The Qualinesti

11 — Rising Son

Kith-Kanan watched the sun set from the Hall of the Sky. He’d been alone there for hours, thinking. Since the day Irthenie had calmed the crowd in the market square, there had been other demonstrations in the streets in favor of Ulvian. Kemian Ambrodel, who sought no higher office than the one he held, was berated everywhere he went. Once he was even pelted with overripe fruit. The Speaker had to order him to remain in the Speaker’s house to protect the proud warrior from further humiliation or worse.

Clovanos and the Loyalists were discreet enough not to be seen leading the activities, but within the hall of the Thalas-Enthia, they trumpeted the popular sentiment and demanded the return of Prince Ulvian. Lengthy petitions, inscribed on parchment scrolls three feet long, arrived at the Speaker’s house daily. The signatures on the petitions grew more numerous each time, with many of the New Landers joining the Loyalists in seeking Ulvian’s confirmation as Kith-Kanan’s heir. Disgusted with the senate’s shortsightedness, Kith-Kanan repaired to the Hall of the Sky to ponder his choices. He half hoped that the gods would choose for him, that some meaningful sign would show him what to do. However, nothing so mystical happened. He remained in the great plaza, watching his city through the waving treetops, until at last Tamanier Ambrodel came from the Speaker’s house.

The Speaker got up from his knees and crossed the vast mosaic map to greet his faithful castellan. In spite of the worries that clouded his mind, his step was springy; no one viewing the beauty of the sunset and the great elven city from this vantage point could fail to be moved, and some small measure of his strength had been renewed by his meditation.

“Good health to you, Majesty,” Tamanier said, bowing and presenting Kith-Kanan with an embossed dispatch case.

By the seal pressed in the wax of the lid, Kith knew the dispatch case was from Feldrin Feldspar. He broke the seal with his knife tip, and while Tamanier held the box, the Speaker raised the lid and drew out the papers inside.

“Hmm…Master Feldrin’s report on the progress at Pax Tharkas…the usual requests for food, clothing, and other supplies…and what’s this?” From between the sheets of official correspondence, the Speaker pulled a small folded letter on fine vellum, sealed carefully with a ribbon and a drop of blue wax.

He returned the other documents to the box and opened the sealed letter. “It’s from Merithynos,” he said, surprised.

“Good news, sire?”

“I’m not sure.” Frowning, Kith-Kanan read the brief letter, then handed the vellum to his castellan. Tamanier read Merith’s account of Ulvian’s near death, his salvation at the hands of the sorcerer Drulethen, and the friendship that Merith had observed growing between the prince and Dru.

“Drulethen—isn’t he the monster who ruled the high pass to Thorbardin during the Kinslayer War?” asked Tamanier.

“Your memory is still sharp. I’d forgotten the sorcerer was at Pax Tharkas. He shouldn’t be allowed to cultivate my son’s friendship; he’s far too dangerous.” The memory of another voice suddenly flashed into Kith-Kanan’s mind. What was it the god Hiddukel had said when he’d manifested himself in the Tower of the Sun? You may call me Dru. It couldn’t be coincidence that the god had chosen the name of the evil sorcerer. Where the gods were concerned, little was left to chance.

Tamanier continued to stand holding the dispatch box. After a long moment of silence, Kith-Kanan’s eyes focused once more on the old castellan. “Return to the house, Tam,” he said briskly. “Prepare for a trip. Small entourage, with a light, mounted escort. I want to move quickly.”

The castellan’s brows lifted. “Where are you going, Great Speaker?”

“To Pax Tharkas, my friend. I’ll leave as soon as Lord Anakardain can get back to Qualinost. I want him to keep order here while I’m gone.”

Tamanier bowed and withdrew, head buzzing with the speed of events. Kith-Kanan remained in the Hall of the Sky a while longer. Standing at the edge of the artificial plateau, he looked out over his city. One by one, lamps were being lit in towers and on street comers, until it seemed the star-salted sky was mirrored on the ground. As the Speaker watched, lights illuminated the sweeping arch of the northern bridge directly ahead of him, behind the Tower of the Sun. Kith-Kanan turned slowly to each point of the compass to see the other three bridges similarly lighted. They surrounded Qualinost in a sparkling embrace.

