Ordelanden

PROLOGUE

The old noble looked at the beasts in the cage. ‘Marvelous animals,’ he said and there was a hint of passion in his urbane voice. ‘Are they ready?’

The stout, blackrobed man at his side bobbed his head. ‘They are, Most High. These are the final specimens. Both the maurwolves and the hookfeathers can be released whenever the plans demand.’

The old man touched his chin with a finger as he gazed at the creature before him. He looked out of place in this dark, underground room. With his carefully combed, wavy white hair, his noble countenance and costly robes he would have been more at home at a royal court. He stared at the maurwolf, until the beast turned its head away and whimpered.

‘Release them,’ he said.

The Breedmaster rubbed his hands. ‘Yes, Most High. It will be done. Today will be a glorious day!’

‘Will it be?’ the old man mused. ‘It would be gratifying. Healthier, too.’ He smiled as the fat man at his side paled. ‘Show me what they can do, Breedmaster. Obliterate that pitiful town. Consider it the vindication of your efforts.’

‘My specimens will do it, Most High. Once released, they will go into hiding to multiply. In a month’s time, when their first brood is grown, the wolves and birds in a joint action will wipe the town clean.’

‘That would be gratifying,’ the old man said. ‘You shall inform me when it is accomplished.’

The Breedmaster bowed in submission. ‘Your will be done, Most High.’

Creaking, the flat wagon shuddered to a halt. The black-robed woman looked around. ‘This is it, Orthal. This is the place.’

The servant on the box bowed. ‘Your will, my lady,’ he said humbly. We couldn’t have gone much further, anyhow, he thought. The path through the forest is getting narrower, too narrow for the heavy wagon. He stared at the giant trees, whose dense canopy changed the forest into a gloomy shadow world. It was quiet and lonely here. This part of the forest of Okinaul was almost deserted. A great place to release the maurwolves. They would find enough food, safety and shelter to breed. From here they would spread. The idea made him shiver. Rhidauna was less’n a hundred miles to the east – only a day or two for the beasts on the cart.

‘Open the cage, Orthal,’ the woman commanded.

The servant nodded. ‘Yes, milady. Excuse me, you...you have the handportal ready?’

The sorceress laughed and showed the copper rod. ‘What is it, Orthal? Nervous?’

‘No, lady,’ the servant said seriously. ‘But those in the cage are hungry.’

‘That was the intention. Now, come on, open the door.’

Orthal bent down and unlocked the steel opening. The hatch tore out of his grip, bloodying the palms of his hands. The beasts in the cage stared at the man as he walked backward to his mistress. Then they came out cautiously. The leader of the pack, tall as a battle-horse, with a bushy mane and long, curved teeth sniffed the blood and turned his colorless eyes to the nervous servant. His tail rose and went slowly back and forth.

Orthal swallowed. ‘Lady...’

The sorceress smiled. ‘Orthal, thank you for your sacrifices to the Dar’khamorth. The Most High M will be pleased with your efforts. As you said, the animals are hungry. They should feed. Go with Her.’ The rod in her hand flashed and she disappeared into thin air.

Orthal screamed. Then the maurwolf’s jaws closed around the soft flesh of his neck.

CHAPTER 1 – TROUBLE

The noon bell had died away long ago, and still the king hadn’t appeared for lunch. This was unusual. After their return from Zihaen, Ghyll and Kerianna were finally living as newlyweds, and the young king never skipped a meal with his beloved wife.

‘He’s late,’ she said, trying to hide her disappointment.

Cianabetta Querfero, her senior attendant, grinned. ‘That’s the way of men, I mean kings. They always have something else to do.’ She spread some honey over a fresh slice of bread. ‘Trust me; I come from a large family of men.’

‘Well, I’ll teach him,’ Kerianna said firmly. ‘You girls stay; I don’t want to spoil your meal too.’ She grabbed a ham roll, for she might be queen, but she was still eighteen years old, and hungry. Then she hurried down to her husband’s office.

It was clear something was amiss. Ghyll was most of the time of a placid disposition, but now, even through the massive door, his voice came loud and angry.

‘Where is that darned boy?’ he shouted, and then came the sound of a foot kicking some wooden object.

Kerianna frowned. With a hand on the doorknob, she turned to the guard on duty. ‘The king is alone?’

The soldier turned his eyes to look at her. ‘Duke Sillaine is with him, Ma’am.’

