INTERLUDE 2A: A WANDERER FOUND

“A rope cannot help you make a jump. It cannot save you from falling. It can only save you from falling to your death, and you may yet perish if you fail, no matter how carefully you knot it about yourself. The lich is like the woman who ties the most-careful knot and then drops from the precipice without feigning to climb. The lich is one who accepts failure before she begins rather than striving against it. They have not my envy – only my pity, and my disdain! Not one of the lich-makers is a ritual without risk and the process itself grants no power. To cut out one’s heart… I would rather take a demon into my flesh and be possessed, than bind myself to everlasting darkness. Never has one of my pupils accepted the allure of lichdom. Do not be the first.”

– from Mistress Arithos’s Lectures to the Neophyte Assembly

He entered his study, shooed out his imp-familiars into the hallway, then closed the door behind him. With halting steps he crossed to the other side of his desk and seated himself in his green-leather chair. It creaked, protesting in the usual way as he settled himself into his accustomed position then, with a furtive glance at the door (as if in so doing his very eyes could ensure he wasn’t about to be interrupted) he plunged his hand beneath the desk and started furiously unlacing his boots. He would’ve never done it, would’ve never shown such weakness even as this, if he had company – but he wasn’t expecting anyone.

It’d been a tiresome day. Sequestered in his office at the Arrealbord Palace, he’d spent the morning being visited by secretary after secretary, going over the wording of the amendments to the new bill. Clause ninety was the tough one, and he would deal with it by changing clause ninety-three.

Restricting ensorcellment of life-draining weaponry to the approved sorcery colleges was proving a deal-breaker for the big guilds who sold necrotic swords and shadow-arrows to their customers, and three such guilds were heavily invested in lobbying. They used outside contractors to keep their costs down, and a number of the Lords and Ladies were deep in their pockets. The Wizard’s Hat, Eturiel’s Enigmas, and Thunder Thousand were the big trio. So he’d drafted proposals permitting them – and only them – to continue distribution, handing them a monopoly that’d last the lifetime of the law. Internal proposals – which would invariably leak.

Tomorrow, he would start receiving messages offering favours, money, everything – if he only decided to go forward with the proposals. And he would ask for several things, and slip the changes he needed to clause ninety right in there with the rest. They would refuse the biggest favours he asked for, but they would let the clause ninety amendment slide – ‘why not?’, they’d think. ‘What harm could it do, restricting the creation of ensorcelled weaponry to registered sorcerers? All our sources are registered anyway,’ that’s what they’d think.

But he had insider knowledge, paid for handsomely from the Arrealbord’s own coffers. In these days of the New Treasury speculation was king. Diviners were a blessing, they really were, and he had access to the best of the best.

In a years’ time, the annual fee for magical-manufacturer status was set to double – an intractable part of a Peacekeeping bill which would already have overwhelming support. Sure, the fee probably wouldn’t quite double. There’d always be the inevitable amendments, the wrangling back and forth. But there was going to be at least a seventy-five percent increase, and he had to close the loophole now. Someone was going to pay for those registrations, and that someone was going to be the guilds.

Only in a years’ time would they realise they’d been played, that he played them right now, here, today, by granting them a stranglehold on the industry. Worthless, in the end. The big trio already made somewhere in excess of ninety percent of the ensorcelled weapons on the market. They only had each other to compete with, but he’d long-since laid the groundwork for convincing their representatives otherwise. They weren’t chairing the committee, after all. They didn’t have access to all the figures, like he did. He’d done the equivalent of offering three hungry hounds a stranglehold on the chicken they were current tearing to pieces – now he’d just have to sit back and wait for them to take the bait.

In the back of his mind, plots were brewing. He could give them money – it’d be easy to get them hooked on tax breaks, slowly fold them into part of the Arrealbord apparatus…

But it was the afternoon that’d done his feet in, walking around the gardens until sunset with that interminable, tattoo-splattered ingrate from the Seven-Star Swords and the holier-than-thou arch–magister heading up the Pool of Reflections. (Quite how the witch had obtained the revered position of Operations and Special Investigations chief without using her powers, he had no notion.) The conversation had been stimulating, as it always was when he spent time amongst his peers, but had they really needed to take it outdoors? ‘We should make the most of the sun when it’s out,’ the enchantress had said. Why? Was it because she knew how it’d irritate him? He wasn’t getting any younger, or thinner; she’d have known a long walk would be distasteful to him without even having to invade his mind. Ageing was a bitter elixir to swallow.

Not that he didn’t keep up appearances. He looked across at his full-length mirror affixed to the wall opposite the bookshelves – the polished, diamond-inlaid thing was exorbitantly expensive, pre-spellbound with a number of tricks, a ‘gift’ from the Lord Justice to the Seventh Seat for applying his ‘skills’ to a particularly tough bit of legislation. He’d have probably been checking his reflection already if he weren’t currently occupied with rubbing his callused heels (one at a time and with a single hand, so that if someone opened the door it wouldn’t take him more than an instant to right himself and sit up straight).

