Of Steel and Sorcery

By Kenneth McDonald

Keric Olwyhn has survived demons, evil sorcerers, and the deadly perils of the Labyrinth. But in this final installment of the “Mages of Sacreth” series, Keric must confront a threat more dangerous than any he’s faced before.

The plot of the Sokhali blood mages has been uncovered, and clues found in Kal Tiroth have led Keric to the borders of Fara, a mysterious land where a hierarchy of bane mages work to keep unwelcome strangers out. But Keric doesn’t know that the leader of the blood mages has already set his plans in motion, or that his friend Bale Unwin has unwittingly placed herself in the middle of a brewing war. Keric and his fellow mages join forces with Coran Vasey and his Border Wardens for one more mission into a hostile land, where even the powerful magic of Sacreth may not be enough for them to defeat an ancient enemy and escape alive.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Kenneth McDonald
• Release date: Jun 16, 2017
• ISBN: 9781370893546

Kenneth McDonald

I am a retired education consultant who worked for state government in the area of curriculum. I have also taught American and world history at a number of colleges and universities in California, Georgia, and South Carolina. I started writing fiction in graduate school and never stopped. In 2010 I self-published the novella "The Labyrinth," which has had over 100,000 downloads. Since then, I have published more than fifty fantasy and science fiction books on Smashwords. My doctorate is in European history, and I live with my wife in northern California.

Book preview

Prologue

New Plataea was the oldest and largest of the city-states that made up the Selizar League. Nestled between a curving bay that protected its harbors from the worst of the rages of the Great Ocean and a series of rolling hills that had long since been overgrown by red-roofed villas, the city was alive with a busy prosperity. People, animals, and vehicles flowed into and out of the city through its roads, harbors, and markets like blood pumped by an athlete’s heart. They brought with them coins and goods and precious things that were in truth the city’s life’s blood.

The city proper housed almost a hundred thousand people, with half again as many living in the dozen or so small communities that filled out its borders and sustained it with agricultural produce. That number compared poorly with its namesake; at its peak Plataea had held nearly half a million people, and at that time it had been one of over a half-score of cities that could boast such a population. But old Plataea had long since fallen from those days of glory and was half a world away to boot. There were few people in the League cities who bothered to think of that history; the present—and future—demanded too much attention.

In that mass of people the individual who made his way down the Street of Seventy Delights was almost entirely unremarkable. His coloration was a shade darker than most of those around him, but that alone wasn’t enough to draw attention. He was clad in local dress, a long kaftan with a loose cotton wrap to protect his head from the bright early-summer sun. He carried a loose canvas satchel slung across shoulder, with an arm draped casually over it to deter would-be pickpockets. His name was Yarkul Gray Raven, but there was no one within a hundred miles who would know him by that name, or who would recognize his face. Even in the cosmopolitan Selizar League there were few who had traveled to the Novren, on the far side of the Sokhal Empire.

The dusky traveler turned aside to make way for a wagon pulled by a pair of huge horses. Tiny bells affixed to their harnesses created a soft jingling as the vehicle passed. Its driver cast the traveler a quick look then promptly forgot him as he shouted for the pedestrians ahead to make way for his vehicle.

Gray Raven made his way past a steady string of taverns, shops, and inns that all appeared to be doing a brisk business. The street’s name was rather more evocative than the reality, and there were plenty of beggars, laborers, and shifty-eyed types to belie the promised delights.

The Novrenar traveler came to an intersection and paused. One corner was dominated by a massive tavern that rose three stories over the street and produced a steady stream of noises and smells. Diners ate skewers of roasted meats and drank tea on a broad balcony that jutted out from the second level above. There was a bit of a tumult coming from the crossing street as a drover and a teamster clashed loudly over a collision that had left a fat goat bleating in the street, its hind legs crushed by the wagon’s wheels. A pair of tall guards bearing the city’s colors was already headed that way, pushing through a small crowd that had gathered to watch the drama.

