The Ninth Mihexe

By Peter Hutchinson

The Ninth Mihexe
Book Two of the Kivattar Bridge

This is the second book of the Kivattar Bridge, a fantasy in four books. The Bridge is the key point on the path followed by the shadowy Kivattar towards the deepest mysteries of existence. The story traces that hidden path through the lives of four young people, the rawest, most chaotic group ever to set foot on it. In Book One they met some of their Kivattar mentors, who plucked them out of their quiet lives in rural Esparan and set them to find a legendary Talisman. They succeeded and now Rasscu has remained as Guardian of the First Talisman and leader of the fierce Sarai people, while the others are home in Esparan, aware that their lives have been changed, but knowing nothing yet of the Kivattar path they will follow.

The story becomes more complex in the Ninth Mihexe as the group separates again, new enemies close in, and some of the secrets of the Kivattar path begin to be revealed.
The Sarai plateau is attacked and Rasscu only survives by making his first contact with the real nature of the First Talisman, starting him on a long inward voyage of discovery. At the same time the Kivattar take Berin and Caldar east across the vast Quezma Republic to the capital Rittabye with the task of claiming the next Talisman, while Tariska, the fourth member of the group, is still alone in Esparan when she is targeted by a new enemy.

In Rittabye Berin’s success at the popular game of HoHuKa gets him into trouble along with Caldar. They are rescued by Meruvai, another Kivattar, with help from Herao, a young woman fascinated by Berin. Meruvai takes them all south to prepare for their encounter with the Spinners, the unseen rulers of the Republic, who are also seeking the Talisman. Berin acquires new knowledge from a local sage and Caldar hears more from Meruvai about his own special task, but neither is ready for the Spinners and both walk into the trap awaiting them. They escape with their lives and the Talisman with aid from past Kivattar who have foreseen this moment. Immediately they are on the run with Herao and Mlzan, a gypsy guide, thousands of miles from safety in a land where the Spinners have absolute control.

Tariska has vanished from Esparan and the Kivattar seeking her find she is being shielded by magic. The trace leads far south towards the deadly Fisher Kingdoms, home to the Shadowmasters. In the Empire there is a full-scale civil war raging, in which Princess Shkosta begins to win a series of stunning victories. Rasscu unites the lowland Sarai tribes and is working to bring the Fenkur horse herds into their protection, when he is saved from a Terrechar attack by Pepper, his new Kivvatar mentor. Then both combine to retrieve the Sarai’s sacred book which has been stolen from its shrine.

In the final stage of their long flight Caldar and Berin reach the Camarth, the Borogoi grasslands. They survive one encounter with the horsemen, only to be caught later by a band of outlaws. Herao secures their freedom by going with the band herself. Berin helps Caldar, who is injured, to the safety of the Hamna mountains, then sets off back into the Camarth to find Herao. But new forces are now in play and Caldar receives a call from Tariska which sends him off blindly south towards the most sinister of the Fisher Kingdoms to help her.

Two Talismans have been found, but the group is split and two of them have disappeared where not even the vision of the Kivattar can locate them.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Peter Hutchinson
• Release date: Jun 7, 2014
• ISBN: 9780992833350

Peter Hutchinson

Peter Hutchinson: BioAs a young child I was at school in the Himalayas, before returning to England during the Second World War. From an early age I was fascinated by mountains and spent as much time as possible among them during school, army, and then university years. This passion for climbing led to a career designing and making specialist outdoor equipment for some of the world’s greatest explorers and mountaineers including Sir Ranulph Fiennes and Sir Chris Bonington. I started from scratch as a one-man business in the early 1960’s and I am still actively working in the same field at 77, designing clothing and sleeping bags for extreme high altitude and polar ventures.The Kivattar Bridge began as a tale for my children back in 1976. Before long it took on a life of its own and I knew I couldn’t stop until the whole story was finished. It has taken countless hours of writing and revision over 38 years, and now at last, unbelievably, it is done. All four books, written and published.It is a long story. Adventure, travel , discovery, all the usual ingredients, but quirky enough to fall outside the mainstream. I only hope that there are some readers who have gained as much enjoyment from it as I did from the writing.I am a slow writer and looking back I find it hard to see where I found the time. But despite the late nights and a staggering ‘café cost’ along the way it has always been a stimulating counterpoint to a busy working life. Both hard grind and pleasure, a mix familiar to most writers I guess. On balance an experience of real worth to me, made possible by the love and tolerance of my constant companion throughout the long journey, my wife.I should also mention that the covers of my books are being created for me by my son Peter: fitting perhaps, seeing that the story was started all those years ago for him and my daughter Ruth. There are many other people I should thank, so many that I won’t attempt to name any of them. Once begun, the list would never end. I am indebted to them all.Peter Hutchinson December 2014

Book preview

Book 1 (The Tears of Sisme) started in peaceful Esparan, homeland to four young people, Caldar, Berin, Tariska and Rasscu, and described their first encounters with some of the mysterious Kivattar, their future guides and mentors. Caldar and Berin were sent on a most unusual apprenticeship, which ended abruptly when Caldar was kidnapped. The Kivattar rescued him, then called the young group together and told them that one of the legendary Talismans of the Gods was about to reappear and it was their task to find it.

They set off along the Great Highway on the long journey west to the Empire where the Talisman was prophesied to appear. At this point they were little more than children (Caldar was fifteen, his companions barely older): but as they were steered through one intense danger after another by Idressin, their Kivattar guide, they grew up fast and came to accept the reality of their quest.

In Razimir on the west coast they learned that the Talisman was due to arrive in the capital Karkor at the Spring Festival. But almost at once the group was scattered. Caldar and Rasscu ended up aboard a ship making a long haul south, while Berin and Tariska were trapped and sold off as slaves. Idressin found and freed the slaves, while the other two fought clear of villains, storms and pirates to reach the capital just in time.

In Karkor the group were arrested and put in the Palace dungeons, the site of the legendary Well of Sisme. Imperial Princess Shkosta planned to execute them on the final day of the Spring Festival, while the sinister priest Chachi wanted to claim the coming Talisman for himself. At the last moment the Talisman appeared, Rasscu was revealed as its Guardian and the whole group escaped, hotly pursued by the Imperial army who blamed them for the Emperor’s assassination. They reached the safety of the Harb plateau with the help of the fierce Sarai people, who hailed Rasscu as their new leader.

