The Avatar of Calderia: Book Three: The Lost Mage

By David Echeandia

The Dark sorcerer, Rak`koth, invades Balleterria, bringing death and destruction to the land as he unleashes his vast Imperial armies of ruthless killers and vicious war beasts upon the brave but greatly outnumbered Alliance of human and Elfin defenders. Only they stand between him and certain doom for their peoples as he pursues his malevolent dream of bloody conquest.

Meanwhile, Killian, Ellianthia and their intrepid companions continue their long, perilous quest for the mysterious lost mage, leaving the Plains people behind and following the shining stone ever southward into the ominous black Glass Mountains. Great danger, ferocious beasts, mythical creatures and startling surprises await them as they search for what lies beyond the enigmatic “door above the clouds,” knowing that every day’s delay means that more of their countrymen will suffer and die.

Battered by the enemy’s relentless assault, the Alliance forces led by Gavan, Rillandariel and Mik`kel struggle to survive epic battles fought with deadly steel and arcane magic—and a treacherous assassin in their own ranks—desperately hoping to endure long enough for Killian to return with the only weapon that can defeat the evil wizard and save them from annihilation.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Apr 11, 2016
• ISBN: 9780989596244

Book preview

Chapter 1

Mountains of Glass

The long low boats crowded with enemy invaders pulled away from the hulking black warships of Emperor Rak`koth’s great armada and began to approach the shore, headed for the smoldering, broken ruin that had been the village of Breckon Bay. Splintered planks, charred beams, and bits of melted pottery and fused glass were all that was left of the weather-worn taverns, shops, inns, brothels and huge warehouses that had grown up over the years around the harbor, catering to the merchant vessels and the sailors who crewed them. Now all was naught but twisted debris and ashes, every building, every structure methodically razed to the ground. Even the stones of the wall built to hold back the sea at high tide were shattered and blackened. Nothing had survived the devastating lightning storm unleashed by the Dark sorcerer, his fury-driven retaliation for the Triads’ fiery holocaust that had sunk or damaged a dozen of his ships and sent five thousand men to the bottom of the Luminous Sea.

Mik`kel watched from the high bluffs surrounding the bay as the long boats heavily laden with Surrikandian warriors drew near to the shore, their steel weapons and armor gleaming in the sun. It was time to launch another assault at the enemy before they disgorged their foul cargo of men and beasts. The Kal`Dathian mage raised his arms and gave an order amplified by his magic.

READY YOUR SPELLS! he called, directing his command to the Triad groups gathered on the bluffs with him. PREPARE YOUR ATTACK!

At once, the Triads of mages and clerics began chanting the Unity magic he had taught them, calling their power to them, gathering energy from the ether and forming searing balls of flame in the air above them.

NOW! cried Mik`kel, and a dozen Great Fireballs erupted into the sky and sped toward the rows of boats just about to make land. A moment later, a series of explosions ripped the air as the burning balls reached their target and struck!…only to bounce harmlessly off an invisible Shield wall encompassing the entire harbor. Clearly, Rak`koth had learned a lesson about the arcane power of these pathetic hedge wizards he had believed them to be, when he saw first-hand the destruction their Unity magic had wrought.

Their Shield wall holds, muttered Mik`kel, turning to meet the eyes of King Gavin of Calderia and King Rillandariel of the Great Forest, both of whom stood nearby, watching the futile magical attack deflected into the sea. The human and Elfin monarchs shook their heads in disbelief.

Can that bastard sorcerer really cast a Shield wall over the whole bay? asked Gavan, frustrated—and not a little shaken—by witnessing how the mighty power of his mages had been so easily turned aside. Be there no way to penetrate his defense?

Mik`kel spread his hands apart, as if in apology. I am sorry, Your Majesties. As you have seen, that is the third attempt we have made to break through his Shield wall. Doubtless he has ordered all of his wizards and shamans to focus their efforts on defending their landing, and likely added his own considerable power to theirs as well. We might succeed in finding weaknesses…perhaps on the fringes of the wall…where we can attack. But as long as he maintains the Shield intact…

Yet he can attack us while we are helpless to prevent the enemy landing? asked Rillandariel, his voice deep with anger.

I think not, Your Majesty, Mik`kel replied, hoping to assuage some of the Elfin king’s concern. I believe it will take all the power he can summon just to defend until his men are safe ashore. He can not afford to attack us whilst he hides behind his protection.

And how long might it be until he has gathered his men and is ready to march on us? asked Gavan, turning to General Brurik, who attended his king some few feet to his right. The commander of the Calderian forces looked out across the harbor at the boats just now reaching the sandy shore.

