“But, my papa, what if—”
He put his finger to his lips and gave her his sternest look. That was enough to silence her, and Tobeszijian drew his sword as he walked away from the children. By the time he’d worked his way through the briars and approached the mouth of the cave, he was sweating despite the cold wind. The sour, distinctive smell of trolk was stronger here, strong enough to make him dry-mouthed. Holding Mirengard before him, he stepped cautiously forward. He was a man well seasoned by battle. His courage had never been questioned, not even by his enemies. By tradition, the muscles in his arm had been measured when he assumed the throne, and the measuring cord was thereafter placed in the Book of Counting, where any could see that it was as long as the cord that had measured Solder’s sword arm. And Tobeszijian was strong in mind as well as arm, strong enough to command a darsteed with his thoughts, strong enough to have stunned Muncel, at least for a while. But to confront a trolk in its own cave was something else entirely. Tobeszijian himself had never fought one, but he’d seen three men band together against a single trolk and lose. The fierceness of the creatures was legendary. He knew that only a fool would venture in here, and yet the Chalice and the Ring had brought him to this place. Mirengard did not shine, and the Ring neither glowed nor felt hot on his finger. Steeling himself, Tobeszijian stepped inside. The cave was shallow and low, forcing him to stoop. With his hair brushing the ceiling’s dirt and cobwebs, he felt a slight tingle pass through his skin and realized he had walked through a protection spell. The trolk scent had been left on this cave, possibly years ago, to keep intruders out. But in fact it was empty and unused.
Relief swept him, and he let Mirengard dip in his hand. He sensed nothing before him in the shadowy darkness. The stones smelled musty and damp. The ground beneath his feet was soft and slightly moist.
Sheathing his sword, he lifted his hand and let the Ring glow slightly, casting its illumination before him. He saw only a small, slightly rounded chamber, entirely natural. No one had hewn the cave in this hillside. At the rear, he saw a V-shaped fissure in the rock wall. It was exactly the right size to hold the Chalice.
Tobeszijian bowed his head, murmuring a prayer of obedience to the will of the gods. Exiting the cave, he gathered up children and Chalice and brought them inside. The Chalice’s natural glow of power filled the cave with illumination. Wedging it in the fissure, Tobeszijian wrapped the sleeping Faldain in his cloak and laid him gently on the ground beneath it. Then, with Thiatereika’s small hand clutched in his, Tobeszijian went outside to gather stones worn smooth by the stream. He let his daughter carry some of these while he cut straight slim branches from young ash trees and stripped them of leaves and bark. He had no candles or salt, but he stood the peeled white ash rods in the fissure with the Chalice, crossing them left to right, west to east. He placed the stones in a small circle on the dirt floor, mumbling the holy words of prayer as he did so. Big-eyed and solemn with a child’s instinctive sense of occasion, Thiatereika watched every move he made. When he finished placing the soil within the circle of stones and sprinkled some of it on the base of the Chalice, he knelt before it and lifted the hilt of Mirengard in front of his face. Thiatereika knelt beside him and pressed her hands together. They said the prayer of the First, Tobeszijian’s deep masculine voice filling the small cave and her thin, child’s voice piping the words after him in counterpoint. When he’d finished his part, Tobeszijian listened to his daughter stumbling through the final words. A corner of his heart swelled with love and pride at this sign of devotion, already so strong within her. He placed his hand lovingly on her curls and kissed the top of her head.
Then he said, “O Thod, ruler of all, hear our prayers and our hearts this day. We have consecrated this place chosen by the will of the gods. So will we honor it until this time of strife has ended. Hear my plea now, great Thod, and give thy mercy unto these small children of my loins. Protect them from harm in whatever is next to come. Anon dein eld.”
“Anon dein eld,” Thiatereika echoed beside him. She folded her small hands together and kissed her knuckles as she had been taught. Tobeszijian kissed the hilt of his sword.
Feeling somewhat restored in spirit, he left the children in the cave and went out to hunt. By nightfall, he’d snared some small game. Skinning the small carcasses, he built a tiny fire outside the cave by the stream and cooked them until the meat sizzled with juices and the aroma made his mouth water. He and his children ate their fill. Then he doused the fire and removed all evidence of his presence. He and the children went back into the cave and bedded down together inside the folds of his cloak beneath the gentle radiance of the Chalice.
Within its light he felt safe and secure, although he knew they could not linger here much longer. With the children snuggled asleep against him like puppies, Tobeszijian breathed in the scent of them and caressed the tender skin of their faces. He knew he could not keep them with him in the days to come. For he was facing war, and civil war was always the worst and bloodiest kind. On the morrow he would have to ride to the northernmost reaches of Nether, to seek out the hold of Prince Volvn, his best general and the wiliest strategist in the realm. Volvn’s loyalty was sure. Or was it? Only yesterday Tobeszijian had planned to enlist the support of Prince Spirin, but the man was a prisoner of Muncel’s and in need of rescue himself.
Groaning a little, Tobeszijian clutched his hair in his hands and tried to battle away the overwhelming blackness of his grief. In the past two days he had lost his best friend and his beloved wife. His world had been turned upside down. Tobeszijian wanted to howl like a wounded animal, but as a man he knew he must control the maelstrom of emotions that made his chest ache. He could not think of what had happened, could not remember his dear Nereisse’s face, so still and white in death. Instead, he must think of the future, of tomorrow and the next day. He must plan, for to dwell on his loss was to fall into a pit he might not be able to escape.
He had only one more use of the Ring, only one more journey he could take with its magical powers. He must use it wisely and flee to the north. Up by the World’s Rim, where the old ways were still honored, he believed he could raise his army. While he would not count on Volvn’s loyalty until he stood face-to-face with the valiant warrior, Tobeszijian did not believe that Volvn could be corrupted by Muncel’s lies.
From Volvn’s stronghold, he would call on the fealty oaths of his nobles and knights, testing to see who was loyal and who had gone over to Muncel. He realized that Cardinal Pernal would try to twist this whole affair into a vicious holy war. With their souls inflamed, men might tend to forget the true issue at stake, which was that Muncel had no rightful claim to the throne he sought.
Tobeszijian reminded himself that he would have to test the eastern holds for treachery. Someone was letting Believers cross into Nether from Gant. If the border fell, Nether would be overrun quickly.
But for now, where to put his young, motherless children? What place held safety for them? Mandria, yes, but it was too far away. Among the eldin, they would have sanctuary, but Tobeszijian understood that if his son spent more than a few months among his mother’s people he would be forever changed by their ways and be rendered unacceptable to his future subjects.
Yet perhaps he was already unacceptable. Bowing his head, Tobeszijian recalled days of argument with his counselors, who’d opposed his marriage to Nereisse. It was traditional for the royal family to have a drop of eldin blood in its lineage, but now it seemed there was too much. Faldain was more eld than human. Tobeszijian clenched his fists. That did not matter. The throne was his by birth and by right. Someday it would be Faldain’s. Nothing else was acceptable. But what if this conflict took more than a few months to resolve? He wondered if he should foster the children with a noble. Yet who could he trust? Then again, it would be madness to keep the children near him, for if his enemies struck again they must not find him and Faldain together, two targets for the taking. Over and over his mind worried at the problem. Nereisse would have known what to do. How he missed her wise advice already. Tobeszijian sighed. Give him an enemy to charge and Mirengard in his hand, and he was fearless and perhaps invincible. Give him shadows and intrigue and betrayal, and he needed guidance to know where and at whom to strike.