At the end of Book 1 Caldar, Tariska and Berin leave Rasscu to his new role among the Sarai and head back home to Esparan. They know nothing yet of the Kivattar path and their own unique role in the future of the world, but all three realise that their lives have been irrevocably changed and they wait to see what will come next.

List of Main Characters

Kivattar

New ~ Berin. Caldar. Rasscu. Tariska

Mid ~ Idressin. Jedorje. Meruvai. Pepper

Old ~ The Tinker

Empire

Princess Shkosta

General Dettekar ~ Shkosta’s General

General Abbar ~ General to the New Imperial Council

Baron Hexper ~ Leader of the Barons of the Cold Coast

Sarai

Remakkib ~ Sarai War leader

Piddur ~ Friend to Rasscu & Remakkib

Sherhar ~ Woman of the Faheldim

Quezma Republic

Dillitiscu ~ Outlaw

Hyeng ~ Fleeg boatman

Liffen ~ Hyeng’s daughter

Rakthir ~ Berin’s alias in Rittabye

Herao ~ Woman in Rittabye

Fnap ~ Hermit at Rapittanam

Mlzan ~ Dumb goatherd

Pass Iwan ~ Mlzan’s grandfather (gypsy)

Spinners

Chachi

Shellimill

Overil

The Watchmen

Borogoi

Shushugo ~ Skewgant rider

Red Horn ~ Leader of skewgant (outlawed Borogoi)

Yuttuk ~ Shaman to Red Horn

Wedayo ~ Shaman

Part One – Risk

Chapter 1

When the sun was setting they came to a place of black rocks. With his companions Barrada climbed the rocks and beheld a waste land of fissures and ridges which stretched as far as the eye could see.

"Rahidor, this is the place we described to you, said Shedzib, the foremost of the companions. Those who enter this region do not return."

"And if I wish to go in?" Barrada asked.

"Then we will be at your side," Shedzib answered, because they knew that for the Rahidor all things were possible. Had he not shown them water among the dry stones of the Harb and brought life to the barren places?

Long did Barrada stand and gaze upon the black rocks. Then when the sun was set and the moon was risen in the sky, he turned aside saying to his companions, It is not for me to enter here. This is truly the kingdom of death.

Dost el Hakla, the Dead Quarter, it was named by the Rahidor on that day and so it has remained ever since. It is often said that the Sarai fear naught. Yet not even the Fezrewi, the Crazy Ones, will venture where Barrada turned away.

Sarai Tradition

The Harb

In the iron-grey light before dawn the small group stumbled to a halt and lay still wherever they dropped. Some minutes later one black-robed figure stirred and crawled painfully across the sharp stones to his neighbour.

Rahidor. The dry-throated croak was answered by the opening of one eye. I entreat you, take my water. Now at the end, you at least must be saved, or all is for naught.

Unexpectedly the haggard face before him broke into a gentle smile. Every day it is the same request, Piddur. My answer is the same as it was yesterday, I was not chosen Rahidor to take precedence over others. Get some sleep. One way or another, the next stage will be our last. Unless we find water, we are already dead men. Today we are truly in the hand of God.

We remain ever in the hand of God, the Sarab intoned. Then, oblivious of the jagged surface below, he closed his eyes and fell asleep on the instant. Not so the Rahidor. Piddur's offer had disturbed him. Slowly and quietly he got to his feet and struggled up a small outcrop above his sleeping companions. He sat facing east, the direction from which both of their enemies would come: the sun and their pursuers.

Slowly the horizon rimmed with fire and the light came, flooding the earth with long shadows and revealing a chaotic landscape. As far as the eye could see in every direction stretched low barren hills of black rock, riven, jumbled, fissured, heaped up, and unrelieved by a single living thing. Not even the driest Spinca bush or the smallest lizard inhabited this merciless wasteland and in all their history no Sarai had ventured beyond its fringes. Dost el Hakla they called it, the Dead Quarter.

A day's hard travel here meant a few tortuous miles. Overhung gullies criss-crossed the area haphazardly: pitfalls, holes and cliffs abounded: and in a few yards the surface would change from unstable rounded boulders to razor-sharp edges that made even the Sarai careful of where they put their feet. Most daunting of all there was no water. As the sun heated this black wilderness like a slow furnace, the air writhed and shimmered over an utterly dry land.

Their pursuers would be in no better case than the pursued, Rasscu mused to himself. The army had followed his little band straight into the Dead Quarter, as he had hoped, and a carefully laid trail had lured them ever further in for the last fourteen days. They evidently believed that the Sarai were headed for water, since both parties had passed the point of no return. That they would take such a desperate gamble was a sign of their hunger to capture him. He too had taken a deliberate risk, and it looked as though he would pay the full price. But at least the Spinner, the most important of the Sarai's enemies, would die with him and there was a chance that peace would return to the Harb.

From the first the Dost el Hakla had surprised them with its unremitting savagery. It would be ironic indeed for Sarai to be defeated by the Harb itself, but that was now becoming a distinctly probable fate for Rasscu's party. By Piddur's reckoning they were less than half way through and they were down to the last of their food and, much more seriously, just a few drops of water. Each day was harder, hotter and more tortuous than the one before. The splintered black ridges had grown higher, the cavernous gullies deeper and more frequent, and the chaotic boulder fields more treacherously unstable.

Rasscu wished he could share the ingrained fatalism of his companions. All of them were suffering alike in this infernal wasteland, but he seemed to be the only one who cared. The Sarai did what they could and left the outcome to God. Rasscu wanted to live. When he had nearly died on the glacier, he had learned to value every single day. And stronger than that, too many people depended on him now and his death would be the end of all their hopes.

Idly he took the Talisman from his pocket. The object, which had dominated the last two years of his own life and which was becoming the focus of attention for many others, lay in his hand as inert and uninteresting as ever. He had often wondered if this was all some obscure joke which the Tinker and Idressin were playing on the whole world. Certainly the idea of the Talisman had ignited the Sarai people and looked likely to be another flashpoint among the rest of the Empire’s troubles. The reality of it, the thing itself . . . well, that was something else.

