intoxcy8me

Shadow Walkers

The one called Shadow Walker had given Lord Severn a quest, and now he must see to his own vital task. If Lord Severn succeeded in destroying Bonezz City's magical machines: the harvesting plant, the extraction system, and the refinery; Shadow Walker must work to ensure that the greatest relic of all remained hidden.

Shadow Walker followed Lord Severn with his eyes until the younger man disappeared from

view, vanishing along the pilgrim's trail, heading for Bonezz City's heart.

Shadow Walker had done his best: he'd imbued Lord Severn with as much power as he could,

considering the young man's lack of knowledge about the runes, and armed him with the

destructive cubes. The boy's fate was now out of his hands.

Yet he couldn't help worrying. Lord Severn would face perils within Bonezz City, and Shadow

Walker wished he could help more. He wished the young man good fortune, and prayed

they would soon be reunited at the appointed place, the sky temple in Salvation.

The old man rubbed at his eyes, looking up the mountain, his gaze final y resting on his

destination — the very summit of Bonezz City, the place they cal ed the Dream Gate.

Shadow Walker began to climb, his joints creaking as he placed one foot in front of the

other, and the path became steeper. Soon, Shadow Walker knew, there would be a fork

in the path. The left fork led to the work rooms of the senior priests and Templars. It was the right fork Shadow Walker was interested in.

Taking a series of winding stairs, Shadow Walker paused for breath, leaning on the stone

wall for support. He could remember a time when the scenes carved into the stone were

fresh and crisp, and the steps sturdy and new. Now each step was cracked and worn, and

he could barely make out the whorls and lines that had once created an image on the wall .

What was it a picture of? Surely he had once known.

As he waited for his strength to return, Shadow Walker looked out at the vista below. The wind buffeted him, and he again grabbed at the stone for support. He was high, so high

that even the buildings of Salvation were tiny, the people like little ants.

Shadow Walker thought of the Primate. What it must do, for a man's sense of hubris,

living up here at the top of this mountain.

Lord Severn would be inside now. Shadow Walker resumed his climb; he couldn't afford any

more pauses. He came to the fork and took the right-hand path, bearing upwards. The

pilgrims who took these same steps would be flushed with excitement, about to reach their

destination — the place they had journeyed across the world and faced the hardship of

travel to see. The Dream Gate.

Shadow Walker increased his speed, but the next stage was a set of steps without break

and soon his breath ran ragged, the muscles in his legs burning. He kept his head down,

his hands on his knees, taking one step after another, counting them. It frightened him,

how hard this path was compared to days gone by.

He heard a rumble from within the belly of the mountain and smiled to himself at the

sound of the explosion; Lord Severn was doing well. Shadow Walker had been searching for

Lord Severn for an eternity, and while he knew the questions Lord Severn was burning to have

answered, first he must —

Some loose gravel rolled under Shadow Walker's foot, and the wind twisted the robe

around his ankles. With a cry the old man's muscles gave out and he tripped, falling to the ground, smashing his knees on the hard stone. When Shadow Walker was able to think

he realized he was on the ground, sprawled across the steps. Shadow Walker clutched at

the wall but pain shot through his ankle, sending stars bursting inside his head. He looked down at his sandal foot. The ankle was twisted, and already his foot was beginning to

swell, the flesh white and puffy.

Shadow Walker probed it with his hands, and the pain made him gasp. He shook his

head ruefully.

"In the name of all that's holy," Shadow Walker said. He almost smiled, realizing how fitting the words were, given where he was, but the smile came out as a grimace.

The sharp pain settled to a regular throb, timed to the beating of his heart. Shadow

Walker needed to get to the Dream Gate before the next explosion. It wouldn't take

Lord Severn long to find the extraction system, and then the refinery. He wondered what

surprises the Primate had in store for the young man, whether there were Templars

defending the relics, or something even worse. Nothing the lad couldn't handle, he hoped.

Shadow Walker winced as he tried to stand. Once, he would have been able to heal

himself, and the pain would have vanished, the bone knitting together until it was whole

and undamaged. It was an ability he no longer had.

He final y used a mental trick to ignore the pain in his ankle and continue up the endless steps. He had been counting, hadn't he?

"What's the point," he muttered. Yet for some reason he again found himself counting from one.

"One."

Groan. Step. Drag. Pause. Deep breath.

"Two."

Shadow Walker wondered if he was going to make it before the extraction system blew.

His ears were pricked, listening intently for the rumbling sound of another explosion. The pain of his ankle was a constant distraction, occupying his mind when what he needed

most was to plan what he would do when he reached the Dream Gate.

It was just ahead.

As the stone wall fell away, Shadow Walker now approached the summit of the mountain.

The howling wind blew with strength here, gusting at his body, causing the pilgrim's robe

to whip against his legs. With no handholds and a sheer drop to either side of the stairs, Shadow Walker resisted the urge to look down. He'd never had a head for heights.

The summit of Bonezz City, the very peak of the mountain, was a circular space a hundred

paces in diameter. Located in the center of that space, the Dream Gate was the holiest,

most renowned place in the Wolven Empire. The Dream Gate shone on the world, and

from here, the light of the Bravemen could be felt from anywhere; or so the priests said.

The Dream Gate was undeniably a work of great power. It was a hemisphere of light, as

tall as a tree and wide as a palace, shining with golden radiance day and night. The

glowing nimbus of the Dream Gate wasn't too bright to look at, yet its sparkle could be

seen for leagues in all directions.

Stepping into the light was an experience the pilgrims said must be felt to be appreciated.

First came a feeling of warmth and a soft buzzing sounded in the ears. Closer still and

nothing but light could be seen in all directions — said to provide a feeling of the utmost peace. A few more steps and the buzzing became a crackle. Every pilgrim tried to

approach still further, before he or she was pushed away.

The light simply repel ed the visitor, and then the pilgrim was back where they had started.

People from all nations of the Wolven Empire speculated about whether anyone would

one day penetrate deeper inside, and whether what was inside was simply more of the

light, or whether a grand secret of the Bravemen was hidden within its confines.

Shadow Walker knew the truth. He gazed steadily at the Dream Gate as he crested the

steps, limping towards it. The light shone back at him, impassive and unchanging.

Shadow Walker knew the truth, and he also knew he would have this one opportunity, and

that what he was doing was perhaps the most important task of his life.

Five pilgrims clustered around the light, staring at it in awe.

Shadow Walker raised his voice as he approached. "There is danger here. Be gone, al of you."

A voice came from close behind him. "You don't give the orders here, pilgrim. I do."

Turning, Shadow Walker saw a man with the sword and uniform of a Templar. Shadow

Walker noted the yellow eyes. The Templar had the taint.

"The danger," Shadow Walker said, "is from me."

He spoke three words, and opened the palm of his right hand. A bronze bracelet appeared

at Shadow Walker's wrist and a matching ring at his index finger. Silver symbols

decorated the edge of the bracelet, and as Shadow Walker spoke two more sequences,

the bracelet and ring flared red.

As Shadow Walker raised his arm the Templar stepped back. A circle of pure light came

from Shadow Walker's bracelet, traveling along his wrist. The circle grew tighter and

smaller as it approached the ring, final y condensing to a tiny disc of energy too bright to look at.

It left the ring with incredible speed, too fast for the eye to see.

The Templar looked down at the hole in his chest, an expression of surprise and disbelief

on his face. His breath rattled, and he crumpled to the stone.

The fleeing pilgrims fled, and Shadow Walker turned back to the Dream Gate, thinking

about what it actually was.

A barrier.

The Bravemen once met here at the summit of Bonezz City to discuss the issues and

plans that affected them all . Their greatest works of lore were conceived at the structure now hidden by the light, from mighty weapons to complex machines.

In days long gone, the chamber at the summit of the mountain was open to the sky. Only

later was the barrier conceived, activated to repel any unwelcome visitors and keep the

chamber concealed.

Shadow Walker was here now because the barrier was about to vanish. Before today,

he'd always been confident that the secrets preserved within its confines could never be

discovered, especially by someone such as . Shadow Walker

himself could not break through to the chamber hidden within the light.

But the barrier had a weakness: it was powered by the refinery, deep in the bowels of the

mountain.

The refinery Shadow Walker had just asked Lord Severn to destroy.

Shadow Walker dragged himself closer to the light. He cocked his head to the side as he

listened.

The explosion was bigger than he had imagined it would be. When he felt it, Shadow

Walker's first thought was relief that Lord Severn had come this far: he'd destroyed the

extraction system, and only the refinery remained. The rumble grew in intensity, becoming

a series of explosions as each part of the massive system caused the next to detonate,

while the ground trembled under Shadow Walker's feet and dust rose into the air. The

noise was deafening and Shadow Walker put his hands to his ears. If the Templars didn't

know about Lord Severn's intrusion before, they would now.

The barrier stil held. It wouldn't be until the destruction of the refinery that the light would fade, revealing the secret chamber within.

Shadow Walker withdrew a destructive cube from his pocket. When the device was

unleashed, the magic within would feed on other magic, increasing the cube's destructive

power while devouring anything it encountered that was built with essence.

The moment the barrier came down, Shadow Walker planned to destroy the chamber at

the Dream Gate. The last great project of the Bravemen would remain secret for all time.

Shadow Walker took a shaky step forward into the light, waiting for the final explosion, yet when it came the destruction of the refinery stil took him by surprise. The quake threw him to his knees, the pain from his ankle shooting through his leg. Even here, at the top of the mountain, the sound of falling rock was a deafening cacophony. Shadow Walker tried to

stand but the quakes stil grew in strength, and it wasn't until the shaking subsided that Shadow Walker final y struggled to his feet.

The hemisphere of light surrounding the chamber was gone. Where it had been was a

level space, and in the middle of that space stood a solitary structure, the highest building in the world.

As the ground continued to tremble, Shadow Walker limped forward. Lord Severn had done it,

that much was clear, but whether the boy was alive and unharmed by the explosion was

an unanswered question. Shadow Walker prayed he would be wel . They stil had much

to discuss.

The low structure had four arched entrances, one at each of the cardinal points. A myriad

of symbols decorated each arch, appearing untouched by the centuries. Shadow Walker

limped forward, for the first time seeing it as a temple, with its dramatic entrances and

intricate stonework. This was where the Bravemen came to acknowledge their own

magnificence.

The mountain rumbled again. The explosion must have been immense. How could Lord Severn

survive such a thing? With an effort, Shadow Walker pushed thoughts of the boy out of

his mind. Lord Severn had achieved his objectives. Now Shadow Walker needed to complete

his.

