The Red Triad: Book Three of the Triads of Tir na n'Og

By Darragh Metzger

The Fey of the Red Faction chose three young heroes for their new Triad and set the living on the trail of the dead...

Riven from the Blue and Green Triads by the magic of the Gates, the Red Triad continues the hunt for the dark rider across the sun-seared plains and monster-infested jungles of Kinshasa, hoping to rejoin their allies before they close with their deadly foe. But when black magic and the re-awakened dead bring terrible secrets to light, not all the young Triad's growing powers can stem the tide of destruction that pursues them even into the realms of the spirit.
Only if the Red Triad—John von Ravensburg, Shee-An-Natay, and Bae Twan—throw themselves into the very teeth of the unknown can they save themselves and one another from an enemy who has turned predators to prey, the hunters to the hunted.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Darragh Metzger
• Release date: Sep 25, 2015
• ISBN: 9781311987822

Darragh Metzger

I make my living in the world's two lowest-paying professions: acting and writing. While my resume includes stage and screen credits, I've spent the last several years wearing armor, riding horses, and swinging swords with The Seattle Knights, a stage combat and jousting theatrical troupe. My publishing credits include plays, non-fiction articles, and short stories, one of which made The StorySouth Millions Writers Award Notable Stories of 2005. I've written two short story collections and ten novels to date, sold three of them in 2002, and have now re-released them under my own imprint, TFA Press. My first non-fiction project, Alaska Over Israel: Operation Magic Carpet, the Men and Women Who Made it Fly, and the Little Airline That Could, came out in 2018. I also sing and write songs for A Little Knight Music and The Badb. If I had free time (which I don't), I'd spend it with horses. I'm married to artist/fight director Dameon Willich.

Book preview

The Red Triad

Book Three of the Triads of Tir na n'Og

Copyright 2002, 2020 Darragh Metzger

A TFA Press Original

Lynnwood, Washington

Cover art by

Dameon Willich

Copyright © 2011

Smashwords Edition License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your enjoyment only, then please return to Smashwords.com or your favorite retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

* * *

Table of Contents

Title/Copyright Page

Dedication

Prologue: Opa

Chapter 1: John

Chapter 2: John

Chapter 3: Shee-An-Natay

Chapter 4: Bae Twan

Chapter 5: Bae Twan

Chapter 6: Shee-An-Natay

Chapter 7: John

Chapter 8: John

Chapter 9: Shee-An-Natay

Chapter 10: Shee-An-Natay

Chapter 11: Bae Twan

Chapter 12: John

Chapter 13: Bae Twan

Chapter 14: John

Chapter 15: John and Bae Twan

Chapter 16: John and Bae Twan

Chapter 17: John and Athane

Chapter 18: John

Chapter 19: John

Chapter 20: Athane

Chapter 21: Bae Twan and Athane

Chapter 22: John, Bae Twan, and Athane

Epilogue: Opa

Please Review This Book/Connect with Darragh Metzger

Other Books by Darragh Metzger

Acknowledgements

Author's Notes

About the Author

* * *

Dedication

For Tracy, friend, sword sister, fellow chocoholic. Thank you for Athane. Babs still kicks ass.

For Lara, an awesome swordswoman who so desperately wanted to play bad guys, despite being cursed with the face and voice of an angel and a smile that melts rocks. It's hell being cute when you want to be a badass. Thank you for Magaera, Orlean Dutetre, and L'Cyrian.

* * *

Prologue

Given a choice between a pile of broken brick and an old, peeling wooden bench, Opa chose the bench, though he considered it only slightly the lesser of two evils. He had few comforts in his life, and at his age, comfort had become more important than it once had been. He bore on his spare frame little enough padding and did not relish the thought of sitting for several hours on the unyielding wood.

Ah, well, he still had his cloak. It had served as a cushion before, and could again. At least it was not raining. And the bench leaned against a stone wall, so no one could approach him from behind. No small consideration, in this place. Jason, his apprentice, was now off trying his wings on his own, and no longer there to watch his back.

He took a moment to fold the heavy, grey wool cloak and pat it into shape on the bench, then unbuckled the sword belt from his waist and laid the scabbarded blade lengthwise on the seat beside the cloak, that he might draw it in haste if necessary. His belongings were few but precious to him, and the folk who inhabited the crumbling, ramshackle buildings that lined the street lived with different levels of desperation.

As he eased down onto his makeshift cushion, he eyed his growing audience and felt a rare flash of shame. He had lived with hardship for most of his adult life, but it had been of his own choosing. The children surrounding his seat or picking their way through piles of moldering refuse toward him had been given no such choice.

