9

Horns of doom.

Lumbering down the northern corridor in search of Berem, Caramon ignored the startled yells and calls and grasping hands of prisoners reaching out from the barred cells. But there was no sight of Berem and no sign of his passing. He tried asking the other prisoners if they had seen him, but most were so unhinged by the tortures they had endured that they made no sense and, eventually, his mind filled with horror and pity, Caramon left them alone. He kept walking, following the corridor that led him ever downward. Looking around, he wondered in despair how he would ever find the crazed man. His only consolation was that no other corridors branched off from this central one. Berem must have come this way! But if so, where was he?

Peering into cells, stumbling around corners, Caramon almost missed a big hobgoblin guard, who lunged out at him. Swinging his sword irritably, annoyed at the interruption, Caramon swept the creature’s head off and was on his way before the body hit the stone floor.

Then he heaved a sigh of relief. Hurrying down a staircase, he had nearly stepped on the body of another dead hobgoblin. It’s neck had been twisted by strong hands. Plainly, Berem had been here, and not long ago. The body was not yet cold.

Certain now he was on the man’s trail, Caramon began to run. The prisoners in the cells he passed were nothing but blurs to the big warrior as he ran by. Their voices shrilled in his ears, begging for freedom.

Let them loose, and I’d have an army, Caramon thought suddenly. He toyed with the idea of stopping a moment and unlocking the cell doors, when suddenly he heard a terrible howling sound and shouting coming from somewhere ahead of him.

Recognizing Berem’s roar, Caramon plunged ahead. The cells came to an end, the corridor narrowed to a tunnel that cut a deep spiral well into the ground. Torches glimmered on the walls, but they were few and spaced far between. Caramon ran down the tunnel, the roar growing louder as he drew closer. The big warrior tried to hurry, but the floor was slick and slimy, the air became danker and heavy with moisture the farther down he went. Afraid he might slip and fall, he was forced to slow his pace. The shouts were closer, just ahead of him. The tunnel grew lighter, he must be coming near the end.

And then he saw Berem. Two draconians were slashing at him, their swords gleaming in the torchlight. Berem fought them off with his bare hands as light from the green gemstone lit the small, enclosed chamber with an eerie brilliance.

It was a mark of Berem’s insane strength that he had held them off this long. Blood ran freely from a cut across his face and flowed from a deep gash in his side. Even as Caramon dashed to his aid, slipping in the muck, Berem grasped a draconian’s sword blade in his hand just as its point touched his chest. The cruel steel bit into his flesh, but he was oblivious to pain. Blood poured down his arm as he turned the blade and— with a heave—shoved the draconian backwards. Then he staggered, gasping for breath. The other draconian guard closed in for the kill.

Intent upon their prey, the guards never saw Caramon. Leaping out of the tunnel, Caramon remembered just in time not to stab the creatures or he risked losing his sword. Grabbing one of the guards in his huge hands, he twisted its head, neatly snapping its neck. Dropping the body, he met the other draconian’s savage lunge with a quick chopping motion of his hand to the creature’s throat. It pitched backwards.

‘Berem, are you all right?’ Caramon turned and was starting to help Berem when he suddenly felt a searing pain rip through his side.

Gasping in agony, he staggered around to see a draconian behind him. Apparently it had been hiding in the shadows, perhaps at hearing Caramon’s coming. Its sword thrust should have killed, but it was aimed in haste and slanted off Caramon’s mail armor. Scrabbling for his own sword, Caramon stumbled backwards to gain time.

The draconian didn’t intend giving him any. Raising its blade, it lunged at Caramon.

There was a blur of movement, a flash of green light, and the draconian fell dead at Caramon’s feet.

‘Berem!’ Caramon gasped, pressing his hand over his side. Thanks! How—’

But the Everman stared at Caramon without recognition. Then, nodding slowly, he turned and started to walk away.

‘Wait!’ Caramon called. Gritting his teeth against the pain, the big man jumped over the draconian bodies and hurled himself after Berem. Clutching his arm, he dragged the man to a stop. ‘Wait, damn it!’ he repeated, holding on to him.