He placed the Talisman on the rocky surface in front of him and for the first time since it had come into his possession almost twelve months ago, he considered it. There had never seemed to be any time before: now there was no conceivable reason to hurry.

It was very ordinary. A large pebble. About four inches long, flattened and smoothed as by the natural erosion of centuries, narrower at one end than the other, a uniform grey slashed by two thin diagonal bands of white quartz. He had seen all this a hundred times before. Yet now, when he looked closer, he could see that it was in fact paler at the narrow end. The grey darkened almost imperceptibly after each white intrusion and even the quartz was not the pure white he had assumed.

Until this moment the Tesserit's attitude towards the Talisman had been unthinkingly protective. Most of the time he had been too busy to give it any attention, automatically keeping it hidden and refraining from talking about it in the vague hope that others would forget about it also. Before he set out on this encounter with the Spinner he had decided to leave it behind in Remakkib's keeping. But when it came to the point, he had found himself unable to part with it and with some reluctance he had brought it with him into danger.

He realised now that from the start the attitudes he had taken towards the Talisman were the ones he found comfortable. It was pleasing to see himself as a guardian of something and the business of guardianship excused him from ever considering the thing itself or his true relationship with it. At bottom he was afraid of it. No, that wasn't quite true: who could be afraid of something so totally inert? And yet he was in fact afraid. Of what? What was at the core of this fear which spun him away and threw up these ready made roles like a concealing screen? Idressin would know. But Idressin was no longer on the Harb, and when he had been, Rasscu had not thought to ask. There had always been something more pressing to attend to. Perhaps if he …..

Rasscu caught himself. He was wandering off into 'shoulds' and 'coulds' and 'I wonder whys' again, when the object of his concern was actually right here under his nose. He sat quite still and for the first time brought his whole attention to bear on the Talisman itself.

The sun climbed swiftly and banished the blessed coolness of the night. True to its name, the Dost el Hakla lay as motionless as death itself under the mounting glare. None of the Sarai so much as stirred at the touch of the advancing sunlight, while above them, seated on his outcrop, the Tesserit had become as still as the rock of the Harb.

From the moment he had stepped aside from the tangling web of his thoughts, Rasscu's gaze had been on the Talisman. As the reality of the object itself impacted on him for the first time, his perception began to sharpen, until every tiny grain and crystal and cavity on its surface was simultaneously clear in his vision. He was beyond questioning how this could be so, and he did not withdraw when the first startling touch of the Talisman's presence brushed his consciousness.

All at once the wider of the bands of crystal began to dance with light and he was drawn forward into the essence of the Talisman. He found himself apparently standing on level sandy ground, confronting at a distance of a hundred paces a tremendous white wall, which stretched beyond the limits of sight above and to each side. He wanted to step towards it. Within moments the desire to move forward was flooding every fibre of his body, but he could not stir and even as he groaned, aching at his own unbearable impotence, he felt himself being turned around. The shimmering wall slid around behind him and in its place the Empire lay spread out below, as if he was in some high place. Just as when he observed the Talisman, he could see it all and yet the smallest details were clear and sharp.

He saw his pursuers rousing themselves to inch forward for another painful day, and Remakkib waiting in evident anxiety at the far edge of the Quarter. Further out on the Harb an army supply column was getting ready to move to the next bhereth, watched by unseen Sarai scouts. Further he looked and further: beyond the plateau the whole Empire was in turmoil, signs of war everywhere, smoke from burning villages mingling with the fumes from the furnaces of the steel-makers, dense columns of humanity travelling the roads, the squads of army conscripts looking just as dejected as the families fleeing from the destruction of their homes. Far to the north heavily armed soldiers trudged through the snow towards a dark defile where men waited in ambush. Far to the south a whole village was decked out in bright colours for a festival.

All this was clear to his first glance, and hard on its heels came the realisation that it was but a small part of what was open to him. All life in the Empire crowded in upon him, from the eagles soaring in the mountains to the spiders in dark city warehouses, from the giant beeches in the groves of southern Belugor to the worms crawling under the grass of the Gorobi plain. The vast impression came to him whole and burst his consciousness apart. At the first flash he split into a thousand tiny fragments and his vision went dark. Some moments later he found himself seated, as he had been, on a small outcrop, facing a dull grey pebble.

He was reluctant to move. An extraordinary tranquillity permeated every limb with its weight and warmth, and he knew that it would leave him as soon as he stirred. And overriding this limpid peace was a profound emotion he slowly recognised as gratitude. It had no discernible recipient, not even the Talisman: but that troubled him not a whit. The feeling itself was beyond analysis or justification.

Eventually he stretched out and touched the Talisman. Nothing. No acute vision, no shimmering wall. Had he fallen asleep and had a dream? No, what had just happened still thrilled in his heart and tingled in every vein. He had been touched by something full of intense life, not spun from dreams. He sighed. The impact of that touch was fading now and soon enough he might be left with insubstantial memories, open to doubt.

He picked up the pebble to put it away in his pocket and stopped, frozen in disbelief. The black surface of the rock where the Talisman had rested glistened in the sun. Water was welling out from the seamless slab, until it trickled down in a tiny rivulet to pool in the hollow below. Mixed with his elation, he now felt some of his fear return and he was still motionless, grappling with this impossible sight, when he heard a sharp drawn breath behind him.

Piddur had crawled up the rocks to his side and was staring wide-eyed at the astonishing spring. Without looking away for an instant, the Sarab began a low breathy chant, the long cadences recognisable to Rasscu as verses from the Book of the Heart, although his own command of Sarai was insufficient for him to understand all the ancient words. Ending the chant on a long drawn out note, Piddur stood up with sudden vigour and called out in a strong voice to his companions, who started up in alarm, fumbling for their weapons. Still drunk with exhaustion and sleep and unable to make any sense of Piddur's visible elation, they stumbled up the outcrop to discover the reason for his insistent summons.

They were struck dumb. Not one of them dared to touch the miraculous liquid, although the Tesserit knew that some of them had been carrying empty water-skins for a full day now. Wordlessly Piddur stepped forward, knelt and touched his forehead to Rasscu's feet, followed by the rest of the band.

