Convergence: The Earth War Saga, Book 1

Convergence

Michael Koogler

Convergence

By Michael Koogler

Copyright © 2015 Michael Koogler

www.michaelkoogler.net

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce

this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.

ISBN: 978-0-9961537-6-8

Book editing by Elizabeth Humphrey

Bookworm Editing, Littleton, Colorado USA

Book cover art, packaging and design by

Kreative Storm Press, Coralville, Iowa USA

Map Illustration by Clayton Chambers. ©2015 Clayton Chambers. Chambers Studios, LLC. All Rights Reserved.

http://www.chambersstudios.com

Other works by Michael Koogler:

Novels

Antivirus

Hade’s Gambit

The Rise of Cain

Short Stories

Jigsaw, Sadistic Shorts

The Summoning, Sadistic Shorts

The Agent, Never Fear

And Coming Soon!

Mirror, The Earth War Saga, Book 2 (2016)

Antivirus 2, The Awakening (2016)

For Anthony Toad Hardman

July 7th, 1989 to May 30th, 2005

Preface

I really debated whether to do a Preface piece because, let’s be honest, very few people read them, right? However, I would be remiss not to add a couple of short notes here for those people that do read a book’s Preface and might find the words here interesting and uplifting. Besides, a few words on the dedication are in order.

Let me first offer up a few thanks right off the bat. I want to thank Karen Moeller Matibe for convincing me to condense over two decades of work into a story that doesn’t ultimately need a Dramatis Personae to keep track of the cast. The song "I Need a Hero" now rings loudly in my head every time I sit down to work on a project. Thanks to Elizabeth Humphrey for her incredible editing skills and for helping polish the story. I mean, who needed those 10,000 extra words anyway? And special thanks go to Scott Kaalberg, Douglas Cloven, Aaron Baxter, and the supremely talented Rachel Aukes—author of 100 Days in Deadland—for their thoughts, remarks, and invaluable assistance as beta-readers. You’re awesome!

Now, a few words on the dedication. I started formulating the idea of Convergence almost 25 years ago. It was the first full length manuscript I ever put together and when I read some of the original passages from it, I have to chuckle. All I can say about it is that my writing has come a long way since then. Over the years, Convergence has been written, revised, and rewritten several times, as I attempted to give it a unique voice in a world full of great fantasy literature. That bar is set extremely high by some of my personal favorites like RA Salvatore, Terry Brooks, and Jim Butcher—authors I respect and admire greatly for their vision and dedication to their craft. 

In Convergence, I have worked very hard on building a believable world that exists on its own and yet, ties in quite nicely with our own reality. I believe characters make the story, so I try to create rich and diverse personalities that you can cheer for, fall in love with, and curse at. As I write, I find that, more times than not, my characters mirror what I see in reality. They are, in a lot of instances, based on people-watching, life interactions, and generally interesting people I am fortunate enough to run across in my life. And nowhere is that more relevant than in the character of little boy named Anthony, who shows up about midway through the story.

Anthony Hardman was born in July of 1989 and was probably all of 4 or 5 years old when I met him and became acquainted with his family. His mother, Julie, and father, Gale, were as down-to-earth and easy-going people as I’ve probably ever known. Anthony was their youngest child and he was special. It was not because he was born with Larson’s Syndrome, a connective tissue disorder characterized by multiple joint dislocations. He was special because of his indomitable will and zest for life. Here was a little boy that, despite his handicap, quite literally hopped around everywhere on his hands, earning the nickname ‘Toad,’ a moniker that he loved. Anyone that didn’t know the family might react in shock, but it was who he was and he made no bones about it. He was into everything and everyone. I learned a lot about life from Anthony, as I think anyone that met him did.

Anthony’s life was tough. He was tougher. His medical issues were extensive and required numerous surgeries throughout his short life. If that wasn’t enough, his father, Gale, died unexpectedly of a heart attack in August of 1996. It could be truly said that Anthony was one of those special spirits given a hard test in this mortal life, one that most of us probably couldn’t imagine dealing with ourselves.  He bore burdens that most of us pray we will never experience. And he did it without complaint; without anger or bitterness toward the lot he had been given in life. Finally, in May of 2005, before he turned 16, Anthony passed from this life into the next, where I’m sure Gale was waiting, ready to welcome his son home.

