Against That Shining Darkness: Complete Trilogy: Against That Shining Darkness

By Chogan Swan

Seth's tutors have prepared him for a life of danger since he was a child ...
They thought they'd have more time ...
There's no way he could be ready.
He'll have to disappear ... And leave no trace.
But now he's cornered.
If he doesn't confront his enemies, there won't be anything left of what made life worth living.
Family ... Friends ... Home ...
He needs allies ... He'll never survive alone.
But during his time in hiding, Seth learns something important ...
Sometimes you need to fight when it's hopeless ... For hope to be born.

From Chogan Swan,
the Amazon Best-Selling Author of the Symbiont Wars Series ...

Comes Against That Shining Darkness ... the complete trilogy in one volume.

Do you enjoy epic struggles like Lord of the Rings or The Shannara Chronicles?

Sword fights and magic?

Complications of dragons?

Tales of desperate struggles against the darkest of enemies?

You've come to the right story.

This swashbuckling trilogy in one volume delivers action, drama, humor and winning characters.

Come stand with them... Against That Shining Darkness.

Warning! Taking a peek inside can be addictive.

Go ahead ... We dare you.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Chogan Swan
• Release date: Jan 6, 2017
• ISBN: 9781386912217

Chogan Swan

Chogan Swan is a subversive, wild-eyed, non-violent neoRevolutionary who lives in the country of the mind in the world of thoughts in the universe of ideas. In this tiny corner of the space-time continuum, Chogan studied Philosophy and later collected graduate degrees in Business and Systems Engineering from a major US university renowned for its abundant alcohol consumption and passion for a particularly barbaric blood-sport. Go Hokies! :) These studies, however, led to an interest in Systems Thinking and how to work together to save the world for everyone. It won't be easy. (But then what is that's worth having?) Philosopher, poet, prophet, revolutionary--sentients in various realities have used these words to describe Chogan. Of course, the truth is in the interstices. The motivating force for Chogan's ... 'messages in bottles' to the multiverse ... has been succinctly captured by the words of Harlan Ellison … "Writing is a holy chore. ... the only organism of quiet communication left to us. In the soft moments when we huddle alone with our thoughts, we turn to words ... And there--in the moment when (sentient beings) choose to reason--we can reach them. It is a heavy responsibility."