Well, Your Majesty, Brurik responded after another moment of stroking his beard thoughtfully. I would venture a guess that it will take most of an eight-day…five or six days at least…to land all his men, horses and war beasts. He can only fit so many men into those long boats, and then must needs send them back to the ships to ferry another load. Then, there are all the necessary equipment and supplies to be unloaded as well, for he can not expect to capture or forage for food so soon. And does he need to maintain his Shield wall all the while…

The general nodded his head as if confirming his speculation. Aye, five or six days at least, I should guess. `Tis a prodigious undertaking to land fifty thousand men and all the rest, and a good commander would want to establish a secure base before moving his armies inland.

Yes, said Gavan, with a growl of discontented resignation. And in the meantime, we must sit idly by with our fingers up our arses and watch.

Your Majesty, said Mik`kel, hearing again the king’s frustration, though the graphic image of the two monarchs engaged in that particular anatomical activity threatened to spark a grin in the midst of this somber moment. I would point out that the delay may work in our favor. If nothing else, it will give us more time to fortify our first lines of defense, and make our plan based on what we can learn, now that the enemy has actually appeared. And perhaps `tis best if we do not engage him yet, since we are still greatly outnumbered and are awaiting the arrival of other allies. In the meantime, I will continue to seek out any weakness in his Shield that we can exploit.

Both kings nodded, each encouraging him to keep trying, then walked away together, saying little else for the moment as they pondered what they had learned and what must be done. Sighing, Mik`kel turned to see Lady Aisleen, the king’s seeress, gazing at him with an expression of sympathy, knowing how loath he had been to deliver the hard news to their leaders. But when she smiled at him, his heart lifted, reading the promise in her eyes of a late repast, a cup or two of wine, and a night spent in her arms. At least that was one pleasure Rak`koth could not yet deny them. He smiled back at his ladylove, before turning back to watch the enemy splash ashore. He prepared to give the command to launch another magical assault, while he wondered again how Prince Killian and his companions were faring in their quest—and whether they would reach their goal in time to help save Balleterria from oblivion.

†††††

Crown Prince Killian of Calderia rode his great stallion, Sutherland, into the narrow vertical cleft that marked the entrance to the mysterious Glass Mountains, their massive black spires reaching up far and far above him into the sky, like dark, jagged fingers clutching at the soft, white clouds floating just beyond their grasp. Ellianthia, the Elfin princess, drew abreast the fiery-haired, broad-shouldered human and Sent a message to her mare, Foxglove, to keep pace with the warhorse. Her golden curls shone brightly in the afternoon sun as she turned her eyes from her betrothed and followed his gaze into the shadowy crevice silently awaiting them.

Feeling her presence, Killian turned his head and smiled at the Elfin maid, his blue eyes lingering on her comely face and full lips for a moment before looking beyond her to beckon Ansel and Marta with a nod of his head.

What manner of stone is this, so black and shiny? he asked the Dwarven couple as they came forward, Ansel’s cantankerous mule, Beatrix, leading the way. I think me I have never seen its like before.

The two Mountain folk exchanged a look, then Marta urged her mule over to one side of the entrance wall and ran a short, stubby finger over the rock, letting out a low oohing sound as she did so. This be pure obsidian, good prince, more pure than mine eyes have seen before, even within our Misted Mountains. She tapped the surface with her thick fingernails.

In truth, it be more glass than stone—glass formed of molten rock flowing deep inside the earth that burst up through the surface when the press from down below proved too great to be contained. This be what remained after the flaming rock cooled, long and long ago.

Gesturing at the sheet of black glass rising high above them, the stout, buxom Dwarven female shook her head slightly, as if somewhat dumbstruck by the sight. I have mined veins of obsidian near our stronghold, to be sure, though they most often be gray rather than this black. But I will tell thee, there must have been a mighty upheaval in the earth indeed, one worthy of thine own gods, to spew forth a mountain range entire.

As Ansel grunted his agreement, the prince pondered something for a moment, then glanced around at Ellianthia and the other companions. I am thinking that we might do well to have the Mountain folk lead the way in this, are they willing to do so. He then spoke directly to the Dwarves.

Among us all, you two know the ways of the mountains best. Though this is far from your home, I would ask that you guide us through as best you can, and lend the benefit of your lore.

Surprised by this request, yet proud to be considered of such value, Ansel met Marta’s gaze. When his beSpoken offered a shy smile, he winked at her, then inclined his head toward Killian.

We be honored to offer thee what aid we can, though, as thou hast said, we be but strangers here ourselves. He patted the neck of his ugly mule with some affection.

My Beatrix be a shade ornery and no prize to the eyes; but she be steady and surefooted in a mountain pass, and able to put her feet right in tricky places. That be one reason why we Mountain folk make use of her breed. Do thine horses follow the mules and step where they step, thee hast the better chance of getting through.