True were the dreams of the Council, Piddur reminded his companions, that springs would break forth upon the Harb at the Rahidor's passing.

Yes, truth, the others responded, glad to find some point of reference for grasping the event. Still none made a move towards the crystal pool below them.

The water is the gift of the Talisman, Rasscu said calmly, wanting to quench the hero-worship which the Sarai seized on so fervently. The spring is flowing from the place where it rested. Then he added, as the awed Sarai still hung back, It is the Talisman's gift to us, for us to drink. Come, my friends, I will be first to show you that it is no vision and that drinking is no sacrilege.

The cold liquid turned to fire in his throat. One mouthful was sufficient. Thirst, hunger, fatigue, all were swept away and he felt his body blazing with energy. Watching with curiosity as his companions drank, he observed the same reaction in them all. The water-skins were each filled in turn, and it was clear that while they held this precious drink, no other sustenance would be needed.

Shall we hide the spring?

The words came from the youngest of the Sarai and six pairs of eyes turned questioningly towards the Tesserit, the implications clear to them all. Without water their enemies would die.

Let no man deny water to beast or enemy, Piddur broke in, You know the law.

The enemies take our own water away from Sarai families, the young man replied fiercely. They are outside the law.

You forget. Rasscu spoke before Piddur could retort. No water belongs to us. This spring was created this very hour out of the dry rock by the Talisman of Obedience. We can safely leave it in the keeping of its creator.

**

It had been a costly time for the Sarai since the council had declared Rasscu as the Rahidor nine months ago. That very same day he had sensed the presence of a Spinner with an army force somewhere on the plateau and he and Remakkib had set off with a hastily gathered force to counter the threat.

The army soon discovered that the Harb was virtually without water or inhabitants. And when the new invaders spread out to search, the Sarai, without waiting for their leaders, ambushed and annihilated any isolated groups. Small patrols repeatedly failed to return, until soon no detachments of less than a hundred men were being sent out.

Yet the army gradually won its share of success. Shellimil the Spinner had contrived the near-impossible feat of gaining access to the plateau, using some secret means to deceive the Sarai guards. And once the army had gained a foothold, it was the Spinner again who was able to direct the searchers towards the hidden bhereths that lay within a few days of the plateau rim, and one by one the Sarai had to evacuate them and leave their precious water to the invaders.

Had they poisoned the water-caves the army’s advance would have been halted at once. But water on the Harb was governed by laws beyond the rules of war and what the soldiers found was pure and clean.

By the time that Rasscu and Remakkib had reached the invasion area at the southern edge of the Harb, four bhereths had been abandoned. At only one of them had the inhabitants been surprised and lost lives in the fierce fighting which ensued. Coming on the bhereth at night in overwhelming numbers, the troops had met ferocious resistance, and in their anger and fear they had cut down men, women and children indiscriminately. Even so some of the bhereth family had survived to tell the tale, and the resulting mood among the Sarai was savage.

They had struck swiftly. Leaving Remakkib on the plateau with the main force, Rasscu had descended to the grasslands by another of the Sarai's secret exits and destroyed the army's lightly guarded supply base. So confused and terrified were the garrison at being attacked from the rear that the three hundred raiders had put to flight ten times their number in a matter of minutes. They had smashed every water-container large or small in the camp and transformed all the supply wagons into a gigantic bonfire, before withdrawing to the Harb.

Remakkib meanwhile had wiped out a large army patrol and then retaken one of the lost bhereths. They had approached the next bhereth with their forces reunited, only to be greeted by silence. The place was deserted. So it was with the other two. They had raced on to the plateau rim in time to see the last army units withdrawing hastily down the canyon which gave access to the lands below. The only invasion in living memory had been repelled and the Sarai celebrated accordingly, holding impromptu festival in honour of the new Rahidor. Even Remakkib, his normally grave face relaxed and cheerful, had laughed when Rasscu voiced his foreboding of further danger.

When the Tesserit pointed out that the army had refrained from poisoning the water-caves, as if they expected to return, his words were met with astonishment. How could he imagine such a crime, even from Empire carrion? He had bowed to their experience, but in the end his instincts had proved correct. His instincts and a piece of Idressin’s rare advice.

From the start the tutor had insisted that Rasscu should not only be seen to make his own decisions, he should actually make them too. Then two months after the army’s withdrawal he had suddenly told the Tesserit he was leaving. A temporary problem, he hoped: a friend was in trouble and Idressin was the only one who could help.

For once I’ll give you some advice. The tutor’s voice was serious. Empty the southern bhereths a hundred miles from the rim and cut off the water channels to them. You’re right, the army will soon be back, stronger than ever, so do it now. Without water they’ll be pinned to the plateau rim until you’re ready to sweep them away. He smiled. The Sarai will resist the idea fiercely, but being called the Rahidor’s got to be good for something.

His face lost its levity. Don’t forget, Rass, you’re the real target. This is not about the army defeating the Sarai - who wants a big heap of useless stones? That Spinner you sensed right at the start, remember? Doesn't matter whether it's the Prentex or another of his kind, he’ll have just one thing on his mind: you, or rather you and the Talisman. It’s a bad time for me to be away, but use the Harb’s own defences and you’ll be safe.

With that he had gone, heading north for Dendria. The same day Rasscu had put the plan to the Sarai council and had started the long struggle to overcome their objections. Where would the southern families go? Did the Rahidor realise what an immense task it was to close such remote water-channels? And how long it would take to have any effect, to say nothing of the possible damage to the system which might take years to repair? And so on.

Slowly the Sarai’s reluctance was worn down by the Tesserit’s patient insistence. Too slowly. They were still arguing when the army suddenly returned and the Spinner used his powers again to open the Harb's defences. Once they had gained the plateau rim, the advance paused while an unending tide of reinforcements had positioned twenty thousand men and an enormous quantity of supplies on the grasslands at the canyon mouth. Impressive fortifications had been erected to protect the bridgehead on the plateau and the encampment below, while cavalry patrolled the foot of the cliffs for forty miles in each direction. This time the invaders did not intend to be dislodged.