He rolled over onto his side, too weary to sleep on the hard ground. The cold sank into his bones and made them ache. He had hidden the Chalice in a safe place. His foremost duty as king had been performed. Now he must think about himself and his future. In the morning, he would use the Ring to take him and the children straight to Prince Volvn. There, he would receive counsel. There, he could make decisions as to what to do next.
A noise awakened Tobeszijian in the dead of night. He awoke with a start, his heart pounding and his senses straining. At first he heard only the soft rumbling of Faldain’s snores and Thiatereika’s rhythmic breathing. He glanced at the Chalice, and saw it glowing softly within its circle of honor. The noise came again, muffled and from outside. This time he recognized the darsteed’s grumbling snort.
Astonished, Tobeszijian sat upright. He had not called the darsteed back. For it to return on its own was unbelievable. It wouldn’t.
Which meant...
He flung off his cloak and reached for his sword, kneeling hastily before the Chalice. “Show me my path,” he prayed, “and I will take it.” For a moment there was only silence around him, then a voice came into his mind, very clearly and distinctly: “The children will not be safe in Nether.” He blinked, astonished by this communication, and felt sweat beading along his temples.
Thod had heard his prayer and answered him. Swiftly Tobeszijian prostrated himself on the ground. “Great One, I obey,” he murmured, then rose. Dry-mouthed and trembling with awe, he shoved aside his spinning thoughts, telling himself he could not think about the ramifications of this warning now. If the children weren’t safe in their own land, that meant the treachery was more widespread than he’d believed possible. Civil war was usually long and bloody. He might find it difficult to regain his throne. But right now he must act quickly, for danger had come.
He could feel it, waiting somewhere out there in the night. It was not close yet, not as close as the darsteed trampling about in the ravine. But it was coming, as though the Nonkind had been set on his trail again. By whom?
Muncel might be a traitor, but Tobeszijian could not believe his half-brother would embrace the darkness. Something else was at work here, something that Tobeszijian did not as yet understand.
A shiver passed through him. Nereisse’s vision of him surrounded by a Nonkind horde might yet come true.
But, no, he would not frighten himself with visions and imaginings. He scooped up the children, neither of whom awakened. Going outside, he found the night air bitterly cold. The wind was blowing strongly. Now and then he felt a spit of moisture on his face, though whether it was rain or sleet he could not tell.
He did not see the darsteed, but he could smell its hot, sulfur stink. When he heard it rustling among the nearby trees, he called it. Reluctantly it came, looming suddenly out of the darkness. With its red eyes glowing in the pitch black, it hissed and blew smoke. Its tail lashed viciously, almost hitting him, and he noticed that the saddle was askew and the armor cloth torn, as though the darsteed had been trying to rid itself of both. Putting the children out of harm’s way, Tobeszijian struggled to right the saddle. He had to strike the darsteed’s snout twice to keep it from biting him. The stink of its hot breath filled the air, and it snapped and slung its head about as he tightened the cinch.
Breathlessly, Tobeszijian jumped back out of reach, slapping aside another attempted bite. He scooped up the sleeping children without waking them, and started to mount.
A noise in the distance startled Tobeszijian. He froze momentarily in place and strained his ears to listen.
Hissing, the darsteed raised its head and stared intently in the same direction. The king’s heart thumped hard beneath his breastplate. Hearing the distant sounds growing louder as they approached, he frowned and turned his face into the wind, squinting against the sleet now falling. It was not hoofbeats he heard, but something quieter, a rhythmic pad-pad-pad, a progressive rustling through thick undergrowth.
Then he saw a flicker of light in the distant trees. Suddenly there came many pinpoints of light, dancing and glimmering through the sleet-torn darkness. Eldin were coming. Relief eased the tension in his shoulders. The darsteed lifted its narrow head and bugled an eager greeting. Frowning, Tobeszijian stepped back from the creature and sent it galloping into the forest, snorting and grumbling, the empty stirrups bouncing against its sides. Turning on his heel, Tobeszijian reentered the little cave, wrapped the sleeping children in his cloak, and left them snuggled beneath the pale white glow of the Chalice’s power.
By the time he emerged, the eldin had arrived. Shadowy and only half-visible in the sleet-stung darkness, they filled the bottom of the ravine. Some rode astride beyar mounts, with saddles of crimson leather; most were afoot. A few held their left hands aloft like torches. The flames burning from their fingertips created what was known as fairlight. It should have illuminated the stream and the cave’s bramble-shielded mouth, but it seemed dimmer now than when he’d first glimpsed it. He could barely see any of them. Cautiously, Tobeszijian walked downhill to meet their leader. This eld sat astride a ghostly white beyar with a stripe of gray at its throat. Tobeszijian did not recognize him, but clearly he was an individual of importance. He wore mail made of gold links and a sleeveless tunic of velvet lined with lyng fur. Within the hood of his cloak, a thin gold circlet very similar to Tobeszijian’s own crown gleamed on his brow.
Tobeszijian bowed to him in courtesy. “Welcome to my camp,” he said, using the old tongue.
The eld’s eyes were as pale as stone. They studied Tobeszijian coldly. His face was handsome in the way of his people, lacking a beard, with deep lines grooving either side of his mouth. When he pushed back the hood of his cloak, his ears were revealed to be small and elegant, barely pointed at the tips. He wore a heavy gold ring in the lobe of his right ear. It winked now and then, reflecting the dim fairlight around him.
“I am Asterlain, king of these mountains,” the eld said. His voice was clear and musical, with the pure ringing tones of bard crystal. But no lilt or laughter filled that voice. He spoke the old tongue with an accent strange to Tobeszijian, who had learned the language from his eldin mother. “I come seeking Tobeszijian, human king of Nether.”
“I am Tobeszijian.”
Out in the thicket beyond the small clearing, the darsteed stamped and suddenly bugled.
Its loud voice made Tobeszijian jump, and Asterlain’s beyar roared in response, rearing up on its hindquarters and swiping the air with its enormous claws before Asterlain brought it back under control.
Asterlain looked at Tobeszijian. “Why have you brought the Chalice of Eternal Life here?”
Ice encased Tobeszijian’s heart. If the eldin knew the Chalice was here, who else had been watching his movements? He sensed evil out there in the dark forest, slinking ever closer, and perhaps listening.
Suddenly he trusted nothing, not even these eldin who had appeared so unexpectedly and oddly just as he was leaving.
“I am here to hunt,” he lied warily. He moved his hand casually to his sword hilt. “It is autumn. All who know me know of my custom to range far in search of game and sport.”
“Nether has prospered long,” Asterlain said, apparently ignoring the lie.
“Without the Chalice, its prosperity will end.”
