Call of the Empire (Book 2 of the Eidolon Trilogy)

By Neils Knudsen

The Great Western Henge has rung.
The Campanill’s have hard choices to make. An ancient contract requires the village of Kerner to establish an empire when a Cherished Weaver rings the Great Western Henge. B’Tris can choose to run and hope she and her son, K’Las, can hide from the Grand Peer, or enter the veiled world of the Cherished and become something she never imagined possible. Her decision

• Language: English
• Publisher: Neils Knudsen
• Release date: Jan 5, 2018
• ISBN: 9781370771257

Neils Knudsen

Neils Knudsen enjoys the quiet life with his wife surrounded by the scenic beauty of the Rocky Mountains. He and his wife, who doubles as his muse, are retired and maintain a relatively low profile. The only pets he lives with are his peeves, which his wife enjoys abusing. It is a mutual love affair.

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Published by Eidolon Media LLC

Text Copyright ©2018 by Neils Knudsen

Header Illustration Copyright ©2018 Mikey Brooks

Interior Design by: Mikey Brooks

Cover Art by Mikey Brooks, www.insidemikeysworld.com

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control and does not assume responsibility for author or third party websites or their content.

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Dedication

To Mary

There are no words that can express how much I love you.

Acknowledgements

Authors must never forget their muse—especially if she lives with the author and provides a mountain’s worth of ideas and literary insights. Please raise whatever you may be drinking at the moment and toast my dear wife who willingly suffers through my angst and desperation.

Without hesitation, I must express my deepest and most sincere gratitude to my content editors, Jana Scotts Brown and Kelley Gerschke for their invaluable help in the development and completion of this novel. Nor can I go without a huge Thank You to my copy editor, Sherry Taylor who double-checked everything.

To my Beta readers for their insights and opinions – Thank You. As usual, you have helped me overcome my many shortcomings and made this story better for it.

Once again, though I have not heard any anguish from them due to a scheduling problem, I am thanking the same laughably abstemious book club that reviewed The Singing Stones of Rendor. If need be, I will update this acknowledgment in any revisions I have to make due to their reaction and slay each of them by name in book three. (Just kidding folks, they aren’t feeling much pain anyway.)

Chapter one

Dead Ringers

King Gerald, obstinate as ever, refused to make a decision to rebuild the Palace Guard with multi-toned Enforcers. Not enough time, the King had said. First, we’d have to persuade zealots from the Priory and the Temple Priests to stop hunting and imbuing Wilders. That in itself would take years. Then we would have to round up hundreds of Wilders and convince them we mean them no harm. Then someone would have to train them. It’s not worth the time.

That is a horse collar full of bull . . . guts. Rames Lock came perilously close to using stronger words with the King. In private, he might use those epithets without fear, but not in front of the other counselors—whose company he now kept. We need more potent Weavers, he told King Gerald. Without them we cannot counter those of the Grand Peer. Even a few trained in secret is better than none. The hard look Rames got was a reminder the King had reached the limits of his patience.

Rames needed something to kick—or better yet, kill. Weary eyes and the dark bags under them were testament to his machinations among the lofty and powerful in the Western Realm. His perch was not as high as it once was. He had abdicated that noble seat a generation ago. Nevertheless, his patience with folly had nearly evaporated.

His mind clouded with anger at the lunacy of some of the King’s advisors, not to mention his detractors. Rames needed time to think. He ordered a hired carriage and strode with the fury of a mad bull to his quarters. After he finished kicking furniture and snorting about the King’s pigheadedness, he went to his closet. There he donned his preferred disguise for going out into the world, that of a middle-class cloth merchant.

The horse drawn carriage arrived promptly. Rames told the footman where to go and boarded. An hour later it stopped. He got out, paid with a silver coin and ordered it to return in two hours.