So the battle for the plateau had begun again, similar to before, but now the army spread out in a series of strikes in all directions, which put ten bhereth water-caves in their hands within the first two weeks. Even more disturbing, they had taken hostages. The speed of the advance had caught several bhereths unawares, and a couple of hundred women and children were now in army hands. Mostly children. Sarai women often fought alongside the men and died with them.

The remaining southern bhereths were swiftly evacuated, leaving the hastily regrouped Sarai forces to face the invaders across the empty waste. Two advancing army columns were ambushed and wiped out to a man. But when the Sarai came up to the first of the bhereths they intended to retake, they found one of the captured women sitting alone in full view on the open Harb. She had a message for them from the army.

There were eighteen children in the bhereth. At the first sign of a Sarai attack the children would be killed, all of them. The words were spoken in a flat voice, devoid of all emotion: the messenger knew exactly what she was saying. With men or women held captive, the Sarai might well have pressed the attack: death was no stranger on the Harb. But children were in the trust of all Sarai, not just of their own families, and after a brief argument the attackers withdrew.

We must take the risk. We must clear these bodraks out of every bhereth, Rahidor, and eradicate this plague from the face of the Harb, one hot-headed young section leader had urged at a command meeting some days later.

No, Remakkib had cut in before Rasscu had the chance to reply. None of us want the deaths of children on our hearts. But it is more than that, it is foolish to carry on fighting the way they expect. Their numbers are without limit. Every day the scouts tell us more arrive at the camps below and for every man we kill two more are sent up onto the Harb. As in the past, we must use the Harb itself to aid us. But first we must understand what is happening here. He turned to the Tesserit. How are they finding the hidden bhereths with such accuracy? We have talked of this before and we know these are no chance successes.

The answer’s simple enough, though you may not welcome it, Rasscu replied. The priest of the Ajeddak Stone is the key to this. It was too complicated to explain that the priest was a strange being called a Spinner from the other side of the world, so he did not try. He used the Stone’s magic to find a way onto the Harb and it’s the priest who can sense the people in the bhereths and locate them.

He is here? With the army?

He’s in charge.

That vulture Abbar’s in command, growled a fierce-eyed elder, headman of the Bastinto tribe. Most of the captured bhereths were Bastinto, and Resek was ashamed and bitter. Every bodrak taken has confirmed it. This foolish talk of…

Remakkib quietly put a hand on his arm and the old man subsided.

Abbar may be in command, Rasscu admitted gently. But the priest or one like him is behind this invasion. He doesn’t reveal himself, but I know he’s there, hidden safely in the heart of the army’s main base.

Remakkib gave an exclamation of disgust. That is evil news. Our people are all revealed to this magician, while he is concealed from us.

Are we doomed then to be driven from bhereth after bhereth until all are lost? Is there no way to counter this creature? It was Resek the Bastinto headman again and his question was fired straight at the Rahidor.

Rasscu was silent for a moment. The Talisman still sleeps, he at last replied, and we have no command over its actions. So we have no other choice: we must deal with the situation ourselves. After another silence he continued, We can’t wait for them to nibble away the whole Harb, piece by piece. I must remove the threat of this priest, whatever it takes. Without him the invasion will falter and break.

Why you? Remakkib asked bluntly.

Because it’s me he wants above all, me and the Talisman. We have to lure him out from the protection of the army and I’m the only bait that will bring him.

And when he comes out, how are we going to ambush this sorcerer-priest if he can sense our presence? Remakkib countered doubtfully.

There are other kinds of trap, came the reply. Rasscu did not explain that the night before he had seen in a dream exactly what he must do. In the night he had been convinced: now in the daylight he looked round the faces of the men who would die if he had been mistaken and he shrank from telling of the dream. To the Sarai dreams were harbingers of certainty and he wanted volunteers who accepted the possibility of failure.

Briefly he outlined his intentions. He would set up a meeting with the Spinner at Driman Isbult, a remote well in the southern Harb. He himself would go with just six companions, knowing full well that the enemy would have a much larger force hidden near the meeting place. Once the priest had sighted him, he would make off to the west with his little band before they could be encircled. He had no doubt the priest would lead the pursuit: he would trust no one else with so important a capture.

There is no way west. Only the Dost el Hakla, Resek said flatly, and received a confirming nod from the Tesserit. No one spoke. The implications of the plan were now clear to them all.

A dead Rahidor is of no use to his people. Remakkib’s voice was uncharacteristically soft. He respected Rasscu’s right to die for his adopted people - any Sarai would do the same - but there was more at stake here. The Dost el Hakla is certain death. Even Barrada turned aside and would not enter it.

Nevertheless that’s the way I shall go. We have only to lead them in far enough and the Harb will do the rest. Come, Remakkib, we know what we’re facing, they don’t. Who do you think will survive? Fifty sweating lowlanders from Karkor or seven of us? When they turn back, they’ll be far spent. Patrol the edge of the Quarter and you’ll take the survivors without a fight.

They had talked on, until it was clear that no better plan could be put forward. So Rasscu had arranged his meeting and the enemy had reacted exactly as he expected. Two weeks ago when he had allowed his hand-picked band to be trapped against the forbidding southern ramparts of the Dost el Hakla, Shellimil the Spinner and his force of two hundred soldiers had been hot on his heels.

Shellimil had long wearied of waiting in Tarkus for the Watchmen to send him into the Empire to work with Chachi. The sudden request for help directly from Chachi himself had been a pleasurable relief and he had quickly joined the army force preparing to invade the Harb. Manipulating the general in charge had been child’s play for a Spinner and within days he had taken complete control. The failure of the first invasion had surprised and angered him, but he intended to make no mistake with the second. Only the Talisman and its Guardian could have defeated him last time and now both were within his grasp.

**

As the sun of their fifteenth day in this infernal furnace climbed into the sky, Rasscu sat beside the crystal pool and reflected how simple the plan had seemed. Head straight into the Dead Quarter and keep going until the enemy realised their mistake and turned back or died. Only they hadn’t turned back and only some of them had died. Instead the Spinner had outwitted him by exhibiting a ruthlessness he had not anticipated. The Sarai scouts who waited behind from time to time to watch their pursuers reported that after the first seven days the enemy were sending men back: men without packs. No rations, no water bottles. They were being robbed of the means to live so that the pursuit could continue.