At that, Kerianna brightened. ‘The duke’s back? That is good news.’ Olle, the king’s foster brother, had returned from their Zihaen quest seriously ill, and his absence had left Ghyll bereft and irritable.

‘Is something wrong?’ she said.

The guard stared straight ahead. ‘His royal highness called for his squire, Ma’am. Prince Torril…is gone.’

Kerianna’s frown deepened. Torril gone? The young Nhael prince was serious in squiring Ghyll, and he wasn’t the type to play truant. Quickly she opened the door and slipped inside. There she stopped and looked at both men.

Olle stood with his back to the tall windows, muscled arms crossed over his chest. He still wasn’t well, she saw. His eyes were bloodshot, his face lined and the brown of his skin had lost its customary glow. But at least he was up and about again. She went and stood on tiptoes to kiss him on both cheeks.

‘I’m glad to see you, dear,’ she said. ‘We’ve missed you.’

‘I was fed up with being an invalid,’ Olle said. ‘Sitting in a chair like a shaky old man – not me!’ He gave Ghyll a stern look. ‘I came back just in time.’

‘He did sound terribly worked up just now.’ She sat down in the nearest bay window, one leg under her and the other swinging. ‘What’s wrong?’

Ghyll lifted his hands to the ceiling. ‘Worked up? I’m bleepin’ angry! Torril is gone, and so are Anliin and Avelore.’ He kicked his desk and cursed again. ‘And Zethir didn’t sleep in his room last night.’

Kerianna lifted an eyebrow. ‘Zethir? He’s been running around with a face of woe for days, but he wouldn’t say what troubled him. Have you asked his father?’

Ghyll’s face showed he hadn’t thought that far yet. He yanked open the door. ‘You!’ he commanded the guard. ‘Ask Major Tibaun to come here.’ He took a deep breath, and called after the man. ‘Please.’

Kerianna and Olle exchanged glances.

‘You should start thinking again, brother,’ Olle said coolly.

Ghyll slammed the door closed. ‘I’ll kick that boy from here to his father’s Nhael Islands and back,’ he promised. Then he turned and smiled ruefully. ‘I know, but it’s so frustrating. Dammit, I am glad you’re back, brother. I was worried. About you, about those monsters… Have you heard of those? Pony-sized wolves and birds as large as flying oxcarts terrorizing the south-west?’

Olle growled. ‘I heard. They’re down Orodaun’s way. I’ve been thinking to go and inspect the place, seeing you burdened me with its lordship. Gimme those reports, brother. My mind needs something else to focus on.’

Major Tibaun appeared quickly, as if he’d been waiting for a summons.

Ghyll stared at the man through narrowed eyes. Tibaun’s face was smooth as ever, but the king sensed the man was worried.

‘Do you know where Zethir is?’ he asked bluntly.

‘No, Sire,’ Tibaun said. ‘I haven’t seen my son much, lately. I assumed he was working for you and didn’t pay attention to his absence.’ He bowed his head, and Ghyll was sure the major knew more than he was letting on.

‘Zethir, Prince Torril, deathpriest Anliin and the mage adepta Avelore are missing since early this morning.’ The king limped to his desk and sat down, stretching his lame leg out. ‘The girl is answerable to her Order, but the two boys are in my care and I want to know where they are.’

Tibaun was the head of the King’s Heralds, the innocent name for Rhidauna’s Secret Service. His son Tosias, known to the world by his alias Zethir, was Pursuivant of Rhidauna, Ghyll’s personal spy. Zethir came and went at his own discretion, so it wasn’t unusual for him to be gone for a while. Not so Torril. Ghyll’s squire and a paladin-in-training had his place at the king’s side. His bosom friend Anliin was a student deathpriest in the temple of Greos. He wouldn’t leave his dark esoterics just for a lark. Altogether, this gave Ghyll an uncomfortable feeling. Something was going on, but what?

He felt his anger rising again and slammed his fists together. ‘Find them, Major Tibaun. Bring them back. In chains, for all I care.’

The chief herald bowed and his face betrayed he had his own troubles. ‘As you command, Sire.’ He turned and left the room.

‘They must have a reason,’ Kerianna said equably. ‘Torril wouldn’t do something stupid.’

‘Torril is a bullheaded young idiot with no sense of discipline or responsibility.’

Kerianna smiled slightly. ‘You’re missing him already.’

‘I’ve been missing him all cursed morning,’ the king snapped. He knew Kerianna was right, and that only increased his anger. ‘My squire should be at my side and not running off on Zethir’s wild adventures.’