The sudden movement took its toll. The room swam before his eyes, forcing Caramon to stand still a moment, fighting the pain of his injury. When he could see again, he looked around, getting his bearings.

‘Where are we?’ he asked without expecting an answer, just wanting Berem to hear the sound of his voice.

‘Far, far below the Temple,’ Berem replied in a hollow tone. ‘I am close. Very close now.’

‘Yeah,’ Caramon agreed without understanding. Keeping a fast hold on Berem, he continued to look around. The stone stairs he had come down ended in a small circular chamber. A guardroom, he realized, seeing an old table and several chairs sitting beneath a torch on the wall. It made sense. The draconians down here must have been guards. Berem had stumbled on them accidentally. But what could the draconians have been guarding?

Caramon glanced quickly around the small stone chamber but saw nothing. The room was perhaps twenty paces in diameter, carved out of rock. The spiral stone stairs ended in this room and—across from them—an archway led out. It was toward this archway Berem had been walking when Caramon caught hold of him. Peering through the arch, Caramon saw nothing. It was dark beyond, so dark Caramon felt as if he were staring into the Great Darkness the legends spoke of. Darkness that had existed in the void long before the gods created light.

The only sound he could hear was the gurgling and splash of water. An underground stream, he thought, which accounted for the humid air. Stepping back a pace, he examined the archway above him.

It was not carved out of the rock as was the small chamber they were in. It had been built of stone, crafted by expert hands. He could see vague outlines of elaborate carvings that had once decorated it, but he could make nothing out, They had long ago been worn away by time and the moisture in the air.

As he studied the arch, hoping for a clue to guide him, Caramon nearly fell as Berem clutched at him with sudden, fierce energy.

‘I know you!’ the man cried.

‘Sure,’ Caramon grunted. ‘What in the name of the Abyss are you doing down here?’

‘Jasla calls . . .’ Berem said, the wild look glazing his eyes once more. Turning, he stared into the darkness beyond the archway. ‘In there, I must go . . .. Guards . . . tried to stop me. You come with me.’

Then Caramon realized that the guards must have been guarding this arch! For what reason? What was beyond? Had they recognized Berem or were they simply acting under orders to keep everyone out? He didn’t know the answers to any of these questions, and then it occurred to him that the answers didn’t matter. Neither did the questions.

‘You have to go in there,’ he said to Berem. It was a statement, not a question. Berem nodded and took a step forward eagerly. He would have walked straight into the darkness if Caramon hadn’t jerked him back.

‘Wait, we’ll need light,’ the big man said with a sigh. ‘Stay put!’ Patting Berem on the arm, then keeping his gaze fixed on him, Caramon backed up until his groping hand came into contact with a torch on the wall. Lifting it from its sconce, he returned to Berem.

‘I’ll go with you,’ he said heavily, wondering how long he could keep going before he collapsed from pain and loss of blood. ‘Here, hold that a minute.’ Handing Berem the torch, he tore off a strip of cloth from the ragged remains of Berem’s shirt and bound it firmly around the wound in his side. Then, taking the torch back, he led the way beneath the arch.

Passing between the stone supports, Caramon felt something brush across his face. ‘Cobweb!’ he muttered, pawing at it in disgust. He glanced around fearfully, having a dread of spiders. But there was nothing there. Shrugging, he thought no more of it and continued through the arch, drawing Berem after him.

The air was split with trumpet blasts.

‘Trapped!’ Caramon said grimly.

‘Tika!’ Tas gasped proudly as they ran down the gloomy dungeon corridor. ‘Your plan worked.’ The kender risked a glance over his shoulder. ‘Yes,’ he said breathlessly, ‘I think they’re all following us!’

‘Wonderful,’ muttered Tika. Somehow she hadn’t expected her plan to work quite so well. No other plans she had ever made in her life had worked out. Wouldn’t you know this would be a first? She, too, cast a quick glance over her shoulder. There must be six or seven draconians chasing after them, their long curved swords in the clawed hands.