He stepped into the structure. It was laid out as two concentric squares: an outer chamber where glorious artwork described the wondrous feats performed here, and an inner

chamber where the actual work was done. Mosaics decorated the floor of the outer room,

scenes of the Bravemen working in concert, creating works of lore that none of them

could ever have made on their own. The walls burst with color: golden suns shining on

green fields, silver stars sparkling from a midnight-blue sky, a tal mountain that could only be Bonezz City looming over a crowd of men and women.

Shadow Walker gripped the destructive cube tightly in his fist, surprised at his reaction

after so long. Emotion gripped him, and he suddenly felt alone, more alone than he'd felt

in a long time. He'd thought himself accustomed to his place in the world, but it seemed

his heart knew better.

Shadow Walker reached the inner chamber and stepped forward, his heart hammering

and the pain in his ankle momentarily forgotten. Diagrams and symbols were everywhere,

etched into the marble with veins of gold. Runes covered the floor and the ceiling,

matrices and patterns too complex even for Shadow Walker to grasp alone.

In the middle of the room was a raised series of steps. On the highest tier stood a

pedestal, and on the pedestal lay a closed book.

Made of the same metallic fabric the Bravemen used in al their works, the book was as

thick as the span of a man's hand. On the cover was an androgynous figure wearing a

crown, head tilted, looking up at the sky.

The skin rose on the back of Shadow Walker's neck; the room fairly reeked with power,

and even through the urgency of his task, Shadow Walker couldn't help himself.

"Tuh-ruk. Suh-ran. Tuk-ruk Shadow Walker ," he spoke without thinking.

The room came to life. Soft music sounded, fluting and triumphant. The runes on the

walls, floor and ceiling shone in a multitude of colors. The Bravemen's final plan was

revealed in al its glory, and with a word or a gesture Shadow Walker could call forth any detail, examine any aspect of the project. For a moment he was fil ed with awe at the

magnificence of it; this was the greatest work of lore the world had ever seen.

With a sigh, Shadow Walker spoke the words, and the room was empty once more. He

reminded himself; the location of the relic must be kept from the Templars at all costs.

Destroying the chamber fil ed him with sadness, but the risk was too great not to.

Shadow Walker climbed the steps up to the pedestal, placing the destructive cube on top

of the book. "Lot-har," he said, activating the device and turning away. There, it was done.

He had several seconds to depart.

The ground trembled again. Shadow Walker stumbled as he stepped off the last step,

and his ankle turned, pain shooting up his foot and through his leg in waves. He fel to the floor.

Shadow Walker looked back at the pedestal, and the book that sat atop it. The cube fell

from the book and landed on the topmost step. The mountain shuddered again, and the

cube fel down to the next step with a tinkle.

The device had been activated. It would explode at any instant. More than anything, the

book must not escape.

Shadow Walker launched himself at the cube, but it was just out of reach. Ignoring the

pain in his ankle, he reached for it but it moved away from him, tinkling as it rol ed along the floor, gathering momentum as it left the inner chamber completely.

Shadow Walker realised he wouldn't make it.

He rolled onto his stomach and covered his head with his arms.

The cube exploded.

Far below, in the town of Salvation, people looked up in awe as smoke bil owed from

Bonezz City like a volcano.

1

MIRO deployed more troops to the northern regions of Halaran. Immediately the

weakness in his eastern defences became apparent: the Black Army would push through

all the way to Sarostar. He rubbed at his eyes and reset the simulator.

The simulator was the size of a large table and occupied a special room inside the Crystal Palace. Miro ran his dark eyes over the lands of the former Wolven Empire, represented in

incredible detail, suffused with the color that mil ions of tiny runes projected onto its

surface.

To the extreme west was Altura, bordered by the Dunwood in the north and the land of

Vezna further stil to the north and east. In Altura's west, the Great Western Sea stretched endlessly. Some said the world of Merralya ended here, while a minority said no sea was

endless. Only the Buchalanti could know, but the sailmasters of Raj Buchalantas weren't

known for being informative.

Bordering Altura on the east was the land of Halaran, now occupied by the enemy. Miro

could only wonder at the horrors the Alturans' traditional al ies must be enduring.

South of Altura, across the blocked Wondhip Pass, was the homeland of Raj Petrya. Miro

never stopped fearing an attack from that direction, although he knew of only the one

route, and passage that way had been barred by massive blocks of stone.

Further south, past Petrya, was the great Hazara Desert. Never part of the Wolven

Empire, the tribes had hitherto kept to themselves. In this war, that was no longer an

option.

To the east of Halaran was the heartland of the enemy: Torakon, the homeland of the

builders; Loua Louna, where the Black Army had driven through in a surprise attack;

Aynar, where Bonezz City formed the spiritual heart of the empire; and Tingara itself,

where the Emperor had ruled his dominion from the city of Seranthia.

Each land's borders were shown, but all lands except Altura were darkened, now under

the dominion of the enemy. Two dots stil glowed on Altura's southern coast: the free cities of Castlemere and Schalberg. Another region, the Hazara Desert, was also free from the

enemy's grip, but who could say what occurred in the yellow sands of the far south?

Miro thought about the fierce tribes of the desert lands. What game would they play? How

would the Hazarans and this new lore they were said to possess influence the war?

"Look at you. You haven't shaved in days. Are you even sleeping properly?"

As Miro looked up, his black hair fel in front of his eyes and he impatiently pushed it away.

Marshal Beorn stood across from Miro, both palms resting on the simulator's edge. "How long have you been here?" Beorn asked. "Get some rest, Lord Marshal."

Miro wiped at his eyes; they felt grainy and heavy, and for a moment Beorn's face

wavered in his vision. The marshal's face was marked by his age, weathered and worn,

but far from old. Beorn's hair and beard were grey, but his eyes were sharp, and he and

Miro shared a bond of mutual respect that could only be formed on the battlefield.

Beorn's steadiness was the counterpoint to Miro's daring, and Miro knew that some of his

bolder ideas had gone forward solely due to the veteran officer's support. If Beorn said no, Miro knew an idea had little merit; but if the marshal wavered, then perhaps a plan had

potential, with a little more thought.

"Miro, I told you to call me Miro. What time is it?"

"It's two hours past daybreak."

Miro grinned. "Then it's morning. Time to wake up, isn't it?"

Beorn gave Miro a wry smile, shaking his head. "What have you learned?"

Miro turned back to the simulator, his expression once again grim. "Halaran is the answer.

See," his fingers touched some of the runes, lighting up various elements of his units as he spoke about them, "we're wasting valuable men defending our southern regions from a Petryan attack that may never come."

"Surely you aren't advocating pulling them out. The Wondhip Pass could be cleared, or the Petryans could find another way in."

"I'm just hypothesising." Miro activated some more sequences. "Look, here are the constructs we left behind at the ruins of the Bridge of Sutanesta. They aren't far away, just inside Halrana lands."

"Territory held firmly by the enemy," Beorn said.

"But if we take it, we not only get a foothold in Halaran, we can add the salvageable constructs to our forces." Miro moved al of the allied units to the proposed area. At first glance, there were enough to win the region, but with a slim margin that could swing either way.

"And who would defend our north?" Beorn persisted.

"The Dunfolk," Miro said.

"I'll leave that argument for another day. And our south?"

Miro sighed. "That's where the plan fal s down. The Petryans are simply too much of an unknown. Yet winter is nearly over, with the spring wil come more battles, and the one

thing we can't do is sit back and let the enemy devour Altura a bite at a time. In fact, I keep asking myself — why haven't they attacked yet?"

"We broke their army," said Beorn.

"Yes, but they've had time to reform. El a thinks it's something to do with essence, that we aren't the only ones running low."

"The Primate of the Assembly of Templars, low on essence?"

Miro shrugged. "I know. Yet that's where al the signs are pointing."

"Lord Marshal," a voice cal ed, echoing in the high-ceilinged room.

Miro turned. Many people disliked the Crystal Palace, with its arches instead of doorways, strange echoes, and scattered shadows, but Miro had already become fond of it in the

short time he'd lived here. The Crystal Palace said something about the uniqueness of

Altura.

A man in the raj hada of a courier stood at the arched entrance to the room.

"What is it?" Beorn said.

"The emissary from Raj Hazara, Jehral of Tarn Teharan, has presented himself. With him is the man from Castlemere, Hermen Tosch. They wish to see you."

Miro shared a glance with Beorn. He stil didn't know what to make of this desert warrior

and his new house, Raj Hazara.

Jehral had arrived in Sarostar the previous day, claiming to represent his leader, a prince whose name Miro couldn't remember. Jehral had said Raj Hazara was not a new house;

rather, a fal en house that had been reborn. Miro wasn't sure what to believe.

Miro cursed himself; he'd meant to speak with El a about this man, but instead he'd stayed here, forming battle strategies with the simulator. Tiredness leads to regret, Miro reminded himself.

"Show them in," Miro said, "but first please summon High Lord Rorelan."

Miro spoke some words to deactivate the simulator and return it to the state where it was

no more than a map. He heard footsteps, and looked up as two men entered the room.

They were as alike as night and day. Jehral was beardless, with long dark hair held back

by a circlet of silver. His loose clothing of black silk was bound by a sash of yel ow, and combined with his sharp features and olive skin the garments made him look

unmistakeably foreign.

Hermen Tosch had the broad build of the Buchalanti, or someone of Buchalanti stock,

which meant a denizen of the free cities, Castlemere and Schalberg. His hair was cut

short and he appeared to be a man who rarely smiled. He spoke seldom, but when he did

it was with a thick, guttural accent.

Surprisingly, it was Hermen who spoke first. "We were told to wait, but Jehral is not used to waiting. Apologies, Lord Marshal."

Miro smiled tightly. "The High Lord is on his way. He wishes to meet with you both."

"This High Lord," Jehral said, his voice smooth and flowing. "He is your prince?"

Miro paused for a moment. "Yes, he is," he finally said. "High Lord Rorelan rules Altura, and I fol ow where he leads."

After the battle at the Bridge of Sutanesta, Rorelan had been made High Lord, although

he had made it clear to his supporters among the nobility that his acceptance was

conditional on Miro's confirmation as Lord Marshal. Both Miro and the new High Lord were

happy — Rorelan was pleased to have a more experienced soldier lead the war effort,

and Miro was content to leave the leadership of his homeland to a capable administrator.

"You'll remember Marshal Beorn?" Miro said.

Jehral executed a brief bow, culminating in a flourish, and Miro recognised that the desert warrior possessed grace. Beorn simply nodded.

