Istu awakened

CHAPTER FOUR

Boisterous merriment boiled and soared, filling the great audience hall of the Palace of Winds clear to the vaulted ceilings far overhead. The festive week proclaimed by Synalon in celebration of her victory over her sister had dragged into its sixth day, only to have its vigor renewed once more by fiat of the queen, in honor of the miraculous escape of Prince Rann from the High Medurim assassins.

Torches guttered in sconces, splashing orange light on walls and making the ancient figures carved into them seem to writhe in the grip of nameless, unsettling emotions. Captive fire sprites thrashed inside crystal bell jars as tall as men, their furious hissing and killing heat contained by the thick greenish enchanted glass. All that escaped from the bell jars and into the great hall was their hellish blue glare. Great tables of veined green stone stood everywhere,, piled high with the finest food and drink. The revellers circulated, drinking, eating, sniffing vapors from bubbling bowls of potions, trying to adopt the appearance of being successfully and spontaneously amused. Some danced a stately pavane to the strains of an orchestra brought up from Bilsinx. Others stood around discussing what a marvel it was that the mercy of the Dark Ones had preserved Prince Rann from the treacherous attack while their eyes searched for likely partners for later assignations.

But the sound of merrymaking had a false note to it like a gilded pot-metal coin dropped on a table. There were those in the Sky City who were not altogether overjoyed at their queen's victory over her twin, who by right of inheritance should have sat on the Beryl Throne in Synalon's stead. And even those who supported Synalon for reasons of conviction or expedience found it difficult to work up much cheer over the prince's survival. His was not a personality to attract tender sentiment.

On the highbacked throne carved of a monstrous single green beryl crystal Synalon sat at her ease, idly scooping berries from a silver bowl and feeding them to the ravens who perched on either arm of the throne. She wore her glossy black hair curled into an intricate knot atop her head. A thick unbound strand fell to either side of her beautiful sculpture-perfect face, lending it a decidedly misleading air of innocence.

Of all the revellers in the vast, crowded audience hall, she was the freshest looking. She had changed into a new gown only moments before ascending her throne, a gown woven of shimmering green and blue and pearl and silver threads. Depending on light, the viewer's perspective and the motion of the lithe limbs and body to which the garment clung like skin, the colors subtly changed. Debauchery, particularly of the sort mandated by Synalon, was hard work. Watching courtiers and subjects move about in a low haze of fatigue, Synalon smiled, a wicked light touching her cobalt eyes. A life of determined dissipation, interspersed with the harsh disciplines of black sorcery, kept the queen as fit as the toughest of Rann's Sky Guard.

The dancers strutted through the complex patterns of the Virgins' Recessional, commemorating the coming of spring. Synalon covered a yawn with a slender hand. Her subjects proved most tedious. If left to their own devices for an instant they lapsed into supremely trivial activities. It was ever up to her to make sure their celebrations held at least some semblance of life.

For a time she contemplated calling for the hornbull she'd had ballooned up from the surface and giving a demonstration of what she considered properly vivid recreation. Certainly her subjects were abusing the dance area with their… tedious meanderings.

Then a better idea came to her. The smile returned to her lips. It was much like the expression of a great cat that comes upon a tender and helpless kid.

She set the silver berry bowl on a stand beside the throne. Sensing their mistress had some new diversion in mind, the ravens beat their wings and chuckled evilly. Propping her chin on her right hand, she held her left in the air before her eyes, forefinger extended. A glow appeared at the tip. Slowly the finger began to turn in a circle, leaving a silvery trail in midair. Instead of dissipating, the trails remained and began to form a ball shape, as a caterpillar would spin a cocoon.

Eyes turned toward the throne now. Motion ceased on the floor as couple by couple the dancers stopped to see what magics their monarch performed. Fear and anticipation mingled on the faces of the celebrants, giving Synalon a warm flush of pleasure. Like most of her favorite amusements, the one she concocted now would bring delight to some and stark anguish to others. The revellers, well aware of this, felt a thrill of expectation.