Though the claw-footed draconians could not run as swiftly as either the girl or the kender, they had incredible endurance. Tika and Tas had a good head start, but it wasn’t going to last. She was already panting for breath, and there was a sharp pain in her side that made her want to double over in agony.

But every second I keep running gives Caramon a little more time, she told herself. I draw the draconians just that much farther away.

‘Say, Tika’—Tas’s tongue was hanging out of his mouth, his face, cheerful as always, was pale with fatigue—’do you know where we’re going?’

Tika shook her head. She hadn’t breath left to speak. She felt herself slowing, her legs were like lead. Another look back showed her that the draconians were gaining. Quickly she glanced around, hoping to find another corridor branching off from this main one, or even a niche, a doorway—any kind of hiding place. There was nothing. The corridor stretched before them, silent and empty. There weren’t even any cells. It was a long, narrow, smooth, and seemingly endless stone tunnel that sloped gradually upwards.

Then a sudden realization nearly brought her up short. Slowing, gasping for breath, she stared at Tas, who was only dimly visible in the light of smoking torches.

‘The tunnel . . . it’s rising . . .’ She coughed.

Tas blinked at her uncomprehendingly, then his face brightened.

‘It leads up and out!’ he shouted jubilantly. ‘You’ve done it, Tika!’

‘Maybe . . .’ Tika said, hedging.

‘Come on!’ Tas yelled in excitement, finding new energy. Grabbing Tika’s hand, he pulled her along. ‘I know you’re right, Tika! Smell’—he sniffed—’fresh air! We’ll escape . . . and find Tanis . . . and come back and . . . rescue Caramon—’

Only a kender could talk and run headlong down a corridor being chased by draconians at the same time, Tika thought wearily. She was being carried forward by sheer terror now, she knew. And soon that would leave her. Then she would collapse here in the tunnel, so tired and aching she wouldn’t care what the draconians—

Then, ‘Fresh air!’ she whispered.

She had honestly thought Tas was lying just to keep her going. But now she could feel a soft whisper of wind touch her cheek. Hope lightened her leaden legs. Glancing back, she thought she saw the draconians slowing. Maybe they realize they’ll never catch us now! Exultation swept over her.

‘Hurry, Tas!’ she yelled. Together they both raced with renewed energy up the corridor, the sweet air blowing stronger and stronger all the time.

Running headfirst around a corner, they both came up short so suddenly that Tasslehoff skidded on some loose gravel and slammed up against a wall.

‘So this is why they slowed down,’ Tika said softly.

The corridor came to an end. Two barred wooden doors sealed it shut. Small windows set into the doors, covered with iron gratings, allowed the night air to blow into the dungeon. She and Tas could see outside, they could see freedom—but they could not reach it.

‘Don’t give up!’ Tas said after a moment’s pause. Recovering quickly, he ran over and pulled on the doors. They were locked.

‘Drat,’ Tas muttered, eyeing the doors expertly. Caramon might have been able to batter his way through them, or break the lock with a blow of his sword. But not the kender, not Tika.

As Tas bent down to examine the lock, Tika leaned against a wall, wearily closing her eyes, blood beat in her head, the muscles in her legs knotted in painful spasms. Exhausted, she tasted the bitter salt of tears in her mouth and realized she was sobbing in pain and anger and frustration.

‘Don’t, Tika!’ Tas said, hurrying back to pat her hand. ‘It’s a simple lock. I can get us out of here in no time. Don’t cry, Tika. It’ll only take me a little while, but you ought to be ready for those draconians if they come. Just keep them busy—’

‘Right,’ Tika said, swallowing her tears. Hurriedly she wiped her nose with the back of her hand, then, sword in hand, she turned to face the corridor behind them while Tas took another look at the lock.

It was a simple, simple lock, he saw with satisfaction, guarded by such a simple trap he wondered why they even bothered.

Wondered why they even bothered . . . Simple lock . . . simple trap . . . The words rang in his mind. They were familiar! He’d thought them before . . .. Staring up at the doors in astonishment, Tas realized he’d been here before! But no, that was impossible.

Shaking his head irritably, Tas fumbled in his pouch for his tools. Then he stopped. Cold fear gripped the kender and shook him like a dog shakes a rat, leaving him limp.