The prince nodded and waved the Dwarves forward, then fell in behind them, with the Elfin princess following closely. After her came her uncle, Master Bard Palladarian, then Dellendrien, the Elfin healer, and Niocal, the human battle mage. Shayienne, the pretty dark-haired Plains woman purchased from the Galloix, would have taken her place behind Reagen, as slaves did with their masters, but the Black Guard captain who had bought and freed her would not hear of it. With a stern look that said he would brook no nonsense, the burly warrior motioned her to go ahead of him while he took his accustomed place at the rear, warding their backs.

The ground began to slope upward as they rode single file into the slim opening and rounded a curve in the path, losing all sight of the bright southern plains they were leaving behind. Almost immediately, they were enveloped in heavy shadow as if entering a long tunnel, for the walls on either side of them stretched so far above that only a narrow slit of blue sky was visible high overhead. The floor of the tunnel was ridged and furrowed, and littered with fallen shards of black glass that crunched beneath the horses’ metal-shod hooves with a sound reminiscent of stepping through the icy crust of a snowy country road on a frozen winter morn.

More than once, a horse slipped on a slick patch in the gloom, snorting in distress as it fought to regain its footing by shifting to the left or right, inadvertently pressing its rider against the sharp, protruding edges of the walls. One painful brush of an arm or a leg was enough to teach the wisdom of keeping to the center of the path, such as it was.

Then began a long, laborious climb up through the darkened cleft. At first, Killian could hear bits of murmured conversation and snatches of laughter coming from the others, as they sought to keep their spirits up amid their bleak surroundings. He smiled as he recognized Niocal’s familiar grumblings, accompanied by irate declarations that he had not invested decades in esoteric study of the arcane arts to earn his purple battle mage robes—which, he announced in passing, were being torn to shreds by the sharp edges of the walls—only to become a gods-be-damned mountain goat. In response to this curmudgeonly assertion, Palladarian’s lilting chuckle echoed up the trail, blending with Ellianthia’s feminine giggles.

Yet, as the climb continued, conversation waned and laughter disappeared altogether, for the constant strain of peering ahead and struggling to guide their mounts onward over uncertain footing did not lend itself to casual intercourse. Half a candlemark passed, and then another, and still there was no end in sight. It began to seem as though their journey through this cold, murky tunnel would go on forever. What was worse, as the horses plodded steadily upward, the incline grew steeper and steeper, until the companions had to hunch forward in their saddles to keep their balance.

Killian could hear Sutherland’s breathing becoming more labored with each step, engendering sympathy and more than a little concern for the animal he loved so well. This was no nimble pony bred for mountainous terrain. This was a noble warhorse, meant to run free across the flatlands at the gallop, his golden mane flowing, his strong heart pumping as he carried his prince into battle. Yet, here, on this ever-ascending trail, Killian could not stop or even lessen his pace to allow the horse a moment of rest, for there was simply no room to pull off to the side or let another go by. Indeed, any slowing would bring Ellianthia’s mare bumping up against Sutherland’s rump, and so on down the line of riders.

Still, as uncomfortable and hard this journey was on riders and mounts alike, and no matter what dangers and hardships lay ahead, he knew that none among them would counsel turning back. They had all listened with alarm and anger—and not a little dread as well, truth be told—to King Gavan’s voice coming to them through the Speaking Stone from across the many miles back in Calderia, telling them the grim news of invasion and death.

They had all heard the king’s account of Emperor Rak`koth’s great armada of black warships crossing the Luminous Sea from Surrikand and arriving at the shores of Calderia, bringing fifty thousand ruthless killers intent on brutally conquering and enslaving his country, indeed all the races and peoples of Balleterria. They had learned of the desperate battle fought upon the sea by Admiral Quillan and his tiny, hopelessly outnumbered makeshift navy, to create a diversion that would allow Mik`kel, the Kal`Dathian mage, to unleash the terrible fire magic of his Triads against the Dark sorcerer’s fleet. And they knew also that, despite Mik`kel’s amazing success in inflicting some serious damage on the enemy while still at sea, the Hells-spawned emperor had retaliated by leveling Breckon Bay with lightning blasts—and was, even now, disgorging his warriors and beasts of war onto Calderian soil, preparing to begin his invasion.

Somehow, against all odds, the humans and the Elves, led by King Gavan and King Rillandariel, had managed to put aside their bitter war and forge a peace to unite their peoples in common cause against the enemy. But the Alliance forces would not be enough to withstand the invasion. Their only hope lay in the quest undertaken by Killian and his companions, following an ancient riddle discovered when he used his gods-given Avatar powers to split the stone hidden in a secret grove deep in the Great Forest of the Elves:

In cavern deep, red stone to delve

to serve as compass faire;

Above the clouds, seek ye the door

that waits beyond the stair;

On distant isle, where dwells a mage

who mourns his Ladye rare.