Despite this glorious vista, something gnawed at Kith-Kanan. The great forces he’d sensed behind the marvels of the past days now seemed overshadowed by evil. He’d believed the wonders to be portents of some great event; perhaps they were indeed portents, but of a darker nature.

The bells clanged, signaling the end of another day of toil at Pax Tharkas. Ropes were tied off or dropped, tools piled on carts to be taken back to storage sheds, and cook fires blazed in the twilight. From the parapet of the west tower, Feldrin Feldspar surveyed the site as Merith stood close by.

“It will stand ten times a thousand years,” declared the dwarf, clasping his stout arms behind his back. “An eternal bridge between Thorbardin and Qualinesti.”

In the ruby glow of sunset, the stones of the citadel shone a soft pink. It was a magnificent yet lonely sight, the great gateway wedged between the slopes of the wide pass. Merith, who didn’t care for heights, kept back from the unwalled edge of the tower top. Feldrin stood with his toes hanging over the edge, completely unconcerned about the long drop before him.

“How long until it’s finished?” asked Merith.

“Barring strange quirks of weather and landslides, the east tower can be completed in six months. The fortress will be habitable then, though the inside details may take another year to dress out.” Feldrin sighed, and it was like the grunt of an old bear.

He raised a hand to shade his eyes from the sun, setting behind the mountains to their left. Below, the pass was a narrow valley stretching away to the north. A small stream wended its way through the pass, shadowed now that the sun was nearly down. Staring up into the dark hollows of the high pass, the dwarf said, “Dust. Hmm…could be riders coming.”

Merith moved as close as he dared to the edge of the parapet and looked up the valley. “From the north?” he queried. That meant Qualinost.

“Probably some dandified courtier or senator from the city who expects a guided tour of the fortress,” growled Feldrin. “I guess this means I have to wash my hands and beard and put on a clean vest.” He sniffed.

“It could be a courier from the Speaker,” Merith suggested, “in which case you’ll only have to wash your hands.”

Feldrin caught the small smile on the fair-haired warrior’s lips. “Very well! A compromise, lieutenant. I’ll wash my hands and beard, but I won’t change my vest!”

Chuckling, the two entered the stairwell sunk into the roof of the tower and descended the long set of steps. By the time they reached ground level and made their way outside, the rising plume of dust in the pass had been dispersed by the ever-present wind. There was no further sign of riders.

“Maybe they changed their minds and went home,” joked Feldrin. He shrugged and added, “The dust must have come from a rockslide. All the better. Let’s see what rubbish the cook has inflicted on us tonight.”

In fact, Feldrin’s cook was excellent. He did amazing things with the simple fare provided for the master builder’s table. Dwarven food was usually too heavy for elves, but Feldrin’s cook managed to prepare lighter dishes that Merith found quite delicious.

The lieutenant trailed after the fast-moving dwarf. Once more he looked up into the pass, where they had spotted the dust cloud.

“I wonder,” he said softly. “Were they riders, or—”

“Come, Merith! Why are you lagging?”

There were no sentinels in Pax Tharkas. No night watch patrolled the sleeping complex of tent, huts, and sheds. None had ever been needed. Not even the grunt gang barracks were guarded once its single door was locked for the night. Thus it was that Ulvian slipped unseen out a window of the barracks and worked his way around the camp, collecting the items Dru had requested. From the plasterers’ mixing shed, he got more than a pound of dry white clay, as fine and pure as cake flour. The prince dumped it in a wide-mouthed pottery jar and hurried on. He made for the long row of blacksmiths’ sheds. Coal by the peck was available there, hard black coal from Thorbardin, which the dwarf smiths used to forge some of the hardest iron in the world. Ulvian crept up to the closest furnace. It still glowed dull orange from the day’s fire. Squatting on the dirt floor, he picked through the rubbish that lay scattered around the hearth doors. He dropped several pieces of coal into the jar containing the clay.

The tanner’s shed yielded a length of thong. Now…where to find a copper brazier? Dru had been quite specific; only copper would do. Hugging the pot of dry clay and coal to his chest, Ulvian ran across the open compound to the coppersmith’s hut. Inside, he found an abundance of copper plates, nails, and ingots, but no brazier.

Outside once more, Ulvian huddled under the eaves of the hut for a moment, pondering where he might find what he needed. Only two kinds of people used copper fire pans: priests and cooks. There were no clerics at Pax Tharkas, but there were certainly cooks.

Half an hour later, Ulvian was back at the grunt gang barracks. He knelt by Dru’s bed and reached a hand out to awaken the sorcerer.

Before Ulvian touched him, Dru said quietly, “Do you have it all?”

“Yes—and it wasn’t easy.”

“Good. Put it under my bed and go to sleep.”

Ulvian was taken aback. “Aren’t you going to do anything now?”

“At this hour? No indeed. Morning will be soon enough. Go to bed, my prince. Tomorrow will be a busy day, and you’ll wish you had slept tonight.” So saying, Dru rolled over and closed his eyes. Ulvian stared, mouth agape, at the sorcerer’s back. With no other recourse, the prince shoved the pot, the cooking brazier, and the leather strap under Dru’s bed and lay down on his own sagging, dirty cot. In spite of the excitement of the night’s foray, he was asleep in a few minutes.

The soft sound of rattling chains caused Ulvian to open his eyes. A pair of scales was hanging in the air over his bed. The fulcrum of the scales was broken, and one of the golden pans was tilted, its chains sagging loosely. From the tilted pan, white powder fell, landing on Ulvian’s chest. It looked like the clay powder he’d gotten for Dru.

“What’s this?” he muttered, trying to sit up. Strangely he could not. A great weight seemed to settle on his chest, just where the powdered clay rested. But it was only a small heap of dust, his mind protested. It couldn’t hold him pinioned in his bed.

The pressure grew and grew until the prince found it difficult to draw breath. He lifted a weak hand to deflect the stream of powder cascading down. When his fingers touched the golden scale pan, he snatched them back quickly. The pan was red hot!

“Help!” he gasped, continuing his efforts to rise. “I’m suffocating! Help!”

“Be still,” said a soft, chiding voice. Ulvian opened his eyes and encountered blackness. He was lying facedown on his bunk, his nose and mouth buried in his dirty scrap of blanket. The prince bolted to his feet, flinging the blanket aside.

A wild glance around showed Dru sitting cross-legged on his own bed, mixing something in a wooden bowl. The grunt gang barracks were otherwise empty.

“What’s the matter?” Dru asked, not looking up from his task.

“I—I had a bad dream,” stammered the prince. “Where is everybody?”

“It’s the half-day of rest,” replied the sorcerer. “They’re all at breakfast.” He set aside his stirring stick and poured a bit more water into the bowl. The stick was thickly coated with gluey white clay.

Ulvian’s breathing returned to normal, and he ran his fingers through his tousled hair. When he was calm, he went to see what Dru was doing. The sorcerer had made a ball of clay the size of two fists. He wet his hands and picked up the mass. The thong and copper brazier sat on the floor by his bed.

“One of the simplest kinds of spells is image magic,” said Dru, sounding like some sort of schoolmaster. “The sorcerer makes an image and consecrates it as the double of a living person. Then whatever he does to the image happens to the living person.” He rolled the clay into a long cylinder and tore off smaller bits, which he dropped into the bowl. “A more advanced spell creates an image that has no connection to the living. From that image, another double can be born.”

Fascinated, Ulvian knelt on one knee. “Is that what you’re doing?”

Dru nodded. “With this small figure, I will generate a much larger double that will do my bidding. Such clay creatures are called golems.”

He had molded the rough form of a stocky body. To it, he attached clay arms and legs, and a round ball for a head. With chips of coal, Dru made eyes for the image. Laying the clay doll on the bed, he dipped the leather thong in the damp bowl.

The sorcerer tied the wet thong around the waist of the clay figure. Then he sent Ulvian to get some live coals and kindling from the fireplace. With a crackling fire laid in the brazier, Dru began dangling the clay figure over the flames.

“Rise up, O golem. Gather yourself from the dust and arise! I, Drulethen, command you! The fire is in you, the dust of the mountains! Gather yourself and do my will!” Unlike his usual soft tone, the sorcerer’s voice was changing, deepening, strengthening.

Wind whistled through the chinks in the crude barracks walls. Outside, the grunt gang members lounging around the breakfast wagon grumbled loudly about the dust being whirled into their eyes. In the barracks, Dru twisted the thong in his fingers, making the clay doll spin, first left, then right.

“Rise up, O golem! Your form is here! Take the fire I give you and arise!” Dru shouted. Ulvian felt his skin crawl as the sorcerer’s voice boomed through the room. The rafters of the poorly built barracks rattled, and bits of dried moss fell through the cracks.

Steam began to rise from the white clay doll. The smell of burning hide filled the prince’s nostrils, threatening to gag him. The air vibrated, sending a tingling all along the surface of Ulvian’s skin. The walls of the building groaned, and suddenly the complaints of the workers outside ceased. In seconds, hoarse shouts replaced the muttered grumblings.

“What’s happening?” whispered Ulvian.

Breathing heavily, Dru never ceased his turning of the clay figure in the flames. “Go and see, my prince!” he gasped.

Ulvian went to the door and threw it open. The astonished faces of the grunt gang were looking off to the left, toward the quarries and the tent city. When he turned his face in that direction, the prince saw that a whirlwind of white dust writhed heavenward near the open pits where the limestone was cut. Elves, men, and dwarves ran from the area, shouting things Ulvian couldn’t understand.

As Dru’s invocation continued, the whirlwind coalesced into a thick, white body, twice as tall as the tallest tents. The black eyes on the featureless face mimicked the coal chips on the sorcerer’s doll.

“By the gods!” Ulvian exclaimed, turning to Dru. “You’ve done it! It’s as big as a watchtower!”

The sorcerer’s hand was nearly invisible, shrouded by the steam rising from the baking clay figure. “Go!” he hissed. “The confusion will cover you. Get my black amulet!” Dru clenched his eyes shut, and tears trickled down his cheeks. The steam was scalding his hand. “Go! Hurry!”

“I will, but remember our bargain. You know who I want punished!” As he left, Ulvian closed the barracks door behind him. The grunt gang were all gone, and the dwarves who managed the food wagon had taken refuge underneath it. The clay giant was moving, striding stiffly across the camp, smashing through tents and huts as it went. The ground shook each time it took a step. No one tried to stop it. The workers weren’t soldiers, and what arms there were in camp were of little avail against a twenty-foot-tall golem.

Feldrin Feldspar was in the west tower when the giant appeared. He heard the commotion and came outside in time to see the monster plowing through his workers’ homes.

“By Reorx!” he shouted. “What is that thing?” No one stopped to answer his question, though he bellowed at his scattering people to stand and fight. The dwarf stood at the base of the west tower, shouting, until Merith appeared, mounted and in full battle armor.

“What do you propose, warrior?” Feldrin said, yelling above the uproar.

“Repel the monster,” Merith replied simply. He drew his long elven blade. His buckskin horse pranced nervously, upset by the tumult around them.

“That’s no natural beast!” Feldrin cried. “You’d be better off to find Drulethen. He’s got to be behind this!”

“You find him,” replied Merith. His horse turned a full circle. Touching his spurs to his mount’s side, Merith was off, moving against the flow of terrified workers. All the artisans and laborers streamed toward the finished section of the citadel, seeking shelter from the rampaging giant.

Once clear of the panicked workers, Merith reined in and studied the monster as it tramped on. As nearly as he could tell, it hadn’t injured anyone yet, but it had smashed about half a dozen huts with its thick feet and legs. It zigzagged around the camp as if it were looking for something.

Merith urged his horse forward, but the animal wanted no part of the giant. It reared and danced, trying to unseat its rider. The elf warrior held on and drew a yellow silk handkerchief from beneath his breastplate. It was a gift from a female admirer in Qualinost, but it served to cover his horse’s eyes and quieted the animal somewhat. Merith wrapped the reins around his mailed fist and spurred ahead.

The golem halted and bent stiffly at the waist. Bits of dried clay the size of an elf’s palm flaked off the giant’s joints and fell to the ground.

Merith watched, fascinated, as the monster’s hand split apart into five thick fingers. It plunged the hand into the ruins of a row of huts, and when it stood erect again, there was someone struggling in its grasp. The giant had the fellow by the throat. Merith saw that he was a Kagonesti elf.

Snapping down the visor on his helm, he charged at the monster. It paid no attention to him at all, even when Merith struck it full force with his sword. A wedge of hard white clay flew from the wound, but the giant was uninjured. The impact of the blow stung the elf warrior’s arm. Grimacing, he struck again. Another chip of clay flew, but to no avail; the poor wretch in the monster’s hand ceased kicking. The giant’s black eyes never blinked. Opening its fingers, it allowed the Kagonesti to drop to the ground close to Merith.

Crouched under the awning of a hut, Prince Ulvian took in the scene with satisfaction. The death of his tormentor, Splint, pleased him immensely. He also saw the warrior, Merithynos, trying to subdue the clay giant with his sword. The prince laughed out loud at the lieutenant’s antics, chopping at the mass of hard clay with comic futility.

Ulvian dashed down the lane, behind the busy Merith, up the hill toward Feldrin’s hut. The golem had stomped flat nearly every other structure around the master builder’s home. Ulvian burst through the door flap.

The outer room was empty. He searched every box and chest, with no result. The structure was divided by a canvas wall, the other half being Feldrin’s bedchamber. Ulvian bolted in and pulled up sharply. Feldrin himself stood guard over a small golden casket.

“So,” said the dwarf coolly, “you have joined forces with Drulethen.”

“Give me the amulet,” Ulvian said in a commanding tone.

“Don’t be a fool, boy! He’s using you. Can’t you see that? He’d promise anything to get his hands on that amulet again—and break every promise once he had it. He has no honor, Highness. He will destroy you if he has the chance.”

“Save your entreaties for someone else!” Ulvian’s voice was a harsh, angry rasp. “My father sent me here to suffer, and I’ve suffered enough. Drulethen has sworn to serve me, and serve me he will. You all think I’m a fool, but you’ll find out differently.” There was a loud crash nearby, and Ulvian added impatiently, “Now surrender the amulet, or the golem will crush you to jelly!”

Feldrin drew a jeweled shortsword from behind his back. “You will get it from me only after I’m dead,” he said solemnly.

Ulvian was unarmed. Feldrin’s keen sword and the steely look of determination in the dwarf’s eyes discouraged any rash action.

“You’ll regret this!” the prince declared, edging back toward the doorway in the canvas wall. “The golem won’t stand and argue with you. Once he comes, you will die!”

“Then it is by Reorx’s will.”

Furious, Ulvian dashed out of the tent. He nearly bowled over Dru, who was coming in his direction. The sorcerer cradled his left hand to his chest, and his ragged robes were soaked with sweat.

“Did you get it?” he cried, desperation glazing his eyes.

“No, Feldrin is guarding it. Why aren’t you with the brazier? Is the spell over?”

Dru mustered his strength; his spell had exhausted him. “I hung the doll over the brazier. The thong is almost burned in two. When it severs, the magic will end.”

The giant figure of the golem came into view over Dru’s shoulder. It had nearly reached the citadel. The parapets were lined with workers, many of whom were hurling stones at the unheeding monster.

“Can you control it?” asked Ulvian quickly. “If you can, then bring it here. It’s the only way to scare Feldrin into giving up the amulet!”

Wordlessly the sorcerer slid to his knees. His eyelids fluttered closed. Ulvian thought he had fainted, but Dru!s lips were moving slightly.

Abruptly the golem did a jerky about-face and came marching toward Feldrin’s hut. Merith dogged its heels, no longer slashing with his sword, but keeping it in view. When the elf warrior spied Ulvian and Dru, he put his head down and rode hard toward them.

“Merith is coming!” shouted the prince.

Still the sorcerer chanted. The golem’s wide, round head swiveled down to look at the mounted warrior. An arm the thickness of a mature oak limb swept down, knocking horse and rider to the ground. The horse let out a shriek and lay still. Merith struggled vainly but was pinned under his dead mount.

“That got him!” Ulvian cried, leaping into the air in his excitement.

“And I’ve got you,” said Feldrin from the door of his hut. Startled, the prince stepped back.

The dwarf had been a fighter of some note in his youth, and he knew how to handle a sword. Raising the jeweled blade high, he advanced toward Dru. The sorcerer never flinched, so complete was his concentration. Ulvian flung himself at the dwarf and grappled with him. The golem was only a score of yards away, and its long stride ate up the distance rapidly.

“Let go!” roared Feldrin. “I’ve no wish to harm you, Prince Ulvian, but I must—”

His muscled arms pushed steadily against Ulvian’s lighter strength. The prince’s grip was slipping. Gleaming in the morning sun, Feldrin’s sword was only inches from the sorcerer’s skull.

A wall of white fell on the prince and the dwarf. Ulvian was knocked backward through the air, landing hard on a pile of torn canvas and broken tent stakes. The breath was driven from his body, and the world vanished in a red, roaring haze.

Hands propped the prince up. He gasped and fought for air, and at last breath whooshed into his lungs. His vision cleared, and he saw Dru kneeling beside him. Ulvian shook his head to clear it, for he saw a remarkable thing: The spell animating the golem had obviously ended and the giant had fallen on Feldrin’s hut, breaking into several large clay pieces. From under a barrel-sized portion of the monster’s torso, Feldrin’s fur-wrapped legs protruded. His feet twitched slightly. A groan sounded from under the mass of clay.

Dru was shaking and drenched with sweat, but his voice was triumphant as he said, “Where’s the amulet?” Ulvian stammered that Feldrin kept the onyx talisman in a golden box. The sorcerer dashed into the ruins of the master builder’s hut.

A profound silence had fallen over the construction camp. Ulvian blinked and gazed across the wrecked site. The walls of the citadel were lined with workers, all staring at him. Already some were leaving the parapet, no doubt to hurry to Feldrin’s rescue.

Dru was tearing through the broken bits of hut, muttering. Ulvian called out, “We must flee! The workers are coming!”

The sorcerer didn’t even respond, but kept up his frantic digging. Feldrin groaned once more, louder. Ulvian picked his way through the chunks of lifeless golem. He pushed a heavy slab of clay off the dwarf and knelt beside him.

“I regret this, Master Feldrin, ” said the prince. “But injustice requires strong deeds.”

The dwarf coughed, and blood appeared on his lips. “Don’t go with Drulethen, my prince. With him lies only ruin and death….”

“Aha!” shouted the sorcerer, falling to his knees. He flung aside a bit of canvas, revealing the gilded box. No sooner did Dru stoop to pick it up than he shrieked in pain and dropped it again.

“You filthy worm!” he howled at Feldrin. “You put my amulet in a charmed case!” But Feldrin had lost consciousness and was beyond Dru’s maledictions.

“Come here!” the sorcerer barked peremptorily. “Pick up the box.”

Ulvian glared at him. “I’m not your servant,” he retorted.

The first band of workers from the citadel appeared at the end of the wrecked street. They were armed with hammers, staves, and mason’s tools. Eight men went to lift the dead horse off the fallen Merith. The warrior got stiffly to his feet and pointed expressively toward Feldrin’s tent.

“There’s no time for false pride now!” Dru spat. “Do you think those fools are going to pat us on the back for what we’ve done? It’s time to flee, and I can’t touch that wretched box. Pick it up, I say!”

Reluctantly Ulvian did so. Then he and the shaken sorcerer ran for the corral near the foot of the eastern slope. The prince snared two horses, short-legged mountain ponies, and boosted the weakened Dru onto one of them. Bareback, the pair rode hell-for-leather out the gate, scattering the other animals as they went. By the time the outraged workers reached the corral, not a single horse remained, and the only sign of the fugitives was a rapidly rising cloud of dust.

Merith stood by a crackling fire, which blazed in a wide stone urn outside Feldrin Feldspar’s hut. In spite of his badly bruised left leg, he had insisted on standing guard personally outside the master builder’s home. The entire camp was silent, and nothing stirred but the wavering flames before him. The lieutenant kept his cloak close around his throat to ward off a persistent chill.