The dream!

These had been the doors he saw in the Silvanesti dream! This had been the lock. The simple, simple lock with the simple trap! And Tika had been behind him, fighting . . . dying . . .

‘Here they come, Tas!’ Tika called, gripping her sword in sweating hands. She cast him a quick glance over her shoulder. ‘What are you doing? What are you waiting for?’

Tas couldn’t answer. He could hear the draconians now, laughing in their harsh voices as they took their time reaching their captives, certain the prisoners weren’t going any place. They rounded the corner and Tas heard their laughter grow louder when they saw Tika holding the sword.

‘I—I don’t think I can, Tika,’ Tas whimpered, staring at the lock in horror.

‘Tas,’ said Tika swiftly and grimly, backing up to talk to him without taking her eyes off her enemies, ‘we can’t let ourselves be captured! They know about Berem! They’ll try to make us tell what we know about him, Tas! And you know what they’ll do to us to make us talk—’

‘You’re right.’ said Tas miserably. ‘I’ll try.’

You’ve got the courage to walk it . . . Fizban had told him. Taking a deep breath, Tasslehoff pulled a thin wire out of one of his pouches. After all, he told his shaking hands sternly, what is death to a kender but the greatest adventure of all? And then there’s Flint out there, by himself. Probably getting into all sorts of scraps . . .. His hands now quite steady, Tas inserted the wire carefully into the lock and set to work.

Suddenly there was a harsh roar behind him; he heard Tika shout and the sound of steel clashing against steel.

Tas dared a quick look. Tika had never learned the art of swordsmanship, but she was a skilled barroom brawler. Hack ing and slashing with the blade, she kicked and gouged and bit and battered. The fury and ferocity of her attack drove the draconians back a pace. All of them were slashed and bleeding; one wallowed in green blood on the floor, its arm hanging uselessly.

But she couldn’t hold them off much longer. Tas turned back to his work, but now his hands trembled, the slender tool slipped out of his clammy grasp. The trick was to spring the lock without springing the trap. He could see the trap—a tiny needle held in place by a coiled spring.

Stop it! he ordered himself. Was this any way for a kender to act? He inserted the wire again carefully, his hands steady once more. Suddenly, just as he almost had it, he was jostled from behind.

‘Hey,’ he shouted irritably at Tika, turning around. ‘Be a little more careful—’ He stopped short. The dream! He had said those exact words. And—as in the dream—he saw Tika, lying at his feet, blood flowing into her red curls.

‘No!’ Tas shrieked in rage. The wire slipped, his hand struck the lock.

There was a click as the lock opened. And with the click came another small sound, a brittle sound, barely heard; a sound like ‘snick,’ The trap was sprung.

Wide-eyed, Tas stared at the tiny spot of blood on his finger, then at the small golden needle protruding from the lock. The draconians had him now, grasping him by the shoulder. Tas ignored them. It didn’t matter anyway. There was a stinging pain in his finger and soon the pain would spread up his arm and throughout his body.

When it reaches my heart, I won’t feel it anymore, he told himself dreamily. I won’t feel anything.

Then he heard horns, blaring horns, brass horns. He had heard those horns before. Where? That’s right. It was in Tarsis, right before the dragons came.

And then the draconians that had been hanging on to him were gone, running frantically back down the corridor.

‘Must be some sort of general alarm,’ Tas thought, noticing with interest that his legs wouldn’t hold him up anymore. He slid down to the floor, down beside Tika. Reaching out a shaking hand, he gently stroked her pretty red curls, now matted with blood. Her face was white, her eyes closed.

‘I’m sorry, Tika,’ Tas said, his throat constricting. The pain was spreading quickly, his fingers and feet had gone numb. He couldn’t move them. ‘I’m sorry, Caramon. I tried, I truly tried—’ Weeping quietly, Tas sat back against the door and waited for the darkness.

