Shadow of a Dark Queen

BOOK ONE

Erik’s Tale

Days, when the ball of our vision

Had eagles that flew unabashed to sun;

When the grasp on the bow was decision,

And arrow and hand and eye were one;

When the Pleasures, like waves to a swimmer,

Came heaving for rapture ahead!—

Invoke them, they dwindle, they glimmer

As lights over mounds of the dead.

—GEORGE MEREDITH

Ode to Youth in Memory

Prologue

Deliverance

The drums thundered.

Warriors of the Saaur sang their battle chants, preparing for the struggle to come. Tattered war banners hung limply from bloodied lances as thick smoke shrouded the sky from horizon to horizon. Green faces marked with yellow and red paint watched the western skies, where fires cast crimson and ocher light against the black shroud of smoke, blocking the vanishing sun and the familiar tapestry of the western evening stars.

Jarwa, Sha-shahan of the Seven Nations, Ruler of the Empire of Grass, Lord of the Nine Oceans, could not tear his gaze away from the destruction. All day he had watched the great fires burn, and even across the vast distance the howls of the victors and the cries of their victims had carried through the afternoon. Winds that once carried the sweet scent of flowers or the rich aroma of spices from the market now carried the acrid stench of charred wood and burned flesh. He knew without looking that those behind were bracing for the coming trial, resigned in their hearts that the battle was lost and the race would die.

My lord, said Kaba, his Shieldbearer and lifelong companion.

Jarwa turned to his oldest friend and saw the concern etched faintly around his eyes. Kaba was an unreadable mask to all but Jarwa; the Sha-shahan could read him as a shaman reads a lore scroll. What is it?

The Pantathian is here.

Jarwa nodded, but he remained motionless. Powerful hands closed in frustration over the hilt of his battlesword, Tual-masok—Blood Drinker in the ancient tongue—far more a symbol of office than the crown he had worn only on rare state occasions. He pushed its point down into the soil of his beloved Tabar, the oldest nation on the world of Shila. For seventeen years he had fought the invaders as they had driven his hordes back to the heartland of the Empire of Grass.

When he had taken the sword of the Sha-shahan while still a youth, warriors of Saaur had passed in review, filling the ancient stone causeway that spanned the Takador Narrows, the channel connecting the Takador Sea and the Castak Ocean. One hundred riders—a century—side by side, rode past, one hundred centuries to a jatar: ten thousand warriors. Ten jatar to a host, and ten host to a horde. At the height of his power, seven hordes answered Jarwa’s battle horns, seven million warriors. Always on the move, their horses grazed the Empire of Grass, while children grew to adulthood playing and fighting among the ancient wagons and tents of the Saaur, stretching from the city of Cibul to the farthest frontier, ten thousand miles distant; it was an empire so vast that teams of horses and riders, never stopping their gallop, would take a full turning of the moon and half again to ride from the capital to the frontier, twice that from one border to the other.

Each season, one horde rested near the capital, while the others moved along the frontiers of the great nation, ensuring the peace by conquering all who refused tribute. Along the shores of the nine great oceans, a thousand cities sent food, riches, and slaves to the court of the Sha-shahan. And once a ten-year, the champions of the seven hordes gathered for the great games at Cibul, ancient capital of the Empire of Grass. Over the span of centuries, the Saaur had gathered all of Shila under the Sha-shahan’s banner, all but the most distant nations on the far side of the world. It was Jarwa’s dream to be the Sha-shahan who at last realized the dream of his ancestors, to bring the last city into the Empire and rule the entire world.

Four great cities had fallen to Jarwa’s hordes, and another five had surrendered without a struggle, leaving fewer than a dozen outside the Empire. Then the riders of the Patha Horde had come to the gates of Ahsart, City of Priests. Soon disaster followed.

Jarwa steeled himself against the sounds of agony that carried through the twilight. The cries were of his people as they were led to the feasting pits. From what those few able to escape had said, the captives who were quickly slaughtered were perhaps the fortunate ones, along with those who had fallen in battle. The invaders, it was said, could capture the souls of the dying, to keep them as playthings, tormenting them for eternity as the shades of the slain were denied their final place among their ancestors, riding in the ranks of the Heavenly Horde.

Jarwa looked down upon the ancient home of his people from his vantage atop the plateau. Here, less than a half day’s ride from Cibul, the ragged remnants of his once-mighty army camped. Even in this the darkest hour of the Empire of Grass, the presence of the Sha-shahan caused his warriors to stand tall, throw back their heads, and look toward the distant enemy with contempt. But no matter the posture of these warriors, their Sha-shahan saw something in their eyes no Lord of the Nine Oceans had ever seen before in the countenance of a Saaur warrior: fear.

Jarwa sighed, and turned without words to return to his tent. Knowing full well that no choice was left, still he hated to face the alien. Pausing before his own tent, Jarwa said, "Kaba, I have no faith in this priest from another world." He spit the word.

Kaba nodded, his scales gray from years of the hard life on horseback and from serving his Sha-shahan. I know you have doubts, my lord. But your Cupbearer and your Loremaster concur. We have no choice.