When she had woven a ball of light in midair, Synalon brought up her other hand. Both palms cupped the glowing globe, shaping it, massaging it, infusing it with pseudo-life. Like her gown, it shimmered with myriad opalescent colors.

'What do you dream?' she asked her subjects. Her voice was as smooth and as strong as silk. At the sound of it the musicians ceased their efforts, though the words were clearly audible above the melody. 'This is the Ball of Dreams, my child. In it you shall see your deepest, darkest thoughts, summoned forth for all to see.'

She gave the globe a push. It drifted away from her, seeming to test the air like a scenthound casting about for a trail. The revellers fell back from the ball, trying to be unobtrusive. No one was overeager to be the first to have thoughts, desires, deep secrets called forth for the cruel amusement of the rest.

The scintillant ball darted toward a knot of courtiers gaily caparisoned in silks and the furs of animals specially bred by the genetic sorcerors of Wirix for the color and quality of coat. It hovered above the head of a paunchy, black-haired youth. The young man studiously looked away from the ball as its surface began to shimmer, then swirl with colors like oil on a pond. An image within the ball snapped into sharp focus: the young man naked on a luxurious bed grappled ecstatically with a blowsy older woman.

'Why, that's Sunald's mother!' exclaimed a burly, bearded comrade. The women in the group tittered. Laughter was taken up by the hall as a whole, laughter too hearty, momentarily releasing tension of those who know they may yet feel the axe. Furiously red to his high-flounced collar, the youth stalked out, head drawn down between his shoulders like a bird seeking a worm's hole.

'And where does the Ball of Dreams cast next?' asked Synalon in velvety tones. 'Will it be you? Or you? Or even you?' Her fingers stabbed forth each time indicating revellers. As their expressions turned from mirth to horror, Synalon laughed delightedly.

With a perversity like that of the sorceress who had summoned it into existence, the ball ignored all of Synalon's prospective victims and swung next to float above the blonde head of the burly man's escort, who had laughed first and loudest at the revelation of Sunald's secret lust. She gaped in mute horror as the ball seethed with color again to reveal her, as naked as Sunald had been, spreadeagled on her back across a furry hassock receiving the eager attentions of a great war dog. Bannered on the dream sphere's surface for all to see was the woman's face, a face showing every indication of almost religious ecstasy. She screamed and fell to her knees, hands tearing at her bodice as laughter rained on her like blows.

The burly man tried to comfort his lady but she pulled away. He turned angry eyes toward the throne. Synalon lounged back, amused.

'is this not more interesting than your pathetic little dances?'asked the black-haired Synalon, idly playing with a strand of her hair.'Now that you know Lady Emele's most secret desires, perhaps you will accommodate her.' Laughter rolled through the great audience hall.

'Or,' Synalon said, 'was the large black canine image in the sphere yours? Are you then a shape-shifter?'

Again the resounding laughter, a bit too loud, a bit too long. Synalon waved a long-fingered hand in acknowledgement of the success of her sorcerous entertainment, then turned back to the sphere.

The ball moved on, pausing at random to blight the mirth of one or another who had been roaring with cruel laughter only moments before. A tall, lean banker was revealed adjusting his institution's accounts to bleed funds into his own pockets; a matronly woman noted for announcing frequently, loudly, and at inordinate length that a woman's sole duty was motherhood was shown strangling the latest of her dozen brats in its bassinet, a look of orgasmic glee transfiguring her plump features; a civil functionary loathed by the populace for over-punctilious enforcement of statutes regarding the conduct of small businesses appeared nude, wallowing in a great heap of his own excrement, smearing it over his body and cooing like a giant baby; a noted cavalry officer was seen spurring his famed red war dog to the rear against a backdrop several veterans recognized as the ridge by Chanobit Creek.