‘Torril has a strong streak of loyalty,’ Olle said. ‘He wouldn’t refuse if a friend asked his help.’

‘When he comes back, I’ll chain him to the throne with his loyalty,’ Ghyll promised. He straightened in his chair. ‘Now, about those monsters…’

Kerianna lifted an eyebrow. ‘Are they at the palace gates?’

Ghyll looked at his wife. ‘I should hope not. Why?’

‘Then you’ll both come up and have lunch. I’m hungry and I hate eating without you.’

‘Yes, Ma’am,’ the king said, grabbing her hand.

CHAPTER 2 – TO SEA

The obscure little ship sneaked from the Royal harbor in Rhidaun-Lorn as furtively as a mouse in an owl-infested forest. Zethir pulled his hood deeper over his eyes and led his young companions down to the tiny cabin below-deck. There, they dragged some crates in a circle and sat down, knees touching in the narrow space.

‘A smuggler?’ Prince Torril said softly, looking around the smelly cabin. He was a strongly muscled lad of some sixteen years, with tousled hair and a near permanent grin.

Zethir pursed his lips, drawing his thin cheeks together. ‘Hush. Best don’t ask.’

The young prince grinned. ‘Lest we have to swim home, eh? No matter. You promised to tell us where we’re going and why. We’re listening.’

Zethir avoided looking at the boy. I’m abusing his trust, he thought desperately. He’ll be in trouble with the king, and it will be my fault. And the others...gods, I barely know them. They came because Torril asked.

‘Does Ghyll know about this?’ the girl said.

Zethir blinked and looked at her – Avelore, mage adepta of the Red Order. A small girl, with a delicate face and blonde hair. She sat upright, her hands folded in her lap, outwardly imperturbable. It was like gazing in a mirror, he thought. They’d met once or twice, but he didn’t know her well. They were of an age; both nineteen, and like him, she had witnessed unspeakable things that had changed her forever. Like him, she showed the world a mask of strength and independence, hiding her wounds.

She is suspicious, he thought. And she well might be. ‘I didn’t want to burden Ghyll with my problem. He has enough on his plate already.’

Torril sniffed. ‘I knew something was troubling you. The whole week you’ve been walking around like a dog that can’t poop. What is this problem of yours?’

For a moment, no one spoke.

Zethir stirred. ‘Despraine.’

‘Ah!’ Torril clenched his fists. ‘The island of our stolen drakenboat.’

Zethir nodded. ‘That suspicious drakenboat. When Ghyll couldn’t go himself, he passed the Despraine investigation on to my father at the King’s Heralds. Father sent one of our agents, Maleste. One of the best.’ Zethir paused for a moment. ‘Her last message reported a safe arrival on the island. That was three weeks ago.’

‘And?’ Avelore still hadn’t moved.

Zethir knew her eyes on him and kept his own gaze on his hands. ‘Three weeks is too long for a quick in-and-out. My father says I’m worrying about nothing. He won’t send someone else to check.’ He banged his fist on his knee. ‘Curse it! I must know what happened.’

Avelore seemed surprised by his sudden outburst. ‘Why?’

Zethir winced, and his misery was visible for all. ‘Maleste is my big sister.’

He must’ve touched Avelore’s own hurt, for she made an involuntary movement and touched Zethir’s sleeve with her fingertips.

‘Why do you think your father is wrong?’ she said softly.

‘Maleste was born punctual. She’s never missed a deadline before.’ The tendons in Zethir’s intertwined hands strained, but he controlled himself. ‘She had a week to inspect the island, yet at the appointed pick-up time she wasn’t there, nor at the next time the naval smallboat came for her. Something must have happened. Maybe she’s sick or hurt...’ He shook his head. ‘Maleste is one of our most experienced heralds. Just about everything I know, she has taught me.’

‘And now you want us to help look for her,’ Torril said.

‘I must do something.’

Again, they were silent. Outside, the rigging creaked and a lonely gull screamed overhead.

‘Why us?’ Avelore asked.

Zethir raised his head. ‘It’s awfully cheeky of me. You and me, we barely know each other… It will be dangerous…’ He stared at the adepta, afraid to go on.

‘Why us?’ she repeated.

Zethir gulped. ‘I can’t do it on my own. I thought… The companions… Most are away. I asked Torril...’