Gray Raven ignored the din and headed toward the tavern. But instead of going inside he turned into the alley that extended along the side of the building. The noise and heat were only slightly less intense there, the slack taken up by a truly titanic war of smells. Flies buzzed around the man as he made his way down the alley. He passed a half-open kitchen door that revealed a glimpse of busy cooks who didn’t notice him as he made his way past.

He came to the end of the alley. There was a large bin overflowing with trash, and a collection of loosely-stacked crates that were almost all partially staved in. There were also several doors that led into busy establishments, the noise of their activities clearly audible through the imperfectly-fit portals.

Gray Raven reached into his satchel and took out a small wooden box. One of his sleeves briefly slid up to reveal marks tattooed into the skin of his arm. They seemed to crawl over his flesh briefly before the fabric of his garment dropped back into place.

The box was sealed with wax, but there were hundreds of tiny holes poked into the material. It took him only a few moments to crack it open. As he pulled open the lid a fresh stink almost managed to overpower the ripe scents of the alley. It was a reek of decay, ripe and pungent.

But the dank odor was nothing compared to what issued from the box. A storm of tiny insects poured out of the container, some flying, some crawling. The latter fell to the ground and skittered away. For a moment Gray Raven was almost obscured by them. A careful observer who avoided the instinctive reaction of disgust might have noticed that none of the vermin touched him, even though most were of the sort that fed upon human blood.

The Novrenar waited until most of the bugs had escaped, then he held the box upside down and shook it to release the last holdouts. A bony carcass that might have once been a rat or other small creature fell out; he kicked it into a corner then closed the box and put it back into his bag. Within moments the vermin he’d released had almost completely disappeared, fading into the background of similar creatures that infested the alley. A few flying insects lingered in the air, indistinguishable from the flies he’d waded through to get there.

His errand complete, Gray Raven retraced his steps. The disturbance was still in full bloom, the guards adding their voices to the shouting back and forth. The Novrenar shaman reached up to adjust the wrap protecting his head, then he turned into another street and quickly vanished back into the press of humanity that flowed through the avenues of New Plataea.

* * * * *

Chapter 1

The history of our continent has been determined in large part by geography.

Temmon let that statement hang in the air for a moment. He glanced at his companion, only to find her looking out one of the open windows that extended in a row along the back of the room. But after a moment her eyes flicked back at him and she nodded for him to continue.

Consider this map, Temmon resumed. He pointed to a large sheet of parchment that had been carefully attached to a display board attached to one wall. The settlement of the colonies was dictated by geography. He indicated the expanse that dominated the entire left side of the map. The Great Ocean brought our ancestors to this continent during the age of exploration and colonization that began a little more than four centuries ago. It carried their ships halfway around the world, but its sheer scope ensured that we—our progenitors, that is—would have the time and freedom to develop our societies more or less as we see fit.

He reached up and tapped the open space of the ocean on the map. The light coming in from the open windows flashed on the anchor-shaped pins of the Tiroan Navigator’s Guild that he wore on his cuffs. For a man his age it was remarkable to have both pins, but he seemed unselfconscious of them, only pausing briefly to adjust his sleeves before resuming his lecture.

The early mapmakers would draw sea monsters in that great unknown, Temmon continued. Nonsense, of course, but the prevailing winds, strong currents, unpredictable storms, and rampaging pirates made the journey difficult enough. It’s easy to understand why the trade connections between the old world and the new have always been so sporadic, and why even now the focus is more on trading between the colonial states than expeditions willing to risk that long journey.

He turned his attention to the land mass that formed a curving line down the center of the map, occasionally broken by bays or coves that coincided for the most part with the cities marked in tiny squiggles of ink. The colonies were generally established in the order that their lands were discovered by the early explorers. From north to south: Tiroa, Fara, the city-states that would become the Selizar League, all the way down to Chora. The navigator’s finger paused at the last squiggle, separated from the others by a line of mountains and a vast desert that extended far into the interior of the continent. The inland states came later but rose to even greater heights. The Sokhal Empire, still significant, though their recent troubles may leave them weakened for decades to come. Rinverion is independent, though still closely tied to its former master. Same for the Danalb, though it is now clearly in the orbit of Sacreth.