The laughter rose to a hysterical crescendo. The matron lay on the marble floor in a faint. The banker hurried off to slit his wrists. As the cavalryman backed away from the half-dozen comrades in arms moving in his direction with lethal purpose and the bureaucrat stood laving his pudgy hands against one another while tears cascaded down his cheeks and chins, Synalon only sat on her throne watching with an amused smile on her face, feeding bits of spiced meat to her ravens.

The ball stopped, rose, as if seeking fresh prey. It descended in a gentle slope toward a clump of older celebrants who stood near one of the buffets. It settled at a point a foot above the head of the tallest of the group, a woman whose short reddish hair was dusted with white streaks.

Cilinon dun Krit, a powerful member of the Council of Advisors to the Throne, snorted disdainfully as she glared up at the shimmering sphere. Her companions, other advisors and their hangers-on, backed away from her as if afraid to be marked as having stood by her side. For a long moment the woman gazed up at the particolored roil of the sphere, the muscles standing out on her neck as stark as pillars, a vein beating visibly in her broad forehead. Then with a shriek of fury and despair beyond words, she drew a long dagger from her sleeve and flung herself at Synalon.

Palace Guards and Monitors anonymous behind brown iron salles lunged from their waiting places by the walls, cursing and driving the illustrious assembly from their path like so many cattle. Synalon threw back her head and laughed, a sound unutterably pure and sweet.

Her face a red demon's mask unrecognizable in its hatred, the Councillor reached the foot of the royal dais and raised her arm to strike. The two ravens swept down upon her, striking with beaks and black-tipped claws. The woman reeled back, beating impotently at the bird sinking its claws in her scalp and stabbing at her eyes with its beak. Its fellow lit on her dagger arm and dug its nails deep.

The venom on the birds' talons took effect. With an anguished scream, dun Krit straightened so spasmodically that both large black birds were flung aside. She began to twitch, then hop, until she was spinning about the pattern inlaid in the floor's center with her arms flung wide, a ghastly parody of the calm dance that had occupied that place scant moments before. Her face turned bluish-black and her tongue protruded between bloated lips. With a last garbled outcry she fell to her back. Her body arched, flopped, black foam gushed from her nostrils, and then she lay still.

The silence of ghastly death filled the great hall. All cheer was stilled – except for the pealing laughter of the beautiful young queen.

Four Monitors made their way through the crowd and gingerly bore the body off. The revellers turned away.

'Come, the gaiety has just begun,' cried Synalon, clapping her hands for the orchestra to start afresh.

The Bilsinxt musicians looked at the faceless men bearing out their limp burden, and fell into a light and happy air. At a nod from Synalon a small army of servants invaded the hall, bearing fresh platters of meats and pastry and great tureens of wine and essences. Slowly the tide of conversation began to flow once more.

High above the assemblage floated the pearly sphere. Synalon looked to it again, motioned with a finger. It dropped.

Conversation ebbed. Another clique of Councillors stood not far from where the ball had found dun Krit, and it was toward them the sphere now moved. Once more it seemed to single out the tallest person present, this time a portly man whose red face was fringed by a white beard that grew to meet the rim of equally white hair circling the base of his great skull. A shorter, stouter companion in a blue robe and black slippers with flaring gingery sidewhiskers and rough cheeks spoke urgently to him in a high-pitched voice that quieted as the sphere descended.

A commotion at the entrance brought heads around. Prince Rann strode in without so much as a glance at the heralds who bawled annunciation of his arrival. Moving without apparent haste he quickly came to the cleared space before Synalon's throne. The crowd melted to give him way.

At a finger wave from Synalon, the sphere veered from above the Councillors' bald heads and followed the prince. Hearing an intake of breath from the crowd, the prince turned to see the shimmering ball floating toward him. Instead of kneeling before his sovereign, he crossed his arms and stood waiting, watching the approaching object with neutral eyes. It came to a stop over his head. The swirling crossed its face again. The tantalizing hint of a picture had begun to appear when Synalon clapped her hands smartly and the ball vanished tracelessly. Her pale skin was flushed all the way down the revealing front of her bodice.