After the morning remembrance the Sarai remained only long enough to construct one of the small cairns they had been leaving to make it look as though they were using a travelled route. Then reinvigorated by the draughts from the spring, they moved swiftly away and within minutes their black robes had vanished into the maze of black rocks.

Some hours later, when the sun was still high, a figure in a tattered brown uniform staggered up to the little cairn and stood swaying as he gazed at it dully. At last he roused himself to signal his find to those behind, but as he turned, a glint among the nearby rocks caught his attention. He tottered painfully towards it and found himself looking down in stupefaction at a pool of crystal clear water.

Sergeant Rozta had been proud to be picked for this mission. After fifteen years' service, the last five in the famous Assault Battalion of Abbar’s Third Corps, he knew he was as tough and intelligent as any soldier in the army, and the campaign to overrun the Sarai plateau had seemed the ideal opportunity to demonstrate the fact to his superiors. He had suffered some doubts at first when he had seen the evident poverty of the people they were invading: the tales of gold and loot were patent lies to encourage the troops. But later when he had been in a column ambushed by a party of Crows his professionalism had reasserted itself: due entirely to his courage and skill thirty two men had fought their way out of the trap and survived. After that he was a marked man, a natural choice for this special 'pursuit job', and he had been among the first volunteers to be accepted.

After the first few days in this black wasteland the uneasy conviction had been growing in him that they were being led into a trap. The weird civilian who had been put in command of the task force - a magician so the story went among the men - had dismissed his ideas with instant contempt, saying coldly that he could detect no support anywhere ahead for the handful of Crows they were following and if the Sergeant was afraid of half a dozen ragged rebels, he was free to walk back to base by himself, leaving his water-bottle behind, of course. He had stayed. And by way of punishment for his cowardice, he was set to scouting far ahead of the main party by himself.

By now he was quite certain about the enemy's purpose. The army force had survived this far by the cruel expedient of carrying out the threat made earlier to him, relieving men of their half-filled water bottles and telling them to make their way back to base as best they could. Even by this inhuman means, the forty soldiers remaining would run out of water tomorrow. His respect for the band of Crows had grown with each excruciating day. What kind of men were they up ahead, forcing their way through this chaotic torture chamber towards an inevitable death? And would he face his own death with as much courage as they?

Standing above the brimming pool, his thoughts turned upside down as he realised that perhaps he wasn't going to die. Stiffly, like an old man, he knelt down and automatically refilled his water bottle. Then he took the delicious cool liquid into his parched mouth and the effect of it spread like magic through his body. He must have been more dehydrated than he knew: just one drink and he felt like a new man. He stood up and waved vigorously to the figures inching their way over the treacherous boulder field towards him.

The six soldiers of the first section had already slaked their thirst in grateful astonishment at their good fortune, when the commander came on the scene. What followed gave the sergeant his second profound shock in this eventful day.

Well, where's this spring you're all shouting about? the civilian snapped, looking around greedily. So far he had fared well on a generous share of the confiscated water, but even that was running low.

The seven soldiers stared at him dumbfounded. He was standing a bare pace from the pool, while the rivulet which slid smoothly down to supply it was directly in front of him.

It's here, sir, said one rash private, pointing out the obvious.

Here? Where? Following the directing finger the commander looked straight down at the pool, and then turned a face contorted with rage on the shrinking soldier. Playing games with me, eh? You know the penalty ….

Excuse me, sir, the sergeant interrupted bravely. The spring is there, where the private said. We've all drunk from it.

The civilian glared round at the confirming nods from the others. You've all gone crazy, he said hoarsely, then stepped away to wait for the main party. After a brief discussion he led them back to the site of the spring and the seven soldiers found themselves surrounded and disarmed.

Now, the commander began loudly, as if speaking to a stupid child, tell me again, private, where is this spring?

Bewildered, the young soldier bent down and almost touched the surface of the water with his finger. Here, sir, he whispered, afraid. Each of the seven was asked the same question with the same result.

Sergeant Major, the commander called out, and a tall figure stepped forward, still proudly erect despite his gaunt features and torn uniform.

Yes, sir.

Tell me, Sergeant Major, do you see any water in that hollow? Or in fact anywhere among these rocks?

The old soldier pretended to look around to gain time. He could see the pool plain as anything and could barely restrain himself from stepping forward to slake his tormenting thirst. But unthinking discipline had governed his life for a long time and he knew this particular army game very well. General Abbar himself had put this man in charge of this unit, so in charge he was. If he said the spring didn't exist, it didn't exist.

No, sir. I can't see any water anywhere.

Thank you, Sergeant Major. How about you, Corporal?

One by one the remaining soldiers were called on to step forward and answer the same question. With varying degrees of hesitation they all followed the Sergeant Major's lead.

So, Sergeant, the civilian resumed. You were the first to arrive. Do we judge you and your six fellows as mad or bewitched or attempting to play some preposterous practical joke? Or perhaps you have some other explanation.

My water-bottle's full, sir, Rozta replied evenly, and handed it over at a sharp gesture from his inquisitor. All watched in fascination as the commander took out the stopper and held the bottle upside down. He turned back in triumph to the sergeant who was watching the precious liquid pour down onto the stones.

Full, did you say? There's not a drop in it. Why do you persist in this charade, Sergeant? There was genuine puzzlement behind the question. Rozta, who was totally at a loss himself, fell back on the military standby of keeping his mouth shut. It did him little service.

Very well. The commander's face hardened. You have brought it on yourselves. We have no room for the deranged of any description. In the morning you will start back for base. Take their rations and water, Sergeant Major, then give them back their water-bottles: they can drink imaginary water all the way back. With that he settled down for another parched and hungry night, while a few paces away moonlight gleamed on the wet slab and stars swung slowly across the face of the quiet pool.

At daybreak the main party departed and were never seen again. Three weeks later seven tottering scarecrows in rags, which were unrecognisable as army uniforms, emerged from the western edge of the Dost el Hakla and were picked up by a passing Sarai patrol. Sergeant Rozta told his captors how even without food they had stayed alive by returning to the spring after the main party had gone on. A full waterbottle each had proved sufficient to see them right through their harrowing journey. They had found no trace of the main pursuit force, although ten days previously they had seen vultures circling far to the south of their own route.