Book preview

Chapter 1 – Shadows

The sun rose above the trees, and dew glittered on the meadow, making it look as though someone had spent the night sowing the field with diamonds and emeralds as tiny, white flowers opened blossoms to the light.. A man emerged from the trees and looked over the clearing, squinting against the glare. His eyes were dark, almost black, but with a slight cast of green that most could only see in sunlight. He glanced at the sky and held himself still like one of the stones standing at the edge of the trees.

~~~~~~~~~~{}~~~~~~~~~~

Kilan checked the meadow again before beckoning to the woods behind him. Queen Jyllanah and the women of her court walked their horses past him to tether them to the bushes that edged the meadow. One of the younger attendants glanced sideways at him with a shy smile.

Kilan sighed and followed.

The Queen pulled her bow from its case and strung it with expert efficiency then took off her outer robe and stepped into the tall grass. Her companions plunged in behind her. Their thighs below their short riding kilts were soon dripping with chilly dew. The younger girls gasped and hesitated before wading in.

Kilan’s orders were to attend the Queen’s party while they went fowling. It was unsettling to be guarding so much... femininity, and Kilan wished he were with the King hunting wild boars instead. He'd be there now if not for killing the boar himself on the last hunt. The huge forest-dwelling beast had charged straight for him, wuffing with piggy rage as it rushed the line of spears. Kilan dispatched it, but no one congratulated him. This wasn’t the first time, and the other hunters had started to grumble.

For the past three years, the pattern was the same. No matter where Kilan stood in the hunt line, the boars charged him, as though he were the one responsible for all their troubles. Today the King ordered him to go with the Queen’s party so someone else might have a chance.

He shrugged. It wasn’t his fault pigs didn’t like him; even domestic hogs would snort—threatening—when he got upwind of them. Kilan wondered if it had something to do with his scent. Maybe they sensed they weren’t welcome in his homeland. Pigs were just too destructive. A herd of them rooting through Raydcliffe’s forests would be a disaster near the level of a forest fire. Wild pigs had disappeared from his highland home over two generations ago, driven away by the archers of the woodlands, but it seemed their descendants would never forget... or forgive.

A pheasant took wing, and shot across the meadow through a whirring gauntlet of fowling arrows. It escaped into the sheltering woods. The hunt continued.

After two hours, they’d gathered four fine pheasant cocks and two hens. Queen Jyllanah called a halt, and the women sat chatting and passing the water skin.

Kilan glanced behind him to look for Wyatt, before remembering that the prince was with the King’s party; He’d grown so used to the boy’s constant presence that now his absence was odd. Wyatt had chosen Kilan as his personal hero over a year ago and spent his free time watching everything the big warrior did. Kilan smiled, realizing he missed the youngster’s presence. Everything is fresh to the young, and he enjoyed the perspective Wyatt brought him. He considered Wyatt a friend, despite their age difference. He knew the prince treasured the friendship as well. Though, it made Kilan uncomfortable to be so aware of a hero’s responsibilities.

The clearing was growing warm, and the sun beat down on his head. Even though everything looked peaceful, he was uneasy, as though something was stirring his stomach. A veteran of numerous battles in the King’s service, he’d learned to pay attention to these odd stirrings—they’d saved his life before. Perhaps he’d heard or seen something but not fully known it. As he scanned the surrounding trees—peering into the shadows beneath them—a shadow moved, and the hair rose on his neck.

The breeze shifted, coming around from the west, and the horses reared, snapping their tethers and galloping into the forest. A dark shadow, like a man, slid from beneath the trees into the clearing. A moment ago, the meadow had been full of light, but clouds now rolled in to block the sun. As though freed from a tether, the figure bounded toward them.

Kilan knocked an arrow to his bowstring and ran toward the Queen, calling to the women scattered around the meadow. To me! To me! Around the Queen!

Some of them cried out in fear, seeing the rushing darkness. Still they all ran to surround the Queen—though whether to protect her or for protection may have been uncertain in their minds. Some drew their knives, throwing their light bows and useless fowling arrows to the ground.

Kilan's arrow flew with a deadly hum across the clearing and sank from sight into the manlike shadow. It staggered... hesitated then came on. Kilan sucked in his breath, whatever it was; it was tough. He sent three more arrows, and—though the shafts knocked it back a little—they seemed to do no real damage. The arrows just disappeared into it. He tossed his bow aside and drew his sword. It was too close now to risk another shot.

He tried to pierce the approaching shadow with his eyes. It was taller and broader than a man, but without features, reflecting no light, as though moving through a dark mist. It advanced now with short rushes and graceless apelike bounds. Between advances, it quested as though for a scent.

Behind him, the Queen spoke an unfamiliar language, in a voice of quiet authority—a prayer. He didn’t understand, but the sound was comforting; he knew the Queen wielded the covenant power with great strength.

The shadow halted, several yards out of sword range. As Kilan studied it, he recalled snatches of ancient songs, stories from childhood, tales of shadow demons who walked in constant darkness—the baalim from The Siege of Evelon. He waited, breathing a prayer of his own. The baal raised its arm. A sword, or a shadow of a sword, appeared in its fist—a dark flaming shape that seemed to suck light from the meadow. Jyllanah spoke three ringing words. The baal staggered back, flailing—diminishing as it fell to the ground. But, it plunged its smoldering sword into the turf, and the ground blackened, scorching around the blade. It leapt to its feet, recovering at once and swelling as before—just as horrible. With a murderous cut, it leapt at Kilan. He parried the blow and cut back.

Gidrun hummed loud, and a tingle passed through the blade. The baal shrunk back. Kilan bared his teeth; Gidrun came from the forge of the Dragonsmiths, and the power of light that lived in the sword would make any creature of the dark lose fervor.

Like an angry wasp, Gidrun hummed again—warning. The shadow leapt in with a cut. Kilan blocked then whirled full circle, whipping the blade around with all his strength. The blade bit deep into the baal’s neck. A shock ran through his blade, and the baal toppled, burning with ugly red flame. In seconds, only blackened grass marked the spot where it had fallen. Kilan shuddered and stepped back, breathing hard, adrenaline pumping through his body. It was too easy; instead of dissipating, the sense of danger grew stronger as he scanned the trees. Is it finished, Kilan? Queen Jyllanah asked.

He shook his head. I fear not, Majesty.

Well then Commander? In a battle situation, you should give the orders. That is—after all—your purview.

Kilan considered. What do you sense? The Queen cocked her head, listening. There’s a fog. I can’t perceive direction, only danger.

Surrounded?

Kilan winced and picked up his bow. I suggest retreat, but not the way we came. I think they followed us at a distance—until now. He paused; Gidrun was tingling again. Travel north into the wood then circle right to find the King’s party. He grabbed his bow and handed it to the Queen, knowing she could draw it.

Jyllanah took it and threw aside her short fowling bow. The rest of the women and girls milled around her. Some sobbed with fear.

Move, Kilan snapped. Like startled deer, they took off toward the trees. Kilan loped behind them, glancing to the rear. His heart stuttered; a score of baalim rushed from the far side of the wood like a breaking wave of darkness. Fly, he shouted. They are on us. The Queen glanced back at him. He waved her on. I’ll catch up with you.

She hesitated.

Go! he screamed.

Jyllanah disappeared into the forest with a swift, ground-covering stride, no panic, just efficient speed.

Kilan turned to await the shadows. There were too many. He wasn’t getting out of this one. Be with me, he breathed. As he turned to face the shadows, a cloak of peace settled around him. Whatever came, he was ready. As he set himself, he had a fleeting wish that he’d told Wyatt goodbye.