Tobeszijian frowned. “My kingdom is not yet lost,” he said sternly. “Perhaps you have heard of my half-brother’s ambitions. They are rumors only. Would I go out sporting if aught were amiss with my throne and kingdom?” Asterlain closed his eyes and tilted back his face to sniff the air. Tobeszijian felt pressure pushing against his mind, but he held his thoughts closed. Anger burned in his throat and started throbbing in his temples. Never before had any eld dared to force his mind. The insult tightened his fingers on his sword hilt. After a moment, Asterlain opened his eyes and looked at Tobeszijian once again. His gaze was harsh with frustration. “You lack the skill to protect the Chalice properly. We have come to help you with your preparations.” Asterlain is guessing about the Chalice’s being here, Tobeszijian thought. He is trying to trick me into confirming his suspicions. Tobeszijian stood frozen, determined to keep every emotion from his face. He no longer believed he was actually facing real eldin. Whoever, whatever Asterlain and his party were, they could not be what they seemed. Although he sensed no taint upon Asterlain, no evil, he could not stop his thoughts from leaping to the next logical suspicion. Shapeshifters, he thought, his heart racing. Yet were they? Unsure, he swallowed hard. “It is unwise to doubt my word, King Asterlain,” he replied at last. “I am here to hunt, nothing more.”
The eld king tilted his head to one side, causing fairlight to glint off his gold earring. “You are far from your lands and kingdom. Your rights to hunt here do not exist, save by my leave.”
“Then do I ask your pardon,” Tobeszijian said. “I have offered you a discourtesy, which was not meant.”
“Where is the Chalice?” Asterlain asked impatiently. “Nearby surely, for we sense it. Yet where?”
Tobeszijian frowned, and managed to keep his gaze from shifting involuntarily toward the cave’s mouth. Could Asterlain not see the cave? It was not concealed. The briars which grew over it were not thick enough to act as a shield. Had Asterlain not seen Tobeszijian emerge from it in full view? Yet the eld kept on staring at Tobeszijian, his pale eyes intense with frustration. Tobeszijian remembered how as a boy he’d had an ancient, much-beloved hound that went blind in its old age. Tobeszijian would sometimes play a game of standing absolutely still and silent while the dog sniffed and searched for him. Sometimes the old dog would come right to him, but sometimes he would stand only a few feet away, whining in frustration and unable to find his master.
That’s the way Asterlain was acting, as though he were somehow blind to the cave’s whereabouts. Obviously he could sense the Chalice’s presence, but he could not locate it.
Perhaps, Tobeszijian thought in amazement, the Chalice’s own power was concealing it.
From the corner of his eye Tobeszijian gazed warily at the mounted eldin on their beyars. When he did not look directly at them, they seemed indistinct, not quite real. His thoughts brushed toward them, and encountered nothing. They were phantoms only. Illusions. He blinked, his eyes burning, and let his thoughts spin rapidly through several options. He had to find a way to lead Asterlain away from this place. But how?
“Why do you not answer?” Asterlain asked impatiently. “King Tobeszijian, I bid you respond to my questions.”
A strange roaring filled Tobeszijian’s ears. He could feel the Ring of Solder glowing hotter and hotter on his finger. His heart began to hammer very hard, but some instinct made him keep absolutely still. He said nothing, almost holding his breath, and watched alarm fill Asterlain’s eyes. The eldin king looked around as though he could no longer see Tobeszijian. “King Tobeszijian!” he called again, his voice even louder now. The air shimmered around him, and the fairlight burning from his fingertips went out. In that instant Tobeszijian smelled the sickly sweet, decayed stench of the Nonkind. He knew then for certain that he was standing in front of a shapeshifter, the most skilled and powerful one he’d ever encountered. His blood ran cold, and he almost drew his sword to attack the creature. But he stayed motionless, telling himself that to hide this way was sensible, not cowardly. He was outnumbered and on foot. He had his children and the Chalice to protect. It was important to get out of here safely, not fight a battle he was certain to lose. If the Chalice’s power was shielding him now, he must work with it as best he could.
Breathing hard, Asterlain hunched atop his beyar. Rage purpled his face and filled his pale eyes with such heat and intensity that Tobeszijian was certain they could drill right through his concealment.
Yet as long as he did not move, Asterlain could not see him. Tobeszijian slowed his breathing as much as he could, feeling the seconds drawing out slower and slower until they were agonizing.
“Ashnod curse this place!” Asterlain said furiously, pounding his fist on his thigh. His voice had changed pitch, deepening and growing rougher in tone. No longer did he speak in the old tongue of the eldin, but instead in Gantese. Death stench filled the clearing, polluting the air so heavily that Tobeszijian had to swallow hard several times to keep himself from gagging. Cursing, Asterlain spurred his beyar straight at Tobeszijian, who stood there rooted, his mind spinning with worry. Should he let the beyar ride straight into him? Should he spring aside at the last moment?
Behind Asterlain, the other eldin riders faded into the darkness. The black shadows of night filled the clearing while fairlight vanished and Tobeszijian’s lone opponent cursed and searched.
Tobeszijian’s fingers were curled knuckle-white around his sword hilt. If he drew now he could slay the beyar and bring down its rider. If he waited it would be too late to step aside.
He stood with his feet rooted to the ground, his heart pounding in his chest, his sweat cold beneath his mail. Have faith in the Chalice, he told himself. By now the beyar was only a pace away from him. It was a massive brute, its shoulder nearly as tall as Tobeszijian’s. Asterlain sat hunched astride the shaggy creature as though in pain. Tobeszijian could hear the shapeshifter’s harsh breathing.
The hot, sour stench of the beyar mingled with the corrupt smell of its Nonkind rider. Tobeszijian stared at the long broad muzzle of the beast, at its small, ferocious eyes. Its powerful claws scraped and clattered on the frozen ground, and it grunted steadily, making a savage growling noise that tightened Tobeszijian’s guts. He knew that the beyar’s claws could rend through his mail, slicing him from gullet to groin in a single blow. By then the shapeshifter would be upon him, or something even worse might come. Stay still, he told himself, feeling the pressure against his mind return. Stay still.
With a growl, the beyar came within inches of him, then veered slightly and trotted past, close enough to brush Tobeszijian’s side with its shaggy white fur. Asterlain’s toe went right past Tobeszijian’s elbow, missing it by less than a breath.
He rode onward, calling Tobeszijian’s name and cursing him. Turning around, he came back and brushed past Tobeszijian on the other side. Sleet stung Tobeszijian’s face and the cold air sank deep into his bones, but he moved not. He might as well have been carved from stone, the steady warmth from the Ring of Solder on his finger giving him just enough courage to endure while Asterlain cast about, circling the clearing yet again.
Then, from inside the cave, came a child’s frightened wail. Asterlain drew rein sharply and wheeled his beyar around. His thin face turned toward the cave, and he listened intently.
Tobeszijian raged inwardly, cursing this creature that hunted him. He wished with all his might that he could warn Thiatereika to be quiet, but his mind could not reach into the thoughts of people.
“My papa!” she wailed, even more loudly than before. “Where are you?” The sound of her crying filled the air beneath the steady rattle of sleet among the trees. Asterlain hissed to himself in satisfaction and started toward the cave.
“No!” Tobeszijian shouted. He drew Mirengard, and its blade flashed light through the darkness as he ran forward.
Even as Asterlain was turning around in his crimson saddle, Tobeszijian struck with all the strength of his two arms. Mirengard cut Asterlain in half, separating his head and torso from his hips and legs. A foul black liquid spurted out, splattering the beyar’s white fur, and the upper half of Asterlain went tumbling to the ground.
The beyar roared and reared up, and Tobeszijian whistled.
Come/come/come/come! he called with his mind.
Cloven hooves pounded over the frozen ground. As the beyar lunged at Tobeszijian with its deadly claws, the black, scaled darsteed burst from the thicket and struck the beyar’s side with its razor-sharp forefeet.