His progression had taken his finger almost back to the top of the map. He hesitated there. It’s funny, isn’t it? Four centuries, and we still know very little about the interior of our own continent. The White Mountains are a natural barrier, of course, and there’s an even greater range beyond it. There are people in those lands, of course, the barbarians of the Goloth Plain, the natives of the Novren… but one wonders what else we might have found if we’d only persevered…

He trailed off, and when there was no response he glanced back to see that the sole member of his audience had again become distracted by the window. Sea birds flitted past, and the strong tang of salt filled the air. One didn’t need to look out the window to know they were on the water; the room shifted ever so slightly, a faint rolling that both the navigator and his companion adjusted to as a matter of course.

The navigator waited a moment longer, but the woman did not seem to notice the sudden silence. He cleared his throat softly and said, I’m sorry, Miss Unwin, am I boring you?

At that she did blink and look back at him. She was older than he was by at least half a decade, well into her thirties by the slight crinkles that had started to form around her eyes and the corners of her mouth. But she still radiated a certain energy that drew a smile from the young navigator despite his apparent irritation at her lack of attention. She kept her dark hair cropped short, in the sailors’ style, but her clothes were rather richer in cut and style than his, and her coat bore subtly at the collar the insignia of the Ring, the mercantile organization that all but ruled Tiroa. The fact that the marking only told part of the complicated story of her allegiances had been part of the reason for her distraction, but only a part.

I’m sorry, Temmon, she said. "Your narrative is certainly interesting, but you were going to explain why the Sea Eagle has had to wait so long in the harbor. And please, call me Bale."

The young navigator nodded. You cannot understand that without the context, he said. Fara was originally settled by folk from the Sheshal Islands. But if anything, their descendents become even more insular and intolerant than their predecessors. You can see it in the way they’ve designed their harbor. Kal Farath has been blessed with a natural bay almost as impressive as the one that protects Kal Tiroth. But the Farans limit all outside shipping to the crowded facilities upon Nimmerath Island. The island is connected to the city by a narrow, fortified causeway, with considerable fortresses on both ends. There are even larger fortresses flanking the entrance to the harbor itself, you would have seen them when we sailed into the bay.

Not very welcoming, Bale said. One wonders why anyone bothers to trade with them at all.

They wouldn’t, if it weren’t for the natural resources the Farans control, and the high prices they are willing to pay for our goods. The Faran hills contain the only reliable source of copper we’ve found on the entire continent, and even though there are only two narrow belts of arable land on either side of the Cairns, they produce an abundance of tree nuts and quite excellent wines.

Captain Koshev has a fine collection of Faran vintages, Bale noted. I suppose if even a Tiroan captain favors their produce, there must be something to it.

Temmon smiled. Their rivalry with us has been going on for nigh upon three centuries now. Maybe if they’d been more open, it would have been the Farans who would have established the plantations on the islands off the Chorothan coast, instead of Tiroan pioneers, and they’d have the coffee monopoly instead of us.

Bale indicated the cup sitting on the tiny table in front of her. Well, as a devotee of the black bean, I am grateful you beat them to it, she said. What she didn’t add was that coffee was another part of the reason she was here. Her network of allegiances was complex. On one level her role as a representative of the Ring was a shell, a cover for her real job as one of the many agents of Darik Caronis, a magnate of the Tiroan coffee trade and also one of lords of Kal Tiroth’s vigorous criminal enterprises. But at the same time the cover was a truth, for she was also an agent of Mercator Zhev Korishov, like Caronis one of the dozen or so most powerful people in the city.

She hid a sigh behind her smile. There were times when she couldn’t even keep it all straight herself. And there was one other allegiance, one that might have brought her south even without her various layered secrets. She glanced at the map pinned to the wall and considered where Keric might be at that moment. He had left for Fara almost a week before she had, but his journey would have taken him inland, back through Sacrethan territory and down along the range of almost-mountains that separated the coast and the great valley of the Mage Kingdom until it touched upon the border of Fara. On the map it was only the breadth of a finger that might have separated them at that moment, but here, in the cabin of a Tiroan trading ship in the harbor of Kal Farath, it seemed like a vast distance indeed.