The boy who stood nearest him picked at the peeling paint on the arm of the bench and eyed Opa sideways from under long, curling lashes. You gonna tell another story today?

Opa settled back, spreading his hands on his knees. I promised you the rest of the tale, did I not?

Let's hear more about the Fey, demanded a much smaller boy with scabbed knees and restless hands. About the Factions and all. The Reeeeeeeeeed Faction, the warriors—yeah! He balled his hands into fists and hammered imaginary foes, his blows accompanied by sounds that were probably meant to be explosions.

I promise you, you will hear more of the Factions, for they are woven throughout the tale, said Opa. Indeed, it might be said that they drive it, for without the differences between them and the strife that grew of it, none of it would doubtless have happened.

Are you staying? asked a girl, one he recognized from the previous day's telling; thin and ragged, with a wide, impish smile and dark, sparkling eyes that had not yet learned to lie. We got enough.

She meant, he knew, enough food to offer a guest. He doubted the assertion, though he knew it was sincerely offered. I will stay until my story is done, he said. And I have brought my own supper, which I thought I'd share with all of you here, in the open air. Better here than the stinking confines of the ruined buildings, in any case.

He felt for his pack, resting securely between his feet, and drew it up onto the bench beside him. He fumbled under the flap and found three of the apples he had been saving. Here, he said, handing them to the boy who stood beside the bench as if taking the role of Opa's protector, divide these among the rest of the children.

The other children, just settling onto the ground or looking for places near their friends, sprang up or scrambled across the ground, bright eyes fixed on the fresh fruit; the air filled with the piping of young voices, like a nest of enormous chicks: me-me-me-me-me-me-me-me–

The boy hesitated, then drew out a knife and began cutting the fruit into slices, passing the pieces into the dirty, reaching hands of the other children. Opa nodded; he had been right about this boy. Here was one who heeded the tales Opa brought to this benighted place.

He drew out the rest of his hoard of food—cheese, nuts, a fruitcake less than a week old, dried meat, more apples—and gave it to the boy to share among the other children. He had brought plenty with him from the last settlement; he was often paid in food. And even if he had less, he had gone hungry often enough in his long life. It wouldn't kill him. The children needed to eat while they listened. It might well be the only nourishment they would have all day.

There would be other audiences in other places with food to spare. There always were.

Opa took a sip from his water bottle while he waited for the children to settle again, and for the rest, emerging from the buildings and the shadows between, or drawn by curiosity to the sounds of the gathering in the street below, to arrive. He scanned the crumbling structures lining the streets on either side of him, looking for movement that might signal danger, or for adults who might come to see what drew their children. One or two peered from stoops or doorways, watching this strange, tall, white-haired man with suspicion or indifference, but none came over to join the children. The adults knew who he was. None of them were willing to test the truth of his reputation, it seemed, even those who meant him no harm and to whom, therefore, he would have offered none. A great pity, that.

As the children settled around him again, Opa wondered how many others, like the boy beside the bench, had heard more in his tales of the previous day than he had revealed in simple words. He studied them, watching faces, eyes, listening to their voices. Their enthusiasm and excitement were unmistakable, and he felt reassured.

The children were mostly dark-eyed and dusky-skinned, typical of this part of the city, coming to Opa from houses as shattered as their lives. Some came for the food, some for curiosity, some for the simple novelty of an adult who paid attention to them. Many had no parents, for Death was a frequent visitor to these dirty, broken streets. Few understood duty, had ever met with honor, did not recognize truth, and, though they lived with courage every day, they did not know it.

Only magic could save these children.

Drawing his power around him like an invisible cloak, Opa gave it to them.

The tale I gave you yesterday lingers yet in the air; listen, and remember. Remember how it began, with a stirring, a whisper...

As if he had summoned it, a breeze stirred the folds of his sleeves, pulling strands of his white hair into the air to wave like curious serpents around his head. Dried leaves and dust blew between the tumbled blocks, brushing against the children's bare legs and worn shoes. The bright-eyed girl in front of him shivered but did not look away. The other children scurried to their chosen places and settled down to listen.

"A whisper of strange magic among the Sobaka reached the ears of the Green Faction, and the Green Triad was sent to investigate. The Red Faction, hearing similar hints, sent out the Red Triad. But when next the wind carried news of the Triads to the waiting ears of the Factions, it was of death, swift and sudden; both Triads slain but for one man, and he a maddened wreck. And the wind bore no whisper of how this had come to pass.

"The slaying of two seasoned Triads within such a short time did not go unnoticed by any of the Factions and roused to action some that had heretofore merely observed.