Great gashes opened in the beyar’s side. With a roar it turned on the snapping, hissing darsteed and the two creatures joined in battle. Stumbling out of the way, Tobeszijian barely avoided being struck down by the darsteed’s lashing tail. With Mirengard still glowing in his hand, he ran up the hill and ducked inside the cave. It was dark. The Chalice’s light no longer glowed.
Thiatereika stood just inside the cave’s mouth; he would have stumbled right over her had she not been crying.
Stopping in the darkness, with his rapid breathing sounding harsh and loud in his ears, he pulled her into his arms. “Where is your brother?” he asked. “I had a bad dream, my papa,” she whimpered, clinging to him. “I dreamed that Mama was dead.”
“Hush,” he said, carrying her to the back of the cave, where he collected the sleeping Faldain.
“She was taken by people robed in black, my papa,” Thiatereika said brokenly, her voice torn with grief. “They took her away!”
His arm tightened around her. “Stop it,” he said sharply. “No one is taking your mother away. You are with me. You are safe.”
“I want to go home,” she wailed, crying again. Faldain woke up and began to cry too. “I’m cold, my papa. I don’t like this game anymore. I want Gilda.” “Gildie!” Faldain said in shrill agreement.
Tobeszijian knew they were little, knew they were cold and tired and frightened, but he spared no more comfort for either of them as he carried them outside into the bitter night. The sleet was falling even harder. The air was so cold it hurt. He paused at the mouth of the cave and pressed the flat of Mirengard’s blade against first one side of the opening and then the other. “In the name of Thod,” he intoned, “let this place lie under the protection of the gods.”
Down in the little clearing near the stream, the battle between the beyar and the darsteed had already ended. The beyar lay on its side, its white fur now stained dark. The darsteed was feeding noisily, shaking its lean head viciously now and then to tear off another chunk of raw flesh.
Staying clear of the beast while it ate, Tobeszijian put his children down and pulled free of their clinging hands. Both began to cry again. “Stand there, for just a moment!” he said sharply, his own stress and fatigue making him harsher than he meant to be. “Do as I say!” Thiatereika fell silent, and Faldain pressed his face against her, whining still.
Tobeszijian dragged the two halves of Asterlain’s body over the frozen ground and tossed them in the shallow stream. A scream rose from Asterlain’s dead throat, and Tobeszijian jumped back, stumbling and nearly falling on the bank while he struggled to draw his sword.
But Asterlain did not move. While his corpse lay in running water, it could not resume life. And no other dreadful creature rose to take life from his blood. Tobeszijian stood there on the bank, breathing hard, his eyes staring at the corpse. Gradually he relaxed and let his half-drawn sword slide back into its scabbard. Relief swept him, and he turned away, hurrying back toward the darsteed.
His head was pounding. His muscles remained knotted with tension. He stumbled, squinting against the sleet, and felt as though he’d stepped into mire and was being pulled down by it.
It was only fatigue, catching up with him. He caught himself wiping the sleet from his face, over and over, his palms scrubbing his skin. His breathing was still rapid and harsh. Now and then he heard a little moan catching in the back of his throat.
Mighty Thod, deliver me from the hands of my enemies, he prayed silently, seeking to find strength enough to hang on. He had fought Gant Nonkind and Believers before, but never alone, on his own, lacking the spells of protection. The fetid smell of death still lingered on the air. Hurrying back to the children, Tobeszijian scooped up Faldain just in time to save him from the darsteed’s snapping jaws.
The beast hissed at him, lashing a warning with its tail, but Tobeszijian knew already that it had eaten its fill. It was only protecting its kill now, and halfheartedly at that.
After a couple of tries, Tobeszijian managed to dart close enough to grab the dangling reins. He pulled the darsteed around, controlling its desire to strike at him.
“No!” Thiatereika shrieked when her father reached for her. She stamped her foot, her small cloak gusting in the wind. “I don’t want to ride anymore! I want Gilda! I want to go home.”
Ignoring her protests, he picked her up and set her and Faldain in front of the saddle.
The darsteed whipped its head around and bit Tobeszijian in his side, just above his hip. The creature’s fangs glanced off the bottom rim of his breastplate, denting the metal but not piercing it. Still, the attack was vicious enough to knock Tobeszijian against the beast’s side.
Gasping with pain, he gripped the stirrup to keep his balance while the darsteed bugled with fury and tried to swing away from him.
Desperately Tobeszijian kept hold of stirrup and reins, knowing he could not let the darsteed run away with the children on its back. It would shake them off and eat them. Furious himself, he struck the beast with his thoughts, but its mind was a red-hot mass, unassailable for the first time since its capture. Astonished, Tobeszijian staggered, nearly losing his footing as he grappled to keep his hold on the reins. The darsteed reared high above him, deadly forefeet striking out. Tobeszijian dodged, and the darsteed yanked away from him. One of the reins snapped in two with a twang.
Tobeszijian feinted and moved with the beast, trying to stay out of striking range without losing his last, tenuous hold on the remaining rein. Drawing his dagger, he dodged another attempt to bite him and struck hard and precisely, plunging his dagger deep into the web of muscle between the darsteed’s shoulder and ribs.
The animal screamed and blew fire. Thiatereika was crying now, screaming to get off. Clinging to the darsteed’s neck like a tiny burr, Faldain uttered no sound. “Hang on!” Tobeszijian told them as he dodged the flames. Fire scorched his cheek, and the pain sent him stumbling back. He would have fallen had the darsteed not dragged him. Its frenzied attempt to pull away lifted Tobeszijian back on his feet. Cursing, he fought the animal, which was bleeding heavily and moaning.
But its pain distracted it enough for him to reestablish control.
Stand/stand/stand/stand, he commanded it.
The darsteed snorted and obeyed him. In that moment, Tobeszijian mounted and jammed his feet firmly in the stirrups. The darsteed reared, trying to brush him off under some tree limbs. Thiatereika cried out and nearly toppled to the ground, but Tobeszijian’s arm encircled her and her brother, keeping them snug against him. The darsteed tried to rear again, but Tobeszijian jabbed it cruelly with his spurs, startling it into a weak buck instead.
Snorting flames, the darsteed shook its head in fury, but Tobeszijian leaned over and pulled out his dagger from its side. Blood spurted across his hand, burning where it splattered.
The darsteed bellowed in pain and stumbled, but he had control of it now. Go/go/go/go, Tobeszijian commanded, and the beast lurched into a stumbling gallop.
Struggling to guide it with only one rein, Tobeszijian tried to find his bearings in the darkness. The sleet soaked through his surcoat and seeped between the links of his mail. He felt chilled to the bone. The wet saddle under his thighs made him colder. Tobeszijian pulled up the children’s hoods and tried to cover them with the folds of his cloak. The night was too raw for traveling, but even as he caught himself longing to be safe indoors by a warm fire, the wind shifted and his nostrils caught a stink of something rotten. More Nonkind were coming. He choked a moment in new alarm, then fear iced his veins.
The darsteed bugled eagerly until Tobeszijian forced it to be silent. In the sudden quiet, Tobeszijian heard an unworldly howl close by, and his heart skipped a beat. He knew the hunting cry of a hurlhound all too well. Thanks to the rebellion of the darsteed, they’d been delayed long enough for the hurlhound to catch up with them.