This book—this journey of Convergence—is dedicated to Anthony and his memory. It’s dedicated to the life he lived and his attitude of never quitting and never giving up. Anthony is portrayed in this book exactly as he appeared in real life. Anthony…Toad…is who he is. He’s gone from this mortal world, but will live forever in the memories of those who knew him. Dedicating this book to him and immortalizing him as a character, is simply the least I can do for such an incredible young man. His journey on this world is over. His journey in the next life and within the pages of Convergence and beyond, will go on forever.

Prologue

He was youthful in appearance, perhaps no more than twenty years of age; strong, muscular, attractive. He was, in fact, centuries old, far older than anyone else in the world, save the Arcai. And it was specifically due to him avoiding those godly beings at all costs that he continued to outlive generations of his people. The Arcai would kill him immediately if they stumbled upon him.

It was ironic then, that the form lying on the raised pedestal before him would be so connected to those. Yet, despite the danger, he had not fled. Self-preservation should have sent him far away when the assassin came calling, bathed in the aura of demigods. But strangely, his curiosity won out and he accepted the assassin’s request.

He walked slowly around the raised pedestal, his dusky eyes watching the slow rise and fall of the slumbering assassin’s chest. The woman was deeply asleep now, her body draped in black silk linen, fully under the spell he had woven. It was nearly time.

He paused at the head of the platform and reached out, tracing his fingers lightly across the assassin’s forehead and down her cheek. It was the intimacy of touch that facilitated his powers, and the images flashed in his mind of a time in the assassin’s recent past. He saw the forest, felt the tree branch beneath her feet, sensed the thrumming magic of her weapons.

Withdrawing his hand, he again slowly circled the assassin, closely watching the woman’s face. It remained peaceful and serene. The assassin had not been aware of the intrusion; her sleep continued uninterrupted. The time had come to enter the woman’s dreams. The time had come to feed.

The Dream Walker sighed in anticipation and slipped under the silken sheets, pressing his body close to his prey and wrapping her in his arms. Gently, he pulled the woman’s head to his chest, allowing the assassin to hear his heartbeat, drawing her further into the enchantment. There was nothing sexual about it, yet it was the most intimate form of contact. His nearness to the assassin allowed the Dream Walker to slip silently into her thoughts and dreams, to become part of her. He would see as the assassin saw; feel as she felt. And slowly, little by little, he would feed on her life force as he sifted through her thoughts. That was his way. Never enough to kill. Only enough to sustain.

At least until tonight.

Closing his eyes, he fell into his magic. In moments, he became the huntress…

…crouched motionless on a tree branch high above her unsuspecting prey. Patience – a lot of patience and a little bit of luck – had finally brought her to within striking distance. However, finding her elusive target and actually eliminating her were two entirely different tasks. She watched her prey intently while letting her mind play over the events that had brought her here to this pivotal moment.

Can you do it? was the simple question after she had looked at the slip of parchment that had been handed to her.

The assassin smiled, her beautiful crystalline eyes taking in the hooded stranger and noticing that there wasn’t anything telling about him. He was plain and non-descript and obviously a front for someone else pulling the strings from deep within the shadows. She had been in contact with him for the better part of the last two weeks, but always through an innocent intermediary she had chosen, usually one of the many homeless urchins who prowled the streets of Nykiva, looking for something, anything, to sustain their meager lives for one more day.

Tonight was their first face-to-face meeting and it would ultimately be their last. Ever wary of a jealous rival looking to eliminate her, she had set the time and place through the very same intermediaries and then changed it several times to throw any potential enemies off-guard. Now, sitting in the shadows of the seedy tavern’s darkest corner, she could only shake her head in amusement.

Still smiling, she slid the scrap of parchment back across the dirty table. Utter foolishness, she replied.