They had discovered the ruby talisman under the Misted Mountains, and now followed the direction given by the shining stone that, even now, felt warm against his chest where it rested beneath his tunic. They had crossed the Westlands, traveling south, ever south, down through the western Great Forest and out across the vast Plains lands where the Galloix and other nomadic horse tribes lived—all in search of a mysterious lost mage whom the gods had named as the only one who might stand between the people of Balleterria and the scourge of Rak`koth, his Dark armies and his foul magics.

And so, they faithfully followed the stone into the Glass Mountains, moving slowly through this eerie, imposing tunnel-like cleft, not knowing what lay ahead, their mounts straining from the burden of their riders and supplies. Yet, even as his stallion struggled mightily to keep going, it occurred to Killian that the ridges rising out of the floor at regular intervals had become less of a hindrance and more of a boon—for as the angle of the slope increased, those ridges helped to prevent the horses from sliding backward, thereby serving as a stairway of sorts.

He found that oddly fortuitous. He also thought it passing strange that a natural opening in the mountains should run so straight and true for such a distance. The prince was about to voice this observation to the Dwarves up ahead when the path leveled off, took a hard turn to the left, another to the right, and then ended without warning.

Abruptly, he and the Mountain folk were bathed in the blinding glare of sunlight as they emerged from the shadows—and nearly plunged headlong over the side of a narrow precipice to plummet a thousand feet down into a great chasm that suddenly appeared before their eyes! Indeed, they would have ridden into certain oblivion, had it not been for Beatrix and the other mule planting their feet and halting just scant inches from the edge of a six-foot wide rock shelf that was all that lay between them and a broken, mangled death in the depths of the abyss below.

Hold! cried Killian in alarm as Ellianthia’s mare poked her nose out of the darkened tunnel. Listen, all of you. When you come into the light, turn your horses sharply to the right and hug the side of the wall or you will surely fall.

Then he and the Dwarves nudged their mounts forward slowly along the ledge, far enough to allow room for all the companions to find a place to stand. There, they gazed in fear and wonder down the sheer vertical drop and out across a yawning, windswept gorge to another rugged pinnacle rising several hundred feet away. The slender shelf to which they now clung so precariously protruded straight out from the smooth face of the mountain, hovering about halfway up between the jagged summit glistening in the sun above and the dark canyon floor hidden by shadow so far below. The ledge itself could be seen to slope upward as it wound back and forth, following the uneven contours of the mountainside.

Ellianthia heard a gasp behind her and turned to see Shayienne slumped in her saddle, her body quivering with her face buried in her hands, looking small and terrified as she huddled against the rock wall on her right. Beside her, Reagen was looking at the Plains woman intently, concern evident on his scarred face, though he seemed hesitant to draw closer to her.

It took but a moment for the Elfin maid to grasp the cause of the clanswoman’s trembling. No doubt Shayienne had lived her entire life on the flat expanse of the southern Plains, never more than the height of a horse’s withers from the ground. Now, she was perched on a mountain ledge, looking down from a dizzying height she could never have imagined, suspended here in terror between heaven and earth, with naught but a thin lip of stone beneath her, and nothing to do but go on.

Ellianthia’s heart went out to the woman who had already endured so much fear and pain in her life. In a heartbeat, she had dismounted and hurried to Shayienne’s side, reaching up to offer comfort with gentle touches and whispered understanding. Glancing back at Reagen, she saw him nod to her, as if thanking her for her kindness, though she wondered why he had not offered comfort himself.

Ansel and Marta looked worried as well, though for other reasons than the height alone, as they quietly slipped down from their mules and carefully inspected the surface of the ledge. The Mountain folk were born and bred in caverns far above the flatlands, and were hardly strangers to heady heights and dangerous trails where one slip meant disaster. Still, they were more accustomed to the feel of solid granite beneath their boots, stone that would bear even their heavy weight if traversed with care. This slick, black glass had an altogether different texture and feel to it; and the spider web of veins and cracks near the outer edge of the narrow ledge, cracks clearly visible to their knowing Dwarven eyes, brought a shared glance that was fraught with great misgivings.

Ansel pulled a small rock hammer from his pack, knelt down on one knee and began to tap along the edge as the others looked on curiously. It took only a few firm strokes of the hammerhead before his fears were confirmed, as a six-inch chunk of glass broke off with a strange creaking sound and fell from sight. The stout Dwarf looked up at the others with a sober expression.

It be as I thought, he said. The ledge be cracked and brittle close to the edge, and more than a mite fragile under the weight of a large beast, such as a horse or mule. Thee will do best to keep to the side nearest the mountain, and hope that is safety enough.

A mite fragile, mimicked Niocal sarcastically, with a skeptical shake of his head. Ballor’s Balls, man, the whole thing looks like it could crumble in a high wind! The rest of the companions looked down at the rock shelf, then at each other, wondering if the senior mage’s pessimistic prediction would prove all too true.