Tanis could not move and—for a moment, hearing Laurana’s heartbroken sob—he had no wish to move. If anything, he begged a merciful god to strike him dead as he knelt before the Dark Queen. But the gods granted him no such favor. The shadow lifted as the Queen’s attention shifted elsewhere, away from him. Tanis struggled to his feet, his face flushed with shame. He could not look at Laurana, he dared not even meet Kitiara’s eyes, knowing well the scorn he would see in their brown depths.

But Kitiara had more important matters on her mind. This was her moment of glory. Her plans were coming together. Thrusting out her hand, she caught Tanis in her strong grip as he was about to come forward to offer himself as escort to Laurana. Coldly, she shoved him backward and moved to stand in front of him.

‘Finally, I wish to reward a servant of my own who helped me capture the elfwoman. Lord Soth has asked that he be granted the soul of this Lauralanthalasa, that he might thus gain his revenge over the elfwoman who—long ago—cast the curse upon him. If he be doomed to live in eternal darkness, then he asks that this elfwoman share his life within death.’

‘No!’ Laurana raised her head, fear and horror penetrating her numb senses. ‘No,’ she repeated in a strangled voice.

Taking a step backwards, she looked about her wildly for some escape, but it was impossible. Below her, the floor writhed with draconians, staring up at her eagerly. Choking in despair, she glanced once at Tanis. His face was dark and forbidding; he was not looking at her, but stared with burning eyes at the human woman. Already regretting her wretched outburst, Laurana determined that she would die before she gave way to any further weakness in front of either of them, ever again. Drawing herself up proudly, she lifted her head, in control once more.

Tanis did not even see Laurana. Kitiara’s words beat like blood in his head, clouding his vision and his thoughts. Furious, he took a step forward to stand near Kitiara. ‘You betrayed me!’ he choked. ‘This was not part of the plan!’

‘Hush!’ ordered Kit in a low voice. ‘Or you will destroy everything!’

‘What—’

‘Shut up!’ Kitiara snapped viciously.

Your gift pleases me well, Lord Kitiara. The dark voice penetrated Tanis’s anger. I grant your requests. The elfwoman’s soul will be given to Lord Soth, and we accept the half-elf into our service. In recognition of this, he will lay his sword at the feet of Lord Ariakas.

‘Well, go on!’ demanded Kitiara coldly, her eyes on Tanis. The eyes of everyone in the room were on the half-elf.

His mind swam. ‘What?’ he muttered. ‘You didn’t tell me this! What do I do?’

‘Ascend the platform and lay your sword at Ariakas’s feet,’ Kitiara answered swiftly, escorting him to the edge of the platform. ‘He will pick it up and return it to you, then you will be an officer in the dragonarmies. It is ritual, nothing more. But it buys me time.’

‘Time for what? What do you have planned?’ Tanis asked harshly, his foot on the stair leading down. He caught hold of her arm. ‘You should have told me—’

‘The less you know the better, Tanis.’ Kitiara smiled charmingly, for the sake of those watching. There was some nervous laughter, a few crude jokes at what appeared to be a lover’s parting. But Tanis saw no answering smile in Kit’s brown eyes. ‘Remember who stands next to me upon this platform,’ Kitiara whispered. Caressing the hilt of her sword. Kit gave Laurana a meaningful glance. ‘Do nothing rash.’ Turning away from him, she walked back to stand beside Laurana.

Trembling in fear and rage, his thoughts whirling in confusion, Tanis stumbled down the stairs leading from the snake’shead platform. The noise of the assembly rolled around him like the crash of oceans. Light flashed off spearpoints, the torch flames blurred in his vision. He set his foot upon the floor and began to walk toward Ariakas’s platform without any clear idea of where he was or what he was doing. Moving by reflex alone, he made his way across the marble floor.

The faces of the draconians who made up Ariakas’s guard of honor floated around him like a hideous nightmare. He saw them as disembodied heads, rows of gleaming teeth, and flicking tongues. They parted before him, the stairs materialized at his feet as if rising out of fog.

Lifting his head, he stared up bleakly. At the top stood Lord Ariakas, a huge man, majestic, armed with power. All the light in the room seemed to be drawn into the Crown upon his head. Its brilliance dazzled the eyes, and Tanis blinked, blinded, as he began to climb the steps, his hand on his sword.