What next? Tobeszijian asked himself wearily, then shook off his weakness. Fiercely, he glanced at the hillside on his right. The howl had come from somewhere up there. The hurlhound was close enough to reach him in a few minutes. Already his ears picked up the sound of its crashing progress as it descended through the undergrowth.
The darsteed swung around to face the approaching hurlhound, its powerful body quivering eagerly. Tobeszijian’s mind sifted rapidly through a dozen possibilities. He had to think of a refuge for the children outside of Nether, and he had only seconds to make a decision. They must be hidden with someone trustworthy enough not to sell them as hostages to a foreign enemy, or even to Muncel. But as a wheeling series of faces belonging to the handful of nobles in Mandria or to the one-eyed chieftain in Klad whom he’d bribed into being a secret ally crossed his mind, Tobeszijian knew that none of them were right. He knew, too, that he could not afford to make a mistake now; he had only a single trip with the Ring remaining to him.
The hurlhound was still crashing down the hillside, so close now he could hear it snarling and snapping. And at that moment, a second one burst from the thicket on his left and charged straight toward him. Tobeszijian shouted in alarm, but the monster yelped and turned aside at the stream, dashing back and forth as though afraid to leap it.
The hurlhound was a monstrous creature, twice the size of the largest dog in Tobeszijian’s kennels, with black, scaled skin instead of hair and a broad, blunt head ending in a powerful muzzle of razor-sharp teeth. Its tongue—glowing with eerie green phosphorus—lolled from its jaws. He could hear the creature panting and whining as it paced back and forth along the narrow stream. Its eyes glowed red, and it stank of rotting flesh, so sickly and foul Tobeszijian thought he would retch.
“Dog!” Faldain announced, pointing.
Thiatereika screamed.
At that instant, the hurlhound leaped across the stream and came bounding straight at them with impossible speed. Reaching them, it jumped up as though to drag Tobeszijian from the saddle.
Tobeszijian swung his sword down in a powerful slash and cut off the hurlhound’s head in a clean blow. Mirengard was glowing with blinding radiance. He could feel the magical power in humming through the bones of his hand. Behind him, the other hurlhound reached the bottom of the hill and came roaring at them. Tobeszijian swung the darsteed around to face its oncoming charge, but at that moment the king made his decision.
Gazing at his glowing sword, he thought of the only sword-maker he knew capable of producing something similar to the legendary Mirengard. Jerking off his glove with his teeth, Tobeszijian let the hurlhound keep coming and concentrated all his heart and mind on his glowing Ring. Its light shone over the pawing darsteed and Tobeszijian’s children. To Jorb, the dwarf of Nold, he thought. To Jorb!
The hurlhound reached them, leaping high. Its cavernous jaws opened wide, revealing its glowing teeth and venomous tongue. Its eyes shone red with the fires of hell, and its stink rolled over Tobeszijian like death itself. But he pushed his fear aside. He held his ground while his children screamed and struggled against the iron band of his protecting arm. Then the power came, tossing them up into the very air. The hurlhound was knocked aside with a yelp, and they were swept into the second world yet again. Nold was a forbidding, unwelcoming country, damp and cold, and it was still tainted by the residue of magic cast in the mighty battles of antiquity. Sparsely settled, most of the land was choked with the Dark Forest—woods so thick no decent road could be built through them. Instead, muddy trails wound through the trees, trails that might take a weary traveler to a settlement or might stop in the midst of nowhere.
It was afternoon, and Tobeszijian rode along such a trail, trying hard to keep his sense of direction despite the weariness buzzing inside his head. The darsteed was limping badly. Moaning and snorting, the animal hobbled along stiffly, its wound still oozing and raw.
Every time Tobeszijian tried to dismount to spare it, however, the creature attacked him.
He rode it grimly, forcing it to give him the very last of its strength. When it finally went down, he would have to cut its throat and walk to the next settlement. If he could not buy a decent horse, it would be a long trudge indeed all the way home to Nether.
He sighed, feeling bereft without the children snuggled beneath his cloak. Again and again, his mind conjured up his last sight of their bewildered, tear-streaked faces while Jorb held their shoulders to keep them from running after their father.
Tobeszijian frowned. He could not feel easy about leaving them behind. They had no protectors, no guards, no retainers. Even were he gone a month or two—and certainly it would be no more than that—it was an enormous risk to leave them in the sole care of a near stranger. Tobeszijian knew Jorb on a business footing only. The dwarf was a master armorer, and was known for the fine swords he crafted. Twice Tobeszijian had commissioned him to make armor and daggers for him. Jorb coveted Mirengard. Whenever he talked to Tobeszijian, his gaze would stray to the sword, and his thick fingers—strong enough to crack walnuts—would flex and stretch as though they ached to slide along that shining blade. Like all dwarves, Jorb was temperamental and sly. He struck hard bargains, but once a dwarf actually gave his word, he would stay true to it. Jorb had demanded Mirengard in exchange for hiding the children.
It was an impossible bargain. Tobeszijian could not hold his throne without the sword, and Jorb knew that. The dwarf had used his unreasonable demand to leverage a fat purse of gold, the jeweled ring from Tobeszijian’s smallest finger, his silver spurs, and the cups of eldin silver belonging to the children. Clutching his booty and chuckling to himself, the dwarf had ducked his bearded chin low and scuttled back into his queer hut built in the base of a vast tree trunk, with a stone-lined entry and an iron-banded door. Smoke curled out through a hollow limb overhead, making the tree almost look like it was on fire.
Jorb popped outside a few minutes later and gestured. “Well, bring ‘em in. Bring ’em in!” he said.
There had been time only for a swift glance round at the cramped interior. It was swept clean, with every humble possession in its proper place. Tobeszijian knew that Jorb was accounted to be rich and prosperous, as he was much in demand for his skills at the forge. No doubt the dwarf kept his gold strongboxes and treasures down deep in the ground, concealed in mysterious tunnels and burrows. Still, the place was far from suitable for the children of a king. With the blessing of Thod, perhaps they would not have to stay hidden here long. Tobeszijian had ridden away this morning with the cries of Faldain and Thiatereika echoing in his ears. He knew he must set his face toward war, yet he felt unmanned and guilty. He despaired of ever being reunited with his children. Soon, my precious ones, he’d promised them silently. Soon I shall return for you.
Thiatereika had run down the road in his darsteed’s wake, crying out, “My papa, come back! My papa! My papa!”
The heartbreak and terror in her voice had nearly destroyed all his resolve. Although he’d intended to turn around and wave, he kept his back to her, hearing her voice growing fainter and fainter as he kicked the darsteed into a gallop. They were safe, he told himself for the countless time.
Hidden and safe.
He wanted to feel relief, but instead his sense of uneasiness grew. Nereisse would have condemned him for leaving them behind, unguarded, in the hands of one who owed him no allegiance. It seemed that her spirit, cold with disapproval, perched on his shoulder.
“What else could I do?” he asked aloud.
Tipping back his head, he stared at the overcast sky. The clouds were massed and dark above the thick treetops. He shivered under his cloak. He felt as though he had somehow failed. And with that came a boiling surge of anger against Nereisse, who had left him to face these difficulties alone. What right had she to risk her life by knowingly drawing poison into her body to save her daughter? What right had she to take herself from him, just when he needed her most? They could have had another daughter, could have faced the future together, could have ...
Gripping his hair in his fist, he cried out, making an animal sound of sheer anguish.