~~~~~~~~~~{}~~~~~~~~~~

When the baalim saw him waiting, they halted, uncertain.

A shaft of sun broke the cloud cover and shone on Kilan. His sword glittered. The baalim held their hands over their featureless faces against the glare.

With a furious rush, they charged across the meadow at him. Two fell—disintegrating from Gidrun’s bite—before Kilan dropped to one knee. Two more disintegrated in the red flames before the rest swept over him, hiding him from sight beneath a mass of darkness.

A clap—like thunder—sounded in the meadow, and the baalim fell back from him, crying out eerily. Four faded and flickered then vanished altogether. The remaining baalim—those who hadn’t touched him—turned aside from his still form to pursue the fleeing women.

A dark-robed figure holding a staff stepped from the trees and approached the body. It bent and studied Kilan’s body without touching it. Below the hooded robe, a sneer showed on thin lips.

The figure waited until the baalim straggled back to the meadow. One dragged the limp form of the Queen by a vine looped around her waist. It halted in front of the dark-robed man.

~~~~~~~~~~{}~~~~~~~~~~

The man in the robe stooped; with the staff, he turned her over to reveal her face and grunted. The mark was there; her forehead glowed with its holy warning. He squinted against the vision.

It had taken a toll of his influence to force his baal warriors to come against two of the marked ones. The big warrior had also born the mark, and the baalim shunned looking at it. It was terrible for them to fight those marked by the covenant seal. Even when the covenant-blessed were dying, they did not surrender or smell of fear. The dreadful light from the mark and the unbearable words they could say made the baalim’s eldritch sinews unravel. Worse was the awful presence that manifested when they died—the power that poured out striking any baal who dared touch them.

The man removed a black glove from his left hand. He touched the ring on his forefinger, muttering a soft word. To his eyes alone, it glowed.

My lord, I have your... bride.

He signaled one of his servants to take the vine and walked back into the trees. The baalim followed, avoiding Kilan’s body and the bright sword still clutched in his hand.

Chapter 2 – Blood Bought

THE BREEZE SCARCELY rippled the grass, but it carried the piping to the young ferret as it made its way through the neglected garden. Curious, he tilted his head. A bird...? Something to eat...? The sound came from the great willow that wedged between the crumbling wall and the brook. The ferret moved closer to the old tree, threading through weeds and bushes. The willow branches came to the ground so thick they cut off all view of the trunk and trailed in the stream. As he wove through the branches, the ferret realized it wasn’t as bird-like as he'd thought and halted, wary. But, he was curious, and the song pulled him forward.