The assassin watched her quarry move about the small campsite with relaxed ease, obviously not worried about what might be lurking in the shadows around or above her. Then again, why should she be concerned? With her target’s inherent abilities, she would be more than a match for anyone not of her own kind. And if one considered the target’s companion—a companion who would typically not be too far away—anyone thinking to move against her would be foolish beyond words.

And yet here she was, prepared to do just that.

But what of the gain? the man pressed, undaunted by her anticipated refusal. Surely you can see the potential for fulfilling such a contract.

Indeed, the woman agreed. But the gains must be attainable. These are not. This is not some random mark; this is one of the sixteen, a demigod. There is precious little you could offer me to undertake such a risk.

Perhaps I can alter your perception, the man said softly. Let us say for the sake of argument, you accept my offer. Tell me what it would take for you to complete the task? What would you need to kill the mark?

Only an Arcai blade, a dragon-forged weapon, can accomplish the feat, she answered quietly. However, such blades are rather difficult to come by, since most dragons are unwilling to help create any weapon that could potentially be used against them or their companions.

This time, it was the man who smiled.

With silent movement born of years of experience, she freed the two long knives from their individual boot sheaths and grasped the handles in a way that the blades lay flat against her forearms.

She took a moment to gaze again at the fine weapons. An assassin of her elevated standing always had a wide variety of tools at her disposal, but these Arcai blades were among the very finest and most valuable she would ever own. They would have to be. Only weapons such as these were capable of inflicting a mortal wound upon an Arcai, and throughout the world, there were only a few such dragon-fired weapons.

She now had two.

She looked at the blade that was partially pulled from its sheath while its twin still rested on the table, the man’s hand lying protectively across it. The blade was forged from a dark blue-black metal and, as she looked closer at the weapon, she noticed the faintly glowing runic lines of powerful magic woven into the metal during the weapon’s creation. While she couldn’t read the language, she had no problem recognizing it as dragon-speak. Where did you obtain these? she asked, her voice carefully controlled. Only a dragon can forge such a blade.

And they do so very hesitantly, the man agreed with a knowing smile.

You still have not answered my question, she pressed.

You will hunt one of the most formidable opponents you will ever face, he said evasively, and you will do so with a pair of weapons that are unmatched in all the land. If you choose to accept the task, the weapons are passed on to you. What does it matter where I obtained them?

The woman wrapped slender fingers around the two sheathed blades. At the moment, it is not important, she agreed, feeling the weapon’s magic practically hum in her grasp. Very well, I accept the contract.

As light-footed and perfectly balanced as a panther, the assassin slipped downward from branch to branch until she was a mere ten feet above her target, who was relaxing by the fire, sipping hot root soup from a battered clay mug.

The huntress paused only a moment more before she stepped off into space and dropped to the ground beside her prey.

Nearly an hour after accepting the blades, the woman watched from a nearby rooftop as the robed man finally emerged from the little tavern. He paused for a moment, his eyes scanning left and right, before he set off hurriedly toward an even seedier side of town.

Unfortunately for him, he never looked up.

The assassin drew back her bow and sighted it on her contact. She had no more use for the man and knew he was only one contact in many that would exist between her and the unknown benefactor who had come into possession of the two incredible blades that she now owned as payment for the job she was about to do. A person capable of that would also undoubtedly know that she would not let his messenger live after they had completed their business. Such a person would also know when she completed the contract.

She let the arrow fly.

As she landed beside her mark, the assassin slashed out with her right hand, allowing the blade to extend from beneath her forearm. But her target was no ordinary mortal and was already rolling to the side, avoiding the initial strike. The blade slide harmlessly through the air, but the killer followed it up with another, her well-trained body flowing effortlessly in the deadly dance. This time, the weapon slid along the side of her target, slicing through leather and into flesh. Blood welled immediately from the wound and an amorphous red glow seemed to flow from the wound and into the knife as the blade drew off part of the woman’s life force.

There was an audible gasp of pain, but no word as the target rolled to her feet and pulled a long slender sword from a scabbard at her waist. Normally, she would have preferred her bow, but it was lying harmlessly near her bedroll along with her arrow-filled quiver. She would have to make do with what she had, realizing that her attacker would give her no quarter.