He did not understand himself. His fury and resentment bewildered him, and he felt guilty, as though he had somehow betrayed his dead wife by feeling this way. He loved her. He had been enspelled by her from the first moment he glimpsed her in the forest. As for weighing the value of Nereisse’s life against Thiatereika’s ... what was wrong with him? Could he resent his own daughter for having lived at the cost of her mother’s life?
Was that why he found it so easy to abandon his children in this dark, primitive land?
Fearing that some madness was trying to break his mind, he turned his thoughts toward his next responsibilities. He must work quickly to raise an army and crush Muncel’s rebellion. If he didn’t return to Nether soon and force his nobles and knights to honor their oaths to him, then he might as well stay here in the forests of Nold, an exile forever. He would not seek assistance from Verence of Mandria yet. Thus far, Verence had proven to be a sound ally, but it was best to handle civil war without the help of neighboring lands, which might decide to conquer rather than assist.
The sky overhead stayed gray and tired. Now and then rain drizzled on him. He brushed past leafy branches and ducked beneath loops of gnarled vines. Keebacks wheeled overhead in the sky, making their plaintive cry. He encountered no other travelers, except once, a group of five dwarves clad in green linsey. Stocky and round-cheeked, their beards woolly and matted, they were each burdened with bulky sacks thrown across their shoulders, sacks heavy enough to bend them double. Their furtive eyes glared at Tobeszijian, then they scattered off the road and into the forest, giving him no chance to ask how far it was to the next settlement.
If he could find a village, he would trade his cloak pin for a horse or even a mule, and set the darsteed loose.
He touched his mind to the beast’s, trying to urge it, but the darsteed was too filled with pain and fury to go faster.
A keeback burst from the trees ahead of him, calling kee-kee-kee. A stag bounded into the road, stared at him with startled eyes, and leaped back into the thicket in a panic. The darsteed stumbled to a halt unbidden, and let its head sink down. Frowning, Tobeszijian kicked it hard, but it only groaned. He sat there in the saddle, tired and cold and wet, and knew he had pushed it all he could. Its wound was not fatal, but the beast needed rest and care to mend. Tobeszijian had time for neither. He could not set the creature free in these woods, where it would hunt and attack man, dwarf, or creature alike. Which meant he would have to kill it.
“Not yet,” he said through his teeth, thinking of the long walk ahead of him. A king afoot in a foreign land? It was a mockery.
Again he urged the darsteed forward, but it stood there with its snout on the ground and would not respond.
Fury and frustration choked Tobeszijian. He knew he had only himself to blame for the darsteed’s injury. Tilting back his head, Tobeszijian lifted his fist to the sky. If only he’d used the Ring to go north to Prince Volvn’s stronghold as he’d first intended. If only he hadn’t been warned not to take the children back into Nether. It was unfair of the gods to set so strict a limitation on the use of the Ring. Only three tries? When there was need of more? “Damn you!” he shouted. Drawing his sword, he whacked the darsteed’s rump with the flat of his blade.
It hissed and whipped its head around defiantly, but took no step forward. Again he struck it, shouting curses and wishing he had not let Jorb talk him out of his spurs, but all his efforts to urge the creature on were for naught. The darsteed instead sank to its knees.
Tobeszijian twisted around in the saddle and started to dismount. But at that moment he heard a sudden pop of sound, and a creature black and hairy materialized from thin air to stand directly in his path. It was half the size of the darsteed, and so lean it seemed almost flat when it turned to the side. A stench of sulfur hung on its fur, and its bony head turned on a long, sinuous neck to bare multiple rows of savage teeth at Tobeszijian. The darsteed bellowed and reared up with an awkward lunge, nearly unseating its rider. Furious at himself for being caught off guard, Tobeszijian had only a second to wonder why his senses had not warned him a Nonkind was this close before the sylith leaped forward.
As the darsteed lashed out with its sharp hooves and the sylith dodged with a snarl, Tobeszijian drew Mirengard. In the presence of Nonkind its blade glowed as white as the purest flame.
Swinging aloft, Tobeszijian fought to control the darsteed and managed to pivot his mount around just as the sylith sprang up at him. Tobeszijian’s blade sliced cleanly through the sylith’s thin neck, dropping its head to the ground with a spurt of acidic blood that splattered and steamed in the cold air. He smelled the dreadful decayed stench of it and tried desperately to breathe through his mouth.
The headless body of the monster staggered about, refusing to topple. Bugling a challenge, the darsteed brought its sharp hooves down upon the sylith’s head, crushing it. Snorting flame, the darsteed set the sylith’s narrow body afire. A shriek rent the air, fading into the ether as the sylith finally died. Its charred body crashed to the ground and lay still. The reek of burned flesh filled the air.
Mirengard glowed even brighter, and the sword’s power flowed down its blade, dripping off the tip and cleansing the foul blood away. Tiny silver puddles shimmered on the trampled ground, and green vines sprouted there, unfurling new leaves despite the frost-laden air. In less than a day the vines would grow over the sylith’s charred corpse and conceal it as though it had never been there. Continuing down his road, Tobeszijian drew in a few deep breaths and wondered what had made the monster attack him alone. Syliths seldom hunted singly. Another one was bound to be nearby. He lifted his face to the damp breeze, questing, but sensed nothing. A shiver moved down his spine, and he kept Mirengard gripped in his hand instead of sheathing it. Snorting little spurts of flame, its eyes glowing red, its tail lashing viciously behind it, the darsteed trotted a few steps, restive and fiery, before it began to limp again.
Tobeszijian kept it going. Settling himself deeper in the saddle, he maintained a wary lookout. He smelled nothing other than the darsteed’s lathered sweat, damp soil, and the half-rotted leaves of the forest, yet he stayed tense and ready.
At that moment, twin shrieks filled the air before him. He reined up sharply, his heart nearly bursting through his breastplate. Just as the darsteed wheeled sideways, two hurlhounds materialized on the road, blocking it. The darsteed, still hot with battle-lust, bellowed and lunged against the reins. Another cry answered from behind. Two more hurlhounds appeared there, cutting him off from retreat.
Tobeszijian swore and spurred the darsteed into the forest, although he knew that with its wounded shoulder it could not outrun this unholy pack. The darsteed reared, and he glimpsed yet a fifth hurlhound, springing at them from the undergrowth.
Black-scaled and vicious, their eyes glowing red and their fangs dripping death, the hurlhounds closed in. Darsteed and rider fought with hooves and sword, grimly determined to prevail. But two of the hounds bit deep into the darsteed’s hindquarters, cutting tendons, and brought it halfway down. The darsteed screamed with pain, and its agony flooded Tobeszijian’s senses even as he twisted in the saddle to hack into one of the hurlhounds. The creature collapsed with a yelp, and its companion snarled and sprang back out of reach. At that moment, Tobeszijian was struck from the left by the weight of another, which gripped the folds of his heavy cloak in its mouth and tried to drag him from the saddle.
Tobeszijian drew his dagger and struck the hurlhound in the face. His dagger point skidded across its scaled skull and rammed into one of its red eyes. Snarling and yelping, the hurlhound snapped back its head so violently that Tobeszijian’s dagger was torn from his hand.
He struck with Mirengard to fend off another attack, but one of the creatures sank its fangs into his leg.
Venom poured into his flesh like fire. He heard himself screaming a wild, senseless mixture of curses and prayers. The darsteed bucked beneath him as it tried to pull its crippled hind legs up beneath it. Wobbling, it threw Tobeszijian off balance, and with a moan let itself sink down, only to thrash wildly again.