"The Blue Faction, perhaps in the belief that the Red and Green Factions concealed truths, set the Blue Triad the task of unraveling the tangle of rumors, hints, and strange happenings. Yaqut ibn Munqidh the Cavalier, Antonio Ságria Montoya DeVasa the Mystic, and Angharad the Ranger had served long together, as Triads reckon time, and had brought much honor to the Blue Faction.

"The Greens summoned Rowan of Killaloe, once the favored Cavalier of the Green Triad. They placed with her Girai Groushko, surviving Mystic of the Green Triad that had died so strangely, and a former Black Triad Ranger who had run afoul of old magic and now bore the name of Jade the Elf.

"But the Red Faction chose three young, untried heroes for their next Triad, hoping for a fresh start. For the Cavalier, they chose John von Ravensburg of Drachenfel; young, valiant, but arrogant, the more so because he secretly doubted his own courage. For the Mystic, Bae Twan of Angkor; full of pride and power, yet ever hungering for more. As Ranger, Shee-An-Natay of Nilka; eager to serve and determined to prove himself worthy. The Red Faction set the living Triad on the trail of the dead and sat back to wait and watch.

All this have I told you; of how the three paths tangled and led them to one another; of how the three Triads pursued one another, each suspecting the others of a hand in the weaving of the cloak of deception they sought to unravel. Of how they came together at last only to be set against each other. Of how each man and woman amongst them looked into his and her heart and found something unsuspected. Of how they learned much of one another—and of themselves—before they laid down their weapons and made peace. Of how three Triads set aside their search for the fabled Gem of Ohma and vowed to aid one another in bringing the one they suspected of masterminding this evil, a man they knew only as 'the dark rider', to justice.

Opa leaned forward, and his voice dropped, filling the small spaces between child, stone, bench; building a wall between all of them and the ugliness around them.

Listen well, for from this point on, the story changes. The three Triads were driven apart as surely as they had been brought together, each with only a share of the truth, a few tiny pieces of the puzzle, he said into the wide, hungry eyes around him, pacing his words. He opened the wellspring that lived within him and let the story shape itself.

Not all would hear the entire tale, the parts Opa left hovering like ghosts around them, unspoken. Many would hear only an entertaining, simple yarn, a matter of words and rhythm, meter, rhyme, and timing, fleshed out by Opa's gift for creating different voices and imitating sounds.

But what mattered were the ones who heard all the parts he did not speak aloud, the tale woven in and around the outer story. Those whose hearts would beat to the rhythm of the life he revealed to them, whose eyes would see beyond the illusion, and would know for themselves the truth.

It is often easier to defeat enemies without than within, he said. Or so the Red Triad found.

Chapter 1

John von Ravensburg, Cavalier of the Red Triad, drew his lathered horse to a halt. Shee-An-Natay, he called to his Ranger, somewhere in the darkness ahead, wait.

Unbelievable, how quickly the light went. One moment, the Red Triad was galloping full-tilt into the sunset, hot on the trail of the unknown horseman in black they had pursued across several city-states and through three Gates, who had evaded and escaped them at every turn. The next, the sun vanished as if swallowed by the horizon, and night fell on the plains of Kinshasa like a black curtain.

He wiped a trickle of sweat from his face with one gloved hand and swallowed the oath that rose to his tongue. Darkness brought no relief from the heat. The dark rider, whoever he was, seemed to have the very land itself on his side.

Bae Twan, on her little mare, caught up to him, horse and rider panting as if from a marathon. He felt a pang of guilt; Bae Twan had opened the Gates that had brought them all here, and the effort of dragging them through the magical passage on their quarry's trail had exhausted her. Nor had she been given time to recover. He wished he could see her face, gauge how she fared. Bae Twan would not readily admit to weakness.

We are stopping? she asked. If there was hope in her childlike voice, he could not detect it. Perhaps he worried for nothing.

We certainly can't keep on as we are, he replied. It's too dark to see anything; we could lose his trail and not even notice. He frowned into the dark, listening for other hoof beats. Where was their Ranger? Had he outdistanced them by so much? Shee-An-Natay, he called again.

I am here. The Ranger appeared almost beside John, horse and rider forming a slightly paler smear against the featureless black of the night. His horse tires; I could see it in the tracks before darkness fell.

So do ours, John replied. Can you still follow him?

Shee-An-Natay hesitated. Not swiftly, he said finally. He knows where he is going, and we do not. We must wait for moonrise.

John hissed. At the pace he's kept so far, he could be halfway to Yasenovo by then. No use mentioning that ever since the chase had begun, two days and half a world away, the dark rider had successfully dodged all their previous attempts at capture. To allow him to regain his lead now could very well mean starting over. Mystics can make light. Could you follow it by that? Without waiting for an answer, John turned in his saddle to face his Mystic. Bae Twan, can you make a light? We can't let him get too far ahead. Not now, not when we're almost on top of him.