‘And I suggested you two,’ the young prince said brightly. He pointed at the third boy; a squat, silent fellow with a tanned, bald-shaven head covered in magical symbols, and elongated, startling blue eyes. ‘Anliin is my friend. And Avelore is very brave and strong.’ He grinned. ‘Besides, she hates the Dar’khamorth.’

The girl didn’t answer, but for a second, her calm face transformed into a massive anger that resonated with Zethir. It was but a moment before he had regained control of his own rage, but the emotion had left him breathless.

‘Yes,’ she said, coolly. ‘Don’t we both?’

Zethir coughed behind his hand to hide his feelings. ‘We do.’

Anliin, tucked away in the purple robe of a deathpriest, hadn’t spoken yet. ‘You think the Dar’khamorth is in Despraine?’ He couldn’t be older than sixteen years, but his voice had already an undertone of darkness to it.

‘They must be,’ Zethir said. ‘Their ships need a base and what better than a taboo island where no one dares to go?’

The deathpriest absently tapped his sleeve with a finger. ‘True.’

Torril jumped from his chair. ‘Great! Will we be smuggled ashore?’

‘Yes, but not by this old tub. She won’t leave the coastal waters, so she’ll bring us to Stormaire Bay instead. Once there, we’ll hire a fishing boat.’

Torril scratched his blond spikes and grinned. ‘Nice! And back?’

For a moment, Zethir smiled. ‘Surprise! Then the same fisher will come and pick us up again.’

‘That sounds simple enough.’ Torril’s face tightened. ‘The Dar’khamorth!’

‘Don’t worry about me; I’m glad you asked me,’ Avelore said simply. ‘King Ghyll saved me from those fiends and I think it only right to go and help rescue another girl. Perhaps it will quieten some of my own anger.’

‘I know what you mean,’ Zethir said. ‘That endless turmoil inside makes you want to scream sometimes.’

CHAPTER 3 – MORE TROUBLE

Ghyll sat with his elbows planted on his desk and his chin resting in his hands, looking at his brother. At the familiar way Olle held his head, and his strong fingers leafing through the reports he had brought. Once again, the king blessed the gods they had spared his brother, that terrible day at the Owan Abai. If Anliin’s death magic hadn’t managed to pull Olle back... Ghyll shuddered.

‘I’ve some descriptions of the monster beasts,’ Olle said, oblivious of Ghyll’s scrutiny. ‘Those birds aren’t exactly shy. There were confirmed sightings all over Southern Malend, even to the outskirts of Awestir. Reports speak of toothed beaks, eyes that glimmer with intelligence and barbed feathers able to rip the flesh from your body. They’re said to be real big birds; the size of horses. Some clever farm girl spied one of them perched on a bridge. As the beast took to the sky, its wingtips could’ve touched both riverbanks. Afterwards, the girl returned with her father and they paced the bridge. The river was thirty feet wide.’ His eyes took on a faraway look. ‘How do you hunt a beast with a thirty feet wingspan?’

‘With a lot of archers, pikemen and mages,’ Ghyll said. ‘Like a boar hunt, only bigger.’

Olle gave him a steady look. ‘Yeah.’ They both thought of that near fatal hunt, the night of Tinnurad’s fall. Three stupid boys against a giant boar. It had nearly killed one of them.

‘The wolves are more elusive,’ Olle went on. ‘No sightings but for a glimpse of two shapes crossing a misty moor, another scouting a hamlet in the middle of the night, and reports of several dead cows.’ He snorted. ‘Malend’s margrave is worried; he has rangers searching for both the birds and the wolves, but as yet with little success

‘Perhaps his people aren’t looking all that diligently,’ Ghyll said.

Olle growled. ‘Given the size of the beasts they probably wouldn’t, no.’

‘It’s a mess.’ Ghyll looked at the pendulum clock in the corner. ‘I’m expecting Tibaun any moment. I hope he has better news, but I’m afraid he’ll only add to our troubles.’

That got a scowl out of his brother. ‘You want me to listen in?’

‘Of course I do,’ Ghyll said.

A knock on the door announced the chief herald, followed by a servant bringing steaming hot cawah. They all waited until the footman had poured three cups and left the room.

‘Well, Major?’ Ghyll said, while he added some cream to his cup.

Tibaun spread his hands in a gesture of helplessness. ‘Still no trace of Prince Torril and the other three, Sire.’

Ghyll looked sharply at the chief herald. The man appeared gray with fatigue, the bags under his eyes suggesting he had not slept well for nights on end.

