With hand signals, the officer in charge motioned for his men to make ready. An ancient drawbridge had once covered a gap between the top of the roadway-ramp and the keeps gate. Now it hung by a single chain, dangling uselessly on the other side of the gap, an open space too wide for any man to leap. Signals were passed and from the rear two pairs of men ran forward, carrying scaling ladders that would serve as bridges across the chasm. Magnus used his skills to elevate himself and float above the breach.
He watched the men calmly walking on the ladder rungs, heedless of the yawning space below their feet. A misstep would send a man tumbling to his death. Magnus admired their discipline.
Now Magnus cast his senses forward, attempting to seek out more magic entanglements or lures, and found none. The warder of this keep had been content to trust to the snares left along the roadway to alert the residents of the keep to any unwelcome company. He strode forward, unmindful of any physical danger, for he sensed something in the distance that caused the hair on his arms and neck to stand up.
He held up his hand and a faint light shone from the palm, illuminating the killing ground between the now-fallen outer gate, where once a drawbridge and a portcullis had provided the first barrier, and the inner doors, which were shut and, Magnus supposed, barred from within. The soldiers behind him assembled silently. In the eerie mystical illumination Magnuss pale hair and height gave him an almost supernatural appearance, but whatever discomfort the soldiers might have felt being given over to the command of a wizard was not in evidence as they waited for his instructions.
Magnus closed his eyes to better aid his concentration and envision the large wooden doors. He reached out with his senses and ran mental fingers over the surface of the wood, then pressed slowly through until he could feel the other side. As he did so a picture as clear as if he were using his eyes appeared in his mind, and he saw the large wooden bar set in two wooden brackets. He inspected every inch with his mental touch, then opened his eyes and stepped back. Theres a trap, he said softly to the officer who stood to his right.
What do you suggest? the young knight-lieutenant asked.
Magnus said, Find a way through that door without lifting the bar.
He extended his hand and a faint humming could be heard by those standing closest to him. Suddenly, there was a hole in the bottom of the gate, large enough for a man to pass through on hands and knees. One at a time, said Magnus, and have no man touch the gate or the walls on either side.
The officer passed the word and quickly each man in turn made his way through. Magnus got ready to control the magic that would be unleashed should any man falter, but the preparation proved needless. Each man did exactly as he was instructed.
Then it was Magnuss turn and he crawled through awkwardly, finding his robe an unexpected impediment. Halfway through the hole he was forced to lift first one knee, then the other, pulling the fabric ahead of him, so he could get through without falling on his face.
Chuckling as he stood, he said, There are times, and this is one of them, when I feel the need to question my father as to why magicians are expected to wear robes.
The lieutenant revealed himself to be a man of little humour as he asked, Milord?
Magnus sighed. Never mind. He faced the soldiers. Stay behind me unless I tell you to move forward, for there are forces here that are more than the bravest man can face without my arts.
Any man you see who is not Ralan Bek or one of your own, kill on sight.
Then he turned and walked forward into the darkness, the light from his hand bobbing like a swinging lanterns.
Bek walked as if strolling down a street, mindless of the darkness. There was light coming from several distant rooms at the ends of tunnels which crossed the one he had chosen, but he ignored them, and kept going straight ahead. He didnt know how he knew, but he sensed that he needed to move straight from the secret entrance at the rear of the keep to the innermost chamber, which was probably some ancient great hall or throne room.
He felt positively buoyant in anticipation of the coming fight. He liked some of the things Nakor made him do, but he hadnt been in any sort of combat for far too long. Hed bashed a few skulls in a tavern or two, but there had been no serious bloodletting since hed killed that emperor for Nakor the year before. That had been fun. He almost laughed aloud thinking of the stunned expressions on the faces of everyone looking up at where he stood, his sword thrust straight though the old mans back.
A man wearing black armour but no helm walked around a corner and before he stopped moving, Ralan Bek had run his sword point into the mans throat, which was exposed above the cuirass. The man dropped with a fairly loud noise, but Bek didnt care. Less than a hundred feet ahead light beckoned and he was anxious to bring havoc.