She did not reply. As he opened his mouth to repeat the question, a rose-red glow blossomed in the dark, lighting her delicately pretty face as if she held a small sunrise in her cupped hand. She blinked, looking up at him, the light reflecting in her midnight eyes like distant fire. If this will serve.

If you will ride beside me, said Shee-An-Natay, from John's other side. He sounded doubtful.

Her eyes flickered from John to Shee-An-Natay, then lowered, masking her thoughts. She nudged her tired mare forward, shoulder-to-shoulder with the Nilkan war pony. Together, they moved off, bathed in the red light that glinted off Shee-An-Natay's leather-and-alloy armor and pooled in the grass at their horses' feet.

John watched the glints of fire in the twin black braids that hung down their backs, plagued by the feeling he had missed something, some unspoken communication. Had either of the others an objection, or another suggestion? If so, why not speak? He stifled a flash of irritation and held his horse to a slower pace behind the other two.

A Triad was supposed to grow closer over time, to share thoughts and feelings freely with one another. Yet his Ranger and Mystic seemed more reticent every day. They could not still be shy of him, not after all they'd been through together. And surely he had given them no cause to doubt him.

At least, no more than you sometimes doubt them. The thought, a secret whisper of his inner voice, shamed him. Yet it persisted, a nagging tickle in the back of his mind, sounding, as always, remarkably like Hans. He wondered for the first time if perhaps the others spoke to one another more than either spoke to him.

Unworthy thoughts. He would no longer entertain them.

He still knew little of their lives before the three of them were joined. Bae Twan had been sold at an early age by her parents to the apothecary who had trained her, and rarely spoke of her childhood. Shee-An-Natay belonged to one of the wandering Nilkan tribes, having never actually set foot in the city proper of Nilka. He sometimes spoke of childhood adventures, but never of his upbringing, his family, or the things that had shaped him. It was almost as if Shee-An-Natay and Bae Twan dismissed as unimportant their lives before being Chosen.

John had dreamed his whole life of being Chosen, to serve in the Red Triad, but certainly such an honor did not diminish the importance of his prior life. His own family, his childhood, his education and training, were often in his thoughts, part of the fabric of his life, the brick and mortar from which he'd built the man he'd become. How could one set aside such things? Even the years he'd spent wandering with Hans—especially those—had led directly to being who, what, and where he was.

He felt the familiar tug of a wound half-healed, emotional scar tissue but recently knit into place. Hans Gartner, brother in all but blood, dead these past...how long had it been? A few months, subjectively. Longer than that, he supposed, to the rest of the world.

It was still hard, sometimes, to realize that Hans was gone, that he could not look over to share a jest and meet laughing eyes as blue as his own. He caught himself almost daily wondering what Hans would say about this and that.

Sometimes he could imagine what Hans would say, how he would say it, so clearly it was as if Hans spoke, a voice like a memory in the back of his mind.

He no longer thought of him as Hans-who-should-have-been-my-Ranger. The Fey of the Red Faction who had Chosen John had passed over Hans, and Hans had died. Shee-An-Natay, the young Nilkan warrior who rode in the darkness ahead, had been Chosen instead.

He pulled his thoughts away before memory turned sharp enough to cut, and peered ahead to where his Mystic and Ranger rode outlined in warm, red light. He had learned to like Shee-An-Natay. It was hard not to. Shee-An-Natay was never frivolous, as Hans had so often been. He was brave, clever, skilled, and fiercely dedicated to his Triad. He never seemed to get angry, kept his head in a crisis. He was, in some ways, John had to admit, a better Ranger than Hans would have been.

But his eyes were dark and opaque, and John could not talk to him.

Hans had been full of laughter, always eager to talk, to share thoughts—however easily distracted by drink, the pleasures of the moment, a pretty face.

Shee-An-Natay did not drink, disdained most civilized vices, and paid no special heed to girls that John had observed. But then, it would be hard to notice other pretty faces when one such as Bae Twan's was already close at hand…his gaze slid from Shee-An-Natay's leather-armored back to Bae Twan's slender form, a shape of crimson-tinted darkness outlined by the light in her hand. He pushed the troubling thought away in irritation.

As if he'd somehow picked up John's thoughts, Shee-An-Natay pulled his horse to a halt and raised a hand to signal Bae Twan to do likewise. The light caught the sharp plane of the young Ranger's cheekbones as he turned to look back at John, his eyes hidden in pits of shadow. Another trail joins with his, he said. His voice, pitched to carry no farther than John's ears, vibrated with excitement. Three riders.