‘Please tell us all, Major. My brother isn’t fully briefed yet.

‘I am glad to see you well again after your harrowing experiences, Your Grace,’ Tibaun said. ‘My briefing can be short, I’m afraid. We, and that means the whole Service, have been searching for four days now, but the trail ends in Stormaire.’ Tibaun sat erect in his chair, his hands clutching the armrests. A muscle in his face twitched.

‘No one on the island knows anything about the prince, nor of the others. This is more than the silence of a closed community, Sire. Even my most reliable contacts don’t know what’s going on. Zethir is good, but he is not so good that I can’t find him. After all, every trick he and Maleste know I taught them myself.’ He paused, and Ghyll waited.

The king knew the major well enough by now to realize the man was struggling with something.

‘Maleste is one of my best agents,’ Tibaun said with a sigh, ‘She and Zethir always were very close. Even as children.’ Again he paused. ‘Maleste is the agent I had sent to Despraine. The navy dropped her at the island three weeks ago. That was the last news we had from her. Still, I had full confidence in Maleste, and I wasn’t worried.’

‘You sent no other agent to look for her?’

Tibaun shook his head. ‘It seemed unnecessary. Needless to say, Zethir did not agree with me.’

‘Why not?’

‘Maleste is his sister,’ Tibaun said heavily.

Shocked, Ghyll leaned back in his chair. ‘Man, your own daughter?’

Tibaun looked the king straight in the eye. ‘I know her abilities, Sire; I didn’t worry.’ He bowed his head, and his voice sounded strained. ‘Maybe I was mistaken.’

Ghyll pursed his lips and thought. Everybody said Zethir hadn’t been himself, the last few weeks. Had he been brooding over his sister?

‘As Zethir didn’t agree with you,’ he said. ‘Do you think he went to Despraine to look for your daughter?’

For a moment Tibaun remained silent and then said softly, ‘Yes, Sire; I’m quite sure he did.’

Olle crossed his arms over his chest. ‘Of course Torril and the others went with him. Knowing our young hothead, that doesn’t surprise me. And Anliin is his friend, so he needed no persuasion, either. Only Avelore, what is her part in this?’

‘She hates the Dar’khamorth for ruining her prospects,’ Ghyll said. ‘She was terrified at the thought of going back to Rabogst, from where she’d been so cruelly abducted. At the same time she was angry that someone else had gotten her portal job there. In the end she returned to her temple at Rhidaun-Lorn, afraid her career as a mage was already over. Now she’s waiting for a summons from Taindragon, but the Red high mage hasn’t called her yet. Perhaps she hopes to use this undertaking to prove her superiors the ordeal in Zihaen hasn’t broken her.’

‘I can see that,’ Olle said. ‘She doesn’t lack guts.’

‘She doesn’t.’ Ghyll put his hands flat on the table. ‘I’m going to send a search party to Despraine, Major. I don’t want to lose those four.’

Tibaun bowed his head. ‘Your will, Sire. But,’ his voice was flat and emotionless, ‘if Zethir went to Despraine, it was against orders. You’ll need to find other work for him.’

Ghyll nodded. ‘I understand.’ He thought it better for all concerned that Zethir didn’t work for his father anyhow.

When the major had left, Kerianna came in. ‘I saw Tibaun going. Any news?’

‘Those four idiots have gone to Despraine,’ Ghyll said through clenched jaws. ‘The Heralds lost an agent there, Zethir’s sister. Apparently those four went to find her. The fools, the... Why didn’t they ask me?’

Kerianna pulled a face. ‘Maybe they were afraid you’d say no.’

‘I?’ Ghyll showed his teeth. ‘And so I would. Zethir and Avelore with only those two children?’

‘You can’t call Torril a child,’ Olle said. ‘He is stronger and better trained than most guards. And Anliin – he proved his mettle twice.’

‘He saved your life. Still...’ Ghyll sighed. ‘Torril needs a leash. He has never learned what obedience means.’

A secretary entered with a rolled document. ‘This just arrived, Sire. It comes from the commander of the Guard in the Margautainen.’

Ghyll banged his desk. ‘Darn. I was hoping it was about Zethir.’ He broke the seal and glanced through the document. A feeling of hopelessness came over him as he read. ‘Oh gods.’ For a moment, he couldn’t go on and buried his face in his hands.