The assassin moved like the wind, effortlessly circling her prey, her weapons dancing and diving through the air. The victim moved her own blade back and forth in a brilliant display of defensive swordplay, yet she began to realize that it would not be enough. In all her many centuries of life, she had never before considered possible what was about to happen and, for the first time in her life, she felt fear.

The blades of the huntress scored another hit, this one across her victim’s midsection, then a third, a long bloody gash down the woman’s forearm. The hunted staggered backward, weakening as the enchanted blades siphoned more of her life force away. She knew she was mere moments away from death, but fought on even as she sent her thoughts skyward, seeking her companion.

Help me.

The assassin moved in, parrying down a weakened thrust as she rolled down the blade, bringing her face to within inches of her prey. The two women locked gazes for a moment, the fathomless brown eyes of the near immortal locking with the glacier-blue eyes of the most feared assassin in all the land.

And then the killer slid the blades home, piercing the victim through each side, angling them upwards so that they sheared through her lungs and into her heart. She held them there, buried to the hilt as her prey’s eyes widened in sudden terror. The assassin felt the magic of the blades feast on the fading life of the woman and only when her expression froze and her eyes became fixed and unseeing, did she finally lower the dead woman gently to the ground.

She withdrew the weapons and spun them each into their individual boot sheaths, not a drop of blood showing on the dark metal. With a reverence not expected after such a brutal act, the assassin crossed her victim’s hands over her breast and gently closed her eyes. There had been no malice in her act of murder. She held only respect for the now-dead woman. But she had been given a contract and she had filled it. It had been her duty.

A roar of anguish echoed through the forest and she looked up, unafraid. It was the woman’s companion, but he was distant and the severing of the life bond between the two of them had weakened him considerably. She would be safely away long before he could drag himself to the body of his beloved.

She stood then and paused for a moment more to reflect on the monumental deed. She had slain an Arcai. She had widowed a dragon. It was something that had never before happened in the history of her world. The gains to her reputation were boundless, but the ire of her enemies would be great.

But in time, none of that would matter. She could not know that her actions were the carefully orchestrated opening moves in a chain of events that would usher in the destruction of all that she held dear and ultimately change the very fabric of her world’s reality.

She could not know…

…but the Dream Walker did.

With a groan of distress, the ancient vampire bolted from the bed and scrambled away from the assassin. The magic broken, Vendetta was quick to awaken and she rolled to her feet, drawing the sheets around her body as she faced the strange enchanter.

I tasked you only…to read my dreams, Vendetta gasped, feeling the weakness weigh heavily on her. It had been a calculated gamble, allowing the vampire the opportunity to feed on her life force, while trusting he would hold to his word. I would not have begrudged you a taste, demon.

But the Dream Walker was pressed up against the far wall, his glowing eyes wide with alarm of his own. Would that I had slain you when you slept, he said softly. It might prevent what is to come.

Why? Vendetta asked, fear raising the hairs on the back of her neck. Beneath the sheet, her fingers slipped around the hilt of the dagger she had kept strapped to the inside of her thigh, before disrobing. What is coming that would frighten someone like you?

I sensed it in you when you first came to me, the vampire answered, gathering his own courage in the face of what he had seen. He had witnessed the end of everything in the assassin’s future—the clash of races, the crush of worlds, the fall of the gods, the end of time. Everyone’s time. The woman’s future was bleak indeed, awash in approaching encounters with other Arcai and their companions. But that would mean nothing when the gods went to war with each other. When that happened, the fate of the assassin would matter not at all. Nor would the fate of anyone else. Including him. Unless he acted.

He took a deep breath and straightened, his eyes never leaving those of the killer. You are touched by the gods, Vendetta, in ways that far outstrip your abilities to fathom.

I killed the daughter of a god, the assassin countered. Nothing more.

That is where you are wrong.

They hunt me then? she questioned, raising an eyebrow in doubt.

Nothing so simple, dear girl.

Then what?

The Dream Walker only shook his head.

Then what! she fairly shouted, stepping toward him, forgetting for a moment who she was dealing with.

