!"

C11.BOK

lood soaked rags collected at the boy's feet.
One by one he tended the wincing soldier's purple wounds, stitched, salved, bandaged, did what little he could in the leaping golden halo of firelight. Fortunately for his roadside patient, he could do more than most.
Fingers slick with alum ointment, he worked fervently to tie off a catgut cord, then brushed the injury with a light touch that to the untrained eye would seem only a friendly pat---others would recognize the telltale hand gesture as a magical ward against infection.
"Done," Owyn sighed, wiping his hand in a rust colored cloth. "No guarantees, though. The stitches may hold all the way to LaMut and then again, push too hard and you could be bleeding like a stuck pig on Midsummers..."
"You did---fine," Seigneur Locklear replied, smiling approval before rolling down his sleeve. "It'll scar but it's good for a noble's reputation. Lets the kingdom folk know he isn't resting on his laurels and it impresses the ladies. I'll be sure to look you up in Tiburn if ever I need stitching up again."
The boy accepted the compliment with a humble nod while he packaged away the rest of his medical supplies, his thoughts focused instead on a third man who slumped in the shadows across from them. Despite the manacles that bound the stranger's hands and the distance that separated them, the boy felt dreadfully exposed, his avenues of escape limited should Locklear's elven-looking prisoner decide to liberate himself.
"What did he do?" Owyn whispered, jerking his head towards the man.
"Gorath? Let's just say that he had the disadvantage of being at the wrong place at the wrong time," Locklear said cautiously. He snatched a greenish apple out of his knapsack, offering one to Owyn. "I have to take him to Krondor."
"Did he kill someone?" Owyn asked.
"No."
"He attacked you."
The Seigneur wiped apple juice from his mouth, shook his head. "No, no, not exactly."
"Well, who cut you up then?"
Before Locklear could reply...
oice insisted in his head. I must see more.
Years. A river of men coursed together in a bleeding tide and he was amidst them. Screams rang. A howling figure silhouetted himself against the moon and brandished a bloody sword aloft. The wolfish figure screamed words of wrath and damnation as he cleaved his way through his moredhel brothers. He was Delekhan, former general of Murmandamus, leader of the unified tribes of the Northlands, and he was the enemy...
Gorath!

The memory detonated into a million fading thoughts, each fleeing after the faint echoes of a weak whisper. Before him now there was a new image, the face of a fair young girl whose pale blue eyes watched him with weary interest. There were others too, all seated like himself around a polished council table, all studying, all dissecting. And Gorath was the object of their scrutiny.
"I cannot find the truth, my Prince," the tired girl whispered finally, quietly. "His mind is...chaotic. I find images but I cannot hold them long enough to understand."
Narrowing his dark eyes, Prince Arutha glared at Gorath. "He hides his thoughts?"
"Gorath is moredhel." Pug quickly interceded for his exhausted daughter. "Even with Gamina's exceptional talent for sensing thoughts, his mind may have many innate psychic defenses. I may need to send for one of my advanced students..."
"No need to disturb studies, master magician Pug. The moredhel speaks truly."
Council members exchanged surprised glances then turned their attention to the aged magician seated next to Pug. Lowering his eyes, the man made a dismissive gesture.
"Forgive me, I do not mean to presume, but I have looked into his mind as well," Makala continued. "War in the Kingdom would have many wide ranging effects, not the least of which could lead to a disruption of trade between our two worlds. My Emperor of Tsuranuanni would be most displeased if our rift-making secrets were seized by barbarians in warfare."
Gorath glowered at the Tsurani magician. "Trading agreements notwithstanding, the moredhel watch your borders, Nighthawks spy on your imperial cousins and before the snows there shall be an army come to the Kingdom! Heed my words Prince of Krondor! You must prepare your troops!"
Anger flashed in the thunderheads of Arutha's eyes as he rose to his feet...

C12.BOK

he gate swung open.
Revolted by the thick scent of excrement in the chamber, Locklear hastened to the ladder affixed on the far wall and ascended its filth slick rungs. Behind him, Gorath and Owyn reluctantly did likewise, gaffing on the noxious vapors in the shaft.
"This is nothing," Locklear grunted, shoving upwards against a grating. "All the windows in the palace are open right now. You ought to smell it in the winter."
Darkness surrounded them as they slithered out of the privy, their only impressions of the chamber provided by the faint flicker of distant firelight. Ten yards before them the hall joined with an elaborate colonnade stretching in either direction.
"Somehow I hadn't pictured my first visit to Krondor like this," Owyn sighed, falling blindly into step behind Gorath and the Seigneur.
"What, you didn't like the romantic tour?" Locklear chuckled. "Not many people get to see that way into the palace."
Drawing up short, Locklear's features brightened as he observed a pair of approaching figures lost in conversation. Self-conscious of his bedraggled condition he straightened his uniform and cleared his throat with a stentorian air.
"Greetings Prince Arutha and Master Magician Pug!"

C21.BOK

whisper led him through madness.
He stumbled forward with unfamiliar feet ten times too small to belong to a warrior. There were lights on the hills around him, fires, voices shouting through a downpour of sloshing hoof beats. He reached for his sword then remembered that he hadn't a sword that night. He had only been a boy of twelve Midsummers. Only a boy and yet he led the ragged remains of his father's tribe.
Who leads the moredhel? the whispering voice insisted in his head. I must see more.
Years. A river of men coursed together in a bleeding tide and he was amidst them. Screams rang. A howling figure silhouetted himself against the moon and brandished a bloody sword aloft. The wolfish figure screamed words of wrath and damnation as he cleaved his way through his moredhel brothers. He was Delekhan, former general of Murmandamus, leader of the unified tribes of the Northlands, and he was the enemy...
Gorath!

The memory detonated into a million fading thoughts, each fleeing after the faint echoes of a weak whisper. Before him now there was a new image, the face of a fair young girl whose pale blue eyes watched him with weary interest. There were others too, all seated like himself around a polished council table, all studying, all dissecting. And Gorath was the object of their scrutiny.
"I cannot find the truth, my Prince," the tired girl whispered finally, quietly. "His mind is...chaotic. I find images but I cannot hold them long enough to understand."
Narrowing his dark eyes, Prince Arutha glared at Gorath. "He hides his thoughts?"
"Gorath is moredhel." Pug quickly interceded for his exhausted daughter. "Even with Gamina's exceptional talent for sensing thoughts, his mind may have many innate psychic defenses. I may need to send for one of my advanced students..."
"No need to disturb studies, master magician Pug. The moredhel speaks truly."
Council members exchanged surprised glances then turned their attention to the aged magician seated next to Pug. Lowering his eyes, the man made a dismissive gesture.
"Forgive me, I do not mean to presume, but I have looked into his mind as well," Makala continued. "War in the Kingdom would have many wide ranging effects, not the least of which could lead to a disruption of trade between our two worlds. My Emperor of Tsuranuanni would be most displeased if our rift-making secrets were seized by barbarians in warfare."
Gorath glowered at the Tsurani magician. "Trading agreements notwithstanding, the moredhel watch your borders, Nighthawks spy on your imperial cousins and before the snows there shall be an army come to the Kingdom! Heed my words Prince of Krondor! You must prepare your troops!"
Anger flashed in the thunderheads of Arutha's eyes as he rose to his feet...