*

For the Sarai band also it was a hard crossing, in spite of being sustained by the magical water which the Talisman had brought out of dry rock. Only Rasscu seemed completely unaffected by the savage terrain and the gradual starvation of the final two weeks. The others marvelled at his growing strength, knowing nothing of his passage at dawn each day into the world of the Talisman and of the change it was initiating in him.

The patrols watching for them at the edge of the Dost el Hakla had gone as far as they dared each day into the black maze and had left cairns and skins of water in several places. But as the days passed, Remakkib's despair mounted. The loss of the Rahidor and the Talisman could spell disaster for his people. Like any Sarab, he knew exactly how long their skins would last, and when they had not appeared after three weeks in the Dead Quarter, he knew that if they had not found water in that time, they were already dead.

Eight days later they had come out, thin and bone-weary, yet full of a silent confidence which marked them out even among the Sarai. And as the tale of the Talisman's intervention was told, wonder replaced joy and all the assembled warriors led by Remakkib made obeisance to the Rahidor.

Late that night the two leaders were seated on a low ridge. Below them the camp was quiet, while overhead the vast sweep of stars shone diamond hard from the cloudless night sky.

Always the same clear skies, Remakkib sighed turning to look northward. Never have I known the rains so late. God grant that it is not to be a dry year. Our people have troubles enough.

The Tesserit hesitated a moment, and then said, Have no fear. The rains have already begun. He could sense the Sarab turning to stare at him in the darkness.

There has been no word of this. Nor have we felt the breath of the zamzin. The zamzin was the wind which swept the rain-clouds onto the north western Harb each spring. Even this far south we would feel it. There was a long silence, full of unspoken questions and adjustments. Are you sure?

Yes, Remakkib, I am sure.

The Sarab was in unfamiliar territory. From the first he had liked this unassuming man who was destined to be Barrada's successor. Yet even as their mutual friendship had been growing, Rasscu seemed to be moving away from him, taking up step by step his role as the Rahidor. Earlier that day he had sensed the change in the Tesserit, even before he heard the story about the miraculous springs. There was something formidable about Rasscu now, and this last exchange was not alone in hinting at unknown powers.

This is the third time you have spoken with certainty of things which are far from here, Remakkib began slowly. You said that all but seven of your pursuers had died in the Dost el Hakla, and you told me that there is war in all parts of the Empire. When you speak, truth sounds in every word. But where does this knowledge come from? Are these dreams or visions brought to you by the Talisman?

Visions of a kind, yes, and certainly from the Talisman. When I …. Rasscu paused. When I enter the presence of the Talisman, it reveals many things to me. Sometimes they’re random scenes and sometimes I can see the whole Empire at one glance.

Awed, Remakkib said nothing, so the Tesserit continued with a soft laugh, Come, how these things happen isn’t important. Let’s simply make the most of them. The Talisman is awake at last, my friend, and that feels like the beginning of real hope. Tomorrow let’s set about freeing the Harb.

And after that?

After that who knows? Perhaps the Empire.

Chapter 2

Citizens

You have all heard the rumours of imminent war with the Empire spread by the agents of that treacherous power. You will be pleased to learn that your government has refused to react to the growing provocation we have had to face and that we are still extending the hand of friendship to the West. For a time. There is a limit to our patience.

As your elected representatives we have had to watch our traders harassed and even attacked in clear violation of the Highway Treaties. In response we have extended our patrols as far as Sand City, a purely defensive action. Deputations also arrive every month from the Free Cities, imploring our protection from the illegal assaults of the Empire’s thugs. Pillimon Graxi we can readily assist and we have already quartered additional troops near the city to be on hand in case of need. Pillimon Tarkus stands in the shadow of the Empire and we have sent missions with strong messages of support to its brave citizens in the hope of turning the Empire away from a course which could indeed lead to our armed intervention.

Overshadowing all these other acts of aggression was the plot uncovered by our anti-terrorist squad to assassinate the whole of the Central Committee. It has taken many months to unravel the details of this murderous scheme, but the trail is now clear. The Terrechar Assassins were to be the instrument and the Empire were their paymasters.

How can The Republic respond peacefully to such outright aggression you ask? From strength, fellow citizens. There is a steel fist inside our velvet glove. We still believe that war can be averted and we will continue to take the lead in peaceful negotiations. But let our enemies not mistake our love of peace for weakness or they will swiftly find themselves confronting the full force of the mightiest power in history.

News Bulletin issued by the Dept of Information, Rittabye, Quezma Republic

Esparan

He stood at the top of the long slope and saw with dread that his enemy squatted powerful and unmoving at the bottom. With terrifying clarity he knew what was about to happen. For a long long time nothing changed. Then the distant black ball stirred and with infinite slowness began to roll down the hill towards him. His mind reeled as the images blurred insanely together: he was still high up, looking down on the menacing black shape, even as it came at him faster and faster down the slope. It was bounding now with a fearful eagerness, shaking the ground, and in a vast silence he watched the great stone fill the sky as it accelerated towards him.

Caldar opened his eyes in the dark, the dream still with him and the sweat wet on his body. Where was he? The bed felt strange and the smell of the place was unfamiliar. A cart squeaked and rumbled past the window, the torchlight throwing flickering patterns on the ceiling as it passed. With a rush he remembered: he was in Misaloren, in Belled’s house in the Old Town. He had come down yesterday, driving some of Taccen’s cattle to market, and stayed on at Belled’s to catch the ferry to Hurigell. Today. He would be seeing Tariska today.

She had come visiting to the Rimber valley with her father just before Winterturn, and the sight of her had evoked feelings in him so strong that he had been surprised. He had retreated into shyness which had clearly disappointed her, and the day had ended in awkwardness. He could put that right very quickly. The threat of the dream faded as his mind engaged, and he fell asleep again reviewing pleasant possibilities.

The next time he awoke, it was full morning. He lay there for a while, relaxed in the warmth of the blankets. It didn’t last. The restlessness which had ridden him these last few months took hold and drove him out of bed.