The ancient creature moved with incredible speed and was suddenly upon her. A blade appeared in his hand as he spun her around and pressed it against her throat. Did you believe I would let you live? he hissed, tightening his arm around her chest, the metal edge of the dagger drawing a line of blood on her neck.

Why would you kill me like this? Vendetta asked, her voice catching slightly in fear. The blade is not your way.

It began with you, child, when you accepted the contract, he answered, when you took the weapons. Only your death might prevent what has been set in motion.

It was an assassination.

No! he shouted in sudden anger. It was more than that! More than a mere contract! It was the beginning, my dear, the beginning of the end and you are but a lowly pawn, a worthless tool given a task you could not hope to comprehend. It began with you. His voice dropped and his eyes narrowed. A quick slice and it would be all over. It began with you, he repeated, and it can end with you, as well.

What are you speaking of?

The convergence, he replied, lowering his lips to her bare neck. He should kill her outright by cutting her throat, he knew it. But her blood called to him, tempted him to feed in the old way. The merging begins with you; with the brats you will usher into this world, he breathed, his voice husky with hunger.

A child? she gasped.

Indeed, the vampire answered, opening his mouth and baring his fangs.

I have no children and I never will, she feigned alarm. I do not understand.

You wouldn’t, he sniffed arrogantly, drawn into complacence by the timber of her voice. You are but a mortal and mortals die.

But you are not immortal, either, she whispered back, the fear suddenly gone as she turned her head to catch his eyes. Before he could react, she slid the Arcai blade deeply into his side.

With a howl of pain and rage, the Dream Walker twisted away, throwing his would-be victim to the floor. But it was too late. The magical blade—a tremendously powerful artifact itself—was embedded to the hilt between his ribs, the ornate handle seeming to absorb the growing red mist that was being pulled from his body. The blade drank his life, peeling away the centuries of youth from his countenance in a matter of seconds. The Dream Walker could not speak, his mouth working in a soundless scream as his skin wrinkled and his flesh shriveled and then sloughed away from his bones. Moments later, his skeletal remains collapsed to the floor, smoking and blackened as the blade feasted on what remained of his essence.

Vendetta pulled the sheet tighter about her chest, though there was no one now to see her. For the longest time, she stood silently and stared at the pile of smoldering bones on the floor. Her weapon lay amongst the remains, now cool and dormant. It had begun with the blade, the vampire had told her. A dragon-forged gift to kill an Arcai.

For the first time since the assassination, she began to consider the question she had long since ignored.

Why?

10 years later…

Part 1

Strangers in a Strange Land

Chapter 1

A lone warrior stood atop the highest hill overlooking the large bastion of humanity on the central plains – the Dom’Ithi stronghold known simply as Northern Outpost. It was a plain name for the large trading town, one of three stone and timber walled outposts that extended the Dom’s influence perilously westward past the great Lira River and into the immense flatlands and rolling hills of grasses and timber, much still covered by the melting snow of early spring. Most would agree that it had always been a bold move for the land-hungry Dom’Ithi people to extend their influence westward as far as they had dared with their three border cities and countless settlements and farmsteads. They were, truly, the greatest race in all the lands, at least as far as land area was concerned. However, others would contend that the dangers inherent in such an expansion were too great to overlook and the boldness of the Doms should have been tempered with care. On this particular day, the latter group would be proven right.

The day was warm, with spring nearly ready to take complete hold of the land, leaving those people who were in immediate peril, hoping they would somehow escape the death and destruction that would descend upon them before night would fall again. They knew that behind the single solitary warrior, and hidden by hills and trees that were common in this part of the plains, were the armies that the warrior commanded, gathered together and awaiting the first taste of blood in a campaign that would allow them to sweep through the midlands and into the heart of the Dom empire.

The people of Northern Outpost knew it and they were powerless to stop it.