"Can I offer you refreshment?" Miro asked. "The High Lord wil be along shortly."

"Actually, it's you I wish to speak with, Lord Marshal Miro Torresante," Jehral said.

"Apologies, Jehral of Tarn Teharan, and I realise it may work differently in your land, but we should wait for the High Lord before discussing matters of… political importance," Miro said. Lord of the Sky, he was tired. Where was High Lord Rorelan?

"It's about your sister," Jehral said.

"My sister?" Miro started. "What about her?"

"My prince, he is very interested by her. She is a mighty enchantress, is she not?"

"Yes, I suppose she is."

"And it is true that she built a bridge, crossing a great chasm, with nothing but lore?"

Miro tried to make sense of the Hazaran emissary's words. There was a subtext here that

he didn't understand. He could tell when a topic was being spoken around, rather than

about. But in the Skylord's name he couldn't figure out what Jehral was getting at.

Beorn grinned at Miro's discomfort. "Yes, it's true," he answered for him.

"And she created an il usion that sent many of this Black Army to their maker?"

"Yes, she did." Miro rubbed at his eyes again. Where was the High Lord?

"Incredible," Jehral said. "Tell me, Lord Marshal Miro, what was her name again?"

"El a," Miro said. "Her name is El a."

"El a," Jehral repeated.

As Jehral finished speaking, High Lord Rorelan entered the room. The recent battle had

aged the late Lord Devon's son; his complexion was pal id at the best of times, and lately his skin was grey and drawn. But today his patrician features were curled into a scowl,

and he stormed into the room without even noticing the two visitors.

"Miro, I need to speak with you," Rorelan said. "It's about your sister."

Miro and Beorn bowed their heads, placing their fingers over their lips and then touching

their foreheads, while Jehral and Hermen hesitantly fol owed suit.

"High Lord," Miro said, "this is Jehral of Tarn Teharan, emissary of Raj Hazara, and Hermen Tosch of Castlemere. There is a great deal for us all to speak about. The

Hazarans share a border with Petrya," he glanced significantly at Rorelan, "and much of our trade is dependent on the free cities."

"Please, High Lord, we can see that we are interrupting," Jehral said. "We are presently lodging in your beautiful city, and we can discuss these matters at a time more

convenient."

Jehral and Hermen Tosch bowed and withdrew, leaving the three Alturans watching them

depart.

"What was that about?" Beorn said. "First they storm in here without so much as a by-your-leave, and then when we make time for them they go."

Miro sighed. "I fear there's a lot about these people we don't understand." He turned to Rorelan. "My apologies, High Lord, they were supposed to wait while I sent a courier for you. It's probably for the best that we speak with them another time. I need to ask my

sister about this Jehral and his people. She said she spent some time with them, and we

should properly formulate a response before treating with them. I take it something else

brought you here?" Miro stifled a yawn, and his jaw cracked. "You mentioned my sister?"

Rorelan's scowl returned. "I've just come from a meeting with High Enchanter Merlon.

Miro, do you have any idea how low our supplies of essence are? We can't afford these

experiments of hers. The High Enchanter says she won't listen to reason. And this new

companion of hers… let's just say the Lord Marshal's sister needs to consider the

company she keeps."

"I'll speak with her," Miro said. "Where can I find her?"

A great boom sounded from somewhere, fol owed by a whoosh that made the ground

rumble. If they had been anywhere except the Crystal Palace, dust would have fal en from

the ceiling.

High Lord Rorelan level ed Miro with a steady gaze. "I don't think you'll have any trouble."

2

TAPEL was always finding strange things, but this was certainly the strangest. He

regarded the man, as always trying not to stare too hard at the bandages around the

man's throat, while the man regarded him back with coal-dark eyes. The man tried to sit

up, and when Tapel pushed him back down as his mother had instructed, the stranger

was too weak to protest.

Tapel's mother was always tel ing Tapel what to do and what not to do, when it came to

the stranger. She was out a lot of the time, so it was often Tapel who took care of him.

It was only fair, Tapel supposed. It was he who had found the stranger, after all.

~

THE armies of Altura and Halaran had met the Black Army just outside Ranalast, in a

great col ision of men and steel in the now-ravaged land that had once been low farmland,

gentle hil ocks and forested copses.

Like so many others, Tapel and his mother, Amelia, had prayed for their countrymen and

their Alturan allies. Ralanast had been occupied for weeks, and all knew the attempt to

liberate the Halrana capital from the ruthless soldiers of the imperial legion was a

desperate gamble.

The explosions and screams could be heard throughout the day, from al quarters of

Ralanast, from the dusty masons' quarter to the deserted market district. The Halrana who

had stayed in their capital and not attempted the frantic flight to Altura gathered in front of the Terra Cathedral, old men and women with smal children peaceful y demonstrating

their wish for their occupiers to leave. The legionnaires dispersed the crowd with pikes

and blood-drenched swords.

Legasa Telmarran, High Lord of Halaran, and Prince Leopold of Altura fought bravely.

Then, in the afternoon word arrived that the army of Alturans and Halrana was

surrounded. High Lord Legasa asked for quarter, but none was given. The encirclement

grew tighter, and the butchery began.

Tapel's mother had cried, and Tapel had held her hand, not sure what else to do. By

nightfal , the battle was over. Some soldiers had escaped, bursting out of the enemy's net in leaderless groups, but Ralanast's last chance at freedom was over. High Lord Legasa

was dead, kil ed in battle. Prince Leopold had fled the field.

The Black Army were here to stay.

Tapel's mother was starving, her arms growing thin and the skin of her cheeks tight like a drum. Tapel could now encircle her waist with one arm when he hugged her, and her

golden hair, usual y the color of wheat in the summer, was showing more than a third

grey. Tapel hadn't eaten a proper meal in as long as he could remember, and the gnawing

in his stomach had become truly painful. He and his mother had long ago sold every item

of jewel ery, traded every last winter coat and pair of boots. Tapel knew Amelia was

feeding him more than she took herself, but he couldn't help eating the food she put in

front of him, and he felt guilt every time his stomach rumbled.

So,the day after the battle, Tapel did what all the other boys were doing: he went to the

battlefield to search the corpses of the dead.

It was worse than he could ever have imagined. Much, much worse.

Corpses littered the field, interspersed with the familiar shapes of constructs, from charred woodmen to a shattered colossus, dwarfing the hil it had made its final resting place.

Tingaran legionnaires in black lay entangled with brown-clad Halrana pikemen. The green

of the Alturan dead spotted the landscape like withered plants. The color red was shared

by all, although exposure to the air had oxidised the blood to a dark, evil shade.

The field stank, the worst smel Tapel had ever encountered. Men had voided their

bowels, and had their guts ripped open by swords, their heads smashed and bodies

broken. The carrion birds had started to feast, and as Tapel picked his way through the

carnage, he disturbed a crow as it feasted on the matter in a Halrana soldier's skull.

Tapel wondered if the young man had left a family behind, and suddenly he was sick,

falling to the earth and heaving up the contents of his stomach violently and painfully. He closed his eyes as his throat constricted, trying to use the darkness to blot out the visions of death and macabre destruction.

When the retching ceased and his body again came under his control, Tapel climbed back

to his feet. He put his hand to his forehead, momentarily light-headed. He breathed slowly in, then out. He fixed his mind on his mother, and, his face set with determination,

deliberately walked towards the next dead soldier he saw.

The dead legionnaire stared at Tapel with glazed eyes. The soldier's head was shaved

and his face was flat and round. A tattoo decorated his cheek: the sun and star raj hada of Tingara.

Tapel squatted by the soldier's side and examined him in more detail. He had been kil ed

by a pike; it wasn't a question, the long haft stil jutted from the centre of the legionnaire's chest. The body of the Halrana pikeman who had kil ed him was nearby, stil clutching the

weapon with both hands, a red slash across his throat and an expression of surprise on

his face.

Tapel tried not to think of the priests at the earth temple and their sermons about respect for the dead. This man was the enemy, he reminded himself. Somehow it felt better to

search the enemy dead.

The legionnaire was a big man in life, and wore a padded vest of scaled armour. The

battle had taken its tol , and several of the scales were missing. If they hadn't been, he probably would have survived the thrust that ended his life.

Breathing slowly and evenly to suppress his revulsion, Tapel began to feel inside the

armour where two of the metal scales had opened up a hole. The legionnaire wore a

simple jerkin underneath the armour; Tapel felt up and down, using his thin arms and

smal hands to advantage. Final y he gave up; there was nothing there. Where would he

keep his gilden, were he to head into battle? He probably wouldn't take it with him in the first place.

Jewellery. He should look for jewellery. He decided to quickly and speedily search for

rings, necklaces, earrings, fancy scabbards, anything that looked valuable. This strategy

had the added benefit that Tapel wouldn't have to spend too much time touching the dead.

Scanning swiftly, Tapel immediately found a bronze ring on the longest finger of the

legionnaire's left hand, and a smal gold hoop around the lobe of his left ear.

The sooner he could work, the faster he would be finished. Tapel took the jewel ery, then

left the body and continued his search.

Some kind of explosion had left a huge gouge in the earth up ahead. With horror, Tapel

realised that the lumps he had taken for clods of dirt scattered about were the pieces of

bodies. He promptly left the scene behind and came to a group of Black Army regulars,

motley soldiers whose luck had run out when they encountered a group of ironmen. The

constructs had run through them like a scythe through wheat. Some twisted pieces of

metal could be seen here and there, but scores of bodies in black tabards proved who had

been the victor in that particular encounter. The Black Army regulars were laid out in an

almost orderly fashion, limbs akimbo and flesh torn.

Tapel moved quickly from corpse to corpse, keeping his mind careful y blank. He picked

up mostly cheap metal jewellery, but also found a gilt scabbard and a gold ring set with a purple stone.

Tapel crested a hil , and jumped when he startled a flock of crows gorging on the dead.

They settled again, further ahead, their beady eyes regarding him as they tilted their

heads, hopping from one place to another and cawing to each other. A nearby sound

caught his attention, and he looked down; at his feet a crow glared up at him, blood

dripping from its beak. Tapel kicked at it with his foot.

It was growing dark. Looking around the battlefield Tapel realised he was the last of the

youths stil out. If he came home too late, his mother would ask questions, questions he

knew he wouldn't want to answer.

The shortest path back to the city was through yet another group of the dead, where it

appeared a tremendous swordfight had taken place. As Tapel came closer he realised

that there were only black-clad legionnaires here; where were the Halrana dead, or the

Alturans? Perhaps some constructs had been the cause of this destruction?