I think `tis wise that we rest a bit before moving on, said Killian, hoping to change the mood before their confidence waned. He could see that the others were as tired and hungry as he was from the long, grueling ride up the passage, and the animals had fared no better. Thus, it came as no surprise when his companions signaled their willingness to follow his lead and take a moment’s respite from the journey. Soon, all had dismounted and were offering handfuls of grain and water to their weary mounts. Then they sat down with their backs to the mountain, as far from the edge as was possible, feeling a chill from the afternoon breezes gusting around them.

Chapter 2

The Ledge

Marta produced a flat, round loaf of Plains journey bread wrapped in soft leather from her saddle pouches and broke it into portions, passing it around. A parting gift from the grateful Galloix clanswomen, the coarse, chewy blend of cracked wheat, honey, and dried fruits and berries tasted delicious as they devoured it, washing it down with sips from the water bags each carried.

Dellendrien busied himself applying ointments and minor Cure Spells to the cuts and bruises most had suffered on their arms and legs from scraping against the sharp tunnel walls. Palladarian’s ear had been nicked by the point of an unseen outcropping. Niocal had an ugly gash on his right forearm where a keen edge of glass had sliced through the sleeve of his robe, thus offering some vindication for the stream of epithets and complaints the battle mage had voiced along the way.

Killian looked on with some interest while the Elfin healer cleansed and Spelled the wounds closed, seeking to learn by asking questions and listening to the chants as Dellendrien practiced his arts. The prince’s own scrapes and lacerations had already begun a rapid mending of their own accord, and soon there would be no signs of injury at all. All in all, Dellendrien was glad for the company and content to be occupied with applying his healer’s skills, rather than dwelling on the dangers of the trail that lay ahead.

With her own cuts attended to, Ellianthia rested her head upon her uncle’s shoulder, eyes closed. Killian glanced at her, smiling as he recalled the feel of those golden curls against his cheek in the Dwarven mines. From time to time, someone stepped back into the shadowed cleft to answer nature’s call, making use of the only privacy their surroundings afforded them. The press of a full bladder finally drove even Shayienne to seek the darkness at last, though she kept her gaze fully averted from the chasm, feeling her way along the rock face with her hands as though stricken with a kind of blindness. Reagen watched her when she disappeared inside, and settled back again only when she had returned.

Then it was time to move on. Again, Ansel and Marta led the way as they began the slow trek along the treacherous, sloping ledge. They followed the winding trail upward, moving with great care, for the glassy surface beneath the animals’ hooves was smooth and slippery, and they knew full well that one misstep could be their doom, sending them tumbling helplessly over the side into nothingness. As if this was not bad enough, the wind blew strong at times, buffeting them with sudden blasts that threatened to dislodge them from their saddles, did they not cling fast to the reins and press their knees together firmly.

In other circumstances, the stark, pristine beauty of the majestic black peaks preening in the red glow of the afternoon sun might have touched Palladarian’s lyrical soul, inspiring a song to be shared on some future summer’s eve when others gathered round an evening fire to hear of the master bard’s journey and dream their own dreams of grand adventure. Yet, for now, the tall, slender Elf was preoccupied with keeping his eyes fixed intently on the rock shelf, as he and the others strove to maintain their tenuous hold on life.

For her part, Shayienne kept a white-fisted grip on her piebald’s mane. At first, she could scarcely breathe when she let her eyes stray to the brink of the precipice only a few short feet away, her heart pounding and her legs so weak from fear that she worried she might collapse and slip from her saddle. Yet, as minutes passed and she found herself still alive, she began to feel ashamed, and then angry—angry with herself for her poverty of courage, and for shaming herself and her people by showing such weakness in front of these strangers.

She was no infant suckling at her mother’s teat. She was a grown clanswoman, an Alador clanswoman at that, born of the Plains where life was a struggle, where each day was a battle with wind and sun and drought, where strength was survival and weakness meant an end to life. And where every child was taught that death was not to be feared, did one but die bravely. Summoning her pride, she lifted her head and set her jaw, resolved to disgrace her people no further.

Here and there, the companions encountered fallen rocks and other debris strewn across the ledge, evidence of the slow deterioration from the elements to which even mighty mountains were subject. Ansel and Marta proved adept in picking their way through the obstacles in meticulous fashion, displaying an uncanny knowledge of where the ledge could take the weight of their passing and what spots were best avoided. On occasion, Killian and Reagen were called into service when the Dwarves needed aid in grappling with a larger boulder, combining their efforts to heave it over the side, where it would sink out of sight and shatter into a thousand shards on the chasm floor so far below that the sound of its final impact could scarcely be heard.

The long, gray shadows of evening had chased the last rays of sunlight from the mountain sides when Ansel reined Beatrix to a halt, warning that any efforts at further passage in the dark would be tempting the fates indeed. He pointed to a place up ahead where the path angled inward slightly, offering some small shelter from the brunt of the chilly, swirling night winds.