Savage dark-skinned U’Raati from the foot of the Dragon’s Teeth Mountains, nearly three thousand strong, brought up the fore of the impressive fighting force. They were clad in the skins of various animals and even humans, with bones and skulls decorating the more prominent warriors of the clans as if to emphasis their higher standing and greater blood-letting abilities in battle. Their weapons varied widely—usually bone hammers of varying size and shape or blades and other weapons taken from past unfortunate victims. They had all the appearances of a ragtag band of wild men, but despite their unorganized and savage look, they were vicious fighters and greatly feared, barbaric in nature and with little need for order and even less for spoils of war. They lived only to kill, and it was something they did exceedingly well.

Greater yet were the formidable and heavily-armored warriors of the coastal dwelling Gol’Athi—disciplined and militaristic, yet cold-blooded in their own deadly fighting prowess and generally bitter enemies of the U’Raati, not to mention the Dom’Ithi. Most of the Gol forces were common soldiers and clad similarly in heavy plate or chain mail with crests depicting their home cities or villages emblazoned on their chests. Each soldier was similarly armed with a variety of blade, as well as a crushing hammer or mace. The Gol heroes and generals, however, were more unique in their trappings, sporting ornate armors and powerful weapons as they stood at the head of a group of standard soldiers. All together, the Gols numbered more than twice that of the Rats, their battle lines straight and their battalions well-ordered as they awaited the signal that would spur them to encircle the condemned stronghold.

All was in readiness. More than ten thousand strong, the entire army outnumbered the fighting men of Northern Outpost more than three to one and they were led by the greatest warrior to walk the land. It would be a slaughter.

Draven smiled as he looked down upon the town, anticipating the coming battle and tasting the fear of the men who would fall to the might of his army before the day was out. He, himself, wore no armor save for a leather skirt and a pair of silver bracers, his powerfully-muscled body mostly bare and majestic in its perfection. With the bracers, he had little need of any other clothing or armor, for the metal bands were crafted of impossibly strong alloys and bore magical properties that lent him a large degree of protection should an enemy’s blow ever be lucky enough to get past Dread, the mighty dragon-forged claymore that was strapped to his back. His features were sharp and defined, his golden hair blowing in the slight breeze, and his blue eyes were deep and penetrating as they gazed down at what would be the first target in his intended military sweep across the great lands.

Below him, the inhabitants of Northern Outpost awaited his assault, knowing fully two days past that his army was approaching their town and that he meant to destroy them completely. Draven, himself, had been responsible for alerting them, having sent a captured Dom trader back to the town, carrying the severed heads of two other Doms that his scouts had come upon and taken. With the grisly gift went a message detailing his intention of killing everyone that lived in Northern Outpost, should they attempt to oppose him. Few had fled, despite the dire threat, as the townsfolk simply could not allow themselves to believe what was coming.

The carrion birds will feast well tonight, spoke a quiet voice as a figure slipped out from behind a copse of pin oak trees at the far side of the hill and walked easily toward the great warrior, her long strides covering the ground quickly.

Draven turned to look at the newcomer, a tall and statuesque woman clad in a full suit of gleaming blue chain mail, leaving only her forearms, hands, and head unprotected. She was nearly as tall as Draven’s own seven-foot frame and heavily armed with a great sword strapped to her waist and a pair of smaller long swords sheathed across her back. Her hair, long and colored the silver of liquid metal, was pulled back into a tight warrior’s braid that fell to the middle of her back. Her facial features were hard, but beautiful, with ice-blue eyes glittering dangerously as they took in the scene before her.

I think the U’Raati will likely feed better, he said with a twisted smile, turning back to look at the small forms of the town’s people scurrying about in preparation for an attack that they could not hope to survive. The Rats can almost smell the blood in the air and it becomes taxing to keep them in line.

Then perhaps you should make the challenge, offered the female warrior, turning to regard him. There was an unspoken bond between the two and her eyes flashed warmly as she addressed him before turning and looking back down upon the town. All is in readiness, she continued. There is no further need to delay, my lord.