~~~~~~~~~~{}~~~~~~~~~~

Seth stopped playing when he saw the ferret scrutinizing him—red-brown eyes intent. He lowered his flute, but the spell broke, and the ferret turned like water and vanished. Seth leaned against the trunk and ran his fingers over the note holes, recalling the night when Wyatt had given him the flute.

~~~~~~~~~~{}~~~~~~~~~~

A familiar scratching sounded at his door. On opening it, he saw his older brother leaning against the frame, smiling. Hello, young mirror, Wyatt said.

Greetings, ancient mirror, Seth intoned.

People who had known Wyatt when he was young often said how odd it was to see a young Wyatt all over again. So, Seth started the mirror joke.

Both of them had a golden caste to their skin and cheekbones wider than most. Seth's brown hair had a tendency toward curling; his eyes—green with brown in the center—missed nothing. His brother displayed the same traits on a more mature scale. Wyatt's eyes reflected greater experience from traveling as a courier and ambassador for the King. There was a sardonic twist in his face, from hard lessons early in life and experienced many lands and customs.

Wyatt had been away for two months on a diplomatic errand to a distant province, and Seth had not expected him for another week. Seth grabbed his older brother in the hug that always turned into a wrestling match, but this time Wyatt just embraced him in return and jerked his chin towards the door.

Come on, you need to meet someone, he said and turned to pad down the hallway.

Seth snatched up his cloak, questions running through his mind. He followed Wyatt through back halls and seldom used corridors then up the stairs to the eastern watchtower. On the battlements, Wyatt halted for a moment to gaze at the stars of early summer. The moon was just a sliver on the western horizon, but the two of them beheld the countryside from the light of the stars alone. The constellation of the wolf was rising, and the skypath blazed across the midnight sky glimmering a faint silver across the land.

After a few moments, Wyatt tugged on Seth's cloak and opened the door to the tower. A flood of light spilled out on the battlements. With a blink, Seth adjusted to the light from the fire in the brazier. Two guards slumped against the wall, breathing the relaxed sighs of deep sleep.

Seth stared at the guards. What? He closed his mouth. Seated by the fire, two cloaked figures sat on three-legged stools that the guards must have been using a few minutes ago. The man nearer Seth was short, but—as he rose to greet them—Seth noticed a supple vitality in his movement that spoke of strength. His muscular frame came just short of straining his clothes.

Marshall, the bladesman, said Wyatt.

Marshall made a courteous bow then stepped over a guard and examined the pantry’s contents.

And Jyrmak.

Seth noticed Jyrmak’s eyes first. They had a depth to them like wells and caves, looking out from a wealth of ages.

Good evening, Seth Arodan, Jyrmak said with a smile that was strange to be at home in such a sober face.

Wyatt, we have an hour before the guard changes, Marshall said from the pantry. Perhaps you should explain.... No doubt your brother is curious about a few things.

Starting with how you got inside the castle, Seth said, pointing to a guard with his toe. You are of the magi, Jymack?

Curious and quick, said Wyatt, raising an eyebrow.

Seems a good explanation, doesn't it? murmured Marshall. He removed the cork from a bottle of wine and sipped it, rolling it around in his mouth before deciding to swallow.

Sit down, Seth, Wyatt said as he leaned against the rough table in the center of the room. I'll explain why we came like this.

Seth moved a stool closer to the fire; Wyatt was not one to cut a story short. The fire crackled, the guards slumbered and as in a dream, everyone acted as though it was normal. Marshall gnawed experimentally on a hard roll.

I'll start with the obvious, Wyatt said. I haven't been at home much for the last few years, and when I leave these lands again, I may never return. He paused, and Seth chuckled. Wyatt always said that before he left for anywhere, even a trip to the latrine. This time Seth suspected Wyatt might be serious—though he’d cloaked it with humor.

Wyatt continued. I have something to tell you about Brynd and Luca. Seth, you know they've never been fond of us; maybe you've noticed them growing more hostile.

Their greed grows, Seth said, shaking his head. They think of nothing except their inheritance when Father dies.

They hate you, Jyrmak said in a soft, matter-of-fact voice.

