Shadow of Wings

There was once a magician named Dardash, who—at the relatively young age of 103—decided he had done with the world.

Accordingly, he selected an islet a short distance off the coast of Koldana and built upon it a small but comfortable house which resembled a wind-carved spire of rock. He equipped the dwelling with life’s few necessities and moved into it with all his possessions—the most prized of which were twelve massive scrolls in air-tight cylinders of oiled leather bound with silver wire. He surrounded his new home with certain magical defences and, as a final touch which was intended to complete his isolation, he rendered the entire island invisible.

As has already been stated, Dardash had decided he was finished with the world.

But the world was far from being finished with him…

It was a flawless morning in early summer, one on which the universe seemed to have been created anew. The land to the east shimmered like freshly smelted gold, deckled with white fire where the sun’s rays grazed slopes of sand; and on all other sides the flat blue immensity of the sea challenged Dardash’s knowledge of history with its sheer ringing emptiness. It was as though Minoa and Egypt and Sumer had never existed, or had vanished as completely as the ancient magic-based civilisations which had preceded them. The very air sang a song of new beginnings.

Dardash walked slowly on the perimeter of his island, remembering a time when such mornings had filled him with a near-painful joy. It was a time that was lost to him.

Being a magician, he retained a long-muscled and sinewy physique which—except for its lack of scars—resembled that of a superbly conditioned warrior, but his mind was growing old, corrupted by doubt. When the twelve scrolls had first come into his possession, and he had realised they contained spells written in the mana-rich, dawn-time of magic, he had known with a fierce certainty that he was destined to become the greatest warlock that had ever lived. But that had been almost two-score years ago, and he was no longer so confident. In truth, although he rarely admitted it to himself, he had begun to despair—and all because of a single, maddening, insuperable problem.

He reached the north-eastern tip of the islet, moody and abstracted in spite of the vitality all around him, and was turning southwards when his attention was caught by a flickering whiteness at the far side of the strip of water separating him from the mainland. The coast of Koldana was rocky in that area, a good feeding ground for gulls, but the object he had noticed was too large to be a bird. It was possibly a man in white garments, although travellers were rare in that region. Dardash stared at the brilliant speck for a moment, trying to bring it into sharp focus, but even his keen eyesight was defeated by the slight blurring effect caused by the islet’s invisibility screen.

He shrugged and continued his morning walk, returning his thoughts to more weighty considerations. As a man who had travelled the length and breadth of the known world, he could speak every major language and was familiar with the written forms where they existed. The fact that the spells of the twelve scrolls were couched in the Old Language had at first seemed a minor inconvenience, especially for one who was accustomed to deciphering all manner of strange inscriptions. A few months, possibly even a few years, of study would surely reveal the secrets of the old manuscripts—thus enabling him to fulfil his every dream, to become immortal, to assume all the fantastic powers of the dream-time sorcerers.

But he had not allowed for the effect of the 10,000-year hiatus.

The old magic-based civilisations—so powerful in the days when mana was plentiful everywhere—had in fact been edifices of great fragility; and when the raw stuff of magic had disappeared from the earth they too had crumbled and faded into nothingness. Few relics remained, and those that Dardash had seen or thought he had seen were totally without relevance to his quest. He lacked the necessary key to the Old Language, and as long as it remained impenetrable to him he would fail to develop anything like his full potential. The doors of destiny would remain shut against him, even though there were places where mana had again begun to accumulate, and that had been the principal reason for his retreat from outside distraction. He had elected to devote all his time, all his mental energies, all his scholarship to one supremely important task—solving the riddle of the scrolls.

Thus preoccupied, and secure behind his magical defences, Dardash should have been oblivious to the world beyond, but he had been oddly restless and lacking in concentration for some time. His mind had developed an annoying tendency to pursue the irrelevant and the trivial, and as he neared the southern corner of the island—where his house was located—he again found himself speculating about who or what had appeared on the opposite shore. Yielding to impulse, he glanced to the east and saw that the enigmatic white mote was still visible at the water’s edge. He frowned at it for a short period, hesitating, then acknowledged to himself that he would have no mental peace until the inconsequential little mystery was solved.

Shaking his head at his own foolishness, he went into his house and climbed the stone stair to the upper balcony. He had used the spy-mask only the previous day to observe a ship which had appeared briefly on the western horizon, and it was still lying on the low bench, resembling the severed head of a giant eagle. Dardash fastened the mask over his face and turned towards the mainland. Because the spy-mask operated on magical and not optical principles, there was no focusing or scanning to be done—Dardash immediately saw the mysterious object on the coast as though from a distance of a few paces. And he was unable to withhold an exclamation.

The young woman was possibly the most beautiful he had ever seen. She appeared to be of Amorite stock, with the lush black hair and immaculate tawny skin of her race. Her face was that of the perfect lover that all men recognise from dreams, but which few aspire to touch in reality—dark-eyed and full-lipped, sensuous and wilful, generous yet demanding. She was standing ankle-deep in the waters of a narrow cove—a place where she could presume to remain unobserved—and, as Dardash watched, she unbuttoned her white linen chiton, cast the garment behind her on to the sand, and began to bathe.

Her movements were graceful and languorous, like those of a dance that was being performed for his sole benefit, and his mouth went dry as he took in every detail of her body, followed the course of every runnel of water from splendid breast to belly and slim-coned thigh.

Dardash had no clear idea of how long her toilet lasted. He remained in a timeless, trance-like state until she had left the water, clothed herself and was gliding away into the rocky outcrop that formed a natural palisade between sea and land. Only when she was lost to his view did he move again. He removed the eagle-mask from his head, and when he surveyed his little domain with normal vision it seemed strangely bleak and cheerless.

As he descended the stair to the principal chamber in which he did most of his work, there came to Dardash a belated understanding of his recent lack-lustre moods, of his irritability and lapses of concentration. The decision to devote his entire life to the riddle of the scrolls had been an intellectual one, but he was a composite being—a synthesis of mind and body—and the physical part of him was in rebellion. He should have brought one or more girls from an inland village when he had set up his offshore retreat a year earlier. Many would have been glad to accompany and serve him in exchange for a little basic tutelage in magic, but he had an uneasy feeling it was too late to come to such an arrangement. The women, even the youngest, of the region tended to be a sun-withered, work-hardened lot—and he had just seen the sort of companion he truly craved.

But who was she? Where had she come from, and what was her destination?