One eyebrow raised, Rann knelt to make the customary obeisance.

'Rise, cousin,' Synlon said throatily. 'Accept the plaudits of the crowd gathered to offer thanksgiving for the survival of our most valuable servant.' He crossed his arms again as the hall rang with applause.

'I thank Your Majesty,' he said dryly when the clapping ebbed. 'But I cannot stay to partake of your amusements.' The leaden inflection of the last word told what he thought of her ideas of diversion. They had some tastes in common but fetes and grandiose display were not among them. Synalon pursed her lips. 'And why not, honored cousin?'

'I have only come to inform you that the preparations of your mages are completed. The conjurations are done. Magically, we are as prepared for battle as ever we'll be.'

A murmur of whispered comment ran through the hall. It was rumored that Synalon herself would take part in the coming battle with Kara-Est. The Dark Ones had bestowed new and frightful powers on her. She wanted the world to behold them, and to know fear. Those in the great audience hall already knew that fear. 'But why must you rush away, then?' asked Synalon peevishly.

'The mystical preparations are but a part of making ready for the battle,' said Rann. 'I must see to our men and arms.'

Synalon waved a hand languidly. As usual no rings adorned her fingers. Any ring she might wear interfered with the dangerous spells she cast so casually.

'Your burden yourself overmuch, cousin. Is our victory over the wretched groundlings not assured?'

'By no means, Majesty.' The crowd gasped. They expected Synalon's face to distort in anger, for her slim hands to clap furiously to summon guards to haul Rann off to torture and death for his defeatism. Instead, she rested her chin on one hand and regarded him calmly. Above her shoulders the ravens carefully preened blood from their wings. 'And why not?'

'Kara-Est is the most powerful of all the Quincunx cities. They have their aerial defenses and they know quite well we mean to take them on our next transit. Further, our ground forces are still en route back from the north. We'll have to rely almost totally on our bird riders.' He took a deep breath. 'I think we shall win, O Queen. But assuming that our victory is assured can only weaken us.' Synalon gave him a mocking smile.

'Our cousin instructs us with his customary wisdom,' she said. 'Very well, Prince. You have our permission to return to your chores.' He bobbed his head and knelt again.

'Oh,-and how fares the loyal young apprentice mage Maguerr, through whom the Dark Ones acted to effect your rescue?'

'He does well, Majesty. He should be able to return to full service by the time the prow of the Sky City crosses the Cholon Hills outside of Kara-Est.'

'You area man indeed, Prince Rann, to inspire such loyalty in your followers', Synalon said with a razor-edged smile. Rann colored furiously. Synalon alone could torment him with that knowledge with impunity. He rose and stalked off, the heel taps of his boots clacking angrily on the marble flagging.

'Oh, and one more thing, cousin.' Synalon's voice halted him just before the great double doors of graven green jade. 'Might you be able to spare a flight or so of your most stalwart Sky Guards for the evening? They need not bring their mounts. They, ah, shall have a mount supplied them.' She licked her lips which gleamed as red as fresh blood in the light of torches and captive salamanders. 'I feel the need of some slight stimulation.'

Rann did not turn, but the whole hall marked how his neck went red. His own favored diversions notwithstanding, he was a notorious prude and disapproved vigorously of his cousin's extravagant public displays of her sexual prowess and libido. He nodded jerkily and went out. The great doors swung closed with a resounding thump.

Flushed with happy anticipation, Synalon settled back on the crystal of her throne and called for more wine. Servitors hastened to her bidding.

The tall, red-faced Councillor turned to his companion. The smaller man's hands were still shaking with reaction and dread.

'Well, here's a curiosity, Tromym,' said High Councillor Uriath, smoothing the fringes of his white beard. 'I never would have thought I'd be glad to see that devil Rann.'

Tromym did not answer. Instead he lifted his goblet to his lips for a hasty gulp. Though he used both hands, a torrent of the purple wine cascaded down the front of his blue robe.