Had Kitiara betrayed him? Would she keep her promise? Tanis doubted it. Bitterly he cursed himself. Once more he had fallen under her spell. Once more he had played the fool, trusting her. And now she held all the game pieces. There was nothing he could do . . . or was there?

An idea came to Tanis so suddenly he stopped, one foot on one step, the other on the step below.

Idiot! Keep walking, he commanded, feeling everyone staring at him. Forcing himself to retain some outward semblance of calm, Tanis climbed up another step and another. As he drew closer and closer to Lord Ariakas, the plan became clearer and dearer.

Whoever holds the Crown, rules! The words rang in Tanis’s mind.

Kill Ariakas, take the Crown! It will be simple! Tanis’s gaze flashed around the alcove feverishly. No guards stood beside Ariakas, of course. No one but Highlords were allowed on the platforms. But he didn’t even have guards on the stairs as did the other Highlords. Apparently the man was so arrogant, so secure in his power, he had dispensed with them.

Tanis’s thoughts raced. Kitiara will trade her soul for that Crown. And as long as I hold it, she will be wine to command! I can save Laurana . . . we can escape together! Once we are safely out of here, I can explain things to Laurana, I can explain everything! I’ll draw my sword, but instead of placing it at Lord Ariakas’s feet, I will run it through him! Once the Crown is in my hand, no one will dare touch me!

Tanis found himself shaking with excitement. With an effort, he forced himself to calm down. He could not look at Ariakas, fearing the man might see his desperate plan in his eyes.

He kept his gaze upon the stairs, therefore, and he knew he was near Lord Ariakas only when he saw five steps remained between himself and the top of the platform. Tanis’s hand twitched upon the sword. Feeling himself under control, he raised his gaze to look into the man’s face and, for an instant, was almost unnerved at the evil revealed there. It was a face made passionless by ambition, a face that had seen the deaths of thousands of innocents as the means only to an end.

Ariakas had been watching Tanis with a bored expression, a smile of amused contempt on his face. Then he lost interest in the half-elf completely, having other matters to worry about. Tanis saw the man’s gaze go to Kitiara, pondering. Ariakas had the look of a player leaning across a game board, contemplating his next move, trying to guess what his opponent intends.

Filled with revulsion and hatred, Tanis began to slide the blade of his sword from its scabbard. Even if he failed in his attempt to save Laurana, even if they both died within these walls, at least he would accomplish some good in the world by killing the Commander of the Dragonarmies.

But as he heard Tanis draw his sword, Ariakas’s eyes flashed back to the half-elf once again. Their black stare penetrated Tanis’s soul. He felt the man’s tremendous power overwhelm him, hitting him like a blast of heat from a furnace. And then realization struck Tanis a blow almost physical in its impact, nearly causing him to stagger on the stairs.

That aura of power surrounding him . . . Ariakas was a magic-user!

Blind stupid fool! Tanis cursed himself. For now, as he drew nearer, he saw a shimmering wall surrounding the Lord. Of course, that’s why there were no guards! Among this crowd, Ariakas would trust no one. He would use his own magic to guard himself!

And he was on his guard, now. That much Tanis could read clearly in the cold, passionless eyes.

The half-elf’s shoulders slumped. He was defeated.

And then, ‘Strike, Tanis! Do not fear his magic! I will aid you!’

The voice was no more than a whisper, yet so clear and so intense, Tanis could practically feel hot breath touch his ear. His hair raised on the back of his neck, a shudder convulsed his body.

Shivering, he glanced hastily around. There was no one near him, no one except Ariakas! He was only three steps away, scowling, obviously anxious for this ceremony to come to an end. Seeing Tanis hesitate, Ariakas made a peremptory motion for the half-elf to lay his sword at his feet.

Who had spoken? Suddenly Tanis’s eyes were caught by the sight of a figure standing near the Queen of Darkness. Robed in black, it had escaped his notice before. Now he stared at it, thinking it seemed familiar. Had the voice come from that figure? If so, the figure made no sign or movement. What should he do? he wondered frantically.

