Prologue

The old wizard curled a withered hand into a fist, the bones visible through bluish skin. His lustreless eyes had difficulty focusing and his face twitched in anticipation. In his weakened state it was a struggle for him to keep himself upright in his chair and his breath came in spasms. The windowless room he sat in was cramped and lit only by dim candlelight.

The door was opened by a lithe young woman carrying a goblet filled with a congealed liquid the colour of calf’s liver. She set the goblet down before the old man and heard him groan in relief.

‘Drink, Master,’ she urged, ‘and your strength will return.’

The wizard grasped the cup in both hands and downed its contents in a single gulp. Some colour returned to his cheeks as he looked vacantly at his attendant and wiped away the trickle dribbling down his chin. He sat up straighter and waited for his breathing to become more regular. He stretched out an arm from the elbow, as if testing it for renewed strength.

‘I have been too rash,’ the old man said. ‘In my eagerness for victory I left holes in my plans, holes large enough for the enemy to slip through, again.’ He laughed bitterly at some private recollection. ‘We both know I cannot sustain another failure. The next strike must be infallible.’

‘You cannot fail, Master,’ breathed the woman, her cheeks flushed with excitement. When the old man beckoned to her she moved swiftly to kneel by his side. He whispered into her ear and her eyes closed in an expression of rapture.

‘It is inspired!’ the young woman cried, almost moved to tears by what she had heard. ‘Pure genius.’

Pleased with the response, Lord Aldor’s eyes lit up and his face twisted into a crazed smile.