“ ‘Tis over!” he shouted. “Surrender now or—”

“Nay, pretender!” Muncel shouted back. “You have lost by coming here.” “My men are defeating your monsters,” Dain said. “Your Netheran knights have already deserted you. Soon you’ll be—” “You have lost!” Muncel shouted, shaking his fists and laughing wildly. “They said you would come to the trap, and so you have. You always do, foolish boy.” Dain frowned, staring at the man in puzzlement, for he saw no trap. Lord Omas caught up with him, and the rest of his men were breaking through now. But a cyclone suddenly spun into existence between Dain and his men, cutting off the Agyas. The trap he had not seen sprang shut.

Muncel stepped aside, and as the protection spell dropped, three magemons with rounded shoulders and moon-shaped faces stood revealed. Their mouths were bloodstained and they stank of rotten meat. Standing shoulder to shoulder, they stared at Dain with their weird, compelling eyes, and an involuntary shudder went through him. He felt suddenly light-headed and cold.  In a flash, he remembered the two previous times he’d felt this way, as though he were sinking into a place where all the life was being drained from him.  “The Chief Believer has no need for you now,” Muncel said with glee, rubbing his hands together. “When I give him the Chalice you have brought from hiding, his Great Plan will be accomplished without you. And now these magemons can complete their spell, as they promised me. You are dead, pretender! Dead!” At last Dain understood what Samderaudin had meant by the last part of his prophecy, about the reach of Ashnod being long, about the consequences of exchanging Truthseeker—which had protected him from this spell—for Mirengard, which could not.

The terrible coldness sank through his limbs. It slowed his heart, smothered his lungs. Gritting his teeth, he spurred the darsteed forward, intending to strike Muncel down, but the darsteed took no more than a couple of steps before it stopped and would not budge.

“Sire!” Lord Omas yelled in alarm. “What’s amiss? What are they doing to you?”

“Attack,” Dain commanded.

Lord Omas charged the magemons, only to be knocked from his saddle by an invisible force.

Despite his efforts to resist, Dain felt his life being stolen bit by bit. His energy drained from him until he could no longer stay astride the darsteed. He felt himself sway, then the next thing he knew was the jolt of impact as he hit the snow-trampled ground. Lying there, certain this was the end, he used all he had left to keep his grip on Mirengard.

Muncel walked up to him, the hem of his long, fur-trimmed robes dragging on the snow. He wore red leather slippers with long pointed toes. The man was not even dressed for war, Dain thought in disgust. Chances were he’d never fought in a battle in his life.

“And now you die, spawn of my half-brother and his blasphemous slut. You are the last of the mixed blood tainting my ancestral line. Nether is finally free of you, as it will soon be free of all eldin.” He kicked Dain in the head. “Now die!”

But although the coldness still dragged through Dain’s limbs, rendering him weak and sluggish, he didn’t die as he was supposed to. He reached out, gripped Muncel’s foot, and hung on for dear life.

Muncel jerked his foot, but was unable to pull free of Dain’s grasp. “Kill him!” he shouted at the magemons. “Tulvak Sahm, why does he not die?” The sorcerel, hovering nearby, craned his neck to peer at Dain without coming closer. “He is not what he appears to be. The fates have changed.” “What?” Muncel glared at him. “What do you mean?” But the sorcerel simply pressed his long hands together and vanished into thin air.

Muncel’s mouth fell open, and he shook his fist. “Come back! Damne! You there!” he said, beckoning to his protector. “Give me your sword. I’ll deal with this puppy myself.”

But the man’s eyes were bulging with terror. He turned and ran away.  Cursing him, Muncel tried again to twist his foot from Dain’s grasp, but Dain could feel his strength seeping back. He tightened his fingers and would not let go.

Muncel reached down and grabbed Mirengard from Dain’s hand. “This should have been mine as well,” he muttered, then a scream burst from his throat, and he dropped the sword in the snow. His hands were on fire, the skin blistering and charring as the flames burned higher. Frantically he beat them against himself, but only set his clothing on fire. Dain released his foot, and he flung himself to the ground, rolling over and over and screaming horribly. The flames would not go out.

His generals and protector stared openmouthed, then fled.  Dain knew this was his chance. He scrambled clumsily to his feet, still hampered by the spell, which could not kill him but held him weak. Although lifting Mirengard seemed to take more strength than he had, he staggered over to the magemons and plunged his sword into the nearest of the three.  A high-pitched scream hurt his ears, and then they were all three screaming. A terrible stink filled the air, and the magemon Dain had stabbed began to burn.  The others caught fire from him, but Dain stabbed them all in swift succession just to make sure.

As they went up like kindling, still screaming, the last vestiges of their spell dropped away so suddenly he staggered.

Lord Omas caught him with a steadying arm. “Sire! Great Thod, are you all right?”

Dain grinned at him, blinking as he realized Tobeszijian’s presence had saved his life. “Aye,” he said. “Let’s get back to the rest of this battle.” The cyclone which had fended off the Agyas vanished, and they came rushing up to stare, hard-faced and unsympathetic, at Muncel, who was still burning alive.  It was a horrible death, but Dain knew of no way to hasten the end for him. He looked at that agonized face, still visible through the flames, and thought of how his mother must have died, suffering in agony, deserted by her court and friends, as the eld-poison ate her alive.