John's vaguely troubled musings scattered like smoke. Three! He halted his horse to keep it from treading on the evidence and scanned the grass where Shee-An-Natay was pointing. He could make out nothing, but then, he was at the very edge of the reach of the light. Are they with him, or following?

They follow, as we do—and not far behind him. The Ranger pointed down at what John assumed was the anomaly. They do not cross his trail, but come from behind, as if they have been riding beside us.

The Blue Triad, Bae Twan said, her voice sounding eager, it must be.

John let out a sigh of relief. The Blue Triad had preceded the Red through the Gate that had led them here, in pursuit of the same foe, yet there had been no sign of them until now. Doubt had begun to worry at the edges of his concentration; either the Blue Triad had gone astray or deserted them, or the Red Triad rode on the wrong trail. The tracks to which Shee-An-Natay pointed restored his faith.

And, secretly, John wanted this alliance with the older, more experienced Triad. Whatever differences lay between them, their missions were the same. There was so much he could learn from them. His aborted duel with their Cavalier, Yaqut ibn Munqidh, had shown that much.

Anything that improved his Triad's chances of survival was to be seized with alacrity. So far, they had beaten the odds, but their luck couldn't last forever.

Good, he said aloud. They can't be far ahead of us. Keep watch, Bae Twan; we may be able to spot their magelight.

They rode at a walk, silent save for their horses' muffled hoofbeats. Off in the distance, the hoots and howls of night-hunters echoed across the darkened plain, underscored by the shrilling of insects. John loosened his sword in its sheath, peering around at the darkness. Gott Sie Danke, moonrise wasn't far off. He doubted that any natural beast would attack, however tempting the scent of weary horseflesh. But the plains of Kinshasa were home to many unnatural hunters as well, and some of them would have less hesitation.

The light flowed like red water down into a depression in the ground ahead. His horse turned to follow the others, trailing the edge of light down into a small ravine, deep enough that the meager light of the stars could not penetrate. They'd come across several such places so far; the prairie was riddled with hills and dales, disguised from even a short distance by the tall grass. They could conceal any number of surprises. As utter blackness swallowed the ground under his horse's feet, John hoped the animal could see better than he could.

Bae Twan's light shimmered ahead, turning her hand into a lamp of glowing flesh and brushing the edges of her hair and clothes with the softest of flame.

Of Shee-An-Natay, he could see only the red glint of light reflecting off the metal plates set into the leather on his shoulders, the occasional flash of his ruby and silver earring, the muted warmth of magelight against the coppery skin of his head, shaven save for the single long, braided, scalp lock. He was still looking down and to the side, as if he could read the tale of those who had gone before on the dry, black earth.

Suddenly the Ranger veered, and the crunch of rock beneath his horse's unshod hooves seemed shatteringly loud. A dried creek bed. John bit back an oath and fought the urge to draw his sword. It was unlikely that those they followed were close enough to hear. The Red Triad would have heard them ahead. Hell's Bells, they would have heard a beetle crawling over this stuff from ten yards away.

He's trying to cover his tracks, he said, just loudly enough to carry over the crunch of gravel. I was wondering when he'd try something like this. Their previous experience at tracking the rider in black had been riddled with seemingly impossible tricks he'd played to shake the Red, Blue, and Green Triads off his tail. Riding across bare, loose rock was child's play in comparison.

On the other hand, they hadn't followed him at night before.

Shee-An-Natay's war pony halted, and John caught the flash of the Ranger's eyes as he looked back. I must dismount to follow, the Nilkan announced, his soft voice floating like a disembodied spirit in the dark. The stones too well conceal his passage. If the Blue Triad had not gone before us, it would be harder still.

John waited as Shee-An-Natay slipped from the mustang's back and moved off down the ravine, his pony following like a large hound. After a moment's hesitation, Bae Twan followed his example, to John's surprise, though she held onto her horse's reins. She hurried to catch up to the Nilkan, holding out her light as if to hand it to him.

John allowed his horse to follow a few paces behind but stayed mounted. Armored as he was, he would make far more noise walking on this stuff than riding over it. His stallion disliked the footing, and disliked being held back behind the other, smaller horses with their shorter strides, but was too tired to argue with him as much as usual. John was too tired to be grateful for the respite.

How close were they to the Blue Triad by now? How far behind the black rider?

He had great respect for Shee-An-Natay's abilities, but he couldn't help but wonder if perhaps—just perhaps—the chase was proving too easy. Was it possible that the dark rider wanted to be found? Waited for them somewhere ahead in the blackness?