Temmon opened his mouth to say something else, but again Bale was distracted, this time by a subtle shift in the sounds coming through the open window. That was followed by a long shadow as something passed between them and the fading late afternoon sunlight.

Bale was at the window in a moment, the navigator only a few steps behind her. The shadow was cast by another ship, which was slipping astern of the Sea Eagle, moving at a brisk pace out of the anchorage where ships gathered to await permission to proceed to an assigned dock on Nimmerath Island.

Bale frowned. It wasn’t that big a deal at first glance, someone getting clearance to dock, but there was something about the ship that set off her instincts. That ship, she said. Do you recognize it?

Temmon was already looking through the adjacent window. It’s Tiroan, he said, but she’d already recognized its colors and distinctive lines. As it started to slide past them both looked at the letters carved into its stern. "The Tavaroch, he said. The navigator frowned. I don’t recognize that name." He drew back and looked over at her.

Bale was still staring at the ship. There was something off, she was certain of it now. The lettering, it looks new, she said.

Temmon took another look. It could be, he said.

Bale grabbed his arm. The Captain… tell him to sound an alert, she said.

He opened his mouth but was again interrupted, this time by a distant clamor, a sound of a bell being rung. It was answered a moment later by another, this one from the direction of the sea forts, and then the deep blast of a horn, a plaintive note that lingered long over the water.

Temmon was already running. Stay here, the navigator said over his shoulder, but Bale was on his heels and ignored him. But while he ran up the stairs that led up to the deckhouse she paused at the door to her cabin. She could hear feet pounding the deck above her, and shouts that suggested that Captain Koshev hadn’t waited to call his crew to general quarters. She wanted to be up there, to see what was happening, but she paused to quickly duck into her room.

The cabin was tiny, barely a closet with just enough space to fit a narrow bed that folded up into the hull when she wasn’t present. There was a small chest of drawers attached to the side wall, but she reached behind it and withdrew a loose board that revealed a narrow, slightly curving space between the end of the chest and the hull. She reached into the space and drew out a long, tightly-wrapped bundle. As she lifted it one end of the wrap flapped clear to reveal what was inside: the hilt of a sword.

Tucking the wrapped sword under her coat, Bale went topside.

She was greeted by an acrid stink of smoke on the air as she emerged onto the deck of the Sea Eagle. The crew were rushing about, obeying the orders of their captain to ready the ship for departure, and none of them paid her any heed. She could hear Captain Koshev’s voice from atop the stern deck behind her, but she didn’t bother circling around to the stairs that led up to that level. Instead she ran to the side of the ship that faced toward the city on the far side of the bay. To give her a better view she hopped up onto the rail, seizing hold of the adjacent ratlines to steady her. Several nearby sailors blinked at her in surprise at the unexpected and out-of-character maneuver.

Bale didn’t even notice their reaction, as her attention was entirely focused on what she saw in the bay.

The Tavaroch wasn’t the only ship underway. Several ships had left their slips on Nimmerath Island, and from the alarms that still sounded clearly across the bay it was clear that they were not acting with the permission of the Faran authorities. If that wasn’t obvious enough the warships that were already moving to intercept those ships punctuated the point. Smoke rose from several points on the island, and Bale could quite clearly see that one ship there was already on fire, the flames spreading down the length of the two-masted vessel.

She studied the ships that seemed to be initiating the trouble. Other than Tavaroch, which was still picking up speed as it pulled away from the other vessels in the anchorage, they all seemed to already be in the harbor, closer to the city than to the forts that warded the entrance to the bay. She glanced back that way but the sea approaches appeared to be clear, save for a sleek Faran vessel that was already turning toward the city. Whatever was going to happen, though, looked like it would take place before that ship could make a difference.