He was tall, meticulously clean-shaven, and he knew that he looked imposing in the formal robes of grey and black and blue he wore at all times outside his own home. He wore his hood up even now, even here, on his own, when no one was expected. The hood was ostensibly a part of his mystique, almost as though he were affecting the habits of a champion – but in truth it was an effort to hide the growing bald patch on the back of his head. He didn’t mind the fact that the wisps of blond hair visible under the hood’s rim were slowly turning silvery as the years passed – that looked fine to him when he inspected himself in the mirror – but the bald patch was just embarrassing.

Even worse would be to cover up the bald patch with sorcery, then have it trigger some alarm or ward against illusion. He wasn’t going to make that mistake… Not a second time. A simple hood would suffice.

Feeling marginally better, he pushed his feet back into the fur-lined boots and laced them up, then crossed to stand on the rug in the very centre of the room. He conducted a quick check of the mirror to ensure he was still imposing, still presenting himself as the Master of the Night’s Guardians ought – then he turned his back, heading over to select a tome from the wall.

He had two hours for study, before he would meet his subordinates for ten excruciating minutes of reports and strategies; after that he would allow himself to go home and put his gods-cursed throbbing feet up. Open some wine, breathe the fresh air of Treetown and relax.

Not that this was his worst time of day. The study of sorcery remained, even after all the years, the decades, his real passion, his hobby – the thing to set his pulse racing, beating blood through his ageing veins. It was a matter of shame to him that he only found two hours a day for keeping-up his practises, keeping his theoretical knowledge on-point. If he could’ve spent the entirety of the morning and afternoon in here instead of at the Palace, he would’ve done it in a heartbeat.

But that was the sacrifice that came with taking the mantle of Mastery. The prestige – the power – the gifts… it was all worth it, in the end.

He seated himself and closed his eyes for a few seconds, readying his mind, clearing his thoughts. With a sigh of contentment he ran his fingertips down the pages of the book, seeking his little bit of thread that sat within the pages, along the spine –

He didn’t even get chance to open the book to his mark; there came a knock at the door.

At least he hadn’t yet had time to remove his boots again.

When he spoke it was measured, warm-enough but authoritative: “You can come in.”

It was only Ellecho, the neophyte sorcerer who’d been chosen to play the role of his page-boy this month, bringing him a tray stacked high with squares of parchment, each crisply folded into a rectangle. These were the various notes and memos calling for his attention sooner or (more likely) later.

“Lord Ghemenion, we saw you fly in,” the boy murmured once he’d closed the door behind him, keeping his eyes from his Master’s face. “M’lord, I have been sent to ask what you would like for dinner – and, well, we have one, ah, Phanar of N’Lem downstairs, a fighting-man if ever I saw one, sent here by Ms. Rala Ainsbothe, beseeching audience. M’lord, I know your standing request that we not to disturb you with guests at this hour, but he was told to –“

“Breathe, boy,” Ghemenion interrupted, “and stop fretting.” That was the boy’s biggest flaw: he didn’t take time, didn’t retain composure. He was only fifteen, though – he’d learn, in time. How the ancestors ever thought a fifteen-year-old classified as an adult was quite beyond him. “Put those down.”

With a nod of his head he indicated the small silver tray that was trembling in the neophyte’s hands; a grateful look flashing across his features, Ellecho set the tray on Ghemenion’s desk.

He considered the boy’s words.

Rala wouldn’t have sent a warrior to me if it weren’t important.

“Pheasant,” he said aloud. “Uccaru knows how I like it – go to him. If this Phanar of N’Lem – N’Lem, I’m sure I’ve heard of that place…”

He mulled it over, glancing away, the lore rippling across his thoughts… ah yes, N’Lem, that’s in the black desert, the Ashen Lands – where Daravine Demonskin hailed from – where one could find the foundations of Chadoath, if the myths were true…

“Lord Ghemenion?”

He looked back at Ellecho – the neophyte’s gaze turned away again at once.

“Yes. Pheasant. If this Phanar chap is in such a rush as to require an unscheduled appointment, he’ll be happy to talk while I’m eating.”

“I should send him up, then, m’lord? The usual escort?”

“In fact, just bring enough for two. No need to be rude.” Ghemenion would use the excuse that he hated it when someone kept looking at his food while he was eating it; this would likely afford him the opportunity to get a double helping. “And two guards will suffice, I’m sure.”

“M’lord.”

Ellecho had barely turned around when there came another knock at the door.

The neophyte looked back at Ghemenion, who waved a hand irritably and said, perhaps more forcefully than was necessary, “Well don’t just stand there, boy!”

Ellecho swung the door open, revealing his visitor: Rala.

He’d had a bit of a thing for her for the last decade – he was lucky she was gifted, by far the most competent of his ward-theoreticians; he’d never once been queried as to why he’d promoted her time and again, never once had his ulterior motives questioned. He’d have never acted on his desires, nor would he expect her to reciprocate his affections even if he did. He knew he was too old for her – she was pushing fifty but looked ten years younger than that, while he was pushing sixty but could probably pass for ten years older. All the same, he enjoyed her company – the way she respected him, the way she questioned his decisions without overstepping her bounds.

There was always the possibility she’d be attracted to the prestige of being courted by the Master of the Tower, by a Noble Lord and whatnot, but he had no interest in being used for the power of his position or the significant riches he’d amassed, and she’d never made any overtures in that direction. Her family wasn’t noble, but they were independently wealthy; wealthy enough that they had, like many well-to-do families without titles, paid the disgraceful fees to put her through the Maginox. Mage-training could lead to marriage into a titled family, and access to all that such privilege might grant.