Yes, they do, agreed Wyatt. Seth, you are twelve now; soon they will view you as a threat. They want the kingdom—all of it.

You think they would kill us, their own brothers?

They are not our brothers, Wyatt said, curling his lip.

What? What do you mean? said Seth. It seemed the floor had shifted as his world twisted out of his grasp.

Wyatt turned to the fire, looking into its heart as he continued. It happened almost twenty-five years ago. The King and Queen held the annual Spring hunt in the hills on the borders of Perth, well past the last frost. The hunt parties separated, and the Queen's party went fowling. For two weeks, they found no sign—though the search was wide and thorough. Then Mother . . . the Queen, reappeared, but none of the rest of her party. A search group was in the hills still looking for her when she wandered into camp late at night. She had seen their campfire.

Wyatt halted for a moment. Jyrmak was much closer to what happened next than I. He finished and pulled his cloak closer, sitting huddled—as though cold. The usual light in his eyes was gone and his mouth twisted in pain.

Jyrmak cleared his throat. The Queen could recall nothing of what happened during those weeks. Somehow, something had blocked her mind. I prayed with her for her mental recovery, and some things came back to her. It soon became obvious she was with child. The pregnancy was well-advanced, so there was no scandal about the conception. Five months later, she bore the twins. I delivered them. It was a difficult birth. Jyllanah lived through it, but I had to take the babes from her womb with surgery. I thought she would never conceive again, and when she did after three years, I suspected neither she nor the child would survive. I was half-wrong. After her normal term, she had you, named you and died a week later.

The room was silent for a time, except for the crackling fire, until Marshall's restless cough pulled them all away from their thoughts.

But what makes you certain Brynd and Luca are not our brothers? asked Seth.

Wyatt shook his head. She wasn’t pregnant before she disappeared. She would have known the moment she conceived and—bound by duty—would have told Father. They were full-term after only five months. They are not our brothers. I shudder to think how they must have entered her womb. Jyrmak thinks there’s no blood tie at all.

Is that why they hate us? asked Seth. Do they know?

Perhaps they don't know it so much as they feel it, Jyrmak said. His eyes reflected the firelight. There is a deep stain upon their souls, and the sense that you are different helps make them hate you too. Someday, the one who put them there will tell them. We know already what their response will be. We’ve had to keep this quiet. Else, your enemies would not have waited for this plan to mature. The Queen hoped the situation could be redeemed.

Though this was new information for him, Seth’s surprise did not go deep. It made sense. He’d sometimes thought he should be closer to his brothers, even if they were rude... vicious. The implications though were more troubling.

Seth, I'll be leaving soon, said Wyatt. Father asked me to bring Jyrmak and Wyatt back as your tutor and an instructor at arms. They are old friends and allies. What you will learn from them may keep you alive. Wyatt stood, outside a dove called to the dawn. Tomorrow we'll arrive in public, but I need to tell you this first, I may not have a chance later. In five years, you will be of age. Seth, you should avoid seeming a threat to Brynd and Luca. To them you should try to appear harmless.... So, I leave you a gift. Wyatt pulled a shining flute from his belt. Few take a musician for a threat; you are already skilled with the straight flute, but keep this instrument with you always now. Music may help hide your nature from them, but if that fails.... Wyatt grinned and separated the flute’s two parts, revealing its secret nature.

Time to go, Jyrmak said. Marshall stepped to the window, dropped a rope over the edge and fastened it hard to a board that spanned the opening. He flipped the rope into a climber’s bight—around his waist and through his legs—and disappeared through the window. When the rope slackened again, Jyrmak stepped after him, muttering. I'm getting too old for this.

Wyatt embraced Seth then followed. Oh, Seth, could you please untie the rope when I'm down? Please wait till I'm at the bottom, eh?

One guard lying against the wall muttered and stirred in his sleep. The wind drifted through the window and blew a soft note on the flute in Seth's hands.