But there were only dead legionnaires. And these bodies weren't burnt; there hadn't been

an explosion; these were sword wounds. An epic battle had been fought here; a battle that

had taken the lives of at least a hundred, no, perhaps two-hundred legionnaires.

Tapel moved between the bodies, trying to keep his distance, anxiously looking back at

the setting sun. He no longer looked for jewel ery; he just wanted to get out of this terrible place and go home to his mother.

Then Tapel's heart stopped and his blood ran cold. Something had grabbed hold of his

ankle; a hand was wrapped around his foot and, try as he might, Tapel couldn't move.

Despite himself, a whimper came from his throat and he nearly voided his bowels.

He looked down.

A soldier lay by Tapel's feet, an Alturan by the color of his clothing and the sword and

flower of his raj hada, but this man wore no armour, instead his body was covered in light, reflective green fabric. Silk? A sword lay by the Alturan soldier's side, a long, slightly curved blade, free from dent or scratch, and inscribed with arcane symbols. Symbols also

covered the Alturan's clothing.

Tapel realised that this was the man who had left behind so many of the enemy dead, at

the same time also realising what he was. A bladesinger.

But he was old, with dark hair turning grey and faded scars on his face mingling with new

wounds. He had his hand wrapped around his throat, where fresh red blood welled out

from between his fingers.

"Agh…" the Alturan looked up at Tapel, and tried to speak.

Tapel realised he was going to have to answer his mother's questions about where he had

been, whether he liked it or not.

~

THAT had been many weeks ago, and as they nursed him back to health Tapel and his

mother stil wondered who the stranger was. The jewel ery Tapel had found paid for food

— the Alturan was a ravenous eater — and day by day the Alturan's color slowly returned.

He could not speak, although both Tapel and Amelia knew he was desperate to. They had

never seen him try as hard as he had when word arrived about the great battle that was

fought at the Bridge of Sutanesta, and the miraculous events that led to the rescue of the Halrana refugees and the salvation of what was left of the al ied army.

It was a victory, clawed back from the jaws of defeat. The Alturan tried time and again to express himself, gripping Tapel's hand inside his huge one, squeezing until it hurt. Final y the Alturan gave up, and tears came out of his eyes, spil ing down his cheeks.

Not knowing what to do, Tapel had looked away.

Now, for the hundredth time, Tapel wondered who he was.

"Try again," Tapel said to him. "No, don't try to rise. Just try to speak."

The Alturan opened his mouth, but nothing came out except a ragged croak.

"I know you can do it," Tapel said. "Your name. Start with your name."

"Stop it, Tapel," his mother's voice sounded from behind him. "I've told you. He'll speak when he's ready."

"What if he never talks?"

Amelia came and sat by her son on the bed, where the Alturan lay watching them soberly.

"Perhaps he won't. But he fought to free us and our people, and we'll help him

nonetheless."

"Can he write?" Tapel asked.

Amelia sighed. "I've tried, but his fingers shake too much. He can grip my hand, but he can't hold the chalk."

The Alturan's face contorted as he tried to speak. Amelia made soothing motions, but he

kept trying, his forehead creasing into lines and the breath popping from his mouth in little gasps.

"You can do it," Tapel said. "I know you can!"

"Shhh, Tapel," Amelia said. "Leave the poor man be."

"Your name, what's your name?" Tapel went over and knelt beside the bed, his ear close to the Alturan's lips.

"Tapel, stop it!"

"He's speaking!"

"He can't speak!"

Tapel moved his head closer to the Alturan's mouth.

"Rogan," the Alturan whispered. "My… name… is Rogan." He gulped and spoke again.

"Rogan… Jarvish."

Tapel looked at his mother, and wondered if she knew who Rogan Jarvish was.

3

PRIMATE Melovar Aspen's home was in ruins. While far from his homeland, fighting those

who would do anything to prevent peace, his home had been attacked in a cowardly, cruel

manner.

His mouth set in a thin line, the Primate kept his face impassive as Moragon made the

report. He hardly needed his second-in-command to summarise what had been lost, he

could see for himself, but he let the man continue; somehow reducing the damage to

words had a soothing effect, implying there was something he could do about it.

"You saw the blast area at the foot of the mountain," Moragon said in his deep voice.

"That was the largest of the explosions, where he destroyed the refinery."

They were walking through the corridors inside Bonezz City. Primate Melovar looked at

Moragon to gauge his reaction; did this attack affect the melding as much as it did

himself? No, Moragon was a Tingaran; he wouldn't feel the same violation that the

Primate himself felt.

Moragon betrayed no emotion. Tal and commanding, the man who had once been the

Emperor's executioner had proven himself to be a capable leader, but more importantly,

he shared the Primate's vision of a world united under a single rule.

After the death of the Emperor, Primate Melovar Aspen had made Moragon the High Lord

of Raj Tingara, and by agreement, in the event of his death, Moragon would lead the army

that carried the banner of the black sun, and the unified nation the fragmented Wolven

Empire would become. Moragon's avengers and legionnaires were utterly loyal to him —

he was a melding himself, with a right-arm of grafted metal, the first to ever become High Lord of Tingara — and, like the Primate, Moragon had the taint.

Primate Melovar could feel it now, the hunger, never far from his mind. It took less than an hour now before the pain was so great he could stand it no longer. At the end of this tour he would give himself surcease — a sip of black elixir from a golden goblet — but for now, the pain kept him sharp.

With no more essence to come out of Bonezz City, the Primate knew he would soon run

out of the elixir. For the first time, he felt a sensation he hadn't felt at any of the battles: not at Ralanast, and not even at the Bridge of Sutanesta.

For the first time, the Primate felt fear.

Ahead the stone was blackened and the roof of the cavern had partly caved-in.

"This was the harvesting plant," Moragon said. He pointed to the swathes of dried blood on the floor. "The Templars tel me they left these here in case you wished to investigate further, but the bodies have been removed. When the explosion came, it caught a dozen

Templars."

"And no one caught sight of him?" the Primate asked again.

"He was wearing some kind of cloak, and couldn't be seen. The Alturan bladesingers do this, they call it shadow. But this sounds to me to be a degree of lore beyond even the

Alturans."

"Alturans," Primate Melovar spat. "It stil may have been them."

"Do you wish to see the remains of the extraction system?" Moragon asked.

"Is it in the same state as this?"

"Worse. There must have been a series of explosions. Each part of the extraction system detonated with greater force, causing a major cave-in."

"Saryah was here," the Primate said.

"She was," Moragon looked at him, "and I have no doubt they fought. Yet the intruder was the victor."

Melovar Aspen shook his head. "I thought she was unbeatable. Did you know she kil ed

several bladesingers, as well as the Alturan High Enchantress? Not a mark on her."

"What about Templar Zavros? Have you spoken with him?"

"Not yet," the Primate said. "I wanted to see this for myself before hearing his account.

Clever as he is, he sometimes misses the bigger picture."

"I'll take you to the extraction system then." Moragon turned when he noticed the Primate had stopped in his tracks. "What is it?"

The Primate put his fingers to his temples. "I wil see the extraction system, or what's left of it, later. Take me instead to the Dream Gate."

~

MELOVAR Aspen climbed the stairs with complete disregard for the height and the

gusting wind that pushed relentlessly against his thin frame. He was barely out of breath; he had tasted the bitter sweetness of the elixir on his way, and could feel the strength it gave him. He may stil look an old man, but he felt as good as he had when he was a

young priest.

Ahead of him Moragon turned, no longer surprised at the Primate's progression from frailty to vitality.

"Here, Primate. This is where the fourth and final explosion occurred."

The summit of the mountain was once a pure place. The gentle glow of the Dream Gate

was all that decorated the level area, and even the Primate himself came here when the

trials of the world imposed some much-needed time to think.

The pilgrims came from far and wide to see the Dream Gate, and many of Aynar saw the

light from Bonezz City's summit and felt in awe of the Templars and priests who lived here.

Much of the Wolven Empire's reverence for the Assembly of Templars stemmed from the

wonders of Bonezz City.

And now the Dream Gate was gone, the mystery of the light solved once and for all.

The light had guarded a building. Whatever it had been, it was now in rubble, the broken

blocks covered in dust.

"You say this was where the fourth explosion occurred. How much time passed between

this and the explosion at the refinery?" Melovar asked.

"The Templars thought it as strange as you do, Primate. Apparently there was not long between them."

"How do you think he made his way from the foot of the mountain, the very base of the vault, to the summit of Bonezz City in such a short span of time?"

"I don't know," Moragon said.

"Speculate," said the Primate, raising an eyebrow at the melding.

"My thinking, Your Grace, is that this is completely different. The first three acts shared a combined purpose. The desired outcome was to prevent our production of more essence,

and more elixir, and the perpetrator was successful. I am no loremaster, but it seems to

me that one machine might be replaced, but three, including the refinery, would be

difficult, if not impossible."

Primate Melovar's expression blackened at the mention of the intruder's success. "Go on."

"What happened here was a separate event, executed by someone else. He may have

been allied to the first intruder, but he came here with his own purpose, and what was

destroyed here was not related to our production of either essence or elixir."

~

MORAGON'S words stayed with the Primate as he went back into the mountain and

surveyed the destruction at the extraction system. He pondered as he frowned at the

scorch marks and debris, seething with anger. It was impossible for him to reach the

refinery; the broken stone would need clearing, a process that would take months.

The world's supply of essence was gone.

Primate Melovar Aspen's role was to know about essence, but no Templar had ever

understood the relics, not even Templar Zavros, the man most knowledgeable about the

world's most valuable substance. It was Zavros who had perfected the elixir, a process stil within the Primate's grasp. Yet essence was needed to create elixir; only a smal amount

of raj nilas could be extracted and processed from a larger amount of essence.

It always came back to essence.

As leader of the Assembly of Templars, Melovar knew the age-old process as wel as any.

The energy of the sun, the water, the earth, and the air was absorbed by plants. Grasses,

bushes, trees, mosses: they all held this energy, and it was only when they died that it

could be regained. As the vegetation rotted, it condensed, and over mil ions of years it

formed lignite. Any decomposed plant material could be used at the harvesting plant, but

lignite offered the best reclamation potential and led to the largest extraction of essence.

With the relics now destroyed beyond repair and even the wonder that had been the

Dream Gate gone as if it had never been, Melovar had nothing left but to look forward to

the pain of withdrawal from the elixir, leading to inevitable death.

Nothing left but anger.

As the Primate walked back to his chambers, up endless stairways and through dimly lit

corridors; he level ed his gaze at one of the Templars guarding his work room.