Still, she’d made no moves. He was sure that as far as she was concerned, theirs was a business-relationship – friendly, even – but strictly hands-off. And that’s what it would stay.

Despite this, he couldn’t help but study the way she had her short-ish acorn-brown hair in ringlets today, the way she’d used an ornate belt to cinch her gold-embossed black robe across the little pot-belly she’d been nurturing over the past few years (courtesy of far too many late-night dinners with him).

If only she wanted more, he mused ruefully.

“You haven’t started? Good,” Rala said immediately upon sighting him there behind his desk. She stepped in without an invitation, then halted in front of Ellecho, turning to face the neophyte as though only just now noting his presence.

“Make that three pheasant, and just post the guards outside the door,” Ghemenion said. “Uccaru, remember.”

“Uccaru – yes, of course, m’lord.”

Ellecho bowed to Ghemenion, formally inclined his head to Rala (who returned a brief, curt nod), and closed the door behind him.

“Sit down, my dear. You look like you’ve got mice in your moccasins.”

She smiled, brown eyes lighting up. “Don’t be crude, Aladart.” She wouldn’t have used his given name if Ellecho had still been in the room, he was certain, but they were alone now. When she sat down in one of the chairs in front of his desk she lounged back, curling up somewhat and tucking one leg under the other – an intimate action that was seemingly reserved for his presence alone. “Do you know what this is about?”

“You arrived about thirty seconds after these did,” he replied, taking the tray of folded paper rectangles and shaking it slightly, introducing a little chaos into the prim order of the stacked notes. “I suspect the answer’s in here somewhere.”

She sighed. “An Ord, would you believe it.”

“An Ord?” he questioned, unable to keep all of his incredulity from his voice. She’d sounded serious, so he resisted the urge to add a ‘ba-ha-ha’ and a ‘you must be mad’.

“It seems likely. ‘Ord Ylon’ is the name. The man you’re about to meet is convinced of it, and I’d like to prepare a few things to be certain of what he knows.”

“What’re you proposing, Rala?”

“I have a little telepathic treat in store, if he’ll allow the intrusion,” she said, “and, of course, assuming I have your permission?”

He nodded and waved a hand magnanimously. “Of course, Rala.”

She smiled again, and moved a tangle of hair hanging in front of her eyes, pinning it back behind her ear, a simple gesture which nonetheless drove him mad and made him melt all at once.

“If it does prove to be an Ord, though – what are you thinking?”

“He’s got a four-man group, so we go in at forty percent,” she said at once. She’d been overthinking this, as usual. “Leave them fifteen each – he’ll hate that – and we let him push us to twenty percent, so we’re an equal partner.”

Ghemenion frowned. “Twenty percent? How many Guardians are you thinking of committing?”

“We can easily run combat preparations with a team of five, but we’ll offer him ten and go as high as fifteen – he wants an archmage, he won’t go ahead without some serious back-up. I take it that your… friend isn’t available?”

“The next Incursion will be overdue in a few days’ time… He won’t want to go – I know how dedicated he is.”

He’ll want to keep a lot of the treasure, Ghemenion admitted to himself.

“Well, we can loan Phanar and his friends some of our arsenal, if they’re up for that – on the proviso we get to put spells of returning on them. You remember what these adventurer-bands are like when it comes to returning gear? But Aladart, think of the returns! If he’s right – well, you remember the song…”

It was a children’s rhyme: All Aboard the Ord Hoard!

“Lakes of platinum and oceans of gold –” he murmured.

“– how’d that draggy get so old?” Rala finished.

He regarded her for a second, then, “Draggy?” He felt a tight grin on his face, the first smile he’d worn all day.

“I could never say ‘dragon’ when I was little – leave me alone…”

“You should’ve heard me banging on about wanting to be a saucy roar when I grew up.” He saw her brows rise in amusement, and continued, “I’ve had the displeasure of listening to some of my family’s old memories. I was atrocious when I was four.”

“Four? Yeah.” Rala coughed noisily.

“Five?” he pressed. “Six? Seven?”

“I think I stopped calling them draggies when I got my placement –“

“Placement at the Maginox?”

She didn’t blush and the smile hadn’t left her lips, which told him that she was okay with this level of teasing.

“I can’t believe you already wanted to be a sorcerer at four,” was all she said.

“Like father like son,” he replied with a heavy sigh.

She nodded. She knew his family history.

“Anyway, like I said, Phanar wants an archmage, ideally, so we’ll have to do some impressing if we’re going to clinch the deal. You have any cards up your sleeve you want to sell him on?”

“Surely you’re not proposing I go into combat with a spawn of the Firstcomer!”

“No, but he has to understand the way our magic works. We’re not like druids and wizards, where archmages really are worth ten mages in combat situations. If we’re clever, if we get the right summons to the right place at the right time – we’re better than archmages. We’re organised.”

“The wards –“

“I’ll handle the wards.” He heard a thread of irritation in her voice now; it was common-enough knowledge amongst mages at their level that when it came to wards and the manipulation of forces, a sorcerer was worth less than a tenth of an arch-sorcerer. It was like a kid with his hands tied behind his back challenging a soldier to a boxing bout. “We can use a walking shield-spell, with five of us to maintain it –“

He’d straightened up in his chair at that. “You’re not to go into combat with a spawn of the Firstcomer either.”