The ships were converging on a spot along the southern edge of the city, away from the crowded bustle of its core. Bale knew what was there, even though she didn’t have an especially clear view from her current vantage. The shipyards of Kal Farath were among the largest on the continent, rivaled only by those in Kal Tiroth. Because she knew what to look for she could just barely make out the masts of the Indomitable, a huge man-of-war that would be the pride of the Faran fleet upon its completion. But for now the mighty ship rested in its slipway, unable to affect events.

Bright streaks of fire rose into the sky, missiles launched from one of the forts that warded the causeway between Nimmerath Island and the rest of the city. But whoever had organized this raid had clearly known the harbor well, for the shots all landed well short of the ships heading for the shipyard. A Faran warship looked to be in better position, but as it surged ahead to intercept one of the raiders turned directly toward it, allowing its two companions to continue on their course. Bale didn’t know what they were going to do when they got there, or how they had even managed to get this far without being detected, but she had a number of ideas.

A shout of alarm drew her attention around. She turned to see another Faran warship approaching the line of anchored ships from behind. The ship was a small sloop maybe half the size of the Sea Eagle, but as it came around another of the parked ships—a fat Chorothan cog—she could clearly see the armed soldiers along its rail and the two ballistae erected fore and aft.

As the ship drew closer she could see it was coming right for them.

Signal surrender! Koshev yelled, his sailor’s voice carrying across the deck of the ship. We’re not with them!

Bale could see that the Farans either didn’t know that or didn’t care, as they were already preparing their weapons. She hopped down from the rail and sought cover even as the snap of the first ballista sounded clearly across the gap separating the two vessels. A moment later she heard a solid thud of impact as the bolt impacted their hull. The second ballista fired a few seconds after, scoring another hit. Bale’s brow furrowed; was their aim that bad, or did they hope to accomplish something by firing bolts into the mass of the Sea Eagle? The ballistae were more powerful than the average crossbow by far, but it would take a hundred hits to punch enough holes in her to sink the ship. The sailors around her suddenly paused, perhaps wondering the same thing.

The mystery did not last long. Bale heard a groaning sound that seemed to pass along the full length of the ship, like the keening of a dying animal. Then the Sea Eagle shuddered and listed over until she had to grab hold of the rail to keep from falling. She could vividly picture the cold water rushing through the lower decks of the ship. She glanced up at the Faran warship but it was already moving past them, probably trying to catch up with Tavaroch. She didn’t get a chance to check on the other ship’s progress as the Sea Eagle convulsed again. Whatever the Farans had done, it seemed to be tearing the ship apart. She didn’t know how deep the bay was here, and wished she’d paid more attention when they’d first dropped anchor here two days ago.

Koshev was still shouting orders, commanding his crew to deploy the small boats the ship carried. But water was already starting to wash over the far rail of the ship, and more was coming up now from the hatches that led to the main hold. With a final deep groan the main mast began to tilt until the wrapped sails slid into the water.

Struggling to keep her grip on the sword, Bale pulled herself atop the rail of the sinking ship. Another Faran boat was approaching, this one just a small launch that held half a dozen soldiers armed with crossbows and spears.

Bale’s current position was more or less secure for the moment. The Sea Eagle had stopped its list, and was now settling slowly as it filled with water. Much of its crew were already in the water, but others were struggling to obey their captain and get the boats clear. Some of the sailors were trying to swim to the Chorothan cog, the closest of the other anchored ships, but the launch had changed course to intercept them. One of the soldiers was shouting orders at them through a speaking trumpet, no doubt telling them to surrender. Bale doubted any of the sailors would try anything; from what she could tell the Sea Eagle’s fate had been the result of being from the same place as the ships now unleashing havoc on the far side of the harbor.

She tried to see what else was happening, but her view was severely hindered as her perch continued to sink underneath her. There seemed to be more smoke rising off the city now, and not just from the isolated island at its center. The sun was setting, its fading rays casting the city in sharp relief but making it difficult to discern details. She tried to make out the shipyard but couldn’t see anything in that direction through the haze of smoke.