The remaining hurlhounds did not let up. One went for the darsteed’s throat while another nearly pulled Tobeszijian from the saddle. Streaming blood, racked with agony, he killed it, but more of the creatures kept appearing, making sure he stayed surrounded and outnumbered.
Their dim, bestial minds hammered at his: Kill/kill/kill/kill.
And another unholy mind came with theirs, one cold, sentient, and clear:
Where/where/where/where?
Tobeszijian’s mind was bombarded with images of the Chalice, death and decay, rotting bones, moldering intestines, gaping wounds, hot biting joy at killing, and implacable fury mingled with frustration.
He gasped, struggling with all his might to hold his mind shut against the mad hounds and their unseen master. He would not surrender the Chalice. Not even to save himself.
He knew he could not prevail. He was tiring, and he wore no spell of protection to shield him. His wounds burned with such fire he thought he might pass out. Yet the pain goaded him to keep fighting even as the poison sapped his strength. He felt himself weakening fast. His sword arm slowed, feeling increasingly heavy. Tiny gray dots danced in his vision. His spirit and mind remained strong, but his body was dying.
Turning in a tight circle, he struck again and again, beating back the hurlhounds with diminishing strength. The poison in his veins was something dark and tangled, tainted with horrors worse than death. His body jerked, and he fought the need to thrash against whatever burned inside him. He would not give way to it, would not become a part of the evil surrounding him. “No,” he said raggedly, hacking a terrible wound across the neck of a lunging hurlhound. With its head nearly severed from its body, it staggered in a circle and snapped bloody, hissing froth at one of its mates. Wild laughter suddenly filled the air above the ferocious snarls and growls. Yelping, the uninjured hurlhounds sprang back from Tobeszijian as though obeying a silent command. Those bleeding with wounds froze in their tracks and abruptly collapsed.
Swaying, Tobeszijian blinked away the dancing dots for a moment and glanced around.
A short distance away, a trio of men mounted on darsteeds emerged from the woods. Their helms were plain and black. Their hauberks were made not of chain mail, but instead of thinly sliced disks of obsidian stone, coating their bodies like the darsteeds’ scales. Gloved and spurred, with long broadswords of black steel hanging at their sides, they stared at Tobeszijian in silence. He saw their eyes glow red and unnatural through the slits in their helms. When they breathed, the stone disks of their armor made faint clacking sounds, and smoke curled forth from their nostrils. The damp air reeked of sulfur and death. One of the three held a cage that swung freely on a chain. Within the cage writhed something misty and formless. Smaller than a man, it lengthened itself and then shrank, always in flux. It was colored the same sickly gray hue as wood fungus, and it was far more to be feared than any of the other Nonkind present. It was horribly, completely evil. A soultaker.
Tobeszijian’s breath froze in his lungs. Fear rushed through his bowels as though he had suddenly swallowed hot liquid. While syliths and hurlhounds ripped a man’s body apart, soul-takers came to it, lay on it, and took that which the gods granted to men and not to beasts.
On the battlefield, from afar, Tobeszijian had witnessed soultakers feeding on their victims. He had heard the screams that mortal throats should never make. He had seen afterward the soultakers rise into the air, writhing, bloated, and colored brightly by the life and essence of what they’d consumed. He had seen the corpses rise and follow commands, their dead white faces staring with eyes that no longer saw, their slack mouths sagging open, their clutching hands outstretched to attack the living troops that often fled in disarray. Tobeszijian had seen soultakers sit on the shoulders of these walking corpses, like riders on their mounts. And he had sometimes witnessed soldiers of the darkness such as these opening cages to unleash soultakers within. Fury and fear tangled with desperation in his throat. That thing would not take him, he vowed grimly. It would not eat his soul and then use his rotting body to harm others. Whether dead or alive, he’d become no eternal prisoner of the Nonkind, doomed for all eternity.
Tobeszijian fought off his swimming dizziness and drew himself erect. Streaming with blood from his wounds, his lungs aching for air, he gripped Mirengard with both hands and raised it in challenge to the Nonkind soldiers. glowed a blinding white, as did the Ring of Solder on his finger. Frowning, Tobeszijian reached deep inside his faith, drawing on the power of the Sword and Ring. “In the name of Thod,” he said in a voice that rang out in the silence, “begone, foul demons, and let me pass.”
“Surrender the Chalice and you may pass.” The voice that answered him was gravelly and strangled, almost too hoarse to be understood. Tobeszijian lifted his head higher. He never parleyed with the Nonkind, never discussed their terms. His father had warned him to refuse any request, simply and straightforwardly, and to keep refusing. For to be drawn into conversation was to give their evil minds time to find a way of tricking him. He met the fierce red eyes of the soldiers. Around him the hurlhounds panted and watched, their fangs dripping saliva that hissed and steamed. “Surrender the Chalice,” the hoarse voice commanded again. “No,” Tobeszijian said, forcing his voice to sound strong and firm while his heart thudded beneath his breastplate. The poison was burning even hotter inside him now, making him shiver and sweat. He wanted to drop to his knees and cry out for mercy. That desire was so foreign and false that he felt appalled, then realized their minds were trying to force his compliance. “No!” he cried. “Surrender,” the soldier in the center of the trio said.
Through Tobeszijian’s mind writhed whispers of
Surrender/surrender/surrender/surrender.
“What makes you think I have the Chalice?” Tobeszijian countered. “I am a common traveler, on my road. You are mistaken.”
Rasping, terrible laughter filled the air. “King Tobeszijian, you have become a liar and a coward. Without your armies and your spells, you stink of fear.” Tobeszijian stiffened, but inside he was horrified by the truth of what the Nonkind had said. Never before had he known any cowardice in himself. Never before had he broken from his training. Never before had he been as afraid as he was now.
It was the poison, he told himself feverishly. He had to take care and not let its influence work tricks on his mind.
“Surrender the Chalice,” the Nonkind said to him.
The command held force now, a force that rocked Tobeszijian back on his heels. He nearly toppled over backward. Catching his balance, he blinked sweat from his eyes and gripped Mirengard desperately. Protect me, he prayed to it. He knew that the Nonkind would hammer at his will and courage while the poison sapped his strength. He would have to fight until the hurlhounds tore him apart. Then the soultaker would defile him, taking his thoughts and knowledge, and imprisoning his spirit forever. The location of the Chalice would be known to them, and all would be lost—not just his life and his kingdom, but the very world of truth, mercy, and good.
“Thod have mercy on me,” he prayed aloud. Mirengard glowed even brighter, until the blade was a shining flame. He did not want to die, but he could not give these creatures what they wanted.
Tobeszijian shivered and recalled his youth, when his father had taken him far from the palace on a winter’s day. In a secret place, King Runtha had made him swear grave oaths of responsibility for the Chalice’s safekeeping. Runtha’s voice had been solemn and calm as he recited the words. Tobeszijian had repeated them after him, and the words and phrases had echoed strangely in the air around him.
He opened his mouth now to repeat those oaths, but before he could speak the hounds snarled and sprang at him from all sides.
Tobeszijian staggered in an attempted feint, his weakened and bloody body unable to carry through on the maneuver. He struck hard with Mirengard, but a set of poisonous jaws clamped onto his hip from behind, and Tobeszijian cried out as he was driven to his knees.