There is always a choice, whispered Jarwa. We can choose to die like warriors!

Softly Kaba reached out and touched Jarwa on the arm, a familiarity that would have brought instant death to any other warrior of the Saaur. Old friend, he said softly, this priest offers our children haven. We can fight and die, and let bitter winds sing away the memory of the Saaur. There will be no one left to chant remembrance to the Heavenly Horde of our valor, while fiends eat our flesh. Or we may send our remaining females and the young males to safety. Is there another choice?

But he is not like us.

Kaba sighed. There is something…

This one’s blood is cold, whispered Jarwa.

Kaba made a sign. The cold-blooded are creatures of legend.

And what of those? asked Jarwa, motioning to the distant fire engulfing his capital.

Kaba could only shrug. Saying nothing more, Jarwa led his oldest friend into the Sha-shahan’s tent.

The tent was larger than any other in camp, in reality a pavilion of many tents sewn together. Glancing around the interior, Jarwa felt cold grip his heart. So many of his wisest advisers and his most powerful loremasters were missing. Yet of those who remained, all looked to him with hope. He was Sha-shahan, and it was his duty to deliver the people.

Then his eyes fell upon the alien, and again he wondered which choice was wiser. The creature looked much like the Saaur, green scales covering arms and face, but he wore a deep-hooded robe that concealed the body, rather than the armor of a warrior or robes of a loremaster. He was small by Saaur standards, being less than two arms’ span in height, and his snout was too long by half, and his eyes were all black, rather than red iris upon white as were the eyes of the Saaur. Where thick white nails should have been, black talons extended from his fingers. And his speech contained a sibilance, from the tongue that forked. As he removed his battered helm from his head and handed it to a servant, Jarwa voiced aloud what every warrior and loremaster in the tent thought: Snake.

The creature bowed his head, as if this were a greeting instead of a deadly insult. Yes, my lord, it hissed in return.

Several of Jarwa’s warriors had hands upon weapons, but the old Cupbearer, second only to Kaba in importance to his lord, said, He is our guest.

Long had the legends of the snake people been with the Saaur, the lizard people of Shila. Like the hot-blooded Saaur, yet not, they were creatures invoked by mothers to frighten naughty children at night. Eaters of their own kind, laying eggs in hot pools, the snake people were feared and hated with racial passion though none had been seen in the longest memory of the loremasters of the Saaur. In the legend it was said that both races were created by the Goddess, at the dawn of time, when the first riders of the Heavenly Horde were hatched. The servants of the Green Lady, Goddess of the Night, the snakes had remained in her mansion, while the Saaur had ridden forth with her and her god-brothers and god-sisters. Abandoned to this world by the Goddess, the Saaur had prospered, but always the memory of the others, the snakes, remained. Only the Loremaster knew which tales were history and which were myth, but one thing Jarwa knew: from birth, the Sha-shahan’s heir was taught that no snake was worthy of trust.

The snake priest said, My lord, the portal is ready. Time grows short. Those feasting upon the bodies of your countrymen will tire of their sport, and as night deepens, and their powers grow, they will be here.

Ignoring the priest for a moment, Jarwa turned to his companions and said, How many jatar survive?

Tasko, Shahan of the Watiri, answered. Four and but a part of a fifth. With a note of finality in his voice, he said, No jatar remains intact. These last are gathered from remnants of the Seven Hordes.

Jarwa resisted the impulse to surrender to despair. Forty thousand riders and part of another ten thousand. That was all that survived from the Seven Great Hordes of the Saaur.

Jarwa felt blackness grip his heart. How he remembered his outrage when word came from the Patha Horde of the priests’ defiance and refusal to pay tribute. Jarwa had ridden for seven months to lead personally the final attack against Ahsart, City of Priests. For a moment he felt a stab of remorse cut deep into his soul; then he silently chided himself: could any ruler have known that the insane priests of Ahsart would destroy everything rather than let the Saaur unite the world under one ruler? It had been the mad high priest, Myta, who had unsealed the portal and let the first demon through. There was small comfort in knowing that the demon’s first act was to capture Myta’s soul for torment as he ripped his head from his body. One Ahsart survivor had claimed a hundred warrior priests had attacked the one demon as it devoured Myta’s flesh, and none had survived.

Ten thousand priests and loremasters alongside more than seven million warriors had died holding the foul creatures at bay as they battled from the farthest border of the Empire to its heart, in a war spanning half a world. A hundred thousand demons had died, but each one’s destruction was paid for in dear blood, as thousands of warriors threw themselves fearlessly at the hideous creatures. The loremasters had used their arts to good effect at times, but always the demons returned. For years the fighting had continued, a running battle past four of the nine oceans. Children had been born in the Sha-shahan’s camp, grown to young adulthood, and died in the fighting, and still the demons came. The loremasters looked in vain for a means of closing the portal and turning the tide of battle to the Saaur.

From the other side of the world they had fought their way back to Cibul, as the demon army poured through the portal between worlds, and now another portal was being opened, offering hope for the Saaur: hope through exile.