She heard the snap of a crossbow and a scream that suggested that the Tiroans weren’t giving up fast enough to satisfy the approaching soldiers. Bale decided that it was past time that she be on her way. She kicked off her boots and shrugged off her coat, letting them fall into the water. For a moment she considered the sword, then tucked it through a loop of her belt, testing it to make sure it was wedged in place.

Someone yelled something with enough intensity that Bale suspected it might have been directed at her. She didn’t wait to see if that was the case; she released her grip and slid off into the water. With the bulk of the Sea Eagle still settling into the bay behind her, she began swimming as quickly as her strong muscles could carry her.

* * *

Full night had descended upon Kal Farath when Bale finally crawled ashore onto a narrow, muddy strand studded with rocks. A sea wall about as tall as she was extended in front of her, protecting a wharf crowded with buildings. Most of them were dark, though there were enough lights glowing around shutters or curtains to give the impression of fireflies dancing in the night. Bale only looked long enough to make sure that there was nobody close by before she lowered her face to the mud and focused on taking deep breaths as she let her exhausted muscles rest. She listened carefully to her surroundings. The city was anything but quiet, but the only sound she could make out nearby was the gentle lapping of the water on the rocks.

Finally she dragged herself up into a crouch and looked around. There were plenty of lights in the bay, both upon Nimmerath Island and on the water. A ship continued to burn as it slowly settled. Other ships were patrolling the harbor like angry hornets stirred to the defense of their nest. But the attack that had started all this had long since ended.

The natural curve of the bay kept her from a clear view of the shipyards at the far end of the city, but she could still see the hazy glow that had been visible ever since the sun had set. Most of the noises that reached her came from that direction. The alarm bells had stopped ringing some time ago, but she had no illusion that Kal Farath would be enjoying quiet sleep tonight.

Careful of where she placed her feet, she crept up to the sea wall. She stepped on a convenient rock that allowed her to boost herself up high enough to get a good look. The buildings nearby were quiet. She’d picked this destination on purpose. The district that the locals called the Quench was similar to the Low Docks in Kal Tiroth, a once-busy industrial neighborhood that had yielded to less prosperous days. It was now little more than a slum, with as many as a quarter of its buildings abandoned and empty. Or at least that was what her intelligence of the city had told her. She suspected that the reality was more nuanced; that was the way it always was.

She studied the wharf for another long moment. Nothing stirred, nothing changed. The burning ship in the harbor flared up bright for a moment as a part of its superstructure collapsed. She waited until the flames had died down again before she pulled herself up onto the top of the sea wall. She rolled over its lip and dropped back into a crouch on the far side. The cobblestones of the wharf were slick with mud and stank with the familiar bouquets of any place where humans lived in close quarters. It was oddly reassuring; so much of what she’d learned about Fara could make one believe it was an alien land populated by people barely human.

She paused a moment to make sure her sword was well-situated—she wasn’t going to lose it now after all she’d gone through to carry it here—and then darted forward across the street. The stones felt like ice to her bare numb feet.

The street was only maybe thirty paces across, but by the time she reached the shelter of the building on the far side she was almost out of breath. The place was a massive wooden cube, its purpose indistinguishable in the night. Not even a hint of light shone from under its broad front door or the tightly shuttered windows that faced the street. Just out of curiosity she tested one of the shutters, and while it rattled slightly it didn’t give.

She heard the footsteps before she saw the light, a glow that took on substance out of one of the nearby streets. She quickly sought cover, ducking into one of the alleyways that flanked the buttoned-up building. There was surprisingly little clutter, although the ground there was hardly cleaner than the wharf front. She knew that she had to look an utter mess, and knew that there was no chance of being able to pass for a common citizen.

The light approached. Bale shrank back deeper into the alley. There was a fence there, a tall wooden barrier that blocked progress about ten paces back. There might have been a gate, it was too dark to tell. She wasn’t sure if the Farans had a cleanliness fetish or if she’d had the bad luck to pick the one alley that lacked trash to hide behind. The opposite building had a brick chimney that protruded slightly into the alley, and she quickly crossed to it, slipping behind its narrow cover.