“Is that a command?”

“You’re damn right it’s a command!”

“And you won’t relent?”

Her voice was calm as she asked the question, eerily calm, and he got the impression that her opinion of him could change, tumble, on the balance of his answer.

“I – well, would you want to?”

She offered a slight shrug. “Who wouldn’t want to see an Ord in action?”

He sighed, sat back. “In my youth, I’d have entertained an idea like that – with eagerness, too. But I’ve seen my share of dragons.”

“Oh really? I didn’t know. How many?”

“Well… one. But one’s more than a fair share for anyone, trust me.”

“When was that?”

“Oh, I was working in Myri for the summer. The villagers had two children disappear into the swamp. A few friends and I decided to offer our services – gratis. I was just hoping for a few days of adventure, but ten minutes in a swamp is bad enough, never mind being chased by a black dragon for twenty-four hours.”

This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.

“It chased you?”

“Wyrda’s maw, yes.” He felt his eyes misting slightly in nostalgia, and chuckled. He could still smell the place. “We ended up holed up in an abandoned temple occupied by a tribe of gnolls who worshipped the thing. Worst summer of my life.”

“I didn’t think you ever left Mund.”

He frowned in thought, then said, “You know, I think that was the last time I went out of the city, actually.”

“And that was how long ago?”

“Gosh, Rala. Thirty… thirty-five years ago?”

There came a brief tap at the door, and upon Ghemenion’s request Ellecho entered.

“M’lord, your meal will be about twenty minutes, but Phanar of N’Lem is ready for you.”

Ghemenion just waved his hand in irritation again. “Well, show the man in, won’t you? You weren’t planning on making the poor fellow carry up the pheasants himself, were you?”

“O-of course, m’lord.”

Phanar stepped into the room, clanking somewhat, and over the warrior’s shoulder Ghemenion caught a brief glimpse of the two initiates standing on the other side of the corridor outside his study, their hands clasped in front of them gripping the hilts of their truncheons, the weapons pulsing softly with purplish light.

They were prepared for action – if it were needed.

Looking at Phanar, Ghemenion got the impression that it wouldn’t be. And after a few moments of studying the look in the cool eyes of the warrior, eyes that had seen the black expanses of the Ashen Land, the eyes of a man who had (presumably) been born in that darkness – the Lord quickly got the impression that if action were needed, the guards would be too far away, even right outside the door, to do anything to stop Phanar before the warrior slew him or took him hostage.

Not that it’d matter. Ghemenion had no need to bring them inside the room – that would just show weakness, a lack of confidence in himself and his powers, at the point where confidence would be the most valuable commodity.

No, Ghemenion was his own best protector and this place was the safest place in the world, for him, and for Rala too. The guards were just a formality, a nod to the pretence of normality, a gimmick so-enjoyed by those in positions like his that he couldn’t remember the last time he wasn’t being trailed by at least one guard when he was grounded. In actuality there were almost a dozen wards in place, providing a variety of shield-effects and instant-summons. Even a number of the books on the walls were ensorcelled with defensive properties, allowing them to fly free of their shelves and deter a potential assailant or thief.

Phanar was imposing, to say the least. His shoulders looked not far-off the breadth of Ghemenion’s own belly, which far outstripped Rala’s, while his leather-belted waist was significantly narrower than his broad, armour-clad chest. His skin was the shade of dark maple leaves, his lustrous hair every bit as black as the soil which had birthed him, pulled back from his face in a single knot. He wore the skin of a wolf as a cloak.

Ghemenion didn’t really like warriors, or any who lived by their weapons. He was glad to live in a world where strength was decided not by brute force and stupid sinews, but by education, intelligence, devotion… This man was a painful reminder that not everywhere was so cultured as Mund.

“Phanar of N’Lem, welcome,” Ghemenion said courteously, but not bothering to rise. “Please, pull up a chair.”

“My gratitude, and that of my companions, for your agreeing to meet with me.” Phanar took a seat at the other end of his desk from Rala, and clanked down into it.

Ghemenion was surprised to find the man soft-spoken – his refined tone (and intelligible Mundic!) were just the gravy on the pie.

Interesting, he thought.

“It’s Rala to whom your thanks is owed,” the lord replied. “She’s convinced me to take you seriously.”

Phanar nodded, apparently unconcerned by this little jab, and turned to Rala. “My gratitude to you both.”

Rala smiled warmly at him; she was still sitting on her foot, casual and at ease.

Feeling a little on the back-foot and not completely clear as to why, Ghemenion cleared his throat. “I hear you have a tale to tell.”

“Forgive me, my lord,” Rala interrupted as Phanar’s lips parted to reply, “but I have a trick up my sleeve, so to speak, and I’m itching to see it in use.”

He waved a hand charitably.

“Phanar, would you agree to subject yourself to a working of fey magic? You would have any guarantees I – we – can offer, that no harm will befall you.”

The warrior looked at her lips as she spoke, then moved his gaze to her eyes, considering. His own eyes narrowed.

This isn’t what I expected at all, Ghemenion admitted to himself. A barbarian of the desolate, dead kingdoms half a world away – a cultured professional?