Off in the dappled distance of the woods a bird sang. Moriana walked a cathedral-like path beneath mighty trees, seeking some rest for her weary, tortured soul.

In every direction she looked grew trees. Most were yellow tai but every now and then the graceful tai stood aside for a tree giant, a shunnak with red bark shining on boles twenty feet thick, lifting blue-green clad boughs five hundred feet off the forest floor.

It was a scene of primeval beauty. Birds with long, brightly hued tails flew between the trees, small animals scurried about on missions known only to themselves. In the midst of all this tranquility walked Moriana, troubled and upset.

Ziore rode in her jug at Moriana's hip, doing her best to caress the worries from Moriana with comforting thoughts and her special gift of empathy. It should have been impossible for Moriana to remain wrapped in gloom, tormented by thoughts of past and future.

But a few miles to the northeast, an invisible presence beyond the leafy treetops, the Mystic Mountains loomed like eidolons, ancient, enigmatic, evil. Within them slumbered Thendrun like some dormant beast, the sole remaining stronghold of the Fallen Ones. Their nearness banished peace from the fugitive princess.

'But you know full well you've no other choice,' the nun Ziore said. She spoke aloud, feeling that in her present mood Moriana needed sensory reaffirmation that she was not alone, though her mind was ever aware of the presence by her side. 'And what can the danger be? The Zr'gsz will have dwindled over the centuries and most of their magic is no doubt long forgotten. They could prove no great menace to the Realm, even if they harbored such designs – which I'm sure they no longer do.'

'The Zr'gsz are long-lived but their memories are longer still.' Moriana's voice hardened. 'I'm betting they haven't lost much of their power. I will need redoubtable allies to seize the Sky City by force of arms.' Ziore held still a moment, mulling this.

'You are right. But still, you mustn't worry. It's been ten thousand years since the War of Powers and eight thousand since your ancestors drove the lizard folk from the City. Surely after all that time they cannot nurse futile hopes of regaining their power? Their time is passed. If they are so long-lived, surely they are wise enough to acknowledge that?' Moriana shrugged. 'It's what I'm gambling on.'

'And you are thinking of your other recent gambles that haven't worked,' said Ziore.

'I… yes, you're right. Darl is no better, even after he and I went into that small village to purchase new clothing.'

'He accompanied you. That is a sign of some progress,' pointed out the genie. 'It is the first indication of interest in the world around him since his defeat.'

'Our defeat.' The words fell like bitter droplets from the princess's tongue. 'And he showed only passing interest in these.' She looked down at the new clothing. Moriana had selected a wardrobe of the kind she had come to fancy in her own years of faring through the Realm: rugged tunics that laced up the front with leather thongs, canvas breeches with dog leather linings sewn inside the thighs to cushion the chafing of long hours in the saddle. The colors were russet, muted orange, burnt umber, the earth tones she favored, that set off her golden hair and vivid green eyes so well.

'Darl still thinks of you as his fairy princess,' pointed out Ziore. 'Seeing you clad thusly might have shattered his illusions.'

'Damn him!' flared Moriana. 'I'm not a toy to be put on display. I'm a woman and a princess. Not a fairy princess but one with the need to regain my City. How dare he pretend I'm anything but what I am?'

'Not all have your drive, Moriana,' quietly pointed out Ziore. The genie paused. Moriana felt fleeting touches over the surface of her brain, feathery tickles, light samplings. 'And Darl reads your thoughts as surely as I. He realizes the burden you carry over Fost Longstrider.'

'I killed the man I loved. And all for this.' Her fingers went to the black and white Amulet hung around her neck: the Amulet of Living Flame, which legend said would bring the dead back to life. For the promise of eternal life she'd killed Fost, driven her knife firmly into his heart, as they fought for possession of it.

'Your reasons were noble. The Amulet will allow you to best Synalon. Without it, your powers can never be used. She knows so much more of the black arts than you. Even if she slays you, with that in your possession you will live on and succeed.'