On his advice, they placed the mules and horses on either side to form a windbreak of sorts, thankful that the beasts could sleep standing, for there was little room to kneel. There was no wood to fuel a fire, and no place wide enough to gather about it anyway, but they took some comfort when Niocal called up a blue mage light while they gulped down a cold meal of journey bread, jerked beef and water.

Finishing his portion, Killian made his way carefully to Ansel’s side. The Dwarf looked up and smiled amiably from his seat against the mountain wall, his coppery-red beard parting to expose his large white teeth.

Tell me somewhat, Ansel, said the prince, squatting down beside him. Did it seem odd to you that the path up through the cleft ran so straight and true, and that the furrows were set much like stairs, as if intended to aid in the climb?

The Dwarf scratched the base of his thick neck, considering the question. Aye, it did, he replied. And it seemed more than a mite strange to Marta and me that this ledge we be traveling looks to be the same width all along, no matter how it twists and turns; and that it runs continuous, without a break or gap, when thee would expect it to stop and start, or disappear altogether in the natural course of things. We be thinking it hath the look of a trail set out before us to make the crossing possible.

Killian nodded. Like someone had prepared a path, knowing it would someday be of use. But who could undertake to carve such a trail up a whole mountainside?

Ansel shrugged. A power greater than thee or me hath ever seen, that much be certain to any who thinks on it.

Leaving the mystery unsolved, Killian clasped the Dwarf’s arm, then cautiously returned to his own place upon the ledge. Then, worn down by long hours in the saddle and the strain of the day’s perilous travel, he joined the others as they unrolled their blankets and made their beds on the hard rock, lying close beside each other to share their body warmth.

He overheard snatches of some heated whispers and grumblings in the dark to his left, and surmised that Shayienne had insisted on laying out Reagen’s blankets, while the Blademaster objected in low growls. She seemed intent on continuing to act the part of servant to the man who had bartered for her freedom, even as she still wore her beautiful black hair in the twisted horsetail of a Galloix slave, though the Plains were well behind her now. He felt sorry for the clanswoman, and was pleased that Ellianthia had befriended her earlier.

At the moment, Killian was nestled up behind that same Elfin maid, close enough to feel the curves of her hips grazing his thighs. It seemed only natural—for the sake of warmth, of course—to move closer still and mold the length of his firm body to fit the rounded contours of hers. When he did so, he felt her go rigid, and he was certain that she would pull away and break the contact. Then, surprisingly, she relaxed against him until her back was pressed against his chest in a most appealing manner. He wondered why she had changed her mind, and what she might be thinking. Soon, sleep claimed them both, prince and princess betrothed in name only, huddled together in the eerie blackness on a fragile, windswept six-foot ledge high on a black mountain made of glass.

She was alone in a very dark place where no light could be seen at all, not even shades of gray. It was black and cold, and she shivered as she felt the chill penetrate her tunic. She called out for him but he did not answer. She did not know why he had gone away and left her here alone in the blackness. And where were the others? She held her hands out in front of her, reaching for a wall or a door or anything solid to touch and hold on to. But she could feel nothing there, nothing around her but emptiness. Then she felt a sensation of warmth between her breasts. She slipped her hand inside her tunic and touched the star pendant lying against her bare skin. The pendant grew even warmer as she closed her fist around it. Yes, breathed a low, deep voice from somewhere far off in the darkness. Startled, she turned around, trying to locate the speaker. Who are you? she cried. Where are you? For a moment, there was only silence. Then the voice spoke again, as from a great distance. I am here, waiting…waiting for you, it whispered. Come to me. Help me, please, the voice beseeched. She started forward, calling out for the voice to speak again, to guide her through the darkness. She began to run, hoping to draw closer to whoever or whatever it was that beckoned her from afar. Then the ground beneath her vanished and she was falling, falling into nothingness…

Ellianthia woke up gasping, her arms flailing, as if trying desperately to stop her fall. Then her elbows struck something solid and she heard a low grunt. What is it? What is wrong? asked a man’s voice, thick with sleep. A moment later, she felt Killian’s arms tighten around her as he sought to stop her from thrashing about. Feeling his strength and his closeness surrounding her, she sighed and ceased her movements, leaning back against him.

A dream. Only a dream. I am fine now, she said, though the memory of that dark vision haunted her still. He grunted again, still half asleep. He relaxed the pressure of his arms, but did not fully release her from his grasp as he drifted back into unconsciousness. She could have protested this confinement or struggled to be free of him, but she did not. Instead, this night, she was content enough to lie there in his comforting embrace.

†††††

Dawn was only a hazy reddish smudge on the gray horizon when the companions awoke from their restless slumber to find their blankets layered with icy crystals and their bodies stiff from the unyielding rocky bower where they had lain. Niocal announced to any who might listen that he felt particularly betrayed to learn that this was not just a bad dream after all, having been roused from visions of lying comfortably ensconced in his warm featherbed back home in the Mages’ Quarters of Brannock Castle.