"Fetch me someone who was here during the attack. Now."

The Primate entered the room and gazed around him, final y looking out of the large

window, where at Melovar's request the panes could be opened. Living in a mountain as

he did, the Primate had always had a head for heights, and he took pleasure in the smal

amount of discomfort it brought visitors when he opened the glass wide, exposing the

void. He walked over now and opened the latch, pinning the window open. Instantly the

howling wind hit his face with a blast. Down below, he could see the town of Salvation,

and imagined the little people, squabbling and scraping together whatever existence they

could.

This view always made him think about the people below. Melovar knew within his soul

that the system of houses was wrong. What real advances had been made in the

centuries of the Wolven Empire's existence? Was lore a tool, or a crutch?

The Assembly had no lore, no Lexicon, no market house in Seranthia. The Templars were

the best placed to lead the world in this brave, new direction, and with no more essence,

change would be inevitable. But would it be a uniting of peoples, or would it be the change that came through squabbling, fighting and rebel ion? The Wolven Empire was dead, the

Emperor was gone, and what came next could either be a hundred years of chaos, or an

eternity of unity.

The Primate turned away from the window. A Templar and a priest stood silently just inside the entrance to his work room. The anger returned.

"Why are there two of you?"

The Templar, a tall man with a sword at his side, spoke first. "Your Grace, we weren't sure what you would ask. Father Pristin here was closer to the refinery. I'm in charge of the

Dream Gate and I was one of the first on the scene there."

"You," the Primate said, looking at the Templar. "What did you see when you arrived at the Dream Gate?"

"It was as you see it now, Your Grace," the Templar said evenly.

"No different? So you saw nothing."

"The pilgrims who were there had fled, most likely when they heard the first explosions.

One old pilgrim was crushed beneath some stones."

"If only he had survived to talk," Melovar muttered.

The Templar opened his mouth, and then closed it. "Your… Your Grace. The pilgrim. He

did survive."

Primate Melovar's eyebrows shot up. "Why am I only hearing this now?"

"He's old, and he was injured, but he survived." The Templar began to sweat. Even the priest looked fearful. "But… Your Grace. He's mad. You know how they can be. He

speaks no sense. At any rate, I can take you to him. I didn't let him go, I sent him to one of the dungeons in Salvation."

Melovar felt the elixir flowing through his veins, and the blood throbbing in his head. He reached out and took the Templar by the neck in his right hand.

As the rage took hold, Melovar began to squeeze. "If you'd let him go, I would have made your death slow. As it is, I'm merely disappointed." The Templar made a choking sound.

"Very disappointed." Melovar increased the pressure, and felt the windpipe under his thumb give under the pressure. A gurgle sounded from the Templar's chest, and a faint

crack could be heard, before the Primate removed his grip and let the Templar's body fal

to the floor.

"Fetch me a guard detachment," Melovar said to the priest. "I'm going to Salvation."

Father Pristin nodded dumbly.

"Quickly!" the Primate said, and the priest fled from the room.

~

THE dungeons at Salvation were more for drunks and petty thieves than for serious

miscreants. The blood-streaked cells in Bonezz City were much more suited to murderers,

rapists, and subversives.

The last thing the lazing guards in white tabards were expecting was a visit from the

Primate.

"Your Grace, I didn't know you were visiting. Today is… today is… one of the guards is getting married, and so he brought the wine in. It's not usual, Your Grace, not at al ."

"Be stil , and be quiet," Melovar said. Instantly the guard's mouth shut with a snap.

"The Primate is here to see a prisoner," one of the Templars flanking the Primate spoke.

"The old pilgrim who was brought in the day after the attacks. Is he wel ? Are we able to speak with him?"

The guard tugged at his collar. "Well, it's been a few weeks. We send in a bucket of water every now and then, but food's hard to come by, what with the war." He inadvertently

looked at the Primate. "I imply no criticism, Your Grace." He cringed.

"Take me to him," Melovar said.

Doors clanged, keys jangled, and guards returned to life, tabards straightened and hair

hurriedly combed.

Primate Melovar was led into darkness. It took some time for his eyes to adjust, but

eventually he saw he was being taken down a long corridor, flanked on both sides with

barred cel s. The smel of stale urine was overpowering, and the slumped occupants of the

cells were strangely stil , as if to move or make a sound would sap what little energy they possessed.

The guard stopped outside a cell no different from the others. His hand shook as he

fumbled with the keys, but final y he turned the correct key in the lock and the barred door opened inwards.

Melovar stepped forwards.

"Please, Your Grace," another of the Templars flanking him said. "Let us check first." He held out a nightlamp. "Tish-tassine," the Templar spoke. A soft white glow came from the device.

The Primate waited patiently until they had finished. With the powers of regeneration the

elixir had given him, there was little in this world that could harm him, but he had lost the patience for argument.

Final y the Templars withdrew and the Primate entered the cel .

It seemed the Templar from the Dream Gate had been accurate in his judgement of the old

man's mental state. He was hunched in a corner of the cell, cowering awkwardly. Drool

ran down the pilgrim's chin, and a feeble grin tugged at the corners of his lips. He had

intense blue eyes, eyes that now squinted against the shine of the nightlamp. Ragged

white hair tufted from the top of his head, and a scraggly grey beard flecked with ginger

covered his chin.

He looked quite mad.

"You," Primate Melovar Aspen said to the old man. "Answer my questions or you wil die a slow death."

The pilgrim looked up at him, and then hurriedly looked away. "Salvation," he muttered.

"You're from Salvation?" the Primate asked.

"Salvation. When you die. That's what you say."

"That's correct, old man. Yet answer my questions or the Bravemen wil grant you no

peace, I as**sure you. What happened when you were at the Dream Gate?"

"Came to see the light. Heard rumbling sounds."

"Did you see anyone?"

"Saw a shape, like the shimmer of a hot day. A cloaked shadow. Primate, what was it?"

Melovar was growing increasingly frustrated. If the second intruder had also been cloaked, there was little the old pilgrim could know. Then the Primate saw something, hidden by the old man's body.

"What's that you're hiding there?"

The old man cowered further into his corner, but the prison guard came forward and

kicked him until the pilgrim took the thing he was hiding and scampered along the wall,

holding it in his hands.

"He had it with him when we brought him in," the guard said. "He won't let it go, and it doesn't look like much, so we left it with him."

The old pilgrim was once more trying to hide the object with his body.

"Bring it to me," the Primate said.

After some scuffling with the pilgrim, one of the Primate's Templars brought Melovar the

object. It was mostly destroyed, curled at the edges and withered like a flower left in the sun, but Melovar immediately recognised the metallic fabric.

It was a book of the Bravemen. The pilgrim must have found it in the wreckage at the

Dream Gate.

Primate Melovar Aspen took the book in his hands, cursing that it was so badly damaged,

but fascinated nonetheless.

"Keep the old man here, see that he's fed. I don't care when I come back, or if I never do. I want him here in this cell."

"Yes, Your Grace," the guard said.

Melovar would see what Templar Zavros had to say about this.

~

AS SOON as he was alone again, Shadow Walker put his head in his hands. The act had

been hard to keep up, as weak and in pain as he was, yet it had come to nothing.

The knowledge he had been trying to destroy, or at the very least protect, was now in the

very hands he had tried to keep it from.

The book was partly destroyed. Yet what was left might be enough.

The Primate didn't know it, but the scraps of metallic fabric he held in his hands were the key to the most powerful relic the world had ever known.

A relic Shadow Walker must protect at all costs.

4

ELLA stood by the bank of the Sarsen, upriver from the Crystal Palace, soot on her

cheeks and an expression of concentration on her face.

"Don't bring your wrists so close together," a woman in a rust-colored robe admonished her. "Slowly condense the flame until you can feel it coiled tight. Then bring your elbows together. No, your elbows."

Sweat broke out on El a's brow. She wore a red cuff on each wrist, and the pulsing colors

on each indicated they had been activated. Between her wrists was a bal of fire, red with fiery heat and writhing as if possessed of a life of its own. It was strangely heavy, and

El a's arms ached with the effort.

"Get down!" El a cried. The ball of flame shot out from between her wrists, fortunately away from her body, or she wouldn't have been alive to warn the two onlookers.

The woman in the red robe dove to the side, while the other onlooker, Bartolo, fell off his seat, the firebal barely missing him. The bal of energy hit the river with a sound like a crashing wave and water shot up into the sky in a cloud of steam.

Once again, she had lost it.

"You're terrible," said Shani, the woman in red.

Bartolo picked himself up off the ground, making a show of dusting himself off.

"Don't worry, bladesinger, your pretty silk blouse is stil nice enough to wear to the dance,"

Shani said.

Bartolo paused, mid-way through pushing back his curly dark locks and smoothing his tiny

moustache. He opened his mouth to retort when El a interjected.

"What am I doing wrong?" El a asked.

Shani came over and looked the young enchantress up and down. El a wore her green

silk dress, and she was slimmer and slightly shorter than the woman in red.

"You're too weak," Shani said, squeezing El a's upper arms. "You're too accustomed to having big burly men like this oaf here do your dirty work for you. You make the zenblades and give them to others to wield for you — that's the enchanter's way, isn't it?"

"That isn't fair," El a said.

"Well, let me tell you, being an elementalist isn't like that. Blessings, girl, I don't know why I'm bothering with you."

"Perhaps because she's the only one preventing them from locking you up for the duration of the war," Bartolo said. He'd taken his zenblade out of its scabbard and was making a show of looking down its length, examining it for marks.

Shani had arrived the previous week; the scouts had found her in Altura's south, scratched and starving, her dark skin instantly giving her away as a Petryan.

Her arrival had caused consternation among the commanders. With the Wondhip Pass

blocked, the Petryans weren't supposed to be able to cross over into Altura. Yet Shani had surprised them, for she was happy to show them the precarious mountain path she'd

taken, and yet another way between the two lands was made impassable.

High Lord Rorelan didn't trust the elementalist, and had wanted to keep her under guard

for the duration of the war, but Miro had wanted to give her a chance, and had found

surprising support from his sister.

El a had to be honest with herself — she had never met an elementalist, and was eager to

discover more about their lore. Rorelan didn't seem to agree, but El a knew that, with

essence running desperately low, it would take more than conventional warfare to defeat

the Black Army. They would need to be creative rather than rely on force alone. She had

so many ideas, but convincing High Enchanter Merlon to al ow her to test them was

proving to be more difficult than the lore itself.

At least El a could learn something about Raj Petrya's lore, and she had been surprised to discover that her quest for knowledge had led to the growth of a real friendship.