The questions troubled Dardash at intervals for the rest of the day, distracting him from the endless task of trying to relate the phonetic writing of the scrolls to the complex abstractions of his profession. It was rare for trade caravans plying between the capital city of Koldana and the northern lands to take the longer coastal route, so she was unlikely to be the daughter or concubine of a wealthy merchant. But what possibilities remained? Only in fables did princesses or others of high birth go wandering in search of knowledge. Reconciling himself to the fact that speculation was futile, Dardash worked until long after nightfall, but in spite of being weary he found it difficult to sleep. His rest was disturbed by visions of the unknown woman, and each time he awoke with the taste of her lips fading from his the sense of loss was greater, more insistent.

Part of his mood was occasioned by a belief that important opportunities only come once, that the penalty for failing to take action is eternal regret. Hence it was with a sense of near-disbelief, of having been specially favoured by the gods, that on the following morning as he walked the eastern boundary of his island he again saw the flicker of whiteness on the mainland. This time, vision aided by memory, he had no trouble interpreting the lazy pulsations and shape changes of the blurred speck. She was there again. Undressing, uncovering that splendid body, preening herself, preparing for the sea’s caress.

Dardash paused only long enough to unfasten his sandals. He stepped down into the clear water and swam towards the mainland, propelling himself with powerful and economical strokes which quickly reduced the distance to the shore. As he passed through the perimeter of the invisibility screen which protected his islet, he saw the outline of the woman become diamond-sharp in his vision and he knew that from that moment on she would be able to see him. Apparently, however, she was too preoccupied.

It was not until Dardash felt pebbles beneath his hands and stood up, his near-naked body only knee-deep in water, that she became aware of his presence. She froze in the act of unbuttoning her chiton, breasts partly exposed, and gave him a level stare which signalled surprise and anger, but—he was thrilled to note—no hint of fear.

“I had presumed myself alone,” she said coldly, her beautiful face queenly in displeasure. “Suddenly the very sea is crowded.”

“There is no crowd,” Dardash replied, courting her with his smile. “Only the two of us.”

“Soon there will only be you.” The woman turned, picked up the net pouch which contained her toiletries, and strode away from him towards the narrow entrance to the cove. Sunlight piercing the fine material of her clothing outlined her body and limbs, striking fire behind Dardash’s eyes.

“Wait,” he said, deciding that a challenge could be the most effective way of capturing her interest. “Surely you are not afraid?”

The woman gave a barely perceptible toss of her head and continued walking, beginning to move out of sight behind outcroppings of rock. Impelled by a growing sense of urgency, Dardash went after her with long strides, convinced that were he to fail this time he would never again have a night’s peace. He had almost reached the woman, was breathing the scent of her waist-length black hair, when an inner voice warned him that he was behaving foolishly. He halted, turned to check a deep cleft in the rocks to his left, and groaned as he realised he was much too late.

The braided leather whip whistled like a war arrow as it flailed through the air, catching him just above the elbow, instantaneously binding his arms to his sides.

Dardash reacted by continuing his turn, intending to coil the whip further around his body and thus snatch it from its user’s grasp, but there was a flurry of footsteps and a glint of sunlight on armour and the weight of a man hit behind the knees, bringing him down. Other armed men, moving with practised speed, dropped on top of him and he felt thongs tighten around his wrists and ankles. Within the space of three heartbeats he was immobile and helpless, and sick with anger at having allowed himself to be trapped so easily.

Narrowing his eyes against the glare from the sky, he looked up at his captors. There were four men wearing conical helmets and studded leather cuirasses. They did not look like soldiers, but the similarity of their equipment suggested they were in the employ of a person of wealth. A fifth figure—that of the woman—joined them, causing Dardash to turn his face away. He had no wish to see a look of triumph or contempt on her face, and in any case his mind was busy with the question of who had instigated the attack against him. In his earlier years he had made many enemies, but most of them had long since died, and latterly he had devoted so much time to his scrolls that there had scarcely been the chance to incur the wrath of anybody who mattered.

“Tell me the name of your master,” he said, making himself sound patient and only mildly interested. He wanted to give the impression that he was unconcerned about his safety, that he was holding tremendous magical powers in reserve, although he was actually quite helpless. Most magic required protracted and painstaking preparation, and the ruffians standing over him could easily end his life at any moment if they so desired.

“You’ll find out soon enough,” the tallest man said. He had a reddish stubble of a beard and one of his nostrils had been excised by an old wound that had left a diagonal scar on his face.

“You owe him no loyalty,” Dardash said, experimenting with the possibilities of his situation. “By sending you against me he has placed you in terrible danger.”

Red-beard laughed comfortably. “I must be a braver man than I realised—I feel absolutely no fear.”

You will, Dardash vowed inwardly. If I get out of this alive. The sobering realisation that this could be the last day of his life caused him to lapse into a brooding silence while the four men brought a wooden litter from its place of concealment behind nearby rocks. They rolled him on to it, none too gently, and carried him up the steep slope to the higher ground of the plain that spanned most of Koldana. The woman, now more normally clad in an all-enveloping burnous, led the way. Dardash, still trying to guess why he had been taken, derived little comfort from the fact that his captors had not run a sword through him as soon as they had the chance. Their master, if he was an enemy worth considering, would want to dispose of him in person—and quite possibly by some means that would give all concerned plenty of time to appreciate what was happening.

When the party reached level ground Dardash craned his neck, expecting to see some kind of conveyance that would be used to transport him inland, but instead there was a square tent only a few hundred paces away, positioned just far enough from the shore to be invisible from his inlet home. The tent had an awning supported on gilded poles, and near it perhaps a dozen horses and pack animals cropped the sparse vegetation. It was obviously a temporary camp set up by a personage of some importance, one who was not prepared to travel far without the trappings of luxury, and it came to Dardash that he would not be kept in ignorance of his fate much longer. He lay back on the litter and feigned indifference.

The woman ran on ahead of the others, presumably to announce their arrival, and when the group of men reached the tent she was holding the entrance flaps aside for them. They carried Dardash into the lemon-coloured shade within, set the litter down and left without speaking, closing the entrance behind them. Dardash, his eyes rapidly adjusting to the change of lighting, saw that he was alone with a plump, heavily-moustached man whose skin was as smooth and well-oiled as that of a young concubine. He was dressed in costly silks, and Dardash noted with a quickening of interest—and hope—that astrological symbols were woven into the dark blue of his robe. In Dardash’s experience, astrologers were rarely men of violence—except of course towards those who made their predictions go wrong, and he was quite certain he had not done anything along those lines.

“I am Urtarra, astrologer at the court of King Marcurades,” the man said. “I am sorry at having brought you here by such devious means, but…”

“Devious!” Dardash snorted his contempt. “It was the simplest and most childish trick ever devised.”

“Nevertheless, it worked.” Urtarra paused to let the implication of his words sink in. “I do hope that doesn’t mean that you are simple and childish, because if you are you will be unequal to the task I have in mind for you.”

“You’ll learn how childish I am,” Dardash promised, his anger growing apace with his new certainty that he was not about to be slain. “You’ll learn a great deal about me as soon as I am free of these bonds.”

Urtarra shook his head. “I have already learned all I need to know about you, and I would not be stupid enough to release you until you had heard my proposal and agreed to work for me.” He eyed Dardash’s robust frame. “You look as though you would wreak considerable damage, even without magical aids.”

Dardash almost gasped aloud at the extent of the other man’s presumption. “I don’t know what miserable little desires you harbour, but I can tell you one thing—I will never serve you in anyway.”

“Ah, but you will!” Urtarra looked amused as he rearranged the cushions on which he was seated. “The fact of the matter is that I have certain unusual talents, powers which are related to your own in a way. I am a seer. I have the gift of being able to part the veils of time and divine something of what the future holds in store—and I have seen the two of us making a journey together.”

“A seer?” Dardash glanced at the planetary symbols on Urtarra’s robes. “I don’t regard fiddling with abacus and astrolabe as …”

“Nor do I, but young King Marcurades does not believe in any form of magic, not even my modest variety. He is a philosopher, you must understand—one of that breed of men who put their faith in irrigation schemes rather than weather spells, armour rather than amulets. It would be impossible for me to remain at his court were I to use my powers openly. Instead, 1 must pretend that my predictions spring from the science of astrology. I have nothing against astrology, of course, except that it lacks…um…precision.”

“Your own visions are similarly lacking,” Dardash said with emphasis. “I have no intention of making any journey with you, 1 nor will I serve you in any…What sort of chore did you have in a mind, anyway? The usual unimaginative trivia? Preparing a love potion? Turning useful lead into useless gold?”

“No, no, no—something much more appropiate to a magician of your standing.” Urtarra paused to stare into Dardash’s face, and when he spoke again his voice was low and earnest. “I want you to kill King Marcurades.”

Dardash’s immediate and instinctive response was to begin a new struggle to break free of his bonds. He writhed and quivered on the litter, straining to loosen or snap his restraints, but the thongs were stout and had been expertly tied, and even his unusual strength was of no avail. Finally he lapsed into immobility, sweating, his gaze fixed on the roof of the tent.

“Why exhaust yourself?” Urtarra said reasonably. “Does the life of the king mean so much to you?”

“My concern is for my own life,” Dardash replied. He had scant regard for rank—a prince had no more standing in his scheme of things than a pot-mender—but the young King Marcurades was a rare phenomenon in that he was a ruler who was universally admired by his subjects. In the five years since he had ascended to the throne of Koldana, Marcurades had secured the country’s boundaries, expanded its trade, abolished taxes, and devoted himself to far-sighted schemes for the improvement of agriculture and industry. Under his aegis the populace were experiencing stability and prosperity to an unprecedented degree, and in return they were fiercely loyal, from the most illustrious general right down to the humblest farmworker. Dardash found it difficult to conceive of a project more foolhardy than the proposed assassination of such a king.

“Admittedly, no ordinary man could undertake the task and hope to live,” Urtarra said, accurately divining Dardash’s thoughts, “but you are no ordinary man.”

“Nor do I take heed of flattery. Why do you wish the king dead? Are you in league with his heirs?”

“I am acting only for myself—and the people of Koldana. Let me show you something.” Urtarra raised one hand and pointed at a wall of the tent. The material rippled in a way that had nothing to do with the breeze from the sea, then seemed to dissolve into mist. Through swirls of opalescent vapour, Dardash saw the erect and handsome figure of a young king standing in a chariot which was being drawn through the streets of a city.

Cheering crowds pressed in on each side, with mothers holding their infants aloft to give them a better view, and maidens coming forward to strew the chariot’s path with flowers.

“That is Marcurades now,” Urtarra murmured, “but let us look forward and see the course which is to be followed by the river of time.”

Conjured images began to appear and fade in rapid succession, compressing time, and by means of them Dardash saw the king grow older, and with the passage of the years changes occurred in his mien. He became tight-lipped and bleak-eyed, and gradually the aspect of the royal processions altered. Great numbers of soldiers marched before and behind the king, and engines of war were in evidence. The crowds who lined the routes still cheered, but few infants or maidens were to be seen, and the onlookers were noticeably shabbier of dress and thinner of face.

The prescience which Dardash was experiencing was more than simply a progression of images. Knowledge, foreknowledge, was being vouchsafed to him in wordless whispers, and he knew that the king was to be corrupted by power and ambition, to become increasingly cruel and insane. He was to raise armies and conquer neighbouring countries, thus augmenting his military might. Marcurades was to turn his back on all his enlightened reforms and civil engineering projects. Finally he was to attempt to increase his domain a thousand-fold, plunging the entire region into a series of terrible wars and catastrophes-resulting in the total annihilation of his people.

As the last dire vision faded, and the wall of the tent became nothing more than a slow-billowing square of cloth, Dardash looked at Urtarra with new respect. “You are a seer,” he said. “You have a gift which even I can only envy.”

“Gift? Curse is a better word for it.” For an instant Urtarra’s smooth face looked haunted. “I could well do without such visions and the burden of responsibility they bring.”

“What burden? Now that you know what is preordained for Koldana and its people, all you have to do is journey to some safe country and live out your life in peace. That’s what I’m going to do.”

“But I am not you,” Urtarra said. “And the events we saw are not preordained. Time is like a river, and the course of a river can be altered—that’s why you must kill the king before it is too late.”

Dardash settled back on the litter. “I have no intention of involving myself in anything so troublesome and dangerous. Why should I?”

“But you have just seen the miseries that are held in store for multitudes—the wars and plagues and famines.”

“What’s that to me?” Dardash said casually. “I have my own problems to contend with, and very little time in which to do it. I’ll make you an offer—you release me now and I will promise to go my separate way without harming you or any of your company.”

“I was told you thought only of yourself,” Urtarra said, his eyes mirroring a cynical amusement, “but it was hard to believe a man could be so lacking in compassion.”

“Believe it.” Dardash proffered his bound wrists. “Let’s get this over with no more waste of time.”

“There is one thing you have not considered,” Urtarra said, his voice oddly enigmatic as he rose to his feet and walked to a richly ornamented chest which sat in one corner of the tent. “I am willing to repay you for your services.”

Dardash gave a humourless laugh. “With what? Gold or precious stones? I can conjure them out of dung! The favours of that whore who lingers outside? I can recruit a hundred like her in any city. You have nothing which could possibly interest me, soothsayer.”

“That is most regrettable,” Urtarra said mildly as he stooped and took something from the chest. “I hoped you might find something worthy of your attention in this.”

He turned and Dardash saw that he was holding a piece of parchment, roughly two handsbreadths in length, which had obviously been cut from a scroll. Dardash gave the parchment a bored glance and was turning his head away again when there came a thrill of recognition—it bore lines of writing in the Old Language, the same enigmatic and impenetrable script of his own twelve scrolls. Apart from the compilations of spells which had defeated his understanding for decades, no other matter written in the Old Langauge had come his way. Dardash tilted his head for a better view, trying to decide what kind of text the fragment represented, and suddenly—as though he had been stricken by a superior magic—he was unable to speak or breathe. His heartbeat became a tumult of thunder within his chest and bright-haloed specks danced across his vision as he absorbed the realisation that the parchment in Urtarra’s hands was written in two languages.

Under each line of the Old Language was a corresponding line, a mixture of ideograms and phonetic symbols, which Dardash identified as late period Accosian—one of the near-defunct languages he had mastered many years earlier.

“This is only a fragment, of course,” Urtarra said. “I have the remainder of the scroll hidden in a secure place, but if it’s of no interest to you…”

“Don’t toy with me—I don’t like it.” Dardash briefly considered the fact that the key which would unlock the secrets of his twelve scrolls would make him virtually immortal, with all the incredible powers of the ancient warlocks, and decided he should modify his attitude towards Urtarra. “I admit to having a certain scholarly interest in old writings, and am prepared to offer a fair price for good examples. The assassination of a king is out of the question, of course, but there are many other…”

“And don’t you toy with me,” Urtarra cut in. “Marcurades has to die—otherwise the entire scroll will be consigned to the fire.”

The threat cast a chill shadow in Dardash’s mind.

“On the other hand, the world has seen an abundance of kings,” he said slowly. “Is it a matter of any real consequence whether we have one more—or one less?”

It was close to noon by the time Dardash had selected the magical equipment he thought he would need and had brought it ashore by raft. He supervised the loading of the material and some personal effects on to two mules, then turned to Urtarra with a slight frown.

“Just to satisfy my curiosity,” he said, “how were you able to find my unobtrusive little island? I believed I had it quite well concealed.”

“It was very well concealed—from the eyes of men,” Urtarra replied, allowing himself to look satisfied. “But birds can see it from on high, and you have many of them nesting there.”

“What difference does that make?”

“To me—none; to the hawks I have been releasing—a great deal.”

“I see,” Dardash said thoughtfully, suddenly aware that Urtarra, for all his eunuchoid softness, would make a highly dangerous adversary. “Have you ever thought of becoming a sorcerer?”

“Never! I’m troubled enough by visions as it is. Were I to introduce new elements I might forfeit sleep altogether.”

“Perhaps you’re right.” Dardash swung himself up into the saddle of the horse that had been provided for him. “Tell me, do you ever foresee your own death?”

“No seer can do that—not until he is ready.” Urtarra gave him an odd smile and made a signal to his four guards and the young woman, all of whom were already on horseback and waiting some distance away. They moved off immediately, taking a south-easterly course for Bhitsala, the capital city of Koldana. The plain was shimmering with heat and at the horizon there was no clear distinction between land and sky.

Dardash, who much preferred the comparative coolness of the coast, had no relish for the four days’ ride that lay ahead. Urging his horse forward alongside Urtarra, he consoled himself with the thought that this journey was probably the last he would have to undertake in such a commonplace and uncomfortable manner. When the knowledge reposing in the twelve scrolls was available to him he would waft himself effortlessly to his destinations by other means, perhaps sailing on clouds, perhaps by methods as yet undreamed of. Until then he would have to make the best of things as they were.

“The woman,” he said pensively, “has she any knowledge of what we’re about?”

“None! Nobody else must learn what has passed between us—otherwise your power and mine increased a hundredfold couldn’t preserve our lives.”

“Don’t your men regard this expedition as being a little…unusual?”

“They are trained never to ask nor to answer questions. However, I have told them what I will tell Marcurades—that you are a superb mathematician, and that I need your help in calculating horoscopes. I have spread word that the stars are hinting at some major event, but are doing it in such an obscure way that even I am baffled. It all helps to prepare the ground.”

Dardash’s thoughts returned to the female figure ahead. “And where did you obtain the woman?”

“Nirrineen is the daughter of one of my cousins.” Urtarra gave a satisfied chuckle. “It was fortunate that she was so well qualified for the task I assigned her. Shall I send her to you tonight?”

“That won’t be necessary,” Dardash said, concealing his annoyance at what he regarded as an insult. “She will come to me of her own accord.”

The group trekked across the acrid plain—seemingly at the centre of a hazy hemisphere of blinding radiance—until, with the lowering of the sun, the horizons became sharp again, and the world was created anew all around them. In the period of tranquillity that preceded nightfall they set up camp—the stately square tent for Urtarra’s sole usage, humbler conical structures for the others—and fires were lit. Nirrineen began to prepare a meal for Urtarra and Dardash, leaving the four guards to cater for their own needs. Dardash chose to stand close to the young woman while she worked, placing her within the orbit of a personal power which was slow-acting but sure.

“You were excellent when we met this morning,” he said. “I quite believed you were a princess.”

“And I quite believe you are a flatterer.” Nirrineen did not raise her eyes from the dishes she was preparing.

“I never employ flattery.”

“It exists most in its denial.”

“Very good,” Dardash said, chuckling, his desire quickening as he realised that the woman kneeling before him was a complete person and not merely a shell of flesh. “Yesterday, when I watched you bathe, I knew …”

“Yesterday?” Her eyes glimmered briefly in the dusk, like twin moons.

“Yes. Don’t forget that I’m as much magician as mathematician. Yesterday—by proxy—I stood very close to you for a long time, and knew then that you and I had been fashioned for each other. Like sword and sheath.”

“Sword! Can it be that you now flatter yourself?”

“There’s but one way for you to find out,” Dardash replied easily. Much later as they lay together in the darkness, with Nirrineen contentedly asleep in his arms, he exulted in the discovery that his mind had regained all of its former clarity.

He began to consider ways of killing the king.

The city of Bhitsala was clustered around a semi-circular bay which provided good anchorage for trading ships. It was protected by a range of low hills which merged with the shoreline at the bay’s southern edge, creating a cliff-edge prominence upon which sat the palace of the Koldanian kings. It was a sprawling, multi-centred building, the colonnades of which had been sheathed with beaten gold until Marcurades’ accession to the throne. One of the young king’s first actions after assuming power had been to strip the columns and distribute the gold among his people. The underlying cores of white marble shone almost as brightly, however, and at the end of the day when they reflected the aureate light of sunset the dwellers in the city below told their children that the gods had gilded the palace anew to repay Marcurades for his generosity.

Dardash imagined he could sense the universal adoration of the king as he rode into the city, and for him it was an atmosphere of danger. The task he had undertaken would have to be planned and carried out with the utmost care. He had already decided that it must not appear to be a murder at all, but even a naturally occurring illness could lead to suspicions of poisoning—and a magician, a reputed brewer of strange potions and philtres, was one of the most likely to be accused. It was essential, Dardash told himself, that Marcurades’ death should occur in public, before as many witnesses as possible, and that it should appear as either a pure accident or, even better, a malign stroke of fate. The trouble was that divine acts were difficult to simulate.

“I have prepared a room for you in my own quarters at the palace,” Urtarra said as they passed through the city’s afternoon heat and began the gradual climb to the royal residence. “You will be able to rest there and have a meal.”

“That’s good,” Dardash replied, “but first I’m going to bathe and have Nirrineen massage me with scented oils—I’ve begun to smell worse than this accursed horse.”

“My intention was to send Nirrineen straight back to her father.”

“No! I want her to stay with me.”

“But many women are available at the palace.” Urtarra brought his horse closer and lowered his voice. “It wouldn’t be wise at this time to share your bed with one who has a special interest in you.”

Dardash realised at once that Urtarra’s counsel was good, but the thought of parting with Nirrineen—the she-creature who worked her own kind of voluptuous magic on him through the sweet hours of night—was oddly painful. “Don’t alarm yourself—she will know nothing,” he said. “Do you take me for a fool?”

“I was thinking only of your own safety.”

“There is only one whose safety is at risk,” Dardash said, fixing his gaze on the complex architecture of the palace which had begun to dominate the skyline ahead.

When they reached the palace gates a short time later, Urtarra conferred briefly with his men and sent them on their way to nearby lodgings. Dardash, Urtarra and Nirrineen were able to ride through the gates after only a perfunctory examination by the captain of the palace guard—yet another indication of the unusual bond that existed between the king and his subjects. Servants summoned by Urtarra led away their horses and mules. Others came forward to carry Dardash’s belongings into the astrologer’s suite, which was part of a high wing facing the sea, but he dismissed them and moved the well-trussed bundles in person.

While thus engaged he noticed, in one corner of a small courtyard, a strange vehicle which consisted principally of a large wooden barrel mounted on four wheels. At the base of the barrel was an arrangement of cylinders and copper pipes from which projected a long T-shaped handle, and near the top—coiled like a snake—was a flexible leather tube, the seams of which were sealed with bitumen.

“What is that device?” Dardash said, pointing the object out to Urtarra. “I’ve never seen its like before.”

Urtarra looked amused. “You’ll see many of Marcurades’ inventions before you are here very long. He calls that particular one a fire engine.”

“A fire engine? Is it a siege weapon?”

“Quite the opposite,” Urtarra said, his amusement turning to outright laughter. “It’s for projecting water on to burning buildings.”

“Oh? An unusual sport for a king.”

“It’s more than a sport, my friend. Marcurades gets so obsessed with his various inventions that he spends half his time in the palace workshops. Sometimes, in his impatience to see the latest one completed, he throws off his robes and labours on it like a common artisan. I’ve seen him emerge from the smithy so covered with soot and sweat as to be almost unrecognisable.”

“Doesn’t he know that such activities can be dangerous?”

“Marcurades doesn’t care about…” Urtarra paused and scanned Dardash’s face. “What are you thinking?”

“I’m not sure yet.” Dardash almost smiled as his mind came to grips with the information he had just received. “Now, where can I bathe?”

“Watch this,” Dardash said to Nirrineen as they stood together in the elaborate garden which formed a wide margin between the royal palace and the edge of the cliffs. It was a fresh morning and the livening breeze coming in from the sea was ideally suited to Dardash’s purpose. In his right hand he had a cross made from two flat strips of hardwood, smoothly jointed at the centre. He raised his hand and made to throw the cross off the edge of the cliff.

“Don’t throw it away,” Nirrineen pleaded. She had no idea why Dardash had constructed the cross in the first place, but she had seen him spend the best part of a day carefully shaping the object, smoothly rounding some edges and sharpening others, and obviously she disliked the idea of his labour going to waste.

“But I’ve grown weary of the thing,” Dardash said, laughing. He brought his hand down sharply, in an action like that of a man cracking a whip, and released the cross. It flew from his fingers at great speed, its arms flailing in the vertical plane, gradually curving downwards towards the blue waters of the bay. Nirrineen began to protest, but her voice was stilled as the cross, tilting to one side, defied gravity by sailing upwards again until it was higher than the point from which it had been launched. It appeared to come to rest in mid-air, hovering like a hawk, twinkling brightly in the sky. Nirrineen gave a small scream of mingled wonder and terror as she realised the cross was actually returning. She threw herself into Dardash’s arms as the strange artifact fluttered back across the edge of the cliff and fell to earth a few paces away.

“You didn’t tell me it was bewitched,” she accused, clinging to Dardash and staring down at the cross as though it were a live thing which might suddenly attack her.

“There is no magic here,” he said, disengaging himself and picking up the cross, “even though I learned the secret from a very old book. Look at how I have shaped each piece of wood to resemble a gull’s wing. I’ve made you a little wooden bird, Nirrineen—a homing pigeon.”

“It still seems like magic to me,” she said doubtfully. “I don’t think I like it.”

“You soon shall. See how reluctant it is to leave you.” Dardash threw the cross out to sea again in the same manner and it repeated its astonishing circular flight, this time coming to rest even closer to its starting point. Nirrineen leaped out of its path, but now there was more excitement than apprehension in her eyes, and after a third throw she was able to bring herself to pick the cross up and hand it to Dardash.

He went on throwing it, varying the speed and direction of its flight and making a game for both of them out of avoiding its whirring returns. In a short time a group of palace servants and minor officials, initially attracted by Nirrineen’s laughter, had gathered to watch the spectacle. Dardash continued tirelessly, apparently oblivious to the onlookers, but in fact paying careful attention to every detail of his surroundings, and he knew—simply by detecting a change in the general noise level—the exact moment at which his plan had succeeded. He turned and saw the knot of spectators part to make way for the approach of a handsome, slightly-built young man, whose bearing somehow managed to be both relaxed and imperious.

This is a new kind of arrogance, Dardash thought. Here is a man who feels that he doesn’t even have to try to impress…

The remainder of the thought was lost as he got his first direct look at the young King Marcurades and felt the ruler’s sheer psychic power wash over him. Dardash, as a dedicated magician, understood very well that there was more to his calling than the willingness and ability to memorise spells. On a number of occasions he had encountered men—often in ordinary walks of life—who had a strong potential for magic, but never before had he been confronted by a human being whose charisma was so overwhelming. Dardash suddenly found himself taken aback, humbled and confused, by the realisation that he was in the company of a man who, had he been so inclined, could have effortlessly eclipsed him in his chosen profession.

“You must be Urtarra’s new assistant,” Marcurades said in light and pleasant tones. “I trust that you are enjoying your stay in Bhitsala.”

Dardash bowed. “I’m enjoying it very much, sire—it is my privilege to serve your highness.” To himself he said: Can it, despite Urtarra’s visions, be right to kill such a man?

“I am sorry we could not meet sooner, but the demands on my time are myriad.” Marcurades paused and glanced at Nirrineen. “However, I suspect you are in little need of consolation.”

Nirrineen smiled and lowered her gaze in a way which, to Dardash’s heightened sensibilities, had nothing to do with modesty. The bitch, he thought, appalled at the strength of his emotion. The bitch is ready to give herself to him, right here and now.

“I couldn’t help observing that you cast more than horoscopes,” Marcurades said, nodding at the cross which lay on the grass nearby. “That scrap of wood appears to have magical power, but—as I am no believer in hocus-pocus—I surmise it has qualities of form which are not immediately apparent.”

“Indeed, sire.” Dardash retrieved the cross and, with murder in his heart, began to explain what he knew of the aerodynamic principles which made the circular flights possible. Now that his attitude towards Marcurades had crystallised, the facts that the king addressed him as an equal and chose to wear unadorned linen garments were further evidence of an incredible arrogance, of an overweening pride. It was not difficult to understand how such attributes could decay into a terrible and dangerous insanity, gradually corrupting the young king until he had become a monster the world could well do without.

“As soon as the cross ceases to spin it falls to the ground,” Dardash said. “That shows that it is the fleet movement of these arms through the air which somehow makes the cross as light as thistledown. I have often thought that if a man could build a large cross, perhaps a score of paces from end to end, with arms shaped just so—and if he could devise some means for making it spin rapidly—why then he could fly like an eagle, soar above all the lands and peoples of this earth.”

Dardash paused and eyed the king, choosing his exact moment. “Of course, such a contrivance is impossible.”

Marcurades’ face was rapt, glowing. “I disagree, Dardash—I think one could be constructed.”

“But the weight of the arms …”

“It would be folly to use solid wood for that purpose,” Marcurades cut in, his voice growing more fervent. “No, I see light frameworks covered with wooden veneers, or skins, or—better still—silk. Yes, silk!”

Dardash shook his head. “No man, not even the mightiest wrestler, could spin the arms fast enough.”

“Like all stargazers, you are lacking in knowledge of what can be done with earthly substances like copper and water…and fire,” Marcurades replied, beginning to pace in circles. “I can produce the power of ten men, of a horse, within a small compass. The main problem is to make that power subservient to my wishes. It has to be channelled, and…and …” Marcurades raised one finger, traced an invisible line vertically and then, his eyes abstracted disks of white light, began to move his hand in horizontal circles.

“From this—to this,” he murmured, communing with himself. “There must be a way.”

“I don’t understand, sire,” Dardash said, disguising the exultation that pounded within him. “What are you…?”

“You’ll see, stargazer.” Marcurades turned back to the palace. “I think I’m going to surprise you.”

“And I think I’m going to surprise you,” Dardash said under his breath as he watched Marcurades stride away. Well satisfied with his morning’s work, Dardash glanced at Nirrineen and felt a flicker of cold displeasure as he saw she was gazing at the figure of the departing king with a peculiar intensity.

The sooner my task here is complete, he thought irritably, the better I’ll like it.

Urtarra’s private apartment was a lavishly appointed room, the walls of which were hung with deep blue tapestries embroidered with astrological emblems. He had apologised to Dardash for the ostentation of its furnishings and trappings, explaining that as he was not truly an astrologer it was necessary for him to put on a bold and convincing show for the benefit of all other residents at the palace. Now he was squatting comfortably on his bed, looking much as he had done the first time Dardash had seen him—plump, oily, deceptively soft.

“I suppose I must congratulate you,” he said reflectively. “Going aloft in a flying machine is one of the most dangerous things imaginable, and if you bring about the king’s death without the use of magic your triumph has to be considered all the greater. I won’t withhold your reward.”

“Don’t even think of trying,” Dardash advised. “Besides, you have missed the whole point of my discourse—I will have to use magic. A great deal of magic.”

“But if it is simply a matter of waiting until Marcurades and his machine fall from the sky, I don’t see …”

“What you don’t see is that the machine will not be capable of leaving the ground,” Dardash interrupted, amazed that a man of Urtarra’s experience could display such naivety about the natural world. “Not without my assistance, anyway. Man, like all other animals, belongs to the ground, and there is no contrivance—no ingenious combination of levers and springs and feathers—which can raise him out of his natural element.

“Note that I said natural element, because it is the essence of magic that it defies nature. I intend to cast a spell over whatever machine Marcurades builds, and with the power of my magic that machine will bear him upwards, higher and higher into the realm of the gods, and then—when I judge the moment aright—the gods will become angry at the invasion of their domain by a mere mortal, and …”

“And you’ll cancel your spell!” Urtarra clapped his hands to his temples. “It’s perfect!”

Dardash nodded. “All of Bhitsala will see their king up there in the sky, far beyond the reach of ordinary men, and when he falls to his death—who but the gods could be responsible? Even Marcurades cannot aspire to the status of a deity and hope to go unpunished.”

“I bow to you, Dardash,” Urtarra said. “You have earned my undying gratitude.”

“Keep it,” Dardash said coldly. “I’m doing a specified job for a specified fee—and there is no more to it than that.”

The days that followed required him to make a number of carefully-weighed decisions. On the one hand, he did not want to spend much time in the palace workshops for fear of becoming associated with the flying machine in people’s minds, and thus attracting some blame for the final disaster; on the other hand, he needed to see what was happening so that he could work the appropriate magic. There was a plentiful supply of mana in the vicinity of Bhitsala—he could sense it in his enhanced youthful-ness and vigour—but he had no wish to waste it with an ill-conceived spell. If mana was again returning to the world at large, perhaps sifting down from the stars, it behoved him to conserve it, especially as he aspired to live as a magician for a very long time, perhaps forever.

He was intrigued to see that Marcurades had divided the work of building his flying machine into two entirely separate parts. One team of carpenters was concerned with fashioning four wings of the lightest possible construction. The frameworks over which silk was to be stretched were so flimsy that strong cords had been used instead of wood in places where the members they joined always tended to move apart. Nevertheless, Dardash noted, the resulting structures were surprisingly stiff and his respect for Marcurades’ capabilities increased, although he knew that all the work of the artisans was futile.

The king had exercised even more ingenuity in the device which was intended to spin the wings. At its heart was a large, well-reinforced copper container beneath which was a miniature furnace. The latter incorporated a bellows and was fired by coals and pitch. The invisible force which springs from boiling water travelled vertically upwards through a rigid pipe at the top of which was a slip ring. Four lesser pipes, all bent in the same direction, projected horizontally from the ring in the form of a swastika. When the furnace was lit the steam expelled from the end of the pipes caused the swastika to rotate at a considerable speed, and by decreasing pressure losses and improving lubrication and balance Marcurades was making it go faster every day.

Dardash watched the work without comment. He knew from his reading, and a certain amount of experimentation, that all should come to naught when the wings were attached to the pipes of the swastika. For no reason he could explain, the faster that wing-shaped objects travelled the more difficult they became to urge forward, and the resistance increased much more rapidly than one would have expected. Under normal conditions Marcurades’ machine would have been able to produce no more than a feeble and faltering rotation of the wings, far short of the speed needed to create the inexplicable lightness required for flight, but the circumstances were far from normal.

Dardash prepared a simple kinetic sorcery and directed its power into the four newly-completed wings, altering their unseen physical nature in such a way that the faster they moved the less effort it took to increase their speed even further. He prudently remained in a distant part of the palace when Marcurades assembled his machine for the first time, but he knew precisely when the first test was carried out. An ornate ring he wore on his left hand began to vibrate slightly, letting him know that a certain amount of mana was being used up—the wings of the flying machine were spinning in a satisfactory manner.

Dardash visualised the hissing contraption beginning to stir and shiver, to exhibit the desire to leave the ground, and he strained his ears for evidence of one possible consequence. He knew that the king was reckless when in the grip of an enthusiasm, and if he were foolhardy enough to go aloft in the machine in its present form he would almost certainly be killed, and Dardash would be able to claim his reward earlier than planned. There came no cries of alarm, however, and he deduced that Marcurades had foreseen the need to control the machine once it soared up from the still air of the courtyard and into the turbulent breezes that forever danced above the cliffs.

I can wait, he thought, nodding his appreciation of the young king’s engineering talent. What are a few more days when measured against eternity?

The news that the king had constructed a machine with which he intended to fly into the heavens spread through Bhitsala and the surrounding regions of Koldana in a very short time. There was to be no public ceremony connected with the first flight—indeed Marcurades was too engrossed in his new activity even to be aware of his subjects’ feverish interest in it—but as stories spread further and became more lurid there was a general drift of population towards Bhitsala.

The city filled with travellers who had come to see the ruler borne aloft on the back of a mechanical dragon, eagle or bat, depending on which variation of the rumour they had encountered. Bhitsala’s lodging houses and taverns experienced a profitable upsurge of trade and the atmosphere of excitement and celebration intensified daily, with runners coming down from the palace at frequent intervals to barter the latest scraps of information. People going about their routine business kept glancing up towards the white-columned royal residence, and such was the pitch of expectancy that every time a flock of seabirds rose from the cliffs an audible ripple of near-hysteria sped through the streets.

Dardash, while keeping himself closely informed of Marcurades’ progress, made a show of being disinterested almost to the point of aloofness. He spent much of his time on the balcony of Urtarra’s apartment, ostensibly engaged in astrological work, but in fact keeping watch on the western ramparts of the palace, behind which the flying machine was receiving finishing touches. During this period of idleness and waiting he would have appreciated the company of Nirrineen, but she had taken to associating a great deal with certain of the courtesans who attended the king. Urtarra had expressed the opinion that her absence was all to the good, as it meant she had less chance to become an embarrassment and Dardash had voiced his agreement. But he waxed more moody and surly, and ever more impatient, and as he scanned the foreshortened silhouette of the palace his eyes seemed, occasionally, to betray his true age.

“And not before time,” was his sole comment when Urtarra arrived one day, in the trembling purple heat of noon, with the intelligence that Marcurades was on the point of making a trial flight. Dardash had already known that a significant event was about to occur, because the sensor ring on his left hand had been vibrating strongly for some time—evidence that the machine’s wings were rotating at speed. He had also seen and heard the growing excitement in the city below. The population of Bhitsala appeared to have migrated like so many birds to rooftops and high window ledges, any place from which they could get a good view of the forthcoming miracle.

“This is a wonderful thing you are doing for the people of Koldana,” Urtarra said as they stood together on the balcony, with the blue curvatures of the bay stretching away beneath them. His voice was low and earnest, as though he had begun to suffer last-minute doubts and was trying to drive them away.

“Just have my payment ready,” Dardash said, giving him a disdainful glance.

“You have no need to worry on that …” Urtarra’s speech faltered as the air was disturbed by a strange sound, a powerful and sustained fluttering which seemed to resonate inside the chest.

A moment later the king’s flying machine lifted itself into view above the palace’s western extremity.

The four rotating wings were visible as a blurry white disk, edged with gold, and slung beneath them was a gondola-shaped basket in which could be seen the figure of the king. Dardash’s keen eyesight picked out weights suspended on ropes beneath the basket, giving the whole assemblage the same kind of stability as a pendulum, and it seemed to him that Marcurades had also added extra fitments at the top of the pipe which carried steam to the wing impellers.

A sigh of mingled wonder and adoration rose up from the watching throngs as the machine continued its miraculous ascent into the clear blue dome of the sky. At a dizzy height above the palace, almost at the limit of Dardash’s vision, the king reached upwards to operate a lever, the insubstantial disk of the wings tilted slightly, and the machine swooped out over the line of the cliffs, out over the waters of the bay.

Ecstatic cheering, great slow-pulsing billows of sound, surged back and forth like tidal currents as Marcurades—godlike in his new power—steered his machine into a series of wide sweeps far above the wave crests.

“Now,” Urtarra urged. “The time is now!”

“So be it,” Dardash said, fingering the scrap of parchment on which the spell for the kinetic sorcery was written. He uttered a single polysyllabic word and tore the parchment in two.

At that instant the sun-gleaming shape of the flying machine was checked in its course, as though it had encountered an invisible obstacle. It wavered, faltered, then began to fall.

The sound that went up from the watching multitude was a vast wordless moan of consternation and shocked disbelief. Dardash listened to it for a moment, his face impassive, and was turning away from the balcony when two things happened to petrify him in mid-stride.

Far out across the water Marcurades’ flying machine, which had been tilting over as it fell, abruptly righted itself and began to hover, neither losing nor gaining height. Simultaneously, a fierce pain lanced through Dardash’s left hand. He snatched the sensor ring off his finger and threw it to the floor, where it promptly became white hot. Outside was a pounding silence as every one of Marcurades’ subjects, not daring to breathe, prayed for his safety.

“The king flies,” Urtarra said in a hushed voice. “He built better than you knew.”

“I don’t think so,” Dardash said grimly. “Look! The machine’s wings are scarcely turning. It should be falling!”

He strode to a chest where he had stored some of his equipment and returned with a silver hoop which he held out at arm’s length. Viewed through the metal circle the hovering aircraft was a blinding, sun-like source of radiance. Dardash felt the beginnings of a terrible fear.

“What does it mean?” Urtarra said. “I don’t …”

“That light is mana—the raw power behind magic.” Dardash’s throat had gone dry, thickening and deadening his voice. “Fantastic amounts of it are being expended to keep Marcurades and his machine aloft. I’ve never seen such a concentration.”

“Does that mean there’s another magician at work?”

“I wish that were all it meant,” Dardash said. He lowered the silver loop and stared at the flickering mote which was the flying machine. It had begun to move again, slowly losing height and drifting in towards the shore, and Dardash knew with bleak certainty that aboard it was a new kind of man—one who could use mana instinctively, in tremendous quantities, to satisfy his own needs and achieve his ambitions. Marcurades could tap and squander mana resources without even being aware of what he was doing, and Dardash now fully understood why the future divined for the king had been so cataclysmic. Such power, without the discipline and self-knowledge of the traditional sorcerers, could only corrupt. The mana-assisted achievement of each ambition would inspire others, each grander and more vainglorious than the one before, and the inevitable outcome would be evil and madness.

Dardash, all too conscious of the dangerous nature of the energy behind his profession, suddenly foresaw the rise of a new kind of tyrant—the spawning of monsters so corrupted by success and ambition, believing themselves to be the fountainheads of power, that they would eventually seek to dominate the entire world, and even be prepared to see it go up in flames if their desires were thwarted.

“I forbid it,” he whispered, his fear giving way to resentment and a deep implacable hatred. “I, Dardash, say—NO!”

He ran back to the chest, driven by the knowledge that with each passing second Marcurades was a little closer to safety, and took from it a slim black rod. The wand had no power in itself, but it served to direct and concentrate magical energies. There was an unexpected noise in the next room and, glancing through the partially open door, Dardash saw Nirrineen coming towards him. Her expression was one of childish delight and her hands were at her throat, caressing a gold necklace.

“Look what the king has given me,” she said, “Isn’t it the most …”

“Stay out of here,” Dardash shouted, trying to control his panic as he realised there was almost no time left in which to accomplish his purpose. He wheeled to face the balcony and the bright scene beyond it, pointed the wand and uttered a spell he had hoped never to use, a personal sacrilege, a destructive formula which used mana to combat and neutralise mana.

The flying machine disintegrated.

Its four wings flailed and fluttered off in different directions, and from the centre of the destruction the body of the machine plunged downwards like a mass of lead. There was a sputtering explosion as it struck the water, then it was gone, and Marcurades was lost, and all that remained of the young king and all his ambitions were spreading ripples of water and the four slow-tumbling wings which had borne him to his death. A lone sea bird shrieked in the pervading silence.

Dardash had time for one pang of triumph, then his vision dimmed and blurred. He looked at his hands and saw that they had withered into the semblance of claws, blotched and feeble, and he understood at once that his brief battle with Marcurades had been even more destructive than he had anticipated. In that one instant of conflict every trace of mana in the entire region had been annihilated, and he—Dardash—no longer had access to the magical power which had preserved his body.

“Murderer!” Nirrineen’s voice seemed to reach him from another time, another existence. “You murdered the king!”

Dardash turned to face her. “You overestimate my powers, child,” he soothed, motioning for Urtarra to move around behind her and block the exit. “What makes you think that a humble dabbler in simple magic could ever…?”

He broke off as he saw Nirrineen’s revulsion at his appearance, evidence that more than a century of hard living had taken a dreadful toll of his face and body. Evidence of his guilt.

Nirrineen shook her head, and with near-magical abruptness she was gone. Her fleeing footsteps sounded briefly and were lost in the mournful wailing that had begun to pervade the room from outside as the people of Bhitsala absorbed the realisation that their king was dead.

“You should have stopped her,” Dardash said to Urtarra, too weak and tired to sound more than gently reproachful. “She has gone to fetch the palace guard, and now neither of us will ever …”

He stopped speaking as he saw that Urtarra had sunk down on a couch, hands pressed to his temples, eyes dilated with a strange horror, seeing but not seeing.

“So it has finally happened to you, soothsayer—now you can foresee your own death.” Dardash spoke with intuitive understanding of what was happening in Urtarra’s mind. “But do not waste what little time remains to you. Let me know that my sacrifice has not been in vain, that the whore wasn’t carrying Marcurades’ seed. Give me proof that no other mana-monsters will arise to usurp magicians and wreak their blind and ignorant havoc on the world.”

Urtarra appeared deaf to his words, but he raised one hand and pointed at the opposite wall of the room. The blue tapestries acquired a tremulous depth they had not previously possessed, came alive with images of times yet to be. The images changed rapidly, showing different places and different eras, but they had some elements in common.

Always there was fire, always thee was destruction, always there was death on a scale that Dardash had never conceived.

And against these fearful backgrounds there came a procession of charismatic, mana-rich figures. Knowledge, foreknowledge, was again vouchsafed to Dardash in wordless whispers, and unfamiliar names reverberated within his head…

Alexander… Julius Caesar… Tamburlaine…

The sky grew dark with the shadow of thousands of wings, annihilation rained from great airborne ships, creating a lurid backdrop for the strutting figure of Adolf Hitler…

Dardash covered his eyes with his hands and sank to a kneeling position, and remained that way without moving until the sound of heavy footsteps and the clatter of armour told him the palace guards had arrived. And the stroke of the sword, not long delayed, came like a kindly friend, bringing the only reward for which he retained any craving.