“I would have you swear it by your name, m’lady sorceress,” Phanar said quietly after a few seconds’ pause.

Rala gave a rare wicked smile. “To thee, Phanar of N’Lem, I, Rala Ainsbothe, so swear: that in causing your enchantment I intend no malfeasance or misfeasance, nor shall suffer the same to come to pass, lest my vow be broken and my life reft away. In Nentheleme I give my word freely; in Kultemeren I speak only truth; and in Mortiforn I accept death as my reward for treachery. So may Glaif bind me.”

Ghemenion raised an eyebrow. That was a mystical promise from the Inciryad Codices, not to be taken on a whim, topping off the legal oath made by witnesses in an Old Court criminal trial…

Phanar’s eyes didn’t glaze over at the flowery language – his gaze kept the same measured, cool look – and once Rala was done the warrior merely nodded once, as if thanking her again.

“If this spell would assist me, in convincing you of the desperate need of this venture – then I will do as you wish,” he acquiesced. “What must I do?”

“Oh,” Rala permitted herself a little laugh as she got out of her chair, “nothing, my good Phanar. I will simply summon a particular creature, whose power manifests in the ability to share your memories with us.”

“Both of us at once?” Ghemenion enquired, his sorcerer’s curiosity piqued. “Just like that, no storage in glyphstones, no –“

“I’ll show you the binding later,” she promised with the pleased smile of one who would enjoy sharing their secret, moving to the centre of the silvery rug in the middle of the room.

But Phanar had a slightly-alarmed look on his face, the first Ghemenion had seen.

“I must warn you,” the warrior said, clanking as he shifted slightly in his chair so that he could turn to regard them both with a single sweep of his head, “not to take this lightly. My memories of the events are –“

“I’m sure we can handle memories,” Ghemenion cut him off. “We’ve done this kind of thing before, and I’ve seen dragons up-close.”

“In the flesh?” Phanar asked, turning his piercing gaze to the old sorcerer and keeping it there.

Ghemenion stared back at him, feeling unnerved with those eyes on him, as if this were the first time the warrior had really looked at him since he’d entered the room.

“Yes, of course in the flesh!”

Phanar nodded, slowly and solemnly, and Ghemenion relaxed a little at the gesture of respect.

Rala was chanting a low, soft song in Etheric, moving her hands in a complex series of motions as she almost danced in place. He recognised most of what she was saying, being well-versed in the planar tongues himself – at least ten percent of the volumes on the wall, his personal library, were off-world books. But like most mages he had to expend exotic reagents to research the obscure passages, or, worse, cross-check the texts word by word in the vast, impenetrable dictionaries, learn each summoning by rote.

He also recognised the forms of the dance, the sweeping of her arms, fingers moving in pairs, thumbs bent in, as though she were some sort of lobster-creature. She was entreating a fairy, he was certain.

At last she revealed the contents of her hands, hidden by the balls of the pressed-in thumbs: a large emerald in her left, and a near-crushed dandelion-head in her right. Then she cupped her hands before her face and breathed heavily into them, once, twice, thrice.

Only upon the third exhalation did the dandelion seeds burst free, rising into the air above her hands like a cloud of sparks; then they immediately coalesced with a sharp green flash, a six- or seven-inch-tall form appearing there, standing in her palm.

The miniature winged fellow was male, it appeared, and was resplendent in a tiny mail coat and greaves. There was a fairy-sized sheathed sword at his waist.

It seemed the fey creature would have to be allowed armed into the Lord’s presence when the human warrior would not. After all, the fairy’s weapon was nothing more than a large pin.

“Your command, sorcerer?” the fairy asked in what must’ve been (for him) a loud voice. There was a certain boldness, a certain insolence, in his tone.

This is why I don’t work with fey, Ghemenion reminded himself.

“I wish for you to share this man’s memories with my Lord Ghemenion and I,” Rala answered. “Then you may depart, Sir Ekevron, with our thanks.”

The fairy bowed stiffly, then said, “I cannot share all his memories. What would you –“

“The Ord.”

There was a pause, then the fairy repeated, all the insolence in his voice suddenly vanished: “The Ord.” The miniature knight cast a glance back over his wings at the barbarian, then returned his gaze to Rala, saying quietly, “He’s only human, you know. There’s no way he’s been alive long –”

“Shall we get to it?” Rala said.

It wasn’t really a question, and the fairy dutifully flew free of her palm, coming to hover in mid-air a couple of feet above the desk.

“Very well,” Sir Ekevron said in a very put-upon, almost sighing voice; “come take your seat, sorcerer, and we will begin, though I fear you shall be disappointed.”

Rala returned to her chair, and the fairy flew to her first, drawing his uselessly-thin sword. She screwed her face up in expectation as he placed the sword’s tip against the very centre of Rala’s forehead, pressing it in until it drew a drop of blood. He then went immediately to Ghemenion.

The lord wasn’t much bothered by spilling a little blood in the interests of furthering his arts; Kultemeren knew he’d spilt many a pint already, and would likely spill another few more before he was done, fate willing. But letting a fey abomination stab his forehead wasn’t something he’d ever subjected himself to before, and he didn’t precisely look forward to the experience – yet he could hardly back down now, could he?