'Dar! reads more than guilty knowledge,' Moriana said bitterly. 'He knows I can never love another man as I loved Fost. Not even Darl Rhadaman.'

'You are wise, my child. What you say is true. Dad's depression is great because of the loss. He hoped to win your favor with victory. He knows no other way of gaining your heart. His most romantic gestures and words carom off the shell you've built around your heart.'

'I loved Fost' she said simply, a tear welling at the corner of her eye. She brushed it away, then rubbed the wetness from her finger onto the black and white Amulet. Even as her fingers touched it, the colors swirled in slow motion, black battling white for supremacy. 'You can love Darl – if you try,' said Ziore.

'I have my duty to the Sky City before me. After Synalon is defeated and I've regained the throne, then will be the time to consider affairs of the heart. Darl's withdrawal, painful as it is to me, isn't the worst of my problems.'

Though she had not spoken of it again since the evening of the battle, word had filtered through her small party that she intended journeying to Thendrun to ally with its denizens. That word was not well received. Her fellow refugees had begun slipping away, in ones and twos, walking away from sentry duty in the midst of darkness or falling back on the march until turning off unobserved into the woods. Among those who stayed there was talk; Moriana heard – or thought she heard – terms such as 'witch' and 'traitor to her kind' hissed behind cupped hands around the campfires when they halted for the night. 'I don't understand.'

Moriana started at Ziore's words, though they rang softly in the quiet of the woods. When Moriana writhed in the grip of a mood like her present one, the nun's shade would read her thoughts carefully unless Moriana asked her not to. The princess had made no such request. But she had forgotten that her dark musings were shared by another. 'What don't you understand?' she asked stiffly.

'Why the terrific resentment among the others about your going to the Fallen Ones? I doubt more than a handful of humans have so much as seen one in the eighty centuries since Riomar Shai-Gallri seized the Sky City. Why the intensity of feeling?'

Moriana stopped, allowed the forest stillness to settle about her for a dozen heartbeats before answering. 'Have you heard of the Watchers?' she asked.

'Well… yes,' answered Ziore hesitantly. 'My knowledge is second-hand through what I've overheard from others.'

'Then your education contains gaps,' said Moriana, grateful for the chance to speak of things other than her feelings for Darl and Fost. 'When Felarod and his Hundred drew forth the wrath of the World Spirit and broke the might of the Zr'gsz, they imprisoned the demon Istu sent by the Dark Ones to aid the Hissers in the foundations of the Sky City. This was only one of the deeds he did before the World Spirit departed. Some of the lava that has flowed in centuries past from the Throat of the Old Ones – Omizantrim – is a stuff called skystone. Worked properly with spelts known to Zr'gsz adepts, the skystone floats on air like chaff. The City itself is built on a huge raft of it. The much smaller war rafts the Hissers rode into battle were a source of their strength as important as Istu himself. So Felarod summoned up a creature from the belly of the earth called Ullapag, whose cry, though inaudible to humans, is death to the Zr'gsz. And to aid the Ullapag and insure that the Hissers should no longer have access to their skystone, Feiarod set a band of heroes, men and women strong and keen-sighted and skilled with bow and spear, to watch over the skystone flows until the Fallen Ones should be no more. These are the Watchers of legend.

'After ten millennia,' Moriana added, 'the descendants of the original Watchers remain on their lonely vigil at the foot of Omizantrim. Can you imagine the dedication that implies?'

'Yes, it disturbs me greatly. For three hundred generations to circumscribe their lives willingly to keep an ancient faith – it makes my own deprivation trivial, doesn't it?'

Moriana felt Ziore's bitterness at her own life. She could sense the troubling of her friend's thoughts and wondered if some of Ziore's gift had worn off on her. Being a nun in life following Erimenes's self-denying teachings and missing the rich realms of human experience had stunted her in many ways.

'Each person's problems, no matter how trivial, are enough and more for that person,' said Moriana, smiling wanly at being able to quote one of the genie's aphorisms back at her.