Perhaps you are right, Zarandrae, he agreed with a smile before turning and striding to a boulder on the far side of the hilltop. Jumping atop it and looking down at his assembled forces on the other side of the hills that separated them from their target, he held up a hand and then tightly clenched his fist and brought it to his heart, signaling his generals to begin readying the army for the assault. A roar rose up from the gathered soldiers and, without waiting to see the expected result, he turned and walked back to the woman. He knew that at his signal, his Gol commanders were already forming up their respective ranks of soldiers and preparing to march forward, while the Rats were being worked up into a killing frenzy by their tribal leaders and shamans. His war machine was primed and ready, awaiting the inevitable outcome of the warrior’s challenge.

Do you think the Doms will acquiesce to the old laws? asked Zarandrae, referring to the ages-old and revered custom of two chosen warriors facing each other in open battle before their respective armies clashed.

Draven shrugged. Why not? he replied confidently. We are marching openly and have even warned them of our coming. We have obeyed every edict of the warrior’s code. They have no reason not to comply and, if they don’t, then may the gods cast their wretched souls into the Nether. He spat the last comment in disgust, having no room for cowards who lacked honor.

The armored woman turned to regard him, a knowing look in her eyes. The laws of war apply to mortal men, Draven, she softly reminded him. I have my doubts that if they knew who championed the armies of Shayene, they would not send their own champion to do battle as the law dictates.

Perhaps, he replied thoughtfully, reaching up and stroking his smooth chin. The mortal fools might very well consider his coming an easy way to avoid the challenge, and the disappointment of possibly missing the chance for physical combat almost pained him. But he knew that he would eventually get more than his share of opportunities to best mighty warriors in combat as the campaign progressed. Northern Outpost was but a hovel compared to the majesty of the greater Dom cities, so there would be opportunities in abundance later on. With a widening smile, he turned to face the woman, a gleam in his eyes. Without hesitating, he placed a hand on her shoulder and said almost playfully, Now that I consider it, you are absolutely right, my dear. They cannot possibly realize who they are facing. So, I choose to have a second fight in my stead. You will represent me.

For a moment, her beautiful face was as stone, but it passed quickly and a smile played at her lips. You would not jest with me? she challenged, excited at the thought of crossing swords in battle with a champion, even one from a smaller town like Northern Outpost. Besides, it was certainly more exciting than simply eating one, as she would normally do.

Of course not, he replied honestly. Besides, why should I have all the fun? Once Northern Outpost is ours and the supply lines are established, we will move on to Ithil Majeer and there I will slay their champion, Kelemaur.

Your skills are unmatched, my lord, but Kelemaur is a mighty warrior, she said, her eyes narrowing again as she reminded him of something he certainly already knew. He is one of the finest fighters in all the land. She placed a long-fingered hand gently over his and moved closer to him, her voice soft as she pressed her body to his. Do not let your confidence be your undoing, Draven. Your kind is not above being slain by a mortal. Remember well the daughter of Desha.

Draven looked at his companion and lover, and smiled warmly. His confidence was unshaken and he leaned forward and kissed her roughly. Jayra was a fool, he said contemptuously, referring to the untimely death that the goddess Desha’s Arcai daughter had suffered at the hands of a Vi’Raaji witch some years before.

All the same, Zarandrae said firmly, not backing down, do not underestimate Kelemaur. He is a worthy opponent and he possesses a dragon-forged weapon. He can hurt you.

Which is precisely why it will be I who will slay him, Draven finished quickly, his eyes flashing dangerously. As mighty as he supposedly is, he has yet to face me.

And Northern Outpost? she asked, quietly dismissing her companion’s stubbornness and changing the topic. On a deeper emotional level, she feared for her lover’s safety in battle, despite who he was. But if he was confident in the outcome of a fight with Kelemaur, she knew she should be the same. Right now, though, the more pressing issue was the champion of Northern Outpost and the idea that she would be the one to challenge him or her.

Draven shrugged again. I do not even know if this city has a champion. A victory over one with no renown would be without meaning for me anyway, even if they accepted the challenge. For you, however, it will allow you to hone more of your already impressive fighting skills. He paused as his eyes roamed over her armor-clad body with a knowing grin. At least in your present form.