Without a word, Olle took the letter from his hand and started reading. Halfway, he lifted his eyes and whistled. ‘A high-level delegation of the Nhael is coming here?’

‘Why?’ Kerianna said sharply.

‘They say they know we captured Torril and that we’re holding him prisoner. They want him back, or else there will be war.’

‘War!’ Ghyll balled his fists to the sky. ‘Those guys are out of their minds. And of course this happens right now when we can’t trot out Torril. They’ll be here in two days.’

‘I’ll go to Despraine,’ Olle said.

Ghyll lifted his head. ‘No, you don’t. Think, man; you’re only just out of bed.’

Kerianna put a finger along her chin and smiled sweetly. ‘Ghyll is right, Olle. You mustn’t risk your health. I will go.’

‘You? But you’re the queen,’ Ghyll said, shocked.

Kerianna’s eyes flashed. ‘Don’t give me that tired old argument, boy. I’m as qualified as any of you men.’

Ghyll thought of the knives in her sleeves. ‘Of course you are,’ he said hastily. ‘But all the way to Despraine? That will take too long.’

‘Not if I go by skyboat.’

Ghyll opened his mouth to protest, but he saw her face and knew he’d better not. He quickly kissed her. ‘I’m sorry, dear,’ he said, penitently. ‘I’m lucky you wanted to marry me. I’ll give you half a line of guards. In case of trouble.’

He limped to his clerk’s table and scribbled some words on a sheet of paper. He muttered something vile when the pen splattered with his signature, and pushed the paper into the queen’s hands. ‘Here is a note for the skyboat captain. Let’s pray you’ll find them.’

Kerianna bared her teeth in a feral grin. ‘I’ll go fetch Cianabetta and change into something more suitable. You’ll see me when I’m back.’ With a little wave, she slipped out of the room.

CHAPTER 4 – DESPRAINE

‘See you next Olday,’ Zethir said, standing up to his hips in the sea.

The fisherman from Stormaire didn’t answer; his mind probably busy with wind and tide. The gaff sail rose, flapping loudly, and the Madilna turned away from the coast, back to the open sea.

The lanky lad who was the fisher’s son and the only crew on board shouted something, but the wind and the surf drowned out his words.

Zethir waved and then waded through the hungry tide to the beach and his three companions. Until Olday. That gives us forty-eight hours. He stared up at the top of the plateau. From afar, Despraine was like an inverted bucket, steep and seemingly inaccessible. Up close, it didn’t look any better. He bit his lip. There was a path, the fisher had said. A narrow path at the back of the crevice. That was the only way to the top, so they should be careful. If the Dar’khamorth had indeed holed up on the island, they could expect guards at the entrance. He sank down on a rock, wiped his feet clean of sand and squeezed them into his boots. Forty-eight hours, he reckoned it would be enough. Tilia let it be enough!

He sat up and looked at his companions. Torril was already with Anliin in the crevice. The boy signaled with his arms and the wind carried his shout, ‘Over here!’

‘Torril is enjoying himself.’ Avelore grimaced as she used her fingers to comb the salty tangles from her curls.

Despite his inner tension, Zethir smiled. ‘He loves action.’ Together they walked into the narrow crevice.

The young Nhael stood with his arm around Anliin’s shoulders. His blond hair stuck out in all directions and white salt crystals covered his face. The waves and the wind, elements he had grown up with, elated him. ‘The sea is great!’ he told Anliin, who had been seasick the whole way from Stormaire. ‘When I go home, you must come with me, I will show you how much fun she is. Then...’ He stopped, and the animation left him.

Zethir looked at him searchingly. ‘Do you miss the Nhael?’

‘Sometimes,’ Torril said, and his face clouded over. ‘If only I knew everyone was all right.’ Then he turned to the cliff. ‘Come on, weren’t we going to do something?’ He shrugged his knapsack into position on his broad back and started up the path.

To the top of the island was a long climb. In the steepest spots, long-dead islanders had carved steps into the rock, but even then the trail made for a tough walk to the top.

To Zethir’s surprise there weren’t any guards posted. Before them, sunwashed grassland stretched out to the horizon; a green carpet, interwoven with the colors of many flowers. In the distance, a white village gleamed. Beside him, Avelore sighed.

‘It’s beautiful,’ she said.

Zethir nodded. He spread his arms, and with closed eyes let the summer air envelop him – balmy sweet with the scent of lavender, thyme and rosemary. There was a chorus of wild cries from the blue-winged gulls in the air, and he fleetingly felt the peace he longed for.