He shut his eyes at the last second – a sharp dot of pain in the middle of his forehead, then it was over, the fairy-knight floating over to Phanar.

This time he made three dots, in a triangular pattern. The warrior didn’t even blink.

Sir Ekevron went again to his place, hovering two feet over the table, as though the trio of them sitting there in their chairs formed the base of a three-sided pyramid with the fairy at its apex.

“Prepare yourselves.”

The fairy-knight raised his sword high over his head and then flicked it down again, letting an infinitesimal amount of blood fly from its blade.

That was the last Ghemenion saw of his chamber, for a time.

At first he sat squarely in the comfortable leather of his chair, inspecting the vision, admiring the fairy’s spell.

Once the vision truly took him, he was rigid, senseless except for those other senses, extended into the past.

Into Phanar’s past.

Then he sat bolt upright in his chair, fingers gripping the arms of the seat like claws.

And at last he paled, quivered – he shrank back, bringing his knees up as though to protect himself against the nightmare, scraping his shins against the table’s edge so hard it would leave bruises, reminders of the time he thought he knew what a dragon was, the time he learned the line of Ord continued… the time he was taught a lesson in wisdom by a lowborn waste-wandering adventurer.

* * *

Booted feet slap the floors of the stone-hewn steps and corridors. Torch-smoke gets in my eyes; the flames of the torches whip wildly in the wind that travels the tunnel behind the battlements, courtesy of the beating of the thing’s wings. I can’t even feel the weight of my heavy shield, my spear, my sword, my armour. The terror for which no man can train himself has come over me – over all of us, I realise, beholding the desperation in the eyes of my brothers-in-arms.

I follow the other castle guards out onto the landing behind the fortifications. As we rush to our posts, I look out over the edge into the crimson dusk-light, at the shadowed entities beyond the wall.

The dragon – there can be no doubt now as to what it is – hangs there in the air, its head not a hundred yards from me when it comes closest in its endless up-down writhing. Its claws are closer, huge curling bones that must be fifteen feet long, and its spiked tail whips back and forth, raking the air below it.

It is immense – its head alone is larger than the command post above the gate. The dying bloody glare of the sun on the horizon lights on nothing else save its bronze-green scales and the horns framing its sinuous face, leathery wings.

Every thunderous downward swipe of those wings brings a storm-gale smashing into the forces massing on the battlements, driving the tips of our spears back, making the plumes on our helms stream. And the wind stinks, stinks like charred flesh.

It waits. I see its gleaming eyes, its sinister, close-lipped smile. It waits.

Beneath it, other things assemble.

A seething sea of fur assaults my eyes, but it’s not yet so late in the day that I can’t catch the glinting of innumerable teeth and claws. Their silence is more horrible than any howl, for it bespeaks the intellect, the purposefulness with which they prowl – it is hundreds upon hundreds of unnatural wolves that are gathering, big wolves, rippling with muscle, those they call in this land dire wolves or night wolves. Some are larger than horses. They amass in rows in the thicker darkness of the dragon’s shadow, slouching boldly across the bridges to form up in what look like practised battle-lines.

They have slaughtered those who stayed behind in the town below the cliff, the many who shirked the call to retreat to the keep’s fastness. We’d had only an hour’s warning, and simple disbelief caused many to perish needlessly. The sea of fur beneath the dragon glistens redly.

Now we are next.

When the dragon speaks, the words are a gnashing of steely swords; its lips peel back and its mouth opens, revealing columns of stained fangs like rusty blades, fangs longer than my spear-haft, wider than my shield. Even at this distance I make out its flickering tongue, the movement of its black-slit pupils.

“Vermin of the Miserdell,” it grates, the speech Mundic, the sound deafening, “I come to treat with you. Which worm shall crawl forth and squeak for the mud-dwellers?”

And then I hear the voice of Savanor resounding from the command post to my right. He is the captain of the guard and a warrior of renown, my idol and exemplar all the long years since I arrived in this place. His voice is always clear, loud above the crash of sword on shield upon the training-ground.

But tonight that voices shakes:

“What has the w-wyrm to say to the worm, and how might the worm reply?”

The dragon grins.

There is subservience in my captain’s words, but also a touch of spite.

In this moment I understand, and wish nothing more than for the dragon and Savanor to come to peaceful terms. Even a brief reprieve – if the castle could be emptied, if the townspeople could escape –

“Fetch me the seat upon which your princeling wriggles,” comes the grating reply over the crash of the constantly-beating wings; “fetch me the skull of my bride. It shall be a throne for worms no longer!”

It is the skull of Nil Sorog the dragon desires. The High Chair of Miserdell in which the rulers of the town have reclined for two centuries. I have seen it many times, upon the dais at the back of the reception hall: the fleshless head of the great dragon slain by Frostfinger two hundred years ago, a set of carpeted steps leading to the seat, between the cavernous eye sockets.

To remove it from the hall undamaged, we would have to take out the wall.

“Bring her skull out of the gates, have your lords abase themselves before me, and I shall make your ending swift. Refuse, and it shall be the slow death you have chosen.”

So we are to die either way.

I realise that he only wants the gates open to allow his forces easier access. I realise it at the same time Savanor does.