He had successfully escaped the rigors of the palace and would use one of those hours to walk the path around Potter’s Lake. He needed comforting only solitude could give him. Who better to listen to his own protestations than himself? After all, he was the one who put Gerald on the Greybull Throne and disappeared for twenty years so the boy could solidify his rule. Truth be told, the kingdom itself would not exist without him.

For now, though, he needed some measure of solace and seclusion to empty his mind of all the self-absorbing clutter that had always gotten in his way. That same clutter tended to make him reckless and prone to ill-advised conclusions. He hated it, and it was damned embarrassing when he acted on his whims and they went badly.

He sensed the jitter of withdrawals spreading through his mind and into his gut. That was another reason to come here. Potter’s Lake had easy targets and the kind of stimulation he needed at times like this. Likewise, they saw him as an easy mark—especially in his cloth merchant outfit.

Once he finished with his constitutional, Rames found his favorite spot, shed his respectable, though somewhat worn, merchant’s cloak, set his staff at the end of the bench, and let his old butt fall onto it. His feet thanked him, so did his back and hips. His long meditative walk had served its purpose, but aggravated his arthritis. Shade from the leafy trees and a cool breeze wafted across Potter’s Lake, stripping the heat from his tired, aching body. He sighed and let himself relax. With his merchant’s disguise in place, his lure was set. He knew others had seen him and followed.

He closed his eyes, leaned his head on the back of the bench and let the abeyant energy from Rendor replenish the spools in his mind. As the shadows grew longer, he allowed his thoughts to slip away. Rames Lock, King Gerald’s closest counselor, consumed the sweet vigor of the ground below and the whispering counsel of the trees. The world of Rendor gave all he truly needed. All but the full-throated breathing tones only the living could provide.

Sooner or later some punk would come along hoping to mug him as he dozed. If Rames were lucky, the thug would have companions.

Then his plans changed.

Rendor shook. Rames’ bench heaved and threw him face first to the ground. Nausea churned his innards. He sensed the world vibrating, singing. Then joy struck. He rolled to his hands and knees.

He laughed. Laughed harder than he had in years—so hard his sides ached. A flood of joyous tears poured from his eyes and joined the snot streaming from his nose into a puddle beneath him.

A few moments later it all had passed. He sat on his heels and wiped his red, swollen eyes and nose with his long linen sleeves. The weight of the world was gone. His aches and pains had disappeared and his mind felt sharp. Even the thirst for living tones was sated. He sighed with immense satisfaction.

Haven’t laughed that hard in . . . what . . . decades? He got to his feet and noticed the bench with his staff still handily placed on it. Nothing seemed amiss. The lake was not disturbed, no brat kid had upturned his bench, and no animals appeared distressed by what he had just felt. Hmm, I guess I needed to relieve some stress. Never had that problem before, though.

He checked for the sun in the western sky. Dark clouds and the threat of rain had painted the western horizon since he had started his walk. He finger-combed his short, thin hair to one side and began his journey back to where the hired carriage would meet him. An unsettling feeling swept through him. I haven’t laughed that hard in decades. Now why does that bother me?

What’s so funny, old man?

Rames raised his gaze to his expected prey and the source of the threatening tone. He found a young man tapping the tip of a thin, tapered rod in the palm of his hand. I hope he doesn’t try to use that little stick like a pirn. Even with a single tone he might hurt himself. Rames considered whether he should disarm or disgrace the boy. Hmm, should I devour this punk’s tones or just? . . . Nah, I feel great already.

He stretched his arms wide and stepped to the young man. "I just realized what was bothering me. However, you are too late, my dear boy. I’m quite satisfied and have no need of you. In fact, I have something for you. Rames, with an unusual sense of generosity welling within, drew a coin purse from his vest pocket and poured half of its contents into the lad’s accommodating hand. Perhaps this will sate your appetite as well."

The surprised young man clamped down on his newly issued wealth, a quantity that well exceeded the lad’s expectations. The thug stepped back and set his gaze on something behind Rames. He then raised his pirn and pointed it at Rames’ red silk vest. Give me all of them.