‘Strike, Tanis!’ whispered once more in his brain. ‘Swiftly!’

Sweating, his hand shaking, Tanis slowly drew his sword. He was level with Ariakas now. The shimmering wall of the Lord’s magic surrounded him like a rainbow glittering off sparkling water.

I have no choice, Tanis said to himself. If it is a trap, so be it. I choose this way to die.

Feigning to kneel, holding his sword hilt—first to lay it upon the marble platform, Tanis suddenly reversed his stroke. Turning it into a killing blow, he lunged for Ariakas’s heart.

Tanis expected to die. Gritting his teeth as he struck, he braced himself for the magic shield to wither him like a tree struck by lightning.

And lightning did strike, but not him! To his amazement, the rainbow wall exploded, his sword penetrated. He felt it hit solid flesh. A fierce cry of pain and outrage nearly deafened him.

Ariakas staggered backwards as the sword blade slid into his chest. A lesser man would have died from that blow, but Ariakas’s strength and anger held Death at bay. His face twisted in hatred, he struck Tanis across the face, sending him reeling to the floor of the platform.

Pain burst in Tanis’s head. Dimly, he saw his sword fall beside him, red with blood. For a moment, he thought he was going to lose consciousness and that would mean his death, his death and Laurana’s. Groggily he shook his head to clear it. He must hang on! He must gain the Crown! Looking up, he saw Ariakas looming above him, hands lifted, prepared to cast a spell that would end Tanis’s life.

Tanis could do nothing. He had no protection against the magic and somehow he knew that his unseen helper would help no more. It had already achieved what it desired.

But powerful as Ariakas was, there was a greater power he could not conquer. He choked, his mind wavered, the words of magic spell were lost in a terrible pain. Looking down, he saw his own blood stain the purple robes, the stain grew larger and larger with each passing moment as his life poured from his severed heart. Death was coming to claim him. He could stave it off no longer. Desperately Ariakas battled the darkness, cry ing out at the last to his Dark Queen for help.

But she abandoned weaklings. As she had watched Ariakas strike down his father, so she watched Ariakas himself fall, her name the last sound to pass his lips.

There was uneasy silence in the Hall of Audience as Ariakas’s body tumbled to the floor. The Crown of Power fell from his head with a clatter and lay within a tangle of blood and thick, black hair.

Who would claim it?

There was a piercing scream. Kitiara called out a name, called to someone.

Tanis could not understand. He didn’t care anyway. He stretched out his hand for the Crown.

Suddenly a figure in black armor materialized before him.

Lord Soth!

Fighting down a feeling of sheer panic and terror, Tanis kept his mind focused on one thing. The Crown was only inches beyond his fingers. Desperately he lunged for it. Thankfully he felt the cold metal bite into his flesh just as another hand—a skeletal hand—made a grab for it, too.

It was his! Soth’s burning eyes flared. The skeletal hand reached out to wrest the prize away. Tanis could hear Kitiara’s voice, shrieking incoherent commands.

But as he lifted the blood-stained piece of metal above his head, as his eyes fixed unafraid upon Lord Soth, the hushed silence in the Hall was split by the sound of horns, harsh blaring horns.

Lord Soth’s hand paused in mid-air, Kitiara’s voice fell suddenly silent.

There was a subdued, ominous murmur from the crowd. For an instant, Tanis’s pain-clouded mind thought the horns might be sounding in his honor. But then, turning his head to peer dimly into the Hall, he saw faces glancing around in alarm. Everyone—even Kitiara—looked at the Dark Queen.

Her Dark Majesty’s shadowy eyes had been on Tanis, but now their gaze was abstracted. Her shadow grew and intensified, spreading through the Hall like a dark cloud. Reacting to some unspoken command, draconians wearing her black insignia ran from their posts around the edge of the Hall and disappeared through the doors. The black-robed figure Tanis had seen standing beside the Queen vanished.

And still the horns blared. Holding the Crown in his hand, Tanis stared down at it numbly. Twice before, the harsh blaring of the horns had brought death and destruction. What was the terrible portent of the dread music this time?