“Deck him out in ten thousand shafts!” comes the captain’s roar. “Drive this foul thing back to its stinking pits!”

Arrows fly. Most are deflected by his armour; few strike the joints where scales overlap, and but few of those seem to strike deeply. But the missiles aimed at his wings seem to fare a little better, and I grip my spear and shield tight, waiting for Savanor to tell the men to direct their aim –

“The slow death,” the dragon says.

The thunder of his beating wings claps faster and faster as he pulls himself higher, higher; then there is an awful sound, an inrushing of air… I feel my breath stolen from my mouth –

The dragon swells in size, the ribbed scales banding his stomach stretching, expanding as he bloats – then he lets himself fall towards the gate, spreading his vast jaws wide apart.

The exhalation is a choking, spurting sound that reminds me of vomiting.

Near-transparent and green-tinted, the pillar of fluid gushing forth from his maw is a river of acid; the air itself seems to be on fire, even this far from his effluent.

Where once stood the gate of wood and stone and iron, there is now a puddle of white-burning metals and grey waste-matter.

The wolves, urged on at some hidden signal, begin to spring forward as one.

They will touch the acid; they will die.

But the dragon knows this, and whips himself about, bringing his tail against the foundation-stones joining the command post to the arch above the gateway.

Those stones are already weakened, spotted with acid; they crumble at the single tremendous blow, and the command post falls into the burning metals, the corrosive grey waste.

Savanor, a man who lived through two dozen battles while fighting on the front lines, perishes now to make with his body a part of the bridge which will allow the wolf-army to enter the streets.

The dragon turns, beats his wings again, sucking in another breath as he soars my way, closer to me with every passing moment –

As he exhales I am the only one not to throw myself back, out of the way.

It is not courage. It is bewilderment that leaves me standing. This is beyond terror. The dragon is the shadow of death illuminated. It is as the old man of N’Lem said when we parted, the old man whose name time has stolen from me.

The dragon is my fate, coming to claim me.

I stand, while the dozens of others flee; the guards rush towards the tunnel, dropping their spears and shields, abandoning their posts to join the crush –

The winged nightmare adjusts its aim slightly as it speeds past, seeking to cause maximal damage.

It is those crushed in the tunnel entrance who perish, and I do not stand there and breathe the noxious fumes, I do not stand there to watch them die; I hear the brief screams as I flee alone along the battlements, hoping to evade the spreading puddle of stone-eating acid behind me, the sizzling pool that contains all that remains of my brothers-in-arms on this side of the walls –

* * *

“My apologies,” Sir Ekevron said urbanely, sheathing his little sword with a tinny zing sound. “It appeared you were at your limit.”

Ghemenion looked up at the fairy angrily, but the floating enchanter didn’t seem to have been directing his comment at him in particular: Rala’s forehead was beaded with sweat, and she was panting heavily; even Phanar was pale, frowning, his eyes downcast in thought.

The lord continued rubbing his shins, where he’d evidently banged them on the table.

“That was… unpleasant,” Rala said, “but I thank you for your service, sir knight. Feel free to withdraw.”

The fairy nodded, still floating there, then commented, “An Ord indeed! – and I thought I had seen the last of them. I would very much like to enter combat with the creature; if you meet it in battle, call on my aid. Would that my blade might earn the title Wyrmblinder, as in the legends of old.”

He bowed floridly, armour clinking; then there was a tearing sound, a green flash, and a few burnt dandelion-seeds fluttering down onto the table. The fairy was gone.

Ghemenion cleared his throat. “Ah-h-h… so… ‘fetch me the skull of my bride’. I begin to understand, now, Phanar of N’Lem.”

The warrior nodded. The colour had returned to his cheeks. “The skull of Nil Sorog.”

“Placed there by Carmand Toluse,” Ghemenion continued, “also known as Frostfinger in his youth, First Lord of the Miserdell…”

“Let’s not get distracted, my lord,” Rala said. “I take it that this… Nil Sorog was Ord Ylon’s consort, in the tales?”

“She most definitely was,” Ghemenion replied. “Would you like me to show you the references?”

It’s right there, but which one? he thought dubiously, looking over at the second bookshelf up from the floor. In the Nexus Dragonomicon? The Shirion Draconologies? The Draconology was one of the expensive books, made thin by its makers’ use of only the finest insubstantial paper…

Rala made a ‘ha’ sound, then said, “Perhaps later.”

“It took me almost a year just to find out that much,” Phanar said quietly. “When we realised what we were dealing with, we caught a ship straight to Mund, for trinkets and an archmage, a living weapon. Ord Ylon is holed up in what we think is his true lair, in the Chakoban Mountains – my team are using Tirremuir as a base. I want to end his reign, once and for all.”

Ghemenion drew out a little map in his mind, plotting the journey. Tirremuir… got to be two weeks by boat with a decent wind-spell…

“What happened, after what we saw?” Rala asked.

Phanar shuddered. “I am glad I did not have to relive it all like that,” he muttered. “There were only about sixty of us to survive the destruction – sixty, out of over a thousand. Save for my sister, Anathta, everybody I’d ever known was gone – all those who took us in as orphans when we arrived in the town as children, those who raised us… The apprentice to the court magician, Ibbalat, and a novice keeper of the healing pools, Kanthyre – those two joined my sister and I on a quest of vengeance.”