“No!” he shouted. “May Thod rot you, demon!”
Twisting, he sliced with Mirengard, and the shining sword cleaved the hound in two. The remaining hounds circled him with snapping jaws, but he pivoted on his knees, swinging Mirengard, and they dodged away.
Heartened by their cowardice, Tobeszijian found the strength to stagger back to his feet. The hounds closed in, menace glowing in their red eyes. Awash with agony, Tobeszijian circled with them. The dancing dots were back in his vision, and his breath sounded ragged and harsh in his ears. Hearing a soft click, he glanced up just as one of the Nonkind soldiers opened the soultaker’s cage.
The thing, so pale and formless, slid its pallid tendrils through the opening, and the rest of it flowed out. Writhing, it floated in the air near Tobeszijian, who stared at it in horror and dread.
Thoughts as thin as needles of rain slid into his mind: Come/come/come/come to me, and I shall eat you, king of men.
Screaming an oath, Tobeszijian swung Mirengard at it with all his might, but the soultaker sailed upward, and he missed.
A hurlhound struck his back, knocking him down. He heard the ferocious growling as the thing bit his shoulder through his armor, trying for his neck. Shouting, Tobeszijian felt himself lifted by the monster and shaken hard, the way a dog shakes a rat. He felt his neck pop and a dreadful numb sensation spread through him.
In desperation, he looked down and saw Mirengard still glowing white and pure in his bloody hand. He saw the Ring of Solder shining on his forefinger, its power there for the taking, the using. He had spent his three journeys, all that were allowed, but Tobeszijian no longer cared about rules or warnings. He was dying here, defeated and alone. The Ring was his final chance to save himself, to save his soul, to save the Chalice.
Desperately he sent his thoughts into the power of the Ring, finding its center. He saw the blinding flash, heard the great pop as he was sucked once more into the second world. In the distance he heard howls of anger, as though the hurlhounds were trying to follow him here into this place of gray silence, but this time he went hurtling, hurtling, hurtling as though slung by a catapult. He could not move, could not aim himself, could not command his own body. Instead, he plummeted through the mists of the second world, and flew toward a shining barrier that sparkled and swirled ahead of him. He felt strange tremors in his body, accompanied by a rush of chilling coldness that doused the fire burning his wounds.
Too late he realized he had leaped into the second world without a destination in his mind.
He found himself spinning around and around as though still falling through the air. He seemed to be shrinking, and faintly he heard voices rising and falling in powerful murmurs, voices that seemed to have the power to break all creation if they chose.
Was he going to the third world? Was he now dead like his poor, sweet Nereisse? Would he be reunited with her on the other side of that glowing curtain of light as the Writ promised?
But there was something unfinished. Something that needed doing. Some responsibility he had left behind him.
“You never stick to your duty, boy,” his father’s voice suddenly boomed at him.
“It’s duty that keeps a king strong.”
“My lord prince, if you will not keep your mind on your studies you will never learn the strategies of rule,” his tutor’s voice said with a sigh. “Dear husband, I feel a sense of unease that I cannot as yet explain,” Nereisse said on the eve of his departure. “Must you go so far away to hunt this year? Must you be gone so long?”
“My papa! Don’t leave me! My papa!”
What had he forgotten? What was there left for him to do? Spinning in the lost currents of nowhere, Tobeszijian struggled to remember what had been so important to him. He felt shame lingering on his senses, shame for all he’d left undone. It was time he proved himself, time he stuck with his duty.
But hadn’t he done enough? He had lost his throne, but he had saved the Chalice from the hands of evil. Was that not duty enough performed? He found himself at the shining barrier of light. How beautiful and wondrous it was. How brightly it shone. He squinted and thought he could see shapes moving behind it. The third world, he thought with a rush of excitement and joy. He tried to reach out to it, wanting to find Nereisse, wanting to find happiness.
But his duty was unfinished. Had he stayed home instead of going hunting, his enemies would not have had such an easy opportunity to strike against him. Had he chosen his travels more wisely, he might have needed to use the Ring only thrice, as commanded. Had he imprisoned Muncel or exiled him when he first succeeded their father, his half-brother would not have found it so convenient to betray him.
So many mistakes, but this time he would not make another. The barrier’s radiant glow shone across his face. He could feel its warmth, so lovely and refreshing. But when he tried to reach through the light, his hand bounced off something. He could not see the shapes behind it except as motion and color. He could not see Nereisse. He tried to call out, but he had no voice here in the gray void of the second world.
And he knew that he must finish his task before he could pass through. For once in his life he must be the king his father and his subjects had expected him to be. Muncel must not stay on the throne of Nether. The evil that had crept into the land must be driven out. These remained his responsibilities. Sighing, feeling hollow with regret, Tobeszijian turned back from the gateway to the third world and found himself plunging forever in the gray mists, unable to escape them, his obligations like a chain that held him shackled. On the narrow road in the forests of Nold, all lay quiet and still. There remained nothing to see of the battle which had raged in King Tobeszijian’s final moments except the churned ground and the stripped bones of his darsteed’s eaten carcass.
A week or so later, a peddler came wandering along in a drizzling rain, whistling softly to firm his courage there in the gloom of forest. Many tales were told about the legendary Dark Forest of Nold. These woods had seen centuries of evil aprowl, and old battles fought by gods, and long terrors, and darkness, and doom.
The peddler had traveled the length and breadth of Nold often enough to keep him wary but not unduly afraid. Stories were stories. He had a sharp dagger in his belt and a set of good wits. He was a small man, quick of thought and keen of eye.
He paused when he came to the battleground, sensing some lingering disquiet in the air. Doffing his cap, he made a quick sign with his nimble fingers to ward off evil and left the narrow track to tiptoe around the spot where clearly death had struck.
The drizzle stopped and the clouds overhead parted for a moment to let sunshine fall into the forest. In the moisture-laden air, the light sparkled with the soft, magical colors of rainbow.
A wink of something glittering in that beautiful light caught the peddler’s eye, and he stopped.
Stooping low, he peered at the ground a long, cautious while. At last, satisfied that no invisible trap of evil had been set there to snare him, he took one quick step onto the torn, muddy ground. He picked up the object and held it aloft.
The ring glittered and flashed in the sunlight. It was finely wrought, its band stamped all around with intricate rune carvings. The top was set with a large oval stone as pale and smooth as milk. He had never seen anything so fine except on the fingers of rich noblemen. Now here, on this lonely road, lay the long bones of a noble’s rather large horse, lay also the chewed and tattered remains of a fine leather saddle, lay the noble’s fine finger ring; in fact, lay all but the bones of the noble himself.
The peddler grinned to himself at his good luck, and couldn’t resist polishing the ring on the front of his jerkin. A fine piece, worthy of a king, he thought. It would bring him luck. It would bring him a pretty price when he sold it. Not in Nold, of course. The scattered villages and burrows held only rude dwarves willing to buy a few trinkets, colored ribbon, or tea leaves bound up in little bags of coarse cloth, but nothing better. No, he’d not sell this fancy ring until he crossed the border into the rich land of Mandria. He was not an impatient or a greedy man, but when luck came his way he knew what to do with it.
Still grinning to himself, the peddler secured the ring in a safe place inside his clothing. Putting his cap back on, he shouldered his pack and continued on down the road, whistling to himself. Never once did he see the silent shadows which slid forth from among the trees to follow him on his journey.