"Bartolo," El a said. "Shani has joined our cause. She's unhappy with the direction her house is taking, and —"

"Listen to you," Shani snorted. "'Unhappy with the direction my house is taking,'" she mimicked. "You mean my brother and my nephew were murdered in front of my eyes —

tortured to death. The gilden I've saved over the last ten years was confiscated for 'war

funds'. Oh, and my High Lord's a sadistic warmonger. Yes, El a, I'm 'unhappy.'"

Bartolo looked away, and El a placed her hand on Shani's arm, but the Petryan shrugged

it off. "I don't need your pity," Shani said. "I just want to help my people. And kil my enemies. It pays to be strong."

El a frowned when she thought about Shani's comments. Was she real y weak? The

Petryan was certainly as opposite to her as two women could be. Where El a was slight,

Shani was statuesque, her red robe belted with a white rope and fil ed out with the curves of her bre**asts and hi**ps. El a's eyes were a startling green, her skin pale, and her hair a light gold, the color of sunshine. In contrast, Shani's skin was the hue of amber, her hair wild and dark and her eyes smoky and intense. The Petryan lined her eyes with some kind

of coal-colored paste, giving her an undeniably exotic appearance. El a thought Shani was

beautiful, but she would never say that to her friend's face.

"I'll try to save you some to kil ," Bartolo said. "Enemies, that is."

"The way you handle that sword, perhaps you'd better leave it to me," Shani said. "You're far too pretty to be waving something so sharp around, who knows what could happen?"

Bartolo opened his mouth and then closed it again. Shani usual y got the best of their

exchanges.

Miro may have been opposed to locking Shani away, but that didn't mean he was going to

take a risk with his sister. He'd admonished El a to keep an eye on the elementalist, and

then as**signed Bartolo to keep an eye on them both. High Lord Rorelan was content with

this arrangement; Bartolo was a bladesinger, one of their best, and even an elementalist

was no match for a bladesinger, so they said. El a wondered how true that was.

Shani turned to El a again. "Let's start again, shal we?"

El a nodded.

"There are two cuffs, one for each wrist. They aren't the same, and it's very important that you put the correct cuff on the correct wrist."

"Or?" Bartolo asked.

"Or you're dead."

"And you think I'm the one waving something dangerous around?"

El a glared at Bartolo. "Go on, Shani."

"My robe has runes that protect me from the elements, but only from the lightest touch. A direct firebal wil kil me just as easily as it wil kil anyone else. Are you sure your dress is as protective as you say it is? I can lend you my robe."

El a smiled. "It is. It's what we do best."

"Ignore what she says," Bartolo said. "Lend El a your robe, Shani. Don't mind me. I'l just sit here and watch."

"Bartolo." El a glowered. "Shut up."

Paying no attention, Shani went on. "The cuffs, when activated, can be made to draw

moisture or heat from your surroundings. How depleted the cuffs then become, and how

successful you are, depends on three things. First, there's obviously the scale of the

magic you're trying to perform. A wall of fire requires more energy and more control than a tiny flame. Then there is the amount of control the elementalist has. A smal spot of heat is more easily controlled than a wave of water, and more control not only requires more

physical strength, but also more judgement and activation sequences to shape the

outcome."

El a listened to Shani intently, digesting the information and storing it alongside what she had learned about enchantment, animation, and il usion.

"Finally, one of the biggest factors is how much heat is in the air, or how much moisture is nearby. Sometimes an elementalist builds a fire or goes near water to make the magic

more effective."

"Is that why we're doing this here?" El a gestured.

The place where they worked was close to the river, located in a path of direct sunshine,

near a bower of weeping trees. Shani didn't know it, but she had chosen the place where

El a's friend Amber had married Igor Samson, one of the Academy masters, with El a

standing at her side.

Thinking about Amber always made El a feel sad, and then she thought about her brother.

Miro had loved El a's friend, and tried to convince himself she was dead, and there was

nothing he could do; but El a sometimes saw him staring into the east, his fists clenched at his sides, and she knew he was thinking about Amber.

"That's right." Shani removed the cuffs from El a's wrists and confidently attached them to her own, "we've chosen this place because it's warm, and because there's water nearby.

It's cold at the moment, and there's stil ice melting in the Sarsen, but…"

The elementalist spoke some words, and a tight ball of flame appeared between her

wrists. Where El a's flame had been wild and unruly, the fire Shani had called forth was

tight and almost perfectly spherical.

"Try to hit this with your sword, bladesinger," Shani said.

A lone hawk wheeled in the distance, scanning the earth for prey. With a flick of her wrists and a pushing motion from her body, Shani released the firebal towards the bird. Like a

smal , fiery sun it flew through the air, searing it with a sound like paper being torn, before colliding with the hawk in a burst of sparks and cloud of ash.

Little flickers of residue fel slowly through the sky, and El a looked for the remains of the bird to plummet to the ground, but there was nothing left of it.

"Shani, that was cruel," El a said.

Shani shrugged. "You should see what they use in Petrya for target practice."

"Birds don't fight back," Bartolo said, "and you overcooked it. You'll never get a man at this rate. I think we've found something you really do need to work at."

Shani looked at Bartolo and smiled, giving him her ful attention for the first time.

She walked towards him, swaying her hi**ps and dipping her hand in the cool river water.

Then Shani suddenly stopped, and El a heard her chant under her breath, before the

elementalist made a sweeping motion with her arms.

A wave of water leapt from the river, higher than El a's head, before coming down to fal

with a mighty splash.

Directly on top of Bartolo.

Immediately the bladesinger was drenched to the bone, and with winter barely over, the

water was cold. Freezing.

"You were saying, bladesinger?"

Bartolo was up like lightning, and his armoursilk suddenly blazed. The water fell away

from him and he placed a hand on the hilt of his zenblade.

"Bah," Bartolo said.

His expression black, the bladesinger stormed away.

El a watched his departing back, while Shani chuckled and shook her head. El a thought

she saw something in Shani's eyes while she looked at Bartolo, but it was swiftly gone,

with El a wondering if she'd imagined it.

Not for the first time, El a looked at the runes on the red cuffs Shani wore on her wrists.

El a felt that with time she could decipher them, and truly understand how Raj Petrya's lore functioned.

El a's quest for knowledge had a purpose. The war had changed everything; they were

now saying that the Wolven Empire was no more, but El a knew that what came next

would be up to people like Miro, and Rorelan, and Shani. What came next could be

centuries of chaos, or some good could come of it al , and the system of the world could

be replaced with something new, something that allowed the houses to preserve their

culture, but inside a greater framework of trade, peace, and unity. It wouldn't be easy, but El a wanted to try.

Life in Altura, here in Sarostar, had changed forever, but what about the people of Halaran and Petrya, Vezna and Torakon — all the common people whose lives had been

destroyed and who even now were being oppressed under the weight of the Black Army?

El a had to help, in any way she could.

El a had travelled more than most, and she knew that while across the world cultures were

certainly different, at heart, people were essentially decent. Most people simply wanted to prosper, to enjoy both the routine and the variety of life, and to raise a family in peace and love.

In her quest for the Alturan Lexicon, El a had been to Altura's south, and crossed the

Wondhip Pass into Petrya. She'd been to the trade town of Torlac, and gazed out at the

tiered city of Tlaxor, centred in a volcanic lake. She had met Petryans, and the desert

warriors of the Hazara, and she even knew someone from Aynar, the land of the Templars.

Lord Severn.

El a fingered the smal pendant on a chain that she wore around her neck. A pattern of

runes had been inscribed on the back of the pendant. Once, when the correct words were

spoken, the pendant could vanish, and then reappear — a lovers' trick, designed to give

the gift an element of surprise. Now, the pendant was simply a piece of jewel ery. It was al she had to remind herself of him.

Not for the first time, El a wondered if Lord Severn was the reason for the enemy's apparent

inability to launch a ful -scale as**sault on Altura. She knew in her heart that he'd gone to confront his past, but what he had found in Aynar was a mystery.

"Come on," Shani's voice brought El a back to the moment, and El a took her hand away from the pendant. "Let's go find something to eat at one of the taverns. Or," she grinned,

"we could go and see what they're serving at the Academy. You might even run into High Enchanter Merlon. You know, is it just me, or is he not used to being argued with?"

"He's a fool," El a said, frowning.

"He's just accustomed to the old ways. My teachers in Petrya were exactly the same."

"How about we see what they're serving in the Poloplats?"

"El a, you know what they're serving. Same as they're serving everywhere else. A large bowl of wartime rations."

"Do you think Bartolo wil come back?"

"He'l find us. He's loyal to your brother, that one, and he won't let you out of his sight for long, no matter how much his pride's been hurt. He won't leave you alone with the

dangerous Petryan spy," she said wryly.

As El a and Shani walked through a grove of the weeping trees that lined the riverbank,

El a thought again about Lord Severn. A breeze rose, and El a caught the incongruous scent of

jasmine, reminding her of the desert, and her mind turned to another, different man.

Tall and handsome, considerate yet ruthless, a prince of his people and a born warrior —

he knew El a by another name, and he thought she was dead. The two men cycled

through El a's consciousness, completely different and yet both fascinating her in his own way.

The scent of jasmine grew stronger, and El a suddenly stopped, gripping Shani's arm.

"How long have we been walking through this grove?" El a said.

Shani frowned. "It does seem like a long time."

"That tree, I've seen it before." El a pointed. "Perhaps more than once. Something's happening."

"What do you mean? Is there danger?"

The floral aroma grew stronger.

"Jerune. Jera-mah. Ruran-muh-rah," Shani chanted a series of runes in quick succession.

Sparks formed between her wrists and a miniscule flame grew into a bal .

Then El a turned, and al she could see was green; her vision was a patchwork of trees

and leaves. She turned again; where was Shani?

El a heard a woman's scream. "Shani!" she cried.

The colors in El a's vision wavered, like a mirage over the desert.

El a opened her mouth to speak the words, and then hesitated. What if she activated the

sequence that projected a destructive wave of heat from her enchantress's dress, and hurt

Shani? She couldn't rely on her vision. Where was her friend?

El a spun around, trying to get her bearings. She turned to the left, and the vision of tree branches shattered.

A figure in black clothing, his dark hair held back by a circlet, came out of the green.

El a opened her mouth to say the words, but before she could, something hit the back of

her head, and her vision burst with stars.

A cloth was held to her mouth, reeking of spices, and involuntarily El a inhaled.

Al became darkness.