He curled his hand around the hilt of his sword and looked up at the edges of the embankment just above his head. A sudden line of stars marked where the earth ended and the sky began.

It occurred to him, not for the first time, that the man—or whatever he was—they followed was cunning enough to have arranged a trap.

A soft sound from Shee-An-Natay jerked his head back to the two ahead; Shee-An-Natay darted to one side and crouched close to the ground. The Ranger hissed to draw his attention and, as Bae Twan reached him, waved.

John edged his mount forward a few more steps and stopped. By Bae Twan's magelight, he could see a dead tree, barely more than a sapling, lying at an angle against the side of the embankment, its tip broken off at the level of the top. What is it?

Shee-An-Natay pointed. Here—one horse goes up the bank, this way, while the others ride on.

John leaned forward, squinting to see where the other man pointed. Just on the other side of the tree, concealed in its shadow, were deep wells in the dirt that marked where a horse had left the gravel bed. Clever. The trick wouldn't have worked in daylight.

Shee-An-Natay straightened. I was waiting for such a thing. It is what I would do. His voice did not quite conceal his excitement or the note of triumph behind it, and John smiled in the darkness. The Ranger's ongoing efforts to develop a stoic demeanor tended to be forgotten under duress.

That's the Blue's bad fortune, he said. We can't be far behind now. We've almost caught him.

Or he, us, said Bae Twan, breaking her long silence. Do not forget, this one carries with him great power. It would be better to find the Blue Triad and have them with us when we confront him.

John snorted. We can't risk letting him escape. He's given us the slip too often. We're close, and he's tired. He's probably thinking he's lost us all, he'll be careless—and that's when we'll have him. He nodded to Shee-An-Natay. Better to go mounted now. Speed is of the essence. After him!

Shee-An-Natay vaulted onto his pony's back and the creature scrambled up the hill like a jackrabbit. Startled, Bae Twan climbed awkwardly aboard her mount, clinging to the mare's mane as it took off up the slope after its herd mate.

John waited until the mare's bulk, a heaving shadow bobbing and snorting beneath Bae Twan's red light, reached the top of the embankment, then sent his horse after her, his spirits lifting with each powerful lunge. At last, his quarry was near. He could feel it.

Above, the moon had begun her slow climb heavenward; Bae Twan doused her light as the soft radiance turned the grass to a silvery sea and the line of scrub that marked the edge of the forest on the Inland side to lumps of coal. Now even John could follow their trail; a line of trampled darkness in the grass, leading away, as if an artist had dribbled black ink across the plain.

The horses, refreshed by their brief rest, responded to their riders' urgency with a will, running easily over the hard-baked ground until the trail veered into the undergrowth, curving around the trunks of huge, spreading trees and circling thickets of brambles with thorns like daggers. Tiny deer darted from almost underfoot, startled from their resting place, and something large and formless in the semi-darkness fled their approach, flowing into the deepening shadows of heavier growth.

Shee-An-Natay's nimble little horse darted between two trees so intertwined John thought them a solid wall; he flattened himself against his own mount's neck as branches scraped and snapped against his armor.

He looked up, and there, flitting across a patch of open grass just ahead, the shadowy shape of a lone horseman fled, his mount stumbling with weariness.

Shee-An-Natay let out a war-whoop and the rider veered, racing back for the concealment of the brush, rippling in and out of shadows as he passed beneath the trees. Shee-An-Natay curved in flight to follow and Bae Twan cut across the distance.

John followed Bae Twan, his stallion's longer legs eating the distance; he caught and passed her, striving to catch the horseman in the lead.

The rider, a vague, horse-shaped blur in the broken darkness, ducked in and out of shadow, putting heavy brush, thickets, fallen trees, and every other obstacle between himself and his pursuers, never quite in the open, always just out of reach. He tried again to turn toward the grasslands, but John cut him off, forcing him back the way they'd come, a long, wide curve. Back in the direction the Blue Triad had gone.

John hoped the Blues were close—but not too close. The excitement of the chase set his blood boiling in his veins, his heart thundering in his ears. At last—the hunt, followed by a battle to end all battles. This would be the most dangerous man he'd ever faced. A man powerful enough to imitate an Ironlord. Songs would be sung about this fight!

If he survived.

He impatiently banished the voice of doubt and shouted a wordless challenge. From somewhere to his left, he heard Shee-An-Natay's answering war-whoop.

Ahead, the ground rose in a low swell, a bank; the rider swerved along its base into a curtain of darkness between two trees. The crash of a heavy body in the brush and a man's choked scream told John the dark rider was caught at last.