Her smile returned as she contemplated his words and, for a few moments, she was silent. She was as old as any of her kind, but had never had any real opportunities to face a human in combat in their own form. That had changed only recently when Shayene had broken with Arcai law and had begun marshaling her forces against mortal man and Draven had accepted her request to lead them. Now Zarandrae looked forward to crossing swords in battle with seasoned warriors, having sworn to keep her true form hidden for the time being. Finally, she looked at him, her decision made. Very well, my lord. I will accept your charge, she said confidently as she held up three fingers, sharp blue nails flashing in the sunlight, and I will challenge three.

That’s my girl, Draven said easily, then turned mock serious. No cheating, either.

Zarandrae returned a shocked look to him and then playfully brushed her lips to his. I need no tricks to claim victory in this manner, she said silkily.

I know, he replied with a smile. But seriously, make your challenge and be finished with them. Do not take the chance of having to revert to your true form. It would not do well to have Ithil Majeer preparing for a dragon when we march up to their gates. Your true nature is to be kept a secret for now, for it will make your appearance to them all the greater and lessen the risk to you if they are not fully prepared.

Zarandrae nodded solemnly and stepped back. Your reasoning is sound, my lord, she said quietly, but I do not fear humans, she paused before finishing, in any form. She turned and began walking down the hill toward the settlement. I will bring victory to your sister’s cause, she said loudly as she broke into a run and charged down the hill in anticipation of the battle she would soon face.

Of that, I have no doubt, replied Draven quietly to himself as he watched her go.

Zarandrae stood about fifty yards from the gate, her massive great sword held out easily before her as she slowly turned, keeping her eyes on the three armored Dom warriors who circled her at equal distances, their wary eyes locked on her flowing movements. She had descended the hill quickly and come before the gates, where she made the standard challenge. When the first warrior immediately answered her call, she had called for two more, angering the first and sending murmurs of apprehension through the soldiers who were manning the walls of the town. In a few short minutes, though, her request had been heeded and the three warriors now faced her, the terms of the challenge set according to the laws of old. If she successfully defeated the three fighters, it meant an immediate and brutal attack by the waiting army that would not halt until Northern Outpost had fallen. However, if she failed and her enemies defeated her—which was not likely—the people of Northern Outpost would be given a full seven days to prepare in whatever fashion they wished and those who did not desire to remain and fight could leave safely and not have to worry about being pursued. Such were the laws of war and the way of the challenge, ancient standards that the Arcai, Draven, adhered to religiously.

The four fighters slowly circled, each side measuring the other and looking for that opportunity in which to launch a crippling first strike. The three Dom warriors had quickly moved into a triangle around the woman, forcing her to turn continuously to keep them all within her range of vision as much as possible and therefore increase the risks of her making a mistake.

You must think highly of yourself, wench, growled the first warrior, still bitterly angry at her request for two additional champions; a request that he viewed as a terrible insult to his honor. You may look like a warrior, he finished mockingly, but you are still a woman and your place is tending the cooking fires. Perhaps I will spare your life and let you live out the remainder of your pitiful life in servitude to me and my house.

You speak as a fool and a coward, Zarandrae replied icily, ignoring the nervous laughter of the man’s two comrades. As far as I am concerned, there is no honor to be gained from killing an idiot such as yourself in the warrior’s circle. She spun her huge sword effortlessly in her hand as if to punctuate her cutting statement.

The man harrumphed, slapping his hand loudly against his bronzed breastplate. Bah! I am Delgor and I am champion of Northern Outpost! he challenged boldly, his mouth curling into a sneer. And when this battle is through, I will see to it that you admit that fact with your dying breath.

But Zarandrae did not answer, instead moving like a cat even as the man boasted. She spun toward him, her great sword slashing through the air toward his midsection. His swaggering nearly got him killed, but his own considerable fighting expertise allowed him to drop his own sword to take the brunt of her initial strike. As it was, the force of her swing jarred Delgor’s blade from his hand, driving through to dent his armored torso. An expert swordsman himself, he quickly fell backward with the strike as she followed through and his defensive movement lessened the great sword’s impact on his ribs. He hit the ground and immediately rolled back to his feet, snatching up his dropped blade as he did.

But the woman was