He strode down the last length of shadowy hall into a high-ceilinged chamber. It was an old-style keep hall, where in the dead of winter the family and close retainers of the original ruler of Cavell Keep would sleep during winters coldest nights. Once magnificent, the great hall had fallen into drab disrepair.
The vaulted roof was still supported by massive wooden beams so ancient they were as hard as steel, but the once whitewashed walls were now dark grey and high in the darkness above Bek could hear bats fluttering. No tapestries hung on the walls to shield the inhabitants against winters chill in the stones, nor were there rugs on the floor. But a fire burned in the massive fireplace to the left of the door through which he entered. Sword drawn and with a maniacs grin in place, he surveyed the two dozen men resting before the fire.
In the centre of this group sat two men, both in large chairs made in an older style a u of wood set on top of another to make the legs, with a wooden back nailed across the upper half, stuffed with cushions or furs. The rest sat on camp stools or on black cloaks spread on the floor. All were dressed in black armour, the hallmark of the Nighthawks, except for the two men in the centre. One wore a tunic of finely woven linen and trousers and boots worthy of a high-born noble, though his clothes hung loosely on this frame, as if he had lost a great deal of weight lately; the other wore the black robes of a cleric or magician. The man in the tunic wore a heavy amulet of gold around his neck, identical to the black amulet Bek had been shown by Nakor. The robed man wore no jewellery whatsoever. He was thin and there wasnt a hair on his face or head.
A moment after Bek appeared the eighteen seated men were scrambling, two blowing bone whistles that sent a shrieking alarm throughout the keep.
The man with the gold around his neck looked harried, and his eyes were wide as he pointed at Bek screaming, Kill him!
As the first swordsman raised his sword, Bek gripped his own weapon with two hands, his eyes narrow slits, focusing with keen anticipation on the coming slaughter. But the robed man shouted, No! Halt! His eyes locked onto Beks in wonder.
Everyone, including Bek, froze as the man wove between the swordsmen. He passed the man closest to Ralan Bek, and came straight towards the young warrior. Bek sensed some strange power in this man, and his lucky feeling told him something unusual was about to happen. He hesitated, then began to swing at the man in the robe.
The man held up his hand, not in defence, but in supplication. Wait, he said as Bek hesitated again. He reached out slowly, almost gently, and put his hand on Beks chest, and said again, Wait.
Everyone, including Bek, froze as the man wove between the swordsmen. He passed the man closest to Ralan Bek, and came straight towards the young warrior. Bek sensed some strange power in this man, and his lucky feeling told him something unusual was about to happen. He hesitated, then began to swing at the man in the robe.
The man held up his hand, not in defence, but in supplication. Wait, he said as Bek hesitated again. He reached out slowly, almost gently, and put his hand on Beks chest, and said again, Wait.
Then slowly the robed man went to his knees and in a voice that was little more than a whisper, he said, What does our master bid us?
The man with the amulet looked on in mute astonishment, then he too went to his knees, followed moments later by every other man in the room. Another half a dozen men ran into the hall from other parts of the keep, answering the alarm. Seeing their brethren on their knees, their eyes lowered, they followed suit.
Beks sword lowered a little. What?
What does our master bid us? asked the robed man again.
Bek tried to puzzle out what to say next, from what he had overheard Nakor, Pug and the others say at Sorcerers Isle. At last he said: Varens gone. Hes fled to another world.
Not Varen, said the robed man. He was highest among our masters servants. The man slowly reached out and touched Bek on the chest. I can feel our master, there, inside you. He lives within you; he speaks through you. He raised his eyes to Beks again, and asked once more, What does our master bid us?
Bek had been ready for combat, and this was beyond his ability to comprehend. Slowly, he looked around the room, rising frustration in his voice as he said, I dont know Then suddenly, he raised his sword and brought it down, shouting, I dont know!
Minutes later Magnus rushed into the room with a company of Eriks soldiers at his back, and more Kingdom soldiers entered through the same door as Bek. All of them stopped at the scene before them. Twenty-six corpses littered the floor, but there was no sign of a struggle. Twenty-six headless bodies lay in a wash of blood. Heads still rolled on the crimson stones and blood-soaked cloaks.