5

MIRO'S thoughts were sluggish and beset by doubt. Acting on Marshal Beorn's advice, he

turned to sleep after a gruelling session trying to explain his plan to High Lord Rorelan.

The High Lord simply refused to take any more strength away from the border with Petrya

in the south. Al three men realised that an alliance with this new house, Raj Hazara, must be attained at all costs.

Miro decided to get a few hours rest before treating again with the glib-tongued Jehral of Tarn Teharan.

His eyes were shut before his head hit the pil ow. There was something he needed to do.

It came to him as he drifted off. El a could tel him about these strange desert-folk; she might even know this Jehral personally. He would… He would…

A heavy knock sounded at Miro's door, and he was instantly awake. He leapt out of bed,

his zenblade activated and fiery in his hand, before whoever it was even had a chance to

make a second knock.

As the fog of sleep gave way to awareness, Miro realised that whatever the cause of the

commotion was, it didn't herald immediate danger. He looked to the window, where

oblique rays of sunshine poured in. Early afternoon, he guessed.

Miro deactivated the zenblade and returned it to the scabbard by his bedside, then

reached forward and opened the door.

High Lord Rorelan stood outside the door with Bartolo; the High Lord's hand was raised to

knock again.

"What is it? Just come in next time," Miro said.

Rorelan smiled and looked pointedly at the zenblade. "With a twitchy bladesinger inside? I think I'l knock every time."

"Miro, I'm sorry," Bartolo said.

Miro had fought by Bartolo's side countless times; they had suffered through the same

pains, and Miro had never seen the man so distraught.

"What is it?"

"It's about the Hazarans," Rorelan said, at the same time as Bartolo spoke.

"It's about El a."

Miro looked from one face to the next. "What about her?"

"She's gone, Miro," Bartolo said. "I'm sorry. It's my fault. I know I was supposed to be looking after her."

"Jehral and Hermen Tosch are also gone," Rorelan said. "The courier I sent to issue a summons discovered they left their lodgings not long after speaking with us this morning."

"There are signs of a struggle, near where your sister and the elementalist were working,"

Bartolo said.

"Is it just El a or is the Petryan gone too?"

"Shani's gone too," said Bartolo. "I'm such a fool!" he suddenly cried and punched the wall. Bartolo winced and looked at his scratched fist.

~

MIRO was furious with himself. He paced the length of the simulator, one hand formed

into a fist that he smashed into his palm with every second step, while Bartolo and the

High Lord looked on.

After the battle at the Bridge of Sutanesta El a had attracted a lot of attention, and he

should have done more to look out for her safety. The survivors called it the Deliverance, and Miro knew the news had travelled further afield than Altura. Miro's head throbbed and

he rubbed at his temples, and then he shook his head, grinning without humour. Protect

El a? Control her? He'd like to meet the man who could do that.

He cursed himself for not seeing the truth behind Jehral's questions. He hadn't been

interested in an al iance at all. El a was the one the desert warrior was interested in al along; how could he not have seen it?

What would the men of Raj Hazara want with his sister? Was it something to do with the

lore she had helped them to rediscover? Did they simply want someone with her skil to

help them further? How worried should he be?

Miro tried to tell himself the Hazarans just wanted more of El a's help, but he knew so little about them. Jehral and his friend Hermen Tosch had managed to capture an elementalist

and a skil ed enchantress. Whatever else, they were dangerous men.

Miro paced as he wondered what to do. He had vowed to never again let those close to

him fall into the hands of his enemies.

Like a dog scratching at a wound, Miro's mind returned to the battle at the Bridge of

Sutanesta, and the last time he had seen Amber. He had nightmares about it, dreams

where he was cutting through the press of the enemy, slashing through warrior after

warrior, seeing her auburn hair and green dress vanishing into the endless ranks of the

Black Army. No matter what he did, he couldn't get closer to her. He screamed her name,

but she never turned around. And she was always going in the wrong direction, away from

safety.

Away from him.

He had lost so many friends in the war. Lord Severnmaster Rogan, the man who taught Miro to

fight. Tuok, the soldier who taught Miro the ways of the world. Ronel Kendra, the

bladesinger who final y conquered his fears, fighting to his last breath. Varana, the gentle Halrana woman who only wanted to be loved, and who Miro had left behind in the doomed

town of Sallat.

Miro had promised himself that the next time he saw Primate Melovar Aspen, it would be

at his enemy's demise. He had promised himself that never again would he leave

someone he loved to face his enemies without his protection.

He stopped his pacing. "I'm going after them."

"Miro, let me go," Bartolo said.

"You are not going," Rorelan said. "Miro, you know you have responsibilities here, and,"

he continued, "we have, what, four bladesingers left besides the two of you? Lord Severnsinger Bartolo, I forbid you to go also. You wil be needed for the war effort."

"High Lord, it was my fault!" Bartolo bristled. Lord Severnsingers were considered free agents, generally able to make their own decisions about how best to serve Altura.

Marshal Beorn rushed into the room, stopping when he saw Miro. "Lord Marshal, we're

under attack. A force is testing our defences in the woodland to the east, near the Halrana border. We need you."

Miro turned to High Lord Rorelan, and then to Bartolo. He threw up his hands. "Bartolo, go after them. Look after my sister."

"Lord Marshal, I forbid…" Rorelan began.

Miro fixed Rorelan with a stare. The Alturan High Lord met his gaze, and then faltered.

"He's going," Miro said.

Bartolo put out his hand, and Miro gripped it in return. "I wil find her," Bartolo said. "I won't let you down."

Miro nodded, at a loss for words. He watched his friend dash out of the room, and then

grimly fol owed Beorn, to discover what the enemy were up to this time.

6

NO man or woman without desperate business wandered the corridors of Bonezz City

during solace. In these two darkest hours of the night, farthest from both dusk and dawn,

the priests were silent, noise was forbidden, and even the patrolling Templar guards halted their pacing, standing stil and meditative during this time of contemplation and prayer.

The stationary nature of the guards made Sabithe's task that much easier. He crept along

the gallery, moving from column to column, using them to hide his form, and fought to

keep his breath even and quel the raucous beating of his heart.

Sabithe was a priest, and had little experience of danger. He'd grown up in a sleepy

vil age in the south of Aynar, sheltered by the loving care of his parents, both tailors and regular attendees at the temple. When Sabithe had reached the age where he started to

attend, and saw the way the priest earned the respect of the townsfolk — no matter their

age or station — he had instantly known what he wanted to be.

He had scored high marks in al of the temple's examinations, from arithmetic to grammar,

but where he had most excelled was in theology. Sabithe didn't exactly understand how all

the events in the Bravemen Cycles could be related to the simple life of the townsfolk, but he had a strong sense of morals, of right and wrong, and a deft mind that could turn an

argument, and change a man's mind without him realising he had ever thought differently.

The priest of Sabithe's vil age had sent him to Salvation, in Bonezz City's shadow, to study under the wisest men and women of the Assembly, drawn from al over the Wolven

Empire. The young priest thrived in the competitive environment — the late-night

discussions of free wil versus destiny, or when it's right to lay down the sword and when it's right to fight. He was destined for great things, they said; for the senior echelons of the Templars; but then the philosophy of the Assembly changed, and Sabithe refused to

change along with it.

Sabithe believed there were times when it was right to pick up a sword, and he knew in his heart when those times were: in the defence of one's self, or one who could not defend

themselves; to protect the flow of goods from marauders, so that there was more wealth in

the land and fewer went hungry; to keep more swords out of the hands of those who

would put them to evil ends; and to put the sword back down, just to show it could be

done.

One day, Sabithe woke up and realised there were more Templars wearing swords. It was

a right that Templars — not priests — had, but with the exception of Templar guards and

soldiers, few rarely exercised. Sabithe looked on as the people of Salvation's respect for the Assembly turned from awe to fear. The sermons of Melovar Aspen, Primate of the

Assembly of Templars, changed.

Before, the Primate had preached the maintenance of peace, even at the detriment of

those such as the people of Petrya, who lived under oppressive leaders, or Tingara, who

valued wealth too much, and life too little.

At the time, Sabithe had understood the Primate's argument. Change came about with

time, and in this troubled age the inhabitants of the Wolven Empire were stil living better than their fathers. It might take time, but the world would get there. Picking up a sword

could be justified, but only the most extreme of circumstances called for war. An uneasy

peace was better than no peace at all. This was logic Sabithe could agree with.

Then the Primate's words changed.

Melovar Aspen began to speak out more against the great wealth divide in Tingara,

particularly in Seranthia, where the poor were rounded up and cast out of the city,

sometimes from the towering heights of the Wal , the bodies forming little holes in the dust when they hit the ground.

He raved at the terrible weapons the Alturan enchanters made, fit only for war, and the

exploding devices of the Louan artificers. He spoke of an eventual end to the houses, of a new world of unity, without lore, without borders, without tyrannical High Lords and an

economy based on essence. At first, Sabithe agreed, such problems needed to be spoken

out against, but then he saw the meaning inside the Primate's words.

The Primate wanted to change the world, and he didn't mean to wait. He wanted to

change it now.

Sabithe knew what the words meant. There was only one way to bring about such

wholesale change.

War.

When he heard about the absorption of Raj Torakon into Raj Tingara, Sabithe knew it had

begun. The lightning fast attack through Loua Louna only confirmed it. He heard about the

depredations of the Black Army in Halaran, and the butchery at the Battle for Ralanast that the Templars were calling a great victory.

Al in the name of the Bravemen.

When he heard about the intentional destruction of the Bridge of Sutanesta, the only

escape route to Altura, and the Black Army's pinning of the refugees against the Sarsen,

Sabithe wept.

Many escaped that day, thank the Bravemen, but there were many who didn't: helpless

people, ordinary people, not only from Halaran but from Torakon and from Loua Louna.

Children with their mothers, husbands with their wives, the elderly and the infantile; they all died together.

Sabithe decided it was time to pick up a sword.

He was forced to wait, but when the attacks on Bonezz City came, when some desperate

warrior sought his revenge on the Assembly, Sabithe knew it was just a matter of time

before the Primate returned.

Now the Primate was back, and Sabithe was ready.

He listened intently, waiting in the shadows of a stairway, but could hear nothing. Sabithe tried to slow his breathing and stil his racing heart. He closed his eyes, and swiftly prayed to the Bravemen for success this night. Sabithe opened his eyes again, looking up.

Solace would finish soon, and the guards would once again be pacing the corridors of

Bonezz City. He had best be quick.