Yet, in fairness to the magic user, none of the other companions greeted the embryonic day with anything resembling enthusiasm either—except perhaps the Dwarves, who seemed less affected by the harsh circumstances, and eager to be on their way with the first available light. Indeed, there were unkind glares from some when Ansel was heard to comment that Yonder path grows no shorter whilst thee linger abed, in an unnecessarily cheerful tone.

Still, none tarried longer than the moments needed to relieve themselves and break their fast. In truth, all were anxious to move on and leave the ledge behind as quickly as they might. Soon, they were mounted and climbing upward once more. Sunrise found them further along the narrow trail, warmed by the sun and a welcome lessening of the wind. By mid-morn, they were drawing close to the summit and wondering what they would do when they reached the very top. Then they rounded a bend and saw a much welcomed sight: the ledge had leveled off and began to slope downward at last, winding like a shiny ribbon down around the black mountain face for some distance until it disappeared into the shadows below.

Spirits rose at the thought of beginning their descent to safer ground, where survival was not measured in inches on a precarious shelf, and where they might find fresh water and some way to cook a hot meal. Ansel tempered their sense of relief somewhat by cautioning that going down the trail could be even more treacherous in some ways than going up, for the risk of slipping was greater. At that, Palladarian and Dellendrien exchanged rueful glances, and Niocal just glared at anyone meeting his eyes. Killian could not resist turning in his saddle to shrug and grin at Ellianthia, whose hazel eyes crinkled as she returned his smile. Behind them, Shayienne sat her mare with eyes closed, gripping the reins tightly, while Reagen stared ahead with no expression at all.

Interlude

The section of ledge beneath the outcropping had existed there for long and long, undisturbed until the day that it was struck by a ponderous slab of black glass that had sheared off from the mountainside during a tremor in the earth. The violent impact had not shattered the narrow shelf outright, but had cracked the surface and opened up several branching fissures underneath. Over seasons uncounted, water seeped into those small rifts during rainstorms, turning to ice in the winter, melting during the day and freezing again at night. Centuries had passed while the constant expansion and contraction from the elements widened the fissures, further weakening the underside of the ledge until pieces began to break off and drop unwitnessed into the gorge far below. Once in a great while, a living creature moved across the shelf, but the weight of its passage was fleeting and the surface of the ledge continued to endure, while the bottom slowly crumbled away. And still it waited, as it always had, impassively, in silence, as if preparing for what fate held in store for it this day.

Chapter 3

Edge of the Abyss

It was mid-afternoon when Ansel and Marta led the others around a sharp turn and started down a strip of ledge that ran straight ahead for a little way before it curved again to the right. They had been descending steadily since noon, gradually making their way down the mountain face. Their progress was slowed by the danger that Ansel had warned of, for the weight of a full-grown horse was such that it could not easily regain its footing, did it slip on a slick spot or a bit of debris and begin to slide on the downward slope. And, did that happen, it would not take much for the momentum of the slide to carry the horse and its luckless rider over the edge into the void.

They approached a portion of the narrow shelf where a small outcropping on the mountainside above it cast a shadow down across the trail. Ansel signaled a halt, his keen eyes detecting something that boded ill for the travelers, should they stray too near the edge. Twisting his short, stout body in the saddle, he called back to them.

This patch be split and cracked, and I liketh not the look of it one bit, he said. Thee had best go slowly and lean into the wall as thee pass by. Mind you, step only where the mules step.

Killian guided Sutherland closer to the wall, stepping carefully in the mules’ tracks as advised, for the counsel of the Dwarves had proven its worth time and again during their perilous journey through this mountainous terrain. The Elves followed suit, getting past the suspect patch of ledge without incident. All went well enough until Niocal brushed against the wall, scraping the forearm that had been gashed open and was still tender after Dellendrien’s healing. Never one to suffer in silence, the mage cried out and recoiled from the wall in pain, inadvertently tugging the reins of his horse sharply to the left. Snorting in surprise, his mount sidestepped in that direction, then began to stumble on the smooth surface.

Hold him, mage! yelled Ansel, watching helplessly from up ahead as disaster unfolded before his eyes. Hold him if thee value thy life!

Niocal was striving mightily to do just that, but even a skilled horseman would have been challenged to restrain the panicked beast, and the Calderian mage was hardly that. As the horse slid closer to the brink of the great chasm looming just beyond, it squealed in terror and kicked out with its hind legs, startling the mare that had been following close behind—Shayienne’s mare. The piebald lurched to the left as well, rearing up and then smashing her hooves down but a foot from the edge.