Kaba pointedly cleared his throat, and Jarwa forced away regret. Nothing would be gained from it; as his Shieldbearer had said, there was no choice.

Jatuk, Jarwa said, and a young warrior stepped forward. Of seven sons, one to rule each horde, you are the last, he said bitterly. The young warrior said nothing. You are Ja-shahan, pronounced Jarwa, officially naming him heir to the throne. The youth had joined his father but ten days before, riding out to his father’s camp accompanied by his personal retinue. He was but eighteen years of age, barely more than a year from the training grounds and a veteran of only three battles since coming to the front. Jarwa realized that his youngest son was a stranger, having been only a crawling infant when he had left to bring Ahsart to her knees. Who rides to your left? he asked.

Jatuk said, Monis, birth companion. He indicated a calm-looking young man who already bore a proud scar along his left arm.

Jarwa nodded. He shall be your Shieldbearer. To Monis he said, Remember, it is your duty to guard your lord with your life; more: it is your duty to guard his honor. No one will stand closer to Jatuk than you, not mate, not child, not Loremaster. Always speak truth, even when he wishes not to hear it.

To Jatuk he added, He is your shield; always heed his wisdom, for to ignore your Shieldbearer is to ride into battle with an arm tied to your side, blind in one eye, deaf in one ear.

Jatuk nodded. Monis was now granted the highest honor given to one not born of the ruling family; he could speak his mind without fear of retribution.

Monis saluted, his balled right fist striking his left shoulder. Sha-shahan! he said, then looked at the ground, the sign of complete deference and respect.

Who guards your table?

Jatuk said, Chiga, birth companion.

Jarwa approved. Selected from the same birth crèche, these three would know one another as they knew themselves, a stronger tie than any other. To the named warrior Jatuk said, You shall give up your arms and armor and you shall remain behind.

The honor was mixed with bitterness, for the honor of being Cupbearer was high, but giving up the call to battle was difficult for any warrior.

Protect your lord from the stealthy hand, and from the cunning word whispered over too much drink by false friends.

Chiga saluted. Like Monis, he was now free to speak to his lord without fear of punishment, for in being Cupbearer he was pledged to protect Jatuk in all ways as much as the warrior who rode on the Ja-shahan’s shield side.

Jarwa turned to another figure, his Loremaster surrounded by several acolytes. Who among your company is most gifted?

The Loremaster said, Shadu. He remembers everything.

Jarwa addressed the young warrior priest. Then take the tablets and the relics, for you are now chief keeper of the faith. You will be Loremaster to the People. The acolyte’s eyes widened as his master handed the ancient tablets, large sheaves of parchment kept between board covers, and written upon with ink nearly faded white with age. But more, he was given the responsibility to remember the lore, the interpretations, and the traditions, a thousands words in memory for each word drawn in ink by an ancient hand.

Jarwa said, Those who have served with me from the first, this is my final charge to you. Soon the foe comes a last time. We will not survive. Sing your death songs loudly and know that your names will live in the memory of your children, upon a distant world under an alien sky. I know not if their songs can carry across the void to keep the memory of the Heavenly Horde alive, or if they will begin a new Heavenly Horde upon this alien world, but as the demons come, let every warrior know that the flesh of our flesh shall endure safely in a distant land.

Whatever the Sha-shahan might feel was hidden behind a mask as he said, Jatuk, attend me. The rest of you, to your appointed places. To the snake priest he said, Go to the place where you work your magic, and know that should you play my people false, my shade shall break free from whatever pit of hell holds it and cross the gulf to hunt you down if it takes ten thousand years.

The priest bowed and hissed, Lord, my life and honor are yours. I remain, to add my small aid to your rear guard. In this pitiful fashion I show my people’s respect and wish to bring the Saaur, who are so like us in so many ways, to our home.

If Jarwa was impressed by the sacrifice, he gave no hint. He motioned his youngest son outside the great tent. The youth followed his father to the ridge and looked down upon the distant city, made hellish in the demons’ fires. Faint screams, far beyond those made by mortal throat, tore the evening, and the young leader pushed back the urge to turn his face away.

Jatuk, by this time tomorrow, on some distant world, you will be Sha-shahan of the Saaur.

The youth knew this was true no matter how much he would wish it otherwise. He made no false protest.

I have no trust of snake priests, whispered Jarwa. They may seem like us, but always remember, their blood runs cold. They are without passion and their tongues are forked. Remember also the ancient lore of the last visit to us by the snakes, and remember the tales of treachery since the Mother of us all gave birth to the hot bloods and the cold bloods.

Father.

Putting his hand, calloused with years of swordwork and scarred by age and battle, upon his son’s shoulder, he gripped hard. Firm young muscle resisted under his grasp, and Jarwa felt a faint spark of hope. I have given my oath, but you will be the one who must honor the pledge. Do nothing to disgrace your ancestors or your people, but be vigilant for betrayal. A generation of service to the snakes is our pledge: thirty turnings of this alien world. But remember: should the snakes break the oath first, you are free to do as you see fit.