~~~~~~~~~~{}~~~~~~~~~~

Under the willow tree, Seth smiled at the memories.

He twisted the head of the flute and pulled. The slender blade concealed in the flute's interior glinted in the light filtering through the leaves. Seth tested its edge and replaced it.

For five years he’d modeled his public life after the flute's example. On the outside, he was only a musician and a scholar, seeming to care about little else, but he trained with Marshall and studied with Jyrmak. With Marshall, there was combat and physical training, hardening body and mind. With Jyrmak he studied politics, the structure of kingdoms, how to judge men; the messages found in the face or the posture of the body, how to detect deceit. He learned the tongues of men, and dragons, and languages long vanished. At least, he’d learned something of all those things. Dragon grammar was still mysterious in its variety of past tenses and odd declensions. No, he wasn't a polished product yet. With all his progress in the study of military strategy and politics, his deepest thirst had become the mystery of the magi's power. Yet that was still almost opaque to him—in spite of his study of Jyrmak's Great Book of the Covenant.

With a start, Seth noticed the thrush had stopped singing at the western end of the garden. Other birds took flight, their wings drumming as they shot past his sanctuary.

The ferret flashed past, a brown streak on its way to a break in the wall. Someone was coming down the overgrown path through the garden.

Through the willow branches, Seth glimpsed two figures moving. As they came closer, he recognized voices; it was Luca and Brynd. He could see them now. Brynd's mouth smiled as usual, but his eyes were cold. Beside him, Luca's scarred face flickered behind the willow branches. They passed without seeing Seth. He tucked his flute in his belt. It was time for his lesson with Jyrmak.

He rose and followed the ferret's path out of the garden.

~~~~~~~~~~{}~~~~~~~~~~

The shadow of Gynt castle stretched into the east as Seth glided through the brush toward the castle. He paused a moment and studied Jyrmak's tower. A slight smile showed at his eyes then around his mouth as he tucked his flute in his belt. It was the smile that years ago warned Wyatt that he’d find his bed short-sheeted in the evening.

Seth stepped to the wall where large stones fit close without mortar, and the cracks and bulges offered a path. A soft light shone from Jyrmak's window as darkness thickened around the towers. Seth reached high for a projecting rock and groped for hand holds. With a careful quickness, he moved up the wall.

Soon the window was close. Seth was reaching for his next hold when something made him hesitate—light from the window reflecting off the matte-textured rock. Seth probed the angular piece of basalt. It was slippery.

Oil on the wall!

He muttered to himself and looked at the boulder-strewn ground thirty feet below—a broken ankle or worse.

Wasn't it like the old wizard to trap the route to his window?

Irked, Seth rested, considering his alternatives. He could climb down and be late, but that would need explaining, and going down would be much harder. He could call to Jyrmak for help. Either would make him appear foolish. It seemed like one of Jyrmak's chief joys was pointing out Seth's lack of foresight. Seth peered up into the gloom; the stones above the window and to the sides did not seem oiled. Seth crabbed to his left then up over the window then right again. He felt his way down. With his toe, he found the stone arch above the opening and reached lower for a firm grip with his hands. With a quick bounce away from the wall, he swung out and then forward into the room.

Jyrmak glanced up from his book. A raven preened its glossy feathers from Jyrmak’s shoulder. Seth noted his chair wasn’t in its usual spot by the table. It was behind him, in front of the window. He sat; he might have known.

"There is a saying in The Proverbs of Agur; 'Surprising the mighty is like sticking your hand in a lion's mouth,' Jyrmak said with a sharp nod. Now that’s over, Seth, I'd like you to meet Fletch. I've just taken him on, and he's flown all the way from Ravenswood," Jyrmak said.

Fletch? Is he tame?

I am, at least, polite, the raven said in a chilly tone. Though his voice rasped, he was quite understandable.

He talks, Seth said, forehead wrinkling. Though Jyrmak had told him of talking birds, he’d never quite believed it.

He hears, Fletch rasped back. No doubt, he encountered this reaction often.

Seth sighed—humiliated twice in the space of a few seconds.

He remembered his thoughts by the stream. Jyrmak?

Jyrmak closed his book and regarded his pupil.

"When I study The Book of the Covenant, I see promises of power and times when the great magi worked mighty things. But—other than the calling for light in the darkness and finding the right path—I haven't succeeded in any of the mysteries. Is there something wrong I'm doing or not doing? On the trip to Ibuchan last year with Marshall, there was a bookseller, and he had books of spells and..."

And you thought there might be other books that would be more... practical? asked Jyrmak cocking a bushy eyebrow.

Something like that, Seth admitted, twisting on his chair.

Look, Seth. Behold the glittering flash of the bait that conceals the dark hook, Jyrmak said. Every one of us faces it. Supernatural power at your beck and nod—an easy servant called then dismissed without pay or obligation. What would you have? Love?—here's a potion. Power?—an incantation to sway the minds and hearts of men. The admiration of all people?—a display of mighty power. But that is not the way of the covenant.

Jyrmak stood and walked to the window. The working of covenant power must be in accord with the creator’s will. To call on covenant power without the inner bidding is foolishness, but to call on other powers is a trap. Before you ask anything of the covenant, ask for direction. Never... never... ask anything of the other.

Seth sat silent for a long moment. It was a dangerous hook.

Jyrmak watched him for a moment then returned to reading.

Seth glanced at the chess game he and Jyrmak had left the previous evening. Jyrmak had moved and would now checkmate Seth in three moves.

He tipped his king over with another sigh. I'm here for my lesson, he said.

It's over, Jyrmak said.

I'm sitting in my lesson.

Play something for Fletch. suggested Jyrmak. Perhaps he'll change the low opinion he seems to have gained of you.

Seth took out his flute. He enjoyed music and held a mastery of the flute few attain. The notes murmured of water running over crystal stones in deep woods, creating a dream of beauty. When he finished, Fletch was silent; he seemed asleep. Seth smiled, his music did that to some birds, most often songbirds; ravens, crows and magpies preferred gaudy baubles and shiny trinkets. Perhaps it was different with talking ravens. Seth rose to leave. At the door he paused. Jyrmak...?

Jyrmak looked up from his book again.

How many moves ahead do you think?

Jyrmak paused; Seth wasn’t referring to their game. As many as I can, Seth, which is more than I've seen you attempt, I might add.

Seth frowned. I see meager fun in that.

What does that have to do with surviving?

Seth thought about this for a moment then he laughed. Survival, thy cost is too high. he announced then pivoted to leave with a flourish.