‘Where is Rhidauna?’ Anliin asked, born a steppe nomad, to whom sea and islands were strange worlds.

‘The mainland is seventy miles away,’ Torril said. ‘You won’t see it from up here.’

His friend looked at him. ‘How do you know?’

‘From the fisher’s son,’ Torril said with a shrug. ‘Seventy miles to the harbor of Stormaire. We sailed all the way to the wind; otherwise we wouldn’t have been here yet.’ Grinning, he added, ‘that’s tailwind, landlubber.’

Their banter brought Zethir back to earth. ‘Let’s go,’ he said, turning away from the peaceful landscape.

They followed the edge of the plateau until they came to a hanging bridge connecting Despraine to a rocky pinnacle in the sea. From the solitary rock grew a high tower, shaped like an immense stinkhorn. An obscene construction, turned white by the droppings of generations of seabirds circling around it.

At the bridge, Zethir hesitated. Deep below him, foaming waves hurled themselves against the rocks. They tugged at him, those waves. They called him with promises of peace, and he closed his eyes. No! Hastily, he stepped back from the alluring depths.

At his side, Avelore tightened her cloak around her shoulders and muttered a short incantation.

‘What are you whispering about?’ Torril stood with his hand on his ax handle, eying the open tower door with suspicion.

The girl shivered, and on impulse, Zethir touched her arm.

‘Were you thinking of that bastard in Zihaen?’

Avelore didn’t answer.

Zethir thought of his own nightmare, when he’d been Kirogall’s captive in Derivall. This girl had been the victim of another Dar’khamorth sorcerer, one just as cruel, and he understood how those days had carved themselves into her soul.

‘What?’ Torril, who had been there in both cases, unhooked his weapon from his belt. ‘Another little creep like that Thadzi-guy? We’ll see about him!’

‘Don’t!’ Zethir said, but in vain. The young Nhael ran across the rocking bridge, with Anliin as his shadow behind him.

Zethir growled softly. He heard Avelore make a sound halfway between a laugh and a sob, but when he went after the boys, she followed him without hesitation.

Inside the tower, the darkness was oppressive. Zethir felt Avelore close to him. She raised her hand, and a flame sprang up. Its light flickered on a stone staircase leading upward into the blackness overhead. The musty air was laden with the dust Torril and Anliin had stirred up.

Zethir looked at the girl.

‘Go on,’ she said. ‘I’m not afraid.’

There wasn’t a sound as they climbed; the silence swallowed up even their footsteps. The staircase lacked a railing, making the climb perilous, and it was long before they arrived at the top. Here, a wooden hatch barred their way. Zethir put his shoulder to it, but at the first touch, the trap door sprang open by itself. Zethir staggered, and only his natural agility prevented him from falling to his death.

Torril turned around and laughed at his shocked face. ‘It almost caught me, too. It’s a magical door.’

The room, so suggestively shaped from outside, was bright and comfortable inside. A sunlit space, with large windows all around, giving a wide view of the surrounding sea, land and air.

Zethir whistled. ‘So much glass! That must have cost a pretty penny.’ All at once he realized he had forgotten his usual caution. ‘There’s no one here?’

Torril pointed with his thumb over his shoulder at the desk dominating the entire room. Among the scrolls, books and mysterious spell sheets lay the probable owner of the tower face down on the yellowed papers. His left hand clutched a quill and the right rested on a long document. The last sentence ended in a wild scratch and three dark splashes. Besides his balding skull lay a cap in the same silver-threaded blue as his robe. His body was in a perfect state of mummification.

‘Hmm, heart attack,’ Zethir said.

Avelore didn’t answer. She peered over the shoulder of the dead magus at the so abruptly broken off manuscript.

‘Yearsend 11, 387...’ she read aloud. ‘A century and a half ago.’ Her eyes slid along the document. ‘He writes about a disease that struck the island. The noenpest... In the morning healthy at work, around noon stiff and dead...’

Zethir’s face tightened. ‘Gods, the epidemic!’ He took an involuntary step away from the table and the dead mage. ‘He could be contagious.’

‘After a hundred and fifty years?’ Avelore shook her head. ‘I’d say not; the evil forces that caused the disease must have disappeared by now.’ She straightened. ‘So it wasn’t a heart attack that killed him. The wretch; I would have liked to know who he was.’

‘Conyr,’ Torril said absently.

Avelore looked in