Removing his hand from his son’s shoulder, he motioned for Kaba to approach. The Sha-shahan’s Shieldbearer approached with his lord’s helm, the great fluted head covering of the Sha-shahan, while a groom brought a fresh horse. The great herds had perished, and the best of what remained would go to the new world with the Saaur’s children. Jarwa and his warriors would have to make do with the lesser animals. This one was small, barely nineteen hands, hardly large enough to carry the Sha-shahan’s armored weight. No matter, thought Jarwa. The fight would be a short one.

Behind them, to the east, a crackle of energy exploded, as if a thousand lightning strikes flashed, illuminating the night. A second later a loud thunder peal sounded, and all turned to see the shimmering in the sky. Jarwa said, The way is open.

The snake priest hurried forward, pointing down the ridge. Lord, look!

Jarwa turned to the west. Out of the distant flames small figures could be seen flying toward them. Bitterly Jarwa knew this was a matter of perspective. The screamers were the size of an adult Saaur, and some of the other fliers were even larger. Leathery wings would make the air crack like a wagoneer’s whip, and shrieks that could drive a sane warrior to madness would fill the dark. Looking at his own hand for any signs of trembling, Jarwa said to his son, Give me your sword.

The youth did as he was bid, and Jarwa handed his son’s sword to Kaba. Then he removed Tual-masok from his scabbard and gave it, hilt first, to his son. Take your birthright and go.

The youth hesitated, then gripped the hilt. No loremaster would glean this ancient weapon from his father’s body to present to the heir. It was the first time in the memory of the Saaur that a Sha-shahan had voluntarily surrendered the bloodsword while life remained in his heart.

Without another word, Jatuk saluted his father, turned, and walked to where his own companions waited. With a curt wave of his hand, he motioned for them to mount and ride to where the remaining masses of the Saaur gathered to flee to a distant world.

Four jatar would ride through the new portal, while the remaining part of the fifth, as well as all of Jarwa’s old companions and loremasters, would stay behind to hold the demons at bay. Chanting filled the air while the loremasters wove their arts, and suddenly the air erupted in blue flames as a wall of energy spread across the sky. Demons flying into the trap screamed in anger and pain as blue flames seared their bodies. Those that quickly turned away were spared, but those that were too far into the energy field smoldered and burned, evil black smoke pouring from their fiery wounds. A few of the more powerful creatures managed to reach the ridge, where Saaur warriors leaped without hesitation to hack and chop at their bodies. Jarwa knew it was a faint triumph, for only those demons whom magic had seriously wounded could be so quickly dispatched.

Then the snake priest howled. They are leaving, lord.

Jarwa glanced over his shoulder and saw the great silver portal hanging in the air, what the snake had called a rift. Through it rode the van of the Saaur youth, and for an instant Jarwa imagined he could see his son vanish from sight—though he knew it was wishful thinking. The distance was too vast to make out such detail.

Then Jarwa returned his attention to the mystic barrier that now shone white-hot where demons brought their own arts to bear. He knew the fliers were more a nuisance than a danger: their speed made them deadly for lone riders or the weak or wounded, but a strong warrior could dispatch one without difficulty. It would be those that followed the fliers who would end his life.

Rents in the energy appeared along the face of the barrier, and as they did, Jarwa could glimpse dark figures approaching from beyond it. Large demons who could not fly, save by magic, hurried over the ground, running at the best speed of a Saaur horse and rider, their evil howls adding to the sounds of battle. The snake priest put forth his hand and flames erupted where a demon attempted to pass through a rent in the barrier, and Jarwa could see the snake priest stagger with the effort.

Knowing the end was but moments away, Jarwa said, Tell me one thing, snake: why do you choose to die here with us? We had no choice, and you were free to leave with my children. Does death at the hands of those—he motioned toward the approaching demons—hold no terror for you?

With a laugh the Ruler of the Empire of Grass could only think of as mocking, the snake priest said, No, my lord. Death is freedom, and you shall quickly learn that. We who serve in the palace of the Emerald Queen know this.

Jarwa’s eyes narrowed. So the ancient legends were true! This creature was one of those whom the Mother Goddess had birthed. With a flash of anger, Jarwa knew that his race was betrayed and that this creature was as bitter an enemy as those who raced to eat his soul. With a cry of frustration, the Sha-shahan struck out with his son’s sword and severed the head from the shoulders of the Pantathian.

Then the demons were loose among the rear guard and Jarwa could spare but a moment to think of his son and his companions’ children, upon a distant world under an alien sun. As the Lord of the Nine Oceans turned to face his foe, he made a silent prayer to his ancestors, to the Riders of the Heavenly Horde, to watch over the children of the Saaur.

One form loomed above the rest, and as if sensing his approach, the lesser demons parted. A figure twice the height of the tallest Saaur, more than twenty-five feet tall, strode purposefully toward Jarwa. Powerful of form, his body looked much like that of a Saaur—broad shoulders tapering to a narrow waist, large arms and legs well fashioned—but his back bore huge wings that seemed composed of tattered black leather, and his head…A triangular skull, much like that of a horse, was covered by thin skin, as if leather had been stretched across bone. Teeth were exposed, fangs close together, and the eyes were pits of red fire. Around his head danced a ring of flames, and his laughter turned Jarwa’s blood to ice.

The demon pushed past his lesser brethren, ignoring those who rushed forward to defend the Sha-shahan. He struck out, ripping flesh apart as easily as a Saaur tore bread. Jarwa stood ready, knowing each moment stolen before his death allowed more of his children to flee through the rift.

Then the demon reared over Jarwa as a warrior stands over a child. The Sha-shahan struck out with as much strength as he could muster, raking his son’s sword across the creature’s outstretched arm. The demon shrieked at the pain, but then ignored the wound, slowing for a second while black talons the size of daggers skewered Jarwa, punching through armor and body, as he gripped him around the middle.

The demon raised the ruler of the Saaur up toward his face and held him at eye level. As the light in Jarwa’s eyes began to fade, the demon laughed and said, You are the ruler of nothing, foolish mortal. Your soul is mine, little creature of flesh! And after I eat you, still shall you linger, to amuse me between feedings!

For the first time since birth, Jarwa, Sha-shahan of the Seven Nations, Ruler of the Empire of Grass, Lord of the Nine Oceans, knew terror. And as his mind cried out, his body went limp. From a vantage above his own flesh, he felt his spirit rise, to fly to the Heavenly Horde, yet something bound him and he could not leave. He perceived his own body, being devoured by this demon, and in his spirit’s mind he heard the demon say, I am Tugor, First Servant of Great Maarg, Ruler of the Fifth Circle, and you are my plaything.

Jarwa cried, but he had no voice, and he struggled, though he had no body, and his spirit was held by mystic chains as binding as iron on flesh. Wailing spirit voices told him his companions were also falling. With what will remained he turned his perceptions toward the distant rift and saw the last of his children leaving. Taking what small comfort he could from the sight of the rift suddenly vanishing in the night, the shade of Jarwa wished his son and his people safe haven and protection from the snakes’ deceit on the distant world the Pantathians called Midkemia.

1

Challenge

The trumpet sounded.

Erik wiped his hands on his apron. He was doing little real work since finishing his morning chores, merely banking the fire so he would not have to restart a cold forge should there be new work later in the day. He considered that unlikely, as everyone in the town would be lingering in the square after the Baron’s arrival, but horses were perverse creatures who threw shoes at the least opportune moment, and wagons broke down at the height of inconvenience. Or so his five years of assisting the blacksmith had taught him. He glanced at where Tyndal lay sleeping, his arm wrapped lovingly around a jug of harsh brandy. He had begun drinking just after breakfast, hoisting a few to the Baron’s health, he claimed. He had fallen asleep sometime in the last hour while Erik finished the smith’s work for him. Fortunately, there was little the boy couldn’t do, he being large for his age and an old hand at compensating for the smith’s short-comings.

As Erik finished covering the coals with ashes, he could hear his mother calling from the kitchen. He ignored her demand that he hurry; there was more than enough time. There was no need to rush: the Baron would not have reached the edge of the town yet. The trumpet announced his approach, not his arrival.

Erik rarely considered his appearance, but he knew today was going to thrust him into the forefront of public scrutiny, and he felt he should attempt to look respectable. With that thought, he paused to remove his apron, carefully hung it on a peg, then plunged his arms into a nearby bucket of water. Rubbing furiously, he removed most of the black soot and dirt, then splashed water on his face. Grabbing a large clean cloth off a pile of rags used for polishing steel, he dried himself, removing what the water hadn’t through friction.

In the dancing surface of the water barrel he considered his broken reflection: a pair of intense blue eyes under a deep brow, a high forehead from which shoulder-length blond hair swept back. No one today would doubt that he was his father’s son. His nose was more his mother’s, but his jaw and the broad grin that came when he smiled were the mirror image of his father’s. But where his father had been a slender man, Erik was not. A narrow waist was his only heritage from his father. He had his maternal grandfather’s massive shoulders and arms, built up through working at the forge since his tenth birthday. Erik’s hands could bend iron or break walnuts. His legs were also powerful, from supporting plow horses who leaned on the smith while he cut, filed, and shod their hooves, or from helping to lift carts when replacing broken wheels.

Erik ran his hand over his chin, feeling the stubble. Blond as a man could get, he had to shave only every third day or so, for his beard was light. But he knew his mother would insist on him looking his best today. He quickly hurried to his pallet behind the forge, taking care not to disturb the smith, and fetched his razor and mirror. A cold shave was not his idea of pleasure, but far less irritating than his mother would be should she decide to send him back for the razor. He wet his face again and started scraping. When he was done, he looked at himself one more time in the shimmering water.

No woman would ever call Erik handsome: his features were large, almost coarse, from the lantern jaw to the broad forehead; but he possessed an open, honest look that men found reassuring and women would come to admire once they got used to his almost brutish appearance. At fifteen years of age, he was already the size of a man, and his strength was approaching the smith’s; no boy could best him at wrestling, and few tried anymore. Hands that could be clumsy when helping set platters and mugs in the common room were sure and adroit when working in the forge.

Again his mother’s voice cut through the otherwise quiet morning, demanding he come inside now. He rolled down his sleeves as he left the smithy, a small building placed hard against the outside rear wall of the livery. Circling the barn, he came into sight of the kitchen. As he passed the open stable door, he glanced at those horses left in his care. Three travelers were guesting with his master, and their mounts were quietly eating hay. The fourth horse was lying up from an injury and she neighed a greeting at Erik. He couldn’t help but smile; in the weeks he had been tending her she had come to expect his midmorning visits, as he trotted her out to see how she mended.

I’ll be back to visit later, girl, he called softly to her.

The tone of the horse’s snort revealed her less than enthusiastic response. Despite his age, Erik was one of the best handlers of horses in the region surrounding Darkmoor, and had earned the reputation of being something of a miracle worker. Most owners would have put down the injured mare, but Owen Greylock, the Baron’s Swordmaster, valued her highly. He judged it a prudent risk to put her into Erik’s care, for if he could make her sound enough to breed, a fine foal or two would be worth the trouble. Erik was determined to make her sound enough to ride again.

Erik saw his mother at the rear door of the Inn of the Pintail’s kitchen, her face a mask of resolve. A small woman of steely strength and determination, Freida had been pretty once, though hard work and the world’s cares had taken their toll. While not yet forty years of age, she looked closer to sixty. Her hair was completely grey where it had once been a luxurious brown, and her green eyes were set in a face of lines and angles. Quickly, she commanded.

He’ll not be here for some time, answered Erik, hiding his irritation poorly.

There is only a moment, she replied, and should we lose it, we shall never again have the chance. He’s ill and may not return again.

Erik’s brow furrowed at the unspoken implication of that statement, but his mother said nothing more. The Baron rarely visited his smaller holdings anymore, save for occasional ceremonies; at harvest it was the custom for him to visit one of the villages and towns that provided Darkmoor with most of its wealth, the finest grapes and wine in the world, but the Baron visited only a single vintners’ hall, and the one in the town of Ravensburg was among the least important. Besides, Erik was convinced that for the last ten years the Baron had intentionally avoided this particular town, and knew the reason why.

Glancing at his mother, he recalled with a bitter taste in his mouth how, ten years before, she had half dragged, half led Erik through the crowd watching the Baron’s arrival. Erik remembered the looks of astonishment and horror on the faces of the town officials, guildmasters, vintners, and growers when his mother had demanded that the Baron admit to Erik’s paternity. What should have been a joyous celebration of the first taste of the harvest was turned into an embarrassment for all in the town, especially for little Erik. Several men of position had come to Freida several times after that, asking her forbearance in the future, a plea she politely listened to without comment or promise.

Stop your woolgathering and come inside, Freida demanded. She turned, and he followed her inside the kitchen.

Rosalyn smiled as Erik entered, and he nodded at the serving girl. The same age and companions since babyhood, Erik and the innkeeper’s daughter had been like brother and sister, confidants and best friends. Lately he had become aware that something deeper was blossoming in her, though he was unsure what to do about it. He loved her, but in a brotherly fashion, and he had never thought of her as a possible wife—his mother’s obsession closed off any discussion of such mundane concerns as marriage, trade, or travel. Of all the boys his age in the town, he was the only one not officially employed at a craft. His apprenticeship to Tyndal was informal, and despite his talent for the craft, he had no established standing with the guild offices, either in the Western Capital of Krondor or in the King’s city of Rillanon. Nor would his mother let him discuss having the smith live up to his oft-repeated promise of forwarding a formal petition to the guild to admit Erik as his apprentice. This should have been the end of Erik’s first year as an apprentice or working at a trade. Even though he knew his way around a forge better than apprentices two or three years older, he would start two years behind others, if his mother let him apprentice the next spring.

His mother, whose head barely reached his chin, said, Let me look at you. She reached up and took his chin in her hand, as if he were still a child, not nearly a man, and turned his head one way, then another. With a dissatisfied clucking sound, she said, You’re still stained with soot.

Mother, I’m a blacksmith! he protested.

Clean yourself in the sink! she commanded.

Erik knew better than to say anything. His mother was a creature of iron will and unbending certainty. Early he had learned never to argue with her; even when he was wrongly accused of some transgression, he would simply and quietly take whatever discipline was meted out, for to protest would only increase the punishment. Erik stripped off his shirt and laid it over the back of a chair next to the table used to clean and prepare meats. He saw Rosalyn’s amusement at his being bullied by his small mother, and he feigned a scowl at her. Her smile only broadened as she turned away, picking up a large basket of freshly washed vegetables to carry them into the common room. Turning at the door, she bumped it open and as she backed through stuck her tongue out at him.