Rames sensed three more lads behind him, cutting off his retreat—as if he actually wanted, or needed, to escape. He peered into his purse and considered its contents. I’ll give you three more, but that’s all. I must be on my way.

There’s no hurry, gramps. The young man snatched the leather pouch from Rames’ hands. Consider this payment for safe passage to wherever you think you’re going.

You mistake me, boy. Rames gestured for the return of his purse. I don’t need your protection. All I need is enough coin to get me there. Now, if you’ll just give it back to me I won’t harm you—or your three friends. He nodded his head towards the approaching thugs.

Is that so? The young man released a single-toned thread into Rames’ chest.

Rames let the simple weave encase him as three other imbued weavers with different tones joined in. As the four young men cinched up their weaves, Rames clamped onto the hapless strands, traced them back to the owners and bound them to him. In an instant, the four were his.

Stunned shock drained the boys’ faces. Two tried to release their pirns. The other two turned to run. Then all four collapsed, writhing and screaming. Rames devoured their fear, and their living tones, but spared their lives. Quite pleased with his self-constraint, he smiled insincerely as he stood over the pile of whimpering youths. Today is your lucky day, boys. You will live. Pray you never meet me, or the likes of me, again. If you do, you’ll surely remember to be kind, won’t you?

He recovered his purse and all his coins. Unless I’m mistaken, a Cherished Weaver has just sounded the Great Western Henge. If so, your lives are truly about to change—pray it’s for the better.

Rames abandoned the thought of using the carriage for the journey ahead. The Great Western Henge was his first priority. The long walk would give him time to get his thinking straight. This was no time to charge in and make bullish mistakes. He needed finesse to deal with whoever rang the henge.

When he didn’t return, the King would send someone to find him and these miscreants would tell them what happened. Too bad they could not sense what I did, but that is to be expected. Weavers are not sensitive enough to discern the tremors of Rendor.

He retrieved his merchant’s cloak and staff and strode north to meet the road to Kerner and the source of his exuberance. If he had to, he would buy a horse to hasten his pace or wait for the King’s men to catch up with him.

The Grand Peer clutched his spinning head. His stomach churned. He retched and threw himself to the floor. Tones tore at his senses as he writhed in nauseous convulsions. A crescendo of pain seized his heart nearly tearing it from his chest.

The agony passed as quickly as it arrived.

His heart racing, the Grand Peer grabbed his desk chair and climbed back into it. He gripped the sides of his desk as he gasped for air. As his heart slowed, he caught his breath. He raised a trembling hand and wiped the spew from his face.

A lingering tone urged him to face west and listen. Still unsteady, he rose and went to an open window. The muggy night air of the Central Realm pressed his linen nightshirt to his sweaty skin. The image of a singing henge slipped through his mind—the Great Western Henge.

His hands clamped the windowsill like the grip of death. Anger and panic struggled for supremacy in his mind. He left the window, strode to his desk, and pulled a nearby bell rope.

He knew in his bones the rise of a Cherished Pair would soon challenge him for supremacy, which he could not allow. The world of Rendor would see another bloody war. He and a true toned Cherished were natural enemies and could never coexist in peace. The pain he had just gone through demonstrated that very physical conflict. Neither would tolerate the existence of the other

The Grand Peer and his Cherished partners wanted all of the Singing Stones of Rendor tuned to their specifications, not those of the ancients. That required thousands of people and a war would erase most of the people he needed.

The Grand Peer stiffened. Thousands. He reached for a second bell rope, and gave it a firm yank. He donned his robe and pulled the cowl over his head. With his back to the door, he waited.

A gentle rap on the door to his private quarters quickly followed.

Enter.

The steward on duty opened and strode two paces through the door. He came to a quick stop and gave the Grand Peer a sharp salute. You rang, My Liege?