The clip-clop of horse’s hooves alerted him. Quickly he stepped back from the fire, back into the deep shadows cast by the hut’s overhanging roof. Drawing his sword, he set his shield tightly on his forearm. The hoofbeats drew nearer.

A tall figure, mounted on a rather tired-looking sorrel, emerged from the night. The newcomer’s face and figure were obscured by a long, monkish robe with a deep hood. The rider approached the fire and dismounted. He peeled off a pair of deerskin gloves and held his long, tapered fingers to the heat. Merith watched carefully. Short plumes of warm breath issued from the stranger’s hood. Though he waited long minutes, the newcomer made no threatening moves. Warming his icy hands and body seemed to be his greatest concern. The lieutenant stepped out of the shadows and faced the robed figure.

“Who goes there?” he demanded.

“A weary traveler,” answered the stranger. He spoke through the lower edge of the hood, and his words were muffled. “I saw your fire from a distance and stopped to warm myself.”

“You are welcome, traveler,” Merith said warily.

“A naked sword is a strange welcome. Are you troubled by bandits hereabouts?”

“Not bandits. A single elf did all this. A sorcerer.”

The hooded one jerked his hands back from the fire. “A sorcerer! Why would a sorcerer trouble a lonely outpost such as this?”

“The evil one was a captive here, a prisoner of the King of Thorbardin and the Speaker of the Sun,” Merith explained. “Through treachery, he regained his powers, wrecked the camp, and escaped.”

The visitor passed a hand across his hidden brow. Merith caught the glint of metal at the fellow’s throat. Armor? Or just a decorative torc?

The stranger asked how the sorcerer had escaped. The elf warrior told him briefly about the golem, though he didn’t mention Ulvian’s part in the affair. The visitor asked endless questions, and Merith found the late-night conversation tired him. His leg ached unmercifully, and his heart was heavy with the news he must send to his sovereign. The hooded stranger must be a cleric, he decided. Only they were so talky and inquisitive.

Weariness was banished instantly when Merith saw a pair of horses appear at the far end of the path. One of the riders was wearing armor. Merith lifted his sword and shield. The hooded stranger waved at him soothingly.

“Put down your weapons, noble warrior. These are friends of mine,” he said. In a swirl of dark robes, the hooded one turned and hailed the two mounted fellows.

“Is something the matter, sire?” called the armored rider.

“Sire?” wondered Merith.

The stranger faced Merith and tossed back his hood. Pale hair gleamed in the firelight. It was Kith-Kanan himself.

“Great Speaker!” Merith cried. “Forgive me! I had no idea—”

“Be at ease.” Kith-Kanan waved, and Kemian Ambrodel and his father, Tamanier, rode up to the crackling fire.

“Are there just the three of you, Majesty?” asked Merith, scanning the path for more riders. “Where is your entourage?”

“I have a small party at the high end of the pass,” Kith-Kanan explained. “I came down with the Ambrodels to find out what had happened. Even in the dark, the camp looks like a cyclone hit it.”

Merith told the story of Drulethen, Ulvian, and the golem in detail, this time leaving out nothing. “I led a band of fifty trusted workers along the trail Prince Ulvian and Drulethen made,” he finished, “but we couldn’t hope to catch up on foot.”

“Never mind, Lieutenant. Is Feldrin Feldspar well?” asked the Speaker.

“He has some broken ribs, but he will survive, sire.” Merith managed a smile.

Kemian relieved the younger warrior and sent Merith to bed. Once the lieutenant was gone, Kith-Kanan shed his monkish habit, revealing full battle armor.

“I had a premonition something evil would happen,” Kith-Kanan said grimly. “Now it is up to me to set things right. Tomorrow Lord Kemian and I will take the escort cavalry and go after Drulethen.”

Tamanier said, “And Prince Ulvian?”

The silence in the camp was unbroken except by the soft snapping of the fire in the urn before them. The Speaker stared into the flames, the light giving his face and hair a ruddy glow. When the castellan was certain his sovereign wasn’t going to answer, Kith-Kanan looked up and said evenly, “My son will face the consequences of his deeds.”