“Majesty, the battle is turning against us!” one of the Agyas shouted.  Dain looked where he pointed and saw the rebel forces falling back beneath another onslaught of Believers. Cursing, Dain sprang onto his darsteed and wrenched the animal around.

“Let’s to it!” he shouted.

But even as he spurred his mount forward, he did not know whether they could prevail. His forces were tiring. Many lay dead. Despite the desertions, there were still plenty of Believers, far too many.

Then there came the loud wailing of horns in the distance, horns Dain had not heard in a long time. He looked around, refusing to believe his ears, as suddenly a new army appeared at the edge of the meadow.  Reining up hard, Dain stared with his heart pounding. He did not want to hope, did not want to believe falsely.

Beside him, Lord Omas stood up in his stirrups. “Thod’s mercy,” he said in despair. “What is this come against us?”

The new army seemed to fill the horizon. With drums pounding and banners flying proudly, they marched forward, emerging from the forest and heading for the rear lines of the Gantese forces.

Dain kept staring. Snow had begun to fall in tiny spits of ice. He couldn’t see clearly. Couldn’t be sure.

Sir Thum, spattered with gore from head to foot, came galloping up with a wild yell that startled Lord Omas.

“Uplanders!” he shouted, grinning at Dain. “Mandrians! Look yon, sire! I see Thirst’s banner flying, and Lunt’s, and Carcel’s, and lowland banners as well.  And there! There! Do you see it?”

Dain looked, and at last saw the royal, purple and gold pennon of Mandria flying proudly above the others. And there, at the head of the army, rode an upright figure, broad-shouldered and breastplated in gold.

“King Verence,” Dain said in wonder. “He has brought his army.” Thum whooped like a crazed man while the Agyas stared in astonishment. “Now see some real knights in action!” he shouted just as the distant orders rang out.  The Mandrians began their charge.

Shaking off his amazement, Dain called out orders to his men. “Now is the time to strike hard, while these fiends are caught between us. For Nether!” he shouted, making his darsteed rear.

At that moment the clouds parted and a pale shaft of sunlight came down. It shone over Mirengard as Dain held it aloft, and the blade flashed brightly for all to see.

They rejoined the battle, chanting their war cries as they charged the rattled Believers. Soon thereafter, the combat finally ended. The air hung heavy with the stench of burned and salted Nonkind. The last of the Believers had either galloped out of sight or been taken prisoner and lined up in long rows, where grim-faced Netherans executed them one by one.

Twilight began to draw shadows across the meadow. The air lay still and very cold. Dain, weary to the bone and sticky with dried blood and gore, made his way back to the massive tree. He dismounted, his legs feeling wooden, his mind numb.  Romsalkin, beaming from ear to ear, bellowed orders, and a chair and a cup of wine were brought for Dain. He quaffed down the liquid without tasting it, sighed, and pulled off his gloves. But he knew he could not rest yet. There was still something else to be done.

“My lord,” he said to Omas, who bent over him at once. “Is this the Tree of Life?”

Omas looked blank. “Indeed, I know not, sire.” He turned and called out, “Lord Romsalkin, is this the Tree of Life?”

Dain’s mind was spinning with a hundred details. Muncel, his flames put out at last by Samderaudin, lay salted among the dead, his slain officers beside him.  Dain had no idea if Pheresa had been attended to properly. He hadn’t seen Alexeika during the entire battle and was worried about what had become of her.  There was still King Verence to find and thank properly, before Dain delivered the terrible news about Gavril.

Yet before he could do anything else, he had one task that overrode them all. He could feel a terrible sense of urgency beginning to burn inside him. “I must know,” he said.

Romsalkin stared at him, then the old tree. Its branches were gnarled and stunted. At one time part of it had split, leaving a gaping hole high in the upper part of the trunk. When Dain put his bare hand on the rough bark, he felt no life in it, not even dormancy.

“The eldin told me the Tree of Life was dead,” he said. “Does no one know if this is it?”

“Aye, majesty,” said an old, quavery voice. It belonged to one of the priests.  Stooped and white-headed, he limped forward. “So says the legend. ‘Twas under these branches that the eldin worshiped long ago, before the First Circle was made by men and eld-folk. All kings of Nether, save the usurper, did vow to protect this tree.”

Dain drew a deep breath, listening to what spoke inside him. “Then I must be alone,” he said, and swept them all with his gaze. “Leave me for a few minutes.” They stood there, staring at him with concern. It was Lord Omas who finally began to shoo them away. “You heard his majesty. Withdraw. Give him the privacy he needs.”

Muttering and uncertain, they backed away, Romsalkin included. Lord Omas would not even let a squire come up to light the cressets. And he himself retreated a short distance from Dain, close enough to help if wanted, but not intruding.  In the distance came a stir and the noise of several voices. Pages ran through the crowd of Netherans, crying out, “Make way for King Verence!” Dain ignored the approach of the Mandrian party. Tobeszijian had to be attended to first.

He knelt at the base of the old tree, not yet fully understanding what he was to do. Despite the noise and commotion behind him as Lord Omas held the Mandrians back, Dain bowed his head.

Tobeszijian’s spirit slipped from him, and for a moment Dain saw his father’s ghostly visage shimmering at him in the gloom.

“I came back,” he whispered. “The people will never know it, but thanks to your help, my son, I came back to them.”