For several heartbeats, nothing happened. Then came the alarming sound of a loud crack! as a chunk of the ancient ledge some twenty feet long and three feet wide ruptured under a weight too great for the weakened shelf to endure and suddenly collapsed. The entire section broke away and began to plummet down into the abyss. Niocal’s horse was left with its hind legs churning in empty air, but it somehow managed to scramble forward with its forelegs onto the part of the ledge that was still intact.

Shayienne and her mare were not so fortunate. Caught flatfooted on the severed portion of the ledge with nothing to support either of them, they could do naught but fall.

As they began to hurtle downward, the clanswoman frantically kicked her feet free of the stirrups and launched herself upward toward the remaining piece of the ledge, arms outstretched in desperation. Barely catching the edge with her hands, she clung there tenuously by her fingertips while her mare tumbled down and down into the gorge below. Her reprieve from a similar fate was only momentary, however, for an instant later, the side of the ledge she was gripping for dear life crumbled away in her hands. She had but a moment to catch one last glimpse of blue sky far above her. Then, with a terrified scream, she was gone.

She had plunged several feet into the emptiness when something halted her fall abruptly. On the verge of unconsciousness, she looked up with great surprise to see her master gripping her wrist with his left hand. Witnessing her lose her fight to cling to the ledge, Reagen had not stopped to think. Instead, he had wrapped the reins of his destrier around his right hand and leapt out over the side after her, barely managing to grasp her arm as she fell. A second later and she would have been lost.

Now, he was hanging over the edge himself, supported only by his hold on the huge warhorse’s reins. Stunned and speechless, she stared up at him, watching him grimace in pain from the strain of holding her weight, the scar on his cheek standing out white against the reddened flush of his face.

They hung there suspended in the air above the gorge, swaying back and forth as Reagen struggled in vain to hook an elbow or a knee over the top of the shelf and gain some small purchase. Shayienne thought she could hear yells and shouts of encouragement coming from the far side of the ledge; yet, even in her dazed state, it was plain to her that the man she called master was losing the battle. Though resigned to her own inevitable death, she would have him live by letting her go, for not even this powerful warrior could save them both.

No! Do not give up! Hold on, woman! Reagen rasped, his black eyes piercing into hers, as if seeing into her mind and divining her intent to free herself from his tight grasp so that she might fall. Then, more softly, he urged, Shayienne, reach for my arm with your other hand and pull yourself up.

Mayhap it was being trained to obey a master without question or mayhap something else. She could not say. But something in his voice gave Shayienne the will to try. She strained to rotate her body far enough to reach up and get both hands around his muscled arm, but her free hand only grazed his sleeve before she fell back again.

Before he could urge her to try once more, he felt them drop another foot as his warhorse began to slide toward the edge, pulled sideways by the burden of their dead weight. Fighting despair, he called out to his horse to hold fast, but the sound of hooves scraping futilely on the glassy shelf bore grim witness that the stouthearted beast was helpless to obey his owner’s command.

Then, suddenly, incredibly, Reagen felt something powerful encircle his forearm in a crushing grip, preventing him from dropping any further. I have you now, Captain, said a low voice that seemed to echo in his ears from a distance.

Turning his head in surprise, the Black Guardsman saw the prince above him, his golden eyes glowing brightly as the strength of the gods flowed into him. Killian had somehow stopped the warhorse’s slide, and was actually pressing the sixteen-hundred pound animal back with one hand while he clasped the reins of the horse with the other.

Hold tight to her, man, he commanded in that same distant voice, as he braced himself on one knee and, with an impossibly mighty heave, pulled his liegeman straight up and back onto the ledge.

Now, bring her up, Captain, Killian said, holding the Black Guardsman’s belt to steady him while Reagen reached down with his free hand to grasp Shayienne under the arm. He saw the look of disbelief in her dark, frightened eyes and felt the warmth of her flesh against his skin as he leaned his body back and lifted her to safety beside him. Feeling solid ground beneath her at last, the clanswoman continued to grip his hand tightly as she turned her face to the wall, sobbing uncontrollably.

Reagen looked up at the prince to see the glow already fading from Killian’s eyes as they reverted to their natural shade of blue. My Liege, he said, leaning forward and bowing his head with profound gratitude. I owe you my life. Did you not take hold of me…

Killian silenced him with a smile and a gesture. Say no more, my friend. Did I not swear to care for your life as you swore to care for mine? But, look you, how fares Shayienne?

Hearing her name, the Alador clanswoman raised her head and gazed up at Killian with awe and some measure of fear. Her people did not pray to gods, save to the mysterious elements of nature that governed life and death upon the Plains. Yet, did other gods truly exist, surely this blue-eyed, fiery-haired prince must walk among them.

She had seen him tall and invincible in battle like a mighty chief, his body aglow with an uncanny aura, cutting down his enemies with swift, terrible vengeance. This was the man her own master served, the one to whom Reagen had gone to