The fire crackled. Bek stood beside it, covered in blood. His arms were crimson to the elbows and gore was smeared across his face. He stood like a fiend possessed by madness. Magnus could see it in his eyes. He was trembling so much he looked like a man about to go into convulsions.
Finally, Ralan Bek threw back his head and gave out a howl which rang off the stones high above. It was a primal burst of rage and frustration, and when even the echoes had passed away, he looked around the room, then directly at Magnus. Like a petulant child he pointed to the corpses, and said, This wasnt fun!
He wiped his sword on the tunic of a nearby corpse, and sheathed it. Then he picked up a bucket of water which had been set near the fireplace to heat and lifted it, letting it wash down over his head, without even bothering to remove his hat, and then picked up a relatively clean cloak to use as a towel. Cleaning himself off as best he could, Bek said in a more controlled tone, Its not fun if they dont fight back, Magnus. He looked around the room and then said, Im hungry. Anyone got anything to eat?
CHAPTER FIVE
Preparation
MIRANDA SHOUTED.
Are you mad? she cried far louder than was necessary in the small room.
Magnus watched his mother with guarded amusement as she strode away from her husbands desk for as far as she could in the small study, then turned with a dramatic frown. She often would vent loudly over matters that eventually would end up exactly as his father wished them to be. But Pug had over the years come to understand that his wifes often volatile nature required a physical expression of her frustrations.
Are you mad? Miranda shrieked for the second time.
No more than you were to spend almost a half-year shadowing the Emerald Queens army down in Novindus, said Pug, calmly, as he rose from behind his desk.
That was different! shouted Miranda, still not through venting. There was no Pantathian snake priest who could find me, let alone challenge me, and Im the one who can transport herself without a Tsurani sphere, remember?
Magnus saw his father begin a comment probably on how Nakor, Pug, and Magnus were all becoming adept at the skill but think better of it and say nothing as Miranda continued.
Youre talking about going to an alien world! Not only an alien world, but one in a different plane of reality! Who knows what powers you may have there, if any? She pointed her finger at Pug. You dont even know how to get there in the first place, and dont tell me youre going to use the Talnoy on Kelewan to anchor a rift there. I know enough about rifts to know that you could find yourself swimming at the bottom of some poison sea, or standing in the middle of a battlefield or any other number of deadly places! Youd be going in blind!
I wont be going in blind, said Pug, holding up his hands in supplication. Please, we must learn more about the Dasati.
Why? demanded Miranda.
Because Ive been to see the Oracle. He didnt need to tell either his wife or son which oracle.
Mirandas anger leeched away as curiosity took over. What did she say?
Theyre coming. There are too many uncertainties for her to say more, now I will return to her later as events draw closer. But for now we must learn more of these people.
But the Talnoy down in Novindus are warded, as motionless and without magical presence as they were for the countless years they lay hidden, countered Mirada. If theyre warded, how could the Dasati find us?
Pug could only shake his head. I dont know. The Oracle is rarely wrong when she speaks of certainties.
Magnus sensed an argument coming and deftly changed the subject. And again I ask, as I have many times before, he said, like a patient schoolmaster, who put them there?
Pug knew the question was rhetorical, since they had several theories and no facts, but he thanked his son silently for diverting his wifes ire. Their first thought had been that one of the Valheru, a Dragon Lord of fabled antiquity, had brought the Talnoy back, but there was no proof of that. Tomas, Pugs boyhood friend, was imbued with the memories of one of the ancient Dragon Host, and had no recollection of any of his brethren returning from their ill-fated raid on the Dasati homeworld with a single Talnoy as a trophy. They had been too busy trying to keep those fiendish creations from destroying them; several dragon-riders had fallen during the incursion into the Dasati realm. In the end, there was only one inescapable conclusion.
Macros.
Miranda nodded in agreement. Her father, Macros the Black, had been an agent of the lost God of Magic. Every time we turn around we bump into one of Fathers schemes. She crossed her arms, getting a far-away look as she seemed to remember something. I remember once She looked down at the cavern floor, her face revealing flickering emotions as if what she recalled was painful. I spent so many years being angry with him for abandoning me