She cursed softly as the light grew brighter and the footsteps came her way. At least whoever it was didn’t sound like they were alarmed or in a hurry. Possibly a sentry or watch of some sort. She doubted that most residents of this neighborhood would be as open or casual in their movements.

The footsteps suddenly stopped. The light shifted slightly, brightened a bit. A lantern, most likely. He couldn’t have been more than five or ten steps from the mouth of her alley. As far as she could tell it was only one person. That was strange; in most of the cities she’d visited the street watch went around in groups, especially in neighborhoods like this one. Maybe it was the chaos of the attack. She could imagine that things were rather busier over by the shipyards, or along the causeway that crossed over to the island.

Her nemesis came forward a bit more, until he finally stepped into view. Any mystery as to his identity was dispelled as Bale got a good look at his uniform and the sword belted to his waist. His lantern was on a hooked pole that swung as he walked. He was wearing a metal helmet that left the front of his face unprotected, though there were iron flaps that came down to cover his cheeks.

Bale tensed. If he happened to look toward the alley there was almost no way he could miss her. She had no idea why he had chosen this of all places to linger. Had someone seen her in the water, or maybe had spotted her coming over the sea wall?

The guard still hadn’t moved. Bale pressed herself against the wall at her back. She leaned her head against the dirty bricks of the chimney. She closed her eyes, let out a tiny sigh, and concentrated.

The guard spun around suddenly. The motion caused the lantern to dance wildly on the end of his pole. He said something. Bale’s Faran was rather rusty, but there was no mistaking the challenge in his voice.

She didn’t move, kept her eyes closed. After a moment there was a hiss of steel as the guard drew his sword. But he didn’t come toward her. Instead he retreated back the way he had come. Within moments his footsteps had faded.

Bale opened her eyes and let out a heavy breath. Despite her exhaustion she decided not to press her luck. She slipped back out into the street. Within a few moments she found another alley, this one unblocked, and vanished into the night.

* * * * *

Chapter 2

Keric Olwyhn sat at a desk in a comfortable room, writing. His pen flowed over a sheet of immaculate parchment, adding lines and whorls in a complex dance that paused only for quick visits to the pot of ink perched within easy reach. To his left rich afternoon sunshine poured in through a window that had been left slightly open. A hearty scent of growing things drifted in through the gap, but Keric paid it no heed. His attention was focused entirely on his writing, his brow furrowed slightly as he moved the pen across the page. His lettering was precise, but somehow even the arrangement of the script was a work of art, a pattern coming together like some complicated geometric design.

Finally he finished and leaned back in his chair. He drew in a deep breath, held it a moment, then let it out in a soft sigh. He studied his work. The scroll looked perfect, but he checked it carefully for any mistakes. That wasn’t really necessary; he could feel that it was right, could sense the subtle currents of power that he’d stored upon the paper. But old habits died hard, and he had recent experience of how important it was for his spells to be in good order when it came time to call upon them.

But he found no mistakes, and after another sigh he carefully shifted the scroll to the edge of the desk to dry. There wasn’t much of a breeze coming in from the open window, but he lifted a small iron weight and put it down on a corner of the parchment, well away from the writing, just in case. There were other scrolls there already, carefully wrapped and poking out from the end of a small leather case divided into a series of compartments.

Keric’s eyes lingered on the case. His work today was just the first step in rebuilding the cache he’d depleted in Kal Tiroth. It had taken a little more than a week for him and Sefran to make their way down here from the city, a journey that had involved stints on boats, carriages, and at least half a dozen horses. The one thing that they’d all had in common was speed. He suspected that the time the two of them had made rivaled the pace set by the post riders that connected the disparate parts of the Valley Kingdom of Sacreth.

And now they were here. He glanced out the window. There wasn’t much to the town of Apple Ferry, a scant two dozen wooden structures arrayed in a neat fashion along the shores of a placid river. He noted the old Warden fort on a low bluff on the far side of town, perched as if keeping watch on the far bank. There were only a few scattered buildings on that side, along with a squat tower that seemed to echo the half-ruined citadel’s attention.

Keric leaned back