Erik smiled as he plunged his arms into the water she had just abandoned after cleaning the vegetables. Rosalyn could make him smile as could no other person. He might not fully understand the powerful stirrings and confusing urges that woke him late at night as he dreamed about one or another young woman in the village—he understood the specifics of mating, as any child raised around animals did, but the emotional confusion was new to him. At least Rosalyn didn’t confuse him the way some of the older girls did, and of one thing he was certain: she was his best friend in the world. As he splashed water on his face again, he heard his mother say, Use the soap.

He sighed and picked up the foul-smelling block of soap sitting on the back of the sink. A caustic mix of lye, ash, rendered tallow, and sand used to scrape clean serving platters and cooking pots, it would peel the skin from face and hands with repeated use. Erik used as little as he could get away with, but when he was done he was forced to admit that a fairly impressive amount of soot had come off into the sink.

He managed to rinse off the soap before his skin began to blister, and took a cloth handed him by his mother. He dried and put his shirt back on.

Leaving the kitchen, they entered the common room, where Rosalyn was finishing putting the vegetables into the large cauldron of stew that hung on a hook at the hearth. The mix would simmer slowly all afternoon, filling the common room with a savory smell that would have mouths watering by suppertime. Rosalyn smiled at Erik as he passed, and despite her cheerfulness, he felt his mood darkening as he anticipated the coming public scene.

Reaching the entrance to the inn, Erik and his mother discovered Milo, the innkeeper, peering through the open door. The portly man, with a nose like a squashed cabbage from years of ejecting ruffians from the common room, drew upon a long pipe as he observed the calm town. Could be a quiet afternoon, Freida.

But a frantic evening, Father, said Rosalyn as she came to stand at Erik’s side. Once the people tire of waiting for a glimpse of the Baron, they’ll all come here.

Milo turned with a smile and winked at his daughter. An outcome to be devoutly prayed for. I trust the Lady of Luck has no other plans.

Freida muttered, Ruthia has better things to waste her good luck on, Milo. Taking her powerfully built son by the hand, as if he were still a baby, she led him purposefully through the door.

As Erik and his mother left the confines of the inn, Rosalyn said, She’s determined, Father.

That she is and always has been, he said, shaking his head and puffing on his pipe. Even as a child she was most headstrong, willful… He put his arm around his daughter’s shoulder. Nothing like your mother, I’m pleased to say.

Rosalyn said, The gossips have it that you were one of the many seeking Freida’s hand years ago.

Milo chuckled. They do, do they? Clucking his tongue, he added, Well, that’s the truth. Most men my age were. He smiled down at his daughter. Best thing that happened was her saying no. And your mother saying yes. He moved away from his only child and said, Most of the boys were after Freida. She was a rare beauty in those days. Green flashing eyes and chestnut hair, slender but ample where it counts, and a proud look that could make a man’s pulse race. She moved like a racehorse and carried herself like a queen. It’s why she caught the Baron’s eye.

A trumpet sounded from the edge of the town square and Rosalyn said, I’d better be back to the kitchen.

Milo nodded. I’m going down to the square to see what happens, but I’ll come straight back.

Rosalyn gripped his hand for a moment, and her father saw the concern in her eyes she had hidden from Erik. Nodding his understanding, he squeezed her hand for an instant, then released it. He turned and made his way through the street in front of the inn, following the route taken by Erik and Freida.

Erik used his bulk to ease through the crowd. Despite his strength, he was by nature a gentle youngster and would not use force, but his very presence caused others to give way. Broad of shoulders and arms, he could have been a young warrior by his looks, but he had a strong distaste for conflict. Quiet and introspective, after work he preferred a quiet cup of broth to curb his appetite while waiting for dinner, as he listened to the old men of the town tell stories, to the roughhousing and attempted girl-chasing his contemporaries saw as the height of recreation. The occasional girl who turned her attention upon him almost inevitably found his reticence daunting, but it was nothing more than his inability to think of anything clever to say. The prospect of any intimacy with a girl terrified Erik.

A familiar voice called his name, and Erik turned to see a ragged figure push through the press, using nimble quickness rather than size to navigate a path to Erik’s side. Hello, said Erik in greeting.

Erik. Freida, said the youth in return. Rupert Avery, known by everyone in the village as Roo, was the one boy Freida had forbidden Erik to play with as a child, on many occasions, and the one boy Erik had preferred to play with. Roo’s father was a teamster, a rough man who was either absent from the village—driving his team down to Krondor, Malac’s Cross, or Durrony’s Vale—or lying drunken in his bed. Roo had grown up wild, and there was something dangerous and unpredictable in his nature, which was why Erik had been drawn to him. If Erik had no tongue to charm the ladies, Roo was a master of seduction, at least to hear him tell it. A knave and a liar, as well as an occasional thief, Roo was Erik’s closest friend after Rosalyn.

Freida nodded almost imperceptibly in return. She still didn’t like the youngster after knowing him all his life; she suspected his hand in every dishonest act or criminal event that took place in Ravensburg. Truth to be told, she was more often right than not. She glanced at her son and bit back a bitter comment. Now he was fifteen years of age, Erik’s willingness to be controlled by his mother was lessening. He had assumed most of the duties around the forge from Tyndal, who was drunk five days out of seven.

Roo said, So you’re going to ambush the Baron again?

Freida threw him a black look. Erik merely looked embarrassed. Roo grinned. He had a narrow face, intelligent eyes, and a quick smile, despite uneven teeth. Even further from being handsome than Erik, he had something alive in his manner and a quick intensity that those who knew him found likable, even captivating. But Erik also knew he had a murderous temper and lost it often, which had caused him to use Erik’s friendship as a shield against the other boys on more than one occasion. Few boys of the town would challenge Erik: he was too strong. While slow to anger, on the rare occasion when Erik had lost his temper, he had been a terrible sight to behold. He had once hit a boy’s arm in a moment of rage. The blow propelled the lad completely across the courtyard of the inn and broke the arm.

Roo pulled aside his ragged cloak, revealing far better-looking clothing beneath, and Erik saw in his hand a long-necked green glass bottle. Clearly etched into the neck of the bottle was a baronial crest.

Erik rolled his eyes heavenward. Anxious to lose a hand, Roo? he said quietly in an exasperated tone.

I helped Father unload his wagon last night.

What is it?

Hand-selected berry wine, he said.

Erik grimaced. With Darkmoor being the center of the wine trade in the Kingdom of the Isles, the primary industry of Ravensburg was wine, as it was with most of the towns and villages in the barony. To the north, oak cutters and barrel makers labored to produce the fermenting vats and aging barrels for the wine, as well as corks, while to the south, glassmakers produced bottles, but the central area of the barony was dedicated to growing grapes.

While fine wines were produced in the Free Cities of Natal and Yabon province to the west, none matched the complexity, character, and age-worthiness of those produced in the Barony of Darkmoor. Even the difficult-to-grow Pinot Noir grape, originally imported from Bas-Tyra, flourished in Darkmoor as it did in no other place in the Kingdom. Lush reds and crisp whites, sparkling wines for celebration—Darkmoor’s finest product brought the highest prices from the northern borders south into the heart of the Empire of Great Kesh. And few wines were as highly prized as the intensely sweet dessert wine called berry wine.

Made from grapes shriveled by a mysterious sweet rot that occasionally afflicted the grapes, it was rare and costly; the bottle Roo held under his cloak was equal in worth to a farmer’s income for a half year. And from the crest on the bottle, Erik knew it was from the Baron’s private stock, shipped from the baronial capital city of Darkmoor to the Ravensburg guildhall for the Baron’s visit. While thieves no longer had their hands cut off, being discovered with the bottle could put Roo on the King’s labor gang for five years.

Trumpets sounded again and the first of the Baron’s guards rode into view, their banners snapping in the afternoon breeze, their horses’ iron shoes striking sparks on the stones of the square. Reflexively, Erik looked at their legs, for signs of lameness, and saw none; whatever else could be said of the Baron’s management of his estates, his cavalry always attended to their mounts.

The riders moved into the square and turned out from the small fountain that sat at its center, formed two lines, and slowly backed the commoners away. After a few minutes, the entire area before the Growers’ and Vintners’ Hall had been cleared for the coach that followed.

More soldiers rode past, each wearing the grey tabard bearing the crest of Darkmoor: a red heater shield upon which stood a black raven clutching a holly branch in its beak. This group of soldiers also wore a golden circlet sewn above the crest, indicating they were the Baron’s personal guards.

At last the coach rolled into view, and Erik suddenly realized he was holding his breath. Refusing to let his mother’s obsession control even the air in his lungs, he quietly let out a long breath and willed himself to relax.

He heard others in the crowd commenting. Rumors regarding the Baron’s failing vitality had circulated in the barony for more than a year now, and his sitting beside his wife in the coach, rather than astride his horse at the head of his guards, signaled that he must be ill in truth.

Erik’s attention was drawn to two boys, riding matching chestnut horses, followed by a pair of soldiers carrying the baronial ensign of Darkmoor. The cadency mark on the left banner heralded Manfred von Darkmoor, second son to the Baron. The mark on the right-hand banner proclaimed Stefan von Darkmoor, elder son of the Baron. Alike enough to appear twins, despite a year’s age difference, the boys rode with an expert ease that Erik found admirable.

Manfred scanned the crowd, and when his gaze at last fell upon Erik, he frowned. Stefan saw where Manfred stared and said something to his brother, recalling his attention to the matters at hand. The young men were dressed in similar fashion: high riding boots, tight-fitting breeches with full leather seats, long white silk shirts with a sleeveless vest of fine leather, and large berets of black felt, each adorned with a large golden baronial badge, from which rose a red-dyed eagle’s feather. At their sides they wore rapiers, and each was accounted an expert in their use despite their youth.

Freida gestured with her chin at Stefan, and whispered harshly, Your place, Erik.

Erik felt himself flush in embarrassment, but he knew the worst was yet to come. The coach stopped and coachmen leaped down to open the door as two burghers came forward to greet the Baron. First to leave the coach was a proud-looking woman, her features set in an expression of haughty disdain that detracted from her