When he had come home last summer, full of wonder at what he had seen and taken part in, he had found his stories were often met with scorn or simple disbelief. He had quickly learned to hold his tongue and to settle back into the farm routine which had changed not a whit for the finding of the Talisman of the Gods. Taccen had seemed determined to make up for his easy handling of Caldar as a boy and had given him more than his fair share of work, all the cold dirty jobs that come up in winter farming. Something had changed between them and he showed neither surprise nor satisfaction when Caldar tackled everything with a cheerful industry very unlike his old self.

Of Taccen’s sons, Pilatt made it clear that his return was unwelcome, but he obviously sensed a difference in his former victim and confined himself to words. Riddigan however, who had always viewed Caldar with good-natured contempt, came to accord him a grudging respect as he worked steadily through the dark months. Out all day in the biting sleet repairing fences which had been left at busier times, digging ditches to drain the sodden fields, building a new midden and emptying the old one, he baulked at nothing.

We’ll make a farmer of you yet, lad, Riddigan said. If only he knew. Physical work was the only way for Caldar to numb his inner torment. Since the autumn the feeling had been growing in him that he should be elsewhere. It was as if a fire had been kindled in him in those extraordinary years since he had left for the Norleng and now it was beginning to burst into flame. However desperately he tried, he could not contain it. It was clear that Berin did not share his feelings and after one half-hearted attempt to convey his inner agitation Caldar had grimly kept it to himself, hoping to weather the storm.

In the end it had proved too strong for him. He was not going home after meeting Tariska.

**

The evening before he set off, he had tried to explain to Lazalis about what was driving him to leave the farm. It was nothing they had failed to give him. Security, comfort, love, he had had all those; friendship too with Berin, Ham and others nearby. As the hours went by, stories of his journey to the Empire had poured out, parts that he had held back until now, the hopes, uncertainties and fears that had been aroused in him by Idressin and the Tinker.

Lazalis had listened gravely, prompting him to continue whenever he ran down. When he was all talked out, she had afforded him the priceless gift of her unhesitating agreement. Of course he must go. There was nothing more important for him than responding to these inner demands and he would not resolve anything by staying at the farm. Not to worry about Taccen. He had been sour with Caldar ever since he had come back from his travels, but his true feelings had not changed.

It's hard for him, she said, eyes gentle in the candlelight. You left as the boy he had cared for and protected from your cradle and you came back …. well, not just a young man, but grown beyond him in other ways too. Don't be bitter at the way he’s treated you this winter, Caldar. He loves you and yet he’s a simple man, a thrush if you like, who finds he’s reared an eagle in his nest and doesn't know what to do with it. He’s known for some time that you’ll be going, perhaps even more clearly than I, and he’s both relieved and sad, so he covers his confused feelings with hard words.

They had talked all night and he had left at dawn, warmed by her spirit and by her parting gift. The small bag of silver coins lay heavily in his pack, but his heart was lightened at the accompanying message. This is from Taccen. He says that wherever you're going he's sure that an apprentice basket maker could do with some money in his pocket.

Here he was in Misaloren on his way to see Tariska. And then? Back to the farm? That was impossible now. Where then? Up into the mountains, down the Lake, search for Rasscu or the Tinker, it was all equally aimless. He sat on the edge of the bed and circled round and round the endless familiar arguments until a knock on the door brought him to his feet with a start.

He stared in disbelief at the head which poked round the door. Berin? What ..what …

What am I doing here? his friend asked coming forward into the room. I've got a message for you. He turned back and carefully closed the door before sitting on the end of the bed. I’ve got a message for you, he began again, then unexpectedly stopped.

Come on, come on. Who? Where? What about? Don't spin it out.

Berin drew a deep breath. It's from the Tinker. He wants us both to leave and go to Pillimon Graxi as soon as possible. And we're not to let anyone know what we're doing.

Caldar sat down on the bed beside his friend, letting the words sink in. Was this what he had been waiting for? He couldn't tell. At least he now had a destination. He turned to Berin eager to make a start.

Before you begin, Berin put in hurriedly, I must tell you I can’t go. It's a bad time at the farm just now. Pa’s getting worse and Ham's cut his right hand badly. We've lost seven cows to that lung disease that's been going round. The grass will be slow to start this spring after the late snow we've had, so we'll have to keep feeding the stock and Ham will soon be wanting help on the house he's building for him and Dexis. Anyway I've got no money of my own and I can't ask Pa or Ham with things so tight at the moment.

When he ran down, he remained looking glumly at the floor, until the total lack of response made him glance at his friend. Caldar was gazing out of the window with a rapt expression.

Did you hear a word I said, Caldar?

What? Oh, that. Farmer's stuff. Farmers always complain and you're beginning to sound like the real thing already. You'd have come up with a list like that last time if you'd been living at home when we set off. He laughed at Berin's stubborn expression. Come on, Berin, admit it. There's never a good time to leave the farm. And Ham will manage perfectly well without you, you know he will.

Seeing his friend wavering, Caldar produced his final argument. We don't need to worry about money either. Caran gave me thirty silvers. I don't know what it’ll cost us to get to Graxi, but that's surely enough for horses and food and stuff. Come on, don't tell me you've forgotten what you were saying on the boat on the way back last year.

It was Berin's turn to maintain a long silence. He came out of it with a little shiver and a strained smile. Alright, Caldar. I've got a premonition that I shouldn't be doing this, but I'll come as far as Graxi with you. Then I'll tell the Tinker I must go home, and whatever his plans are this time, he'll have to do it without me. I was only a passenger in the Empire, so I can't see that it will matter if I don’t…

Berin, Caldar interrupted. Tell me again that bit about not telling anyone else.

He said… Berin began.

You’ve seen him? Caldar was astonished.

He came to see me last night. Berin shook his head and plunged on before his friend could interrupt. It wasn’t a dream. He was standing beside my bed, as real as you are now, telling me what we had to do.

How d’you know it wasn’t a dream?

Because it wasn’t. I was wide awake, and it felt like him. He’s not like anyone else, you know very well what I mean.

But…

Caldar! Berin made no attempt to hide his exasperation. Give me a chance. He made me write down what he said so I wouldn’t forget. Then he told me where you were, so I packed up and came straight down here before dawn. I’ve brought the note, so you can see it for yourself.

He thrust a crumpled note at his friend who straightened it out on the