'But it's more than just the Watchers,' the princess went on. 'I take it you're not acquainted with children's fairy tales.'

'No,' Ziore replied. 'I was sent to convent at an early age. We had no time for such mundane trivia.' Her words rang as harshly as any Moriana had heard her speak.

'The favorite of them, even now, concerns the bravery and dedication of the Watchers in standing off attempts by the Hissers to regain their precious skystone mine. Whether there's any truth in them, I don't know. And when children cry or balk at eating their greens, what do mothers tell them? "The Vridzish will get you if you don't behave!"'

'So the Hissers are the legendary embodiment of evil to the people of the Realm.'

'And the Watchers the embodiment of heroic dedication,' said Moriana.

'Now I see why your men fear your destination – and why you do, as well.'

Moriana bit her lip. 'And have I reason to fear my course of action?'

'Have you any other?' came the sharp reply. 'I -' The nun's voice cut off, to resume in Moriana's mind: Someone comes.

The princess went into a fighting crouch, hands on hilt of sword and dagger. She heard whistling, a jaunty carefree tune, and the crunching of leaves under boots.

'Well met, Lord Stormcloud,' she said as the tall blond youth strode into view. He smiled, as radiant as the sun shining above.

'You requested that I not sneak up on you again,' he said. 'I saw fit to follow your advice.' Straightening, Mortana took hands from weapons and smiled.

'I… I wanted to tell you, latic, that I am most grateful for the assistance you've given me. It wouldn't have been possible to come this far.' He stood arm's length from her, smiling.

'Then perhaps the time has come for you to tender payment,' he said, lunging as he spoke.

Caught off balance, Moriana fell back against the trunk of a tree. Strong fingers clawed at her belt. She felt the brass catch give, felt her swordbelt torn away bodily and flung into the brush. Her fingers struck at his eyes. Laughing, he easily caught her wrists and threw her down.

Moriana felt a pulse of energy surge from Ziore. The spirit was trying to quell the mercenary's passion, latic's face purpled in fury. He savagely kicked the satchel, parting the strap and sending Ziore's jug spinning after Moriana's swordbelt. Moriana heard the jug strike a tree with crushing force. She screamed.

The air exploded from her lungs as the mercenary flung himself atop her. Moriana wasted no time demanding what he was doing; she felt the hardness of him prodding into her thigh as his fingers tore at the fastening on her breeches. She brought a knee up. He twisted his hips expertly to block and grinned at her. The Amulet, torn free of her bodice, shone like obsidian.

'I've wanted this for so long,' he panted. 'Watching you flash your breasts and thighs in that flimsy gown… ah! You've wanted what I can offer you. There we go! Now, down with your trousers and in – you'll be begging for more, Bright Princess, by the time I'm done!'

He held both wrists pinioned in one powerful hand while the other tore open her breeches. His body had the power of a seasoned warrior. But so did hers, and she was coming out of the numbness of shock she'd first felt at his attack.

'No, no, you've got no right to hold back.' He groaned in her ear like an avid lover, but in words no lover would utter. 'You've made your pact with blackness, you've sold your soul. Now collect some of the wages!'

He thrust. Snarling like a war dog, she tore her hands free. His smile widened sardonically as she grabbed his throat. Then, as her thumbs began inexorably to press his head back, the smile disintegrated and a look of disbelief came into his eyes.

Stormcloud clutched at her wrists with both hands. Sweat poured down his face. Her eyes blazing with insane rage, Moriana gathered her strength and heaved.

When armed men ran up from the camp, led by Darl looking fully his old self with broadsword bared in his hand, they found her huddled half-naked against the slick trunk of a shunnak, cradling Ziore's jug in her lap. The Amulet, now the purest white, hung quiescent between bare breasts. The genie hovered by her side. A few feet away latic Stormcloud lay sprawled, as limp as a child's ragdoll, eyes touched with the lifeless cast of porcelain. His neck was broken.