He jerked his sword from its sheath and drew rein, craning his head to look behind. Bae Twan, all but formless in the shifting, groping shadows, raced behind him, her horse's breath blasting from its nostrils with every stride. Bae Twan, he yelled. Here! Light!

Without waiting for a reply, he vaulted from his horse's back and raced to where the crashing of breaking brush and strangled curses announced the dark rider's location. We have you now, he shouted. Surrender to the Red Triad.

Red light flared from behind him, illuminating the two trees and the tangle of vines, branches, horse and manflesh caught between, painting all in tints of flame, and dyeing the shadows the color of blood.

John slowed. Something was wrong with the picture before him. The downed rider, entangled with his mount, threw a bare arm across his face with a cry of terror, while the animal's dark legs thrashed helplessly against the entangling vines.

I've done nothing, the man screamed, I've done nothing to any of you.

John's mind belatedly made sense of what he saw, and he stopped, mouth agape.

Shee-An-Natay, bow in hand, stopped beside him, staring uncertainly. This is not the one, he said, sounding aggrieved.

I noticed, John said. Surprise still held sway, but anger came close in its wake. He turned, furious, on his Ranger. We've been following the wrong tracks all this time.

Shee-An-Natay shook his head in mute denial. John turned away from him as Bae Twan, on foot and panting, came to a stop on his other side and gasped. Her light flooded the thicket, revealing a terrified centaur, hopelessly trapped by a nest of vines he had not seen in time to avoid.

Bae Twan's expression went from bewildered to appalled, before she wiped all emotion from her face. Only her almond eyes glittered with humiliation and anger.

John sheathed his sword and clamped his lips shut over a curse. Either Bae Twan had brought them out the wrong Gate, or Shee-An-Natay had confused the tracks. In any case, the chase had been for nothing. It would be pointless to rail at them for it, however satisfying right at the moment.

Shee-An-Natay approached again from his other side. This explains why he made no greater effort to conceal his trail.

That's a fine thing to know, John said between clenched teeth. But it's of little help to us. We've reached the end of the trail, with no clue to where we must go from here. The dark rider and the Blue Triad are long gone; doubtless halfway across the world from here.

Bae Twan's face was stiff. This is where I was led. There must be something here for us, to have drawn us to this place.

Either the centaur sensed the wavering of his hunters' intent, or he had exhausted himself. He stopped his vain efforts to break free and twisted his human torso, craning his head as far upward as he could, to stare at them over the rounded mass of his equine belly, his bearded face somewhere between hopeful and defiant. Given that his fore and hind legs were trussed up on either side like a suckling pig dressed for the spit, dignity was impossible. Since I'm not the one you want, the least you could do is help me out of this, he said in a strained voice.

John scowled at him. The creature had already wasted enough of their time. Why were you running from us?

You were chasing me, the centaur replied indignantly. I thought you were the Burgundy Triad.

Burgundy! John blinked, exchanged a look with Shee-An-Natay.

The Ranger shook his head, as puzzled as he. Why do you fear the Burgundy Triad?

And what is the Burgundy Triad doing out here? John added.

Shee-An-Natay turned toward John and lowered his voice. We may not have erred. There may be something this one has done that drew us to him. Some bond between him and the dark rider.

It seemed a stretch to John, but better a few crumbs of hope than none at all. He nodded and looked at the centaur. Tell us why you're running from the Burgundy Triad, and what they want with you.

The centaur's face twisted with frustration. It isn't me, I haven't done anything. He tried to free an arm, perhaps to make a gesture of sincerity but was stopped by the vines and fell back, panting. They're out here hunting Tainted. All Tainted. They're just killing us, I don't know why. Grunting with effort, he strained his human body upward, glaring at them in mingled fear and frustration. Now, let me go. I don't know anything.

Beside John, Bae Twan spoke. It lie.

What? The centaur's shocked expression was almost comical. No! I swear, they're killing Tainted out here.

Bae Twan looked up at John. But it know why, she said softly. Or suspect something. It is hiding something.

Was Bae Twan just trying to save face, or did she really think the centaur concealed information? Well, what had they to lose by trying? He nodded. Get it from him, Bae Twan.

Don't bother. It was a man's voice, a stranger's. Bae Twan's light vanished even as John spun to face the source. Momentarily blinded, he lunged to one side to avoid an unseen attack, hearing Shee-An-Natay's surprised grunt and the sound of his body hitting the dirt. Where was Bae Twan? No time—he dove over Shee-An-Natay, landed shoulder first and rolled to his feet in the lee of the embankment.

Don't do that again, said a different male voice, louder, more grating. In a tone of complaint, he added, I almost had him.