~~~~~~~~~~{}~~~~~~~~~~

Jyrmak shrugged and turned to his book; he was almost finished interpreting a tough passage. A sudden sensation came over him—urgency, alarm.

Seth

~~~~~~~~~~{}~~~~~~~~~~

On the windowsill straightening his feathers, Fletch heard a thunderclap behind him. He whirled with a startled croak to see the remnants of the huge, ironbound door scattered on the floor and into the hall. Jyrmak had vanished.

~~~~~~~~~~{}~~~~~~~~~~

Far down the hall, Seth's knees relaxed. He wondered why then remembered the sound from behind him when they’d relaxed. The sound air makes when a hand is moving rapidly towards your back to knock you into a mud puddle—quite common around Brynd. As his head snapped forward, he wondered who hid behind the pillars in the hall and how could he have missed them in the shadows. A short flight of stairs going down was in front of him. He considered sprawling down it, but he sensed a menace other than Brynd's, and even feigning clumsiness might be dangerous here.

His toes curled over the rim of the stair—already he leaned forward—straightening his legs, pushing out and away from the top step. He whipped his legs over his head, twisting his torso to bring him to a smooth landing at the bottom.

Tumbling practice pays off...

He spun back for his attacker. Something leapt at him—a shadow, darker than the surrounding shadows. Seth's flute became a blade and snapped into high-thrust position. A flaming light, writhing and ugly, burned within the shadow. No sound came from the form, but something struck his blade. The flame whipped forward at his head, but with a jerk instead of power. He leaped back, avoiding the swinging fire. The shadow fell; the flame sunk into the floor; the stone cracked and bubbled.

A great crash sounded from up the hall. Seth looked up to see Jyrmak standing at the head of the stairs, anger and concern on his face, his beard and cloak steamed. The figure at Seth's feet was no longer cloaked in shadow. It had been a man—squat, naked and brutish. Now it lay upon the stones.

Seth stepped closer to examine the body, but halted when Jyrmak's staff, blocked his path.

Jyrmak hissed—the sound an older dragon makes to a younger dragon to forbid the idiotic. Its meaning—roughly interpreted— was, rashness is the foe conquered by avoidance.

Dragons were epigrammatic, but seldom rash.

What did it carry? asked Jyrmak.

Seth shivered when he remembered the red flaming sword. It almost