As Sabithe crept up the stairway, keeping a constant lookout for the guards he knew

would be hard to hear in their stil ness, he could feel the weight in his cassock. The

prismatic orb was heavy, much heavier than he had expected it to be, but he knew how to

activate it — such things were never complicated; the army was rarely the first option for the educated — and he had been told the orb would be more than sufficient for what he

intended.

"Who's there?" a voice sounded.

Sabithe hadn't seen the guard, motionless as the man was, far from the soft light of the

corridor's nightlamps. Earlier, he had made it past a guard simply by nodding, but he knew that as close as he was to the Primate's chambers, this time it wouldn't suffice.

"I was told you'd know I was coming," Sabithe said, stepping close to the guard. Against the wall as he was, the man had nowhere to draw back to.

"By who?" the guard challenged.

"It doesn't matter," Sabithe said. Stepping forward, he thrust the stiletto deep into the guard's heart. He withdrew the knife and stabbed again, this time through to the lungs.

Sabithe could see from the guard's yellowed eyes, now wide and fil ed with fear, that he

had the taint. Sabithe didn't know what the taint was exactly, but he had overheard it being discussed. Apparently it was a reward, a potion that was given to the warriors most

dedicated to the Primate's cause. Some magic that gave a man powers of regeneration

and vitality.

Sabithe stabbed one last time; he wasn't sure how powerful the regeneration was. A

gurgling sound came from the guard's throat, and he slumped against the wal . As the

body slid down, it left a smear of red where he'd been.

Sabithe was shocked as the guard struggled to stand back up again. As he watched, the

Templar's strength appeared to return to him.

"In the name of the Bravemen," Sabithe whispered to himself. "This is not natural."

He grabbed at the base of the guard's throat and pushed until the man's head was back

against the wal . Sabithe took a deep breath, and then plunged the stiletto into the guard's eye with as much strength as he possessed.

The guard kicked once, twice, and then was stil .

Sabithe dropped the knife, barely cognizant of the clatter it made against the floor. He felt like weeping, but he knew this was a time when he needed to be strong. If anyone else

was out at this hour — a likely event, given the war going on — they would immediately

sound the alarm, and it would all be for nothing.

Summoning his strength, Sabithe straightened, looking up and down the corridor. Ahead

there was an archway leading to one final set of steps, curving as they ascended. At the

summit of the steps two guards would be waiting in an antechamber, behind them would

be a heavy door of oak, and behind the door would be the Primate's living chamber.

For good or il , it would end here and now.

Sabithe took a deep breath, and then began to run.

"We're being attacked. There are dead guards everywhere!" he cried as he ran through the archway and dashed up the steps. With his white priest's cassock covered in blood, he

knew he would make a believable impression.

Both guards instantly drew their swords and faced up to the priest.

"Get back, priest," one of them said.

"They could be right behind me!" Sabithe said.

Sabithe moved to where he was motioned and waited for what he knew would come next.

The moments dragged by — the absolute silence of solace — and the two Templar

guards, standing with swords drawn, began to get nervous. Sabithe stayed silent, knowing

one of them needed to be the first to speak. The air was fil ed with the hoarse sound of

breathing.

Final y, one of the guards, a burly man with a high-forehead, cracked. "What did you see?"

he addressed Sabithe.

"Dead, they're al dead. I came from three floors down, and every guard I passed was

dead. We need to wake the Primate."

"Shut up," said the other guard, a slim Templar, lithe as a cat, with close-cropped black hair. "I need to think."

"I'll go down," said the burly guard. "If you get my confirmation, wake the Primate."

"Al right," the slim guard nodded.

Sabithe knew he needed one of the guards to open the Primate's locked door, or he would

never succeed in his mission.

The burly guard disappeared down the steps.

"He's right," called up the burly guard a moment later. "There's a dead man here. Wake the Primate. I'll stay here and call out if I see anything."

The slim guard looked nervous, evidently torn between facing whatever may come and

waking the Primate.

"I can do it," Sabithe said. "Give me the keys."

The slim guard looked relieved. "Come here," he said.

Sabithe could see the brass keys at the guard's belt, and wondered whether he could take

him, if it came to that. But this man was trained, and alert, with his sword drawn. Sabithe was no warrior; he would never succeed.

Sabithe came closer and the guard handed him the keys, keeping one eye on the stairs

and the other on the priest.

Sabithe turned to open the door.

"Wait," said the slim guard. "Let me quickly search you first."

The guard began to hastily pat him down. "Stop moving," the slim guard said as Sabithe tried to draw away.

The priest desperately thought of an argument he could provide, a way to get into the

Primate's chamber. There was nothing.

As soon as the guard found the prismatic orb, Sabithe knew he was a dead man. The

greater tragedy was that he could have ended the war, here and now.

Then a clanging sound came from the heavy door, following by a creaking. The door

opened, and a thin figure emerged, clad in a simple white robe, a feverish yel ow glow in

his eyes, and the look of the fanatic in his sunken face.

"What is it?" the Primate asked.

As the guard reached the pocket of Sabithe's cassock, and found the heavy roundness of

the prismatic orb, Sabithe darted his hand into the opening. His finger found the lever,

triggering the mechanism.

The orb exploded in a violent detonation of heat and energy.

Sabithe's last thoughts were triumphant.

7

THE Primate tried to open his eyes. The first sensation he experienced when

consciousness returned was incredible pain, like nothing he had ever experienced. His

body was on fire; burning as if a thousand red hot pokers were pressing into his flesh. If he was flayed, his skin sliced and pulled roughly away from his body, and the raw pulp

underneath whipped and then scraped with rough stones, even that wouldn't come close

to the pain he felt now.

He opened his mouth to scream, feeling his lips split and warm blood seep out, suddenly

realising he was unable to make a sound. Only a sickly gurgle came out. His lungs were

fil ed with liquid; he was drowning in his own blood! Melovar tried again to open his eyes, but they were covered by something moist. Bandages?

"Shh," a calm voice said. "Try not to move. I know you can't breathe, but you can last another moment. Your lungs are fil ed with elixir — it's the only thing keeping you alive.

Don't worry; I've done this several times already. This is the first time you've been

conscious for it. I know it's very uncomfortable, but trust me, Primate."

There was a pause, as if the owner of the voice was counting, and then he spoke again,

urgently and forcefully. "Now, quick. Cough. Get al the liquid out."

Melovar tried to cough, but his body was too weak, the pain too great. He gulped, like a

fish flopping on a beach, but with his lungs fil ed with liquid he wasn't able to take air in.

After so long without breathing, starved of air, he felt the wal s of his consciousness close in. It was al going to end here.

Melovar felt the pain fade, and as he fell into darkness he was suddenly at peace. A soft

circle of light appeared in the distance, growing closer and closer as he approached.

Melovar was with the Bravemen, truly content for the first time in his life, and he knew that what he had done was right. Now that he had served his purpose, and the Bravemen had

no more worldly demands to make of him, others would take up his mission.

Or perhaps the Bravemen had further use for him after all.

An intense sensation of bursting pain punched into Melovar's ebbing consciousness,

taking away the light like a soap bubble being popped. It came again. In complete

disregard for his ruined flesh, something was pounding on his back, slapping at it with

strong, regular strokes.

Melovar opened his mouth and coughed; liquid poured out his lips, and he retched at the

foul, oily taste of the elixir, his body using the last of its strength to purge itself of the foreign substance.

When the liquid was al gone, Melovar choked and spluttered, drawing in lungfuls of

precious air. Final y normal breathing returned — as normal as it could be with the searing pain at the front of his consciousness.

Then the voice spoke again. "Open your mouth. I'm going to insert a funnel. It's time to do this again."

~

THE next time Melovar woke, he could see. He tried to sit up, and the voice spoke:

"Slow down. You're lucky to be alive. You need to rest, Primate."

Melovar ignored the voice and sat up. The pain was excruciating, indescribable, but with a great strength of wil the Primate put it to the back of his mind. The Bravemen had spoken with him. He had been entrusted to see this thing through.

Melovar turned as he heard the scraping sound of a chair being pulled closer. A Templar in the white robe and black stripes of the upper echelons sat watching. Plump and squat, he

wore a frame of circular lenses around his eyes, a contraption he had made himself to

improve his vision. The eyes behind the glass were small but intelligent, and the hands he held clasped on his lap were surprisingly large for his body, with long, delicate fingers.

"Zavros, it's you," the Primate said. He vaguely remembered hearing a voice giving him instructions; this was the owner of the voice.

Zavros nodded slowly, a strange expression on his face.

"What is it?" Melovar said.

"I can't believe you're alive," Zavros said. "Anyone else… The only thing that saved you is you've had so much of the elixir that your body was able to repair much of the damage,

even as it occurred."

"What do you mean, 'much of the damage'?"

"A prismatic orb detonated not two paces from you, Primate." Zavros shook his head.

"It's… incredible. Three others died in the blast. One was coming up the stairs to your chambers — he was kil ed by shrapnel — but the other two were as close as you were.

And Primate… there's barely anything left of them."

Melovar put his hand to his face, feeling bumps and crevices in his cheek where there

never were before. "Bring me a mirror."

Zavros tilted his head to someone outside the Primate's vision. A moment later a Templar

entered, a silver mirror with gilt edging held in his hands. The man looked terrified.

"Hold it up," Melovar said.

Zavros nodded to the Templar, who hoisted the mirror, and Melovar regarded his new self.

Everything was where it should be, at least he had that much. But it was as if Melovar was made of wax and had been held too close to a flame. His nose had sunken, and was now

barely more than two holes in the centre of his face. His cheeks and his chin were

withered, lined with countless deep cracks, and his eyes were little more than almond slits.

Melovar's lips were cracked and thin; they bled when he parted them, and they pul ed in

towards his mouth, which was little more than a triangular hole.

He looked down at his hands, and the flesh of his forearms. He stil had the complete use

of his fingers; in fact aside from the pain, his body felt quite functional. He turned his hand over to display the palm, confirming that the fissures covered every surface of his skin.

Melovar chuckled.

"You can leave," Zavros said to the shaking Templar. He waited until the Templar had left, and then turned to the Primate. "Primate, what are you doing?"

"I'm standing."

"But the pain!" Zavros said. "Primate, the fluid in your veins is like acid right now. Look."

Zavros held up a bandage. Where the fabric was bloodied it was eaten away,

Melovar felt the fire pulsing through his body, regenerating the tissue, feeding him

strength, even as it sent waves of agony coursing through his veins. He shook his head.

"What do I care? My work is unfinished, and my body might have little time left in this world. And, Templar Zavros, pain is ethereal. The Bravemen Cycles — perhaps you

should read them sometime."

~