You mean, he almost had you, said a woman, equally loudly. You're getting careless, Skedros.

I'll worry about the Ranger—you worry about the Mystic.

I've already taken care of the Mystic, she replied with a contemptuous sniff. Good thing, too, or I wouldn't have seen that Ranger aim for you.

As John's eyes adjusted to the change of light, three people rose from the tall grass at the edge of the bank above him, darker silhouettes against the moonlit sky.

Thanks for catching the beastie for us, said the first stranger, the brawniest one, in the middle. He stepped down, flanked by his companions, the three of them taking on details in shades of moonlit silver and grey. The burly stranger's round skull showed silvery stubble in the moonlight, and he carried a thick-bladed sword in one beefy fist, a great, round shield over his shoulder.

Beside him were a robust, black-haired woman in a dress more suited to fetching flagons of beer than braving the wilds of Kinshasa, and a smaller man in scuffed leather and a maille hauberk and coif. No insult intended, Red—it is Red, isn't it?

There was no use trying for concealment. John straightened, his blood pounding in his ears, his throat; he had to strain to speak around it. I am John von Ravensburg of the Red Triad. Even in this light, you should be able to tell. As I can tell you are the Burgundy Triad. Only Burgundy would be so base and cowardly.

The other Cavalier grinned, but it was no friendly gesture. Long on fire, short on brains, he said, that's the Reds for you, eh, Vashti?

The big woman smirked. They're not dead, just napping. You're next, handsome. Fear not; by the time you wake up, this will all be over. She lifted her hands over her head in an oddly graceful gesture, like a dancer.

Do you so fear an honest fight, Burgundy? John snarled, bracing himself.

The other Cavalier stopped his Mystic with a glance and a gesture, and eyed John speculatively. Should I? he said, in a casual tone, as if musing aloud. The Reds are supposed to have the best fighters, or so they always claim.

John kept his eyes fastened on the Cavalier's. He couldn't win against all three. His only chance was to turn the fight into a formal Challenge between Cavaliers, which would keep the Mystic and Ranger out of it. At least as long as the fight lasted.

The Ranger drew a pair of kindjals and poked at Shee-An-Natay with the tip of one. Better let me kill them, Edward. You know Red; they'll just come after us.

John's heart lurched. Better to die fighting than to be slaughtered as he lay helpless. He pointed his sword at the other Cavalier. For the lives of my Triad and my captive: By the Seven and by the Three, for Honor and Glory, I Challenge Thee.

The woman called Vashti barked a mocking laugh. I'll take care of him, Edward. She raised her hands again, the swell of her white breasts almost glowing in the moonlight as they threatened to escape her bodice.

The Burgundy Cavalier raised a hand to forestall her, still looking at John. I'm tired of fighting creatures. Far better to whet my sword on a worthy foe. Vashti, give us light. Skedros, leave off for now.

He shrugged the round shield from his shoulder and lifted his sword before his face in a quick salute. Edward the Stout, at your service. He smiled as he lowered his sword. Now it's just you and me, boy. Let's see what you're made of.

He moved confidently toward John.

Chapter 2

Wine-red light spilled from the Burgundy Mystic's uplifted hands, up the side of the embankment and across the ground, the trapped centaur, and the still forms of Shee-An-Natay and Bae Twan lying in the trampled grass. It cast purplish reflections on Edward the Stout's blackened brigandine armor, dug furrows in the seamed, scarred face, and stained his pale eyes the color of blood.

John watched the other man approach, calculating odds. The Cavalier of the Burgundy Triad was broader built than John and as brawny of arm as his name implied, his grey hair cropped close to his round skull, as mercenaries often wore it. A grizzled veteran of many battles.

Edward the Stout raised his shield and launched himself with a roar.

Battle circle be damned, then. John leaped left to get around the other's shield and lunged, swinging, but jerked back as the shield flashed past his face—too close—he'd forgotten to account for it, a secondary weapon in this man's hands.

He circled, centering himself, his lips stretched in a grin that matched the one baring Edward's large, square teeth. This man was the Cavalier of the Burgundy Faction, the Faction to which so many mercenaries, raiders, and pirates seemed drawn. They had a lot of blades to call on, and they'd picked Edward the Stout. That meant he was good, among the best.

John knew his own alloy gothic plate to be superior to Edward's brigandine and splint. Neither wore helms, something he keenly regretted, but he had reach on Edward. He would have to take care not to close in, where the other man's greater weight and heavy shield would give him an advantage.

Speed and ferocity had always been John's allies; he called on them now with fierce joy.

Roaring a challenge, he charged with a flurry of attacks, over-over-right-left-over-over; chips