Ghemenion’s eyes widened. “Vengeance? My good man, surely just the four of you didn’t set out to – what? – hunt down an Ord?”

“Not precisely, my lord,” Phanar replied. “Ibbalat’s master had been the one to warn of us of the impending attack – Ibbalat got it into his head that he should try the same foresight ritual, to find out if we would be safe there, in the caves in which we’d hidden the remaining populace… He saw the dragon’s caverns. He saw the dragon dead, smashed by rock. And when he told us, my sister said it was our duty, that she would go even if I would not. I…”

Phanar’s hand had begun to shake in its place upon the arm of his chair, and he paused for a moment, stilling himself, before continuing.

“I had lost everyone, you must understand. My captain – you saw his fall, into the acid pools? In truth I thought at first to follow him into death. I did not fully intend to return from the dragon’s lair. But Ibbalat saw it dead, and we had to try, did we not?” He said this last with a rueful tone to his voice. “We were fools. Ibbalat was wrong, of course. It was not Ord Ylon bleeding black acid-blood all over the cavern – it was one of Ylon’s spawn that the magician had seen in his vision.”

“I understand,” Rala murmured. “You mentioned three of them?” She turned to Ghemenion, explaining, “When we met in the store, I mean.”

“Not three all at once,” Phanar said, with some vehemence. “They were not the little wyrmlings you hear of in the tales. Each was, as I gather from later experience, the size of full-grown dragons.”

“You say ‘were’ and ‘was’, rather than ‘are’ and ‘is’?” Ghemenion interrupted.

“We slew three in total. There may be more.” Phanar offered a simple shrug of his plated shoulders. “We’ve dealt with two others in the last six months, too.”

“Is it that you’ve developed something of a reputation, or are you just that unlucky?” the lord asked amiably.

“We go where the work is,” Phanar replied, a tight, polite smile on his face. “It seems that they are coming out of their pits all over the place for some reason.”

The lord looked down at the table, deep in thought.

If what he’s saying is true, he’s probably our best chance to rid the Realm of a great evil, and…

Ghemenion mentally crossed-out the first bit – it was patently obvious that this man wouldn’t lie. Any suggestion he made to himself that Phanar was wrong was itself born out of his own sense of terror – terror that an Ord truly was abroad in the land – not out of any real scepticism as regards Phanar’s tale…

So… Phanar is our best chance to rid the Realm of a great evil, and my best chance to enrich the Night’s Guardians beyond the wildest dreams of my predecessors. I will be venerated down the years, the greatest Master in generations.

Such a chance might be worth exposing his prized asset, even if the hour of the next Incursion drew inexorably nearer. There was a new arch-sorcerer in Sticktown, if the news was to be believed; this ‘Feychilde’ character could pick up the slack. No, he’d been wrong earlier: it wouldn’t be hard to persuade his asset to leave. It was just a matter of applying the correct motivation.

He might not have been living in a world where brute force and stupid sinew made the difference, but education, intelligence and devotion only got one so far. Blind chance – accidents of birth or fate or divine intervention – whatever the damn thing making archmages all the time these days actually was – still ruled the world.

Were they really blessed, as some said? If they really were instruments of a higher plane, why did so many turn to wickedness?

Ghemenion snapped his attention back; Rala was talking. “… that Nil Sorog birthed the eggs before she died, and Ord Ylon spent the next two hundred years raising his young? It’s no small wonder he came after you.”

“We only killed the one, that first time. We did not really know what we were getting ourselves into. And that led me… here. To you, and your wisdom.”

Phanar turned his gaze to Ghemenion again now, saying this; the sorcerer fancied he could see a certain tension in the lines of the warrior’s visage, that he could see an imploring look on the determined face. But at the same he felt like he was imagining it.

Perfectly timed to allow his lord a reprieve before answering, Ellecho knocked at the door.

Ghemenion waited for the pheasant and wine to be served; he’d hoped Phanar would maintain his cool demeanour and refuse the repast, but the warrior eyed his plateful of sizzling bird with undisguised hunger.

As the dutiful neophyte made to leave the room, the lord stopped him with a single word.

It was a fine line. To send fifteen sorcerers, or more, to aid Phanar and his friends in their confrontation with the fearsome dragon. He’d been scared, but the taste of Phanar’s memories had set flame to his blood, made him feel young again as he hadn’t felt in years.

Or to send one arch-sorcerer, and risk the next Infernal Incursion happening while the asset was away.

He knew he’d feel safer with an archmage backing their play.

Rala looked at him. He knew she could tell something of what he was weighing up.

His decision to stop Ellecho already betrayed his subconscious intention. He was going to do it, damn the consequences.

He had seen the dragon ‘in action’. He knew that no mere mage would stand up to that winged abomination of scales and acid and annihilation, and he couldn’t in good faith allow the creature to continue to live, continue to plague the world. They could sort out the percentages at leisure – this had to happen.

But this problem required a champion.

“Get a message to Redgate,” he said to Ellecho at last. “Invite him round, before lunch tomorrow. He’s going to fight a dragon.”

He looked at Phanar, then across at Rala.

His eyes carried his question, and she nodded despite the shivers that were clearly coursing through her body.

He looked back at Ellecho. “And so are Rala and I.”