I want the Spymaster here immediately. Get a fresh report of henge activity from the duty Hengekeeper. Summon the Priory Council for an emergency meeting in the Council Chamber at first light. With one hand massaging his aching brow, he gestured to the floor around him. And send in someone to clean up this mess.

Will that be all, My Liege?

The Grand Peer, furious at another unexpected turn of luck, turned on the unsuspecting steward and pointed a long white royal pirn at him. No, relax, don’t do it. He is doing his job. He gritted his teeth. Yes, that is all. Now get out.

Jem and Tess, the Grand Peer’s constant companions, arrived moments after the steward departed. The two women kept themselves hidden under deep hoods and long gray robes. They did not need to tell him, he sensed their irritation for his summons at this late hour.

They stood on either side of the Grand Peer, questioning him. Jem and Tess always spoke as one with a dissonant harmony. Are you sure it was the Great Western Henge? Could it not have been a ground quake or perhaps one of your late night snacks?

The Grand Peer paced the length of his quarters, snarling at each question. The mere sound of their dual voices grated on his spine. His mood did not improve. Did you feel the ground quake? No! You did not. I know it was from the west the same way you know when someone is watching you, and from where.

You did not feel it with your normal senses?

No. He grimaced under their sour voices. Will you please use your true tones?

Jem and Tess blocked his path, disregarding his plea. We must maintain our links at all times. If it happens again we will all know with certainty.

No. The Grand Peer side stepped them and continued striding the floor. I won’t have my thoughts and dreams analyzed by you two. He paused and looked to the door of his quarters. The others have arrived. Assume your positions and establish your links. Let’s see what we can harvest from our Spymaster and Hengekeeper. He went to a closet and donned a garish hooded mask and robes. A flourish of wilting vines and dying roses painted one side of his mask. The other side adorned with a bleeding skull. The black hood draped over his forehead. His robe was the color of tarnished brass.

The Steward rapped twice on the door and entered. He announced the arrival of the Spymaster and the duty Hengekeeper of the Great Central Henge. They entered the spacious, yet austere, quarters of the Grand Peer together.

The Steward inspected the guests’ hands. Curl your fingers over your thumbs until you are dismissed. Weaving in his presence is forbidden. Apparently satisfied with their responses, he turned. Walk this way.

The Spymaster and Chief Interrogator, shorter than average, held his long sloped nose high with the confidence of a man who knew his craft well. He kept an arm’s length from the uniformed woman serving as tonight’s Hengekeeper.

The Hengekeeper, her head higher than his, received a warning glare from the man’s bulging eyes as the two approached. She allowed even more distance to open up between herself and Lord L’Dred Butcher—also known as The Meat Cleaver.

When they positioned themselves in front of the Grand Peer, the Hengekeeper was half a step behind Lord Butcher. The Steward led the way.

The Grand Peer lifted his gaze from the documents on his desk that he hadn’t truly been studying. What news from the Great Henge?

The Hengekeeper stepped forward with a deferential bow. According to the on duty scholars at the Null Stone, The Great Central Henge reacted to a small harmonic disturbance tonight near the second hour. I have with me a written report of their findings. In short, they believe the disturbance originated at or near the Great Western Henge. How it was disturbed is unknown. It may be the result of a quake in the region.

The Grand Peer harrumphed. Which resonance chamber issued the report?

C chamber, My Lord.

The Grand Peer waited for the woman to continue. He tapped the desktop with his quill, ruining the tip. With a final tap, he jammed the feather into the wood. Burn you woman, give me details! I need confirmation. Was it a single note or a chord? If a chord, what chord was it? Was it augmented or diminished, consonant or dissonant, major or minor?

My Lord, I . . . the report . . . Shaken, the Hengekeeper reached for the scholar’s report in her side pocket. As her fingers unfurled to grasp the scroll, they froze. She fell to the floor.

Frustrated, the Grand Peer pressed his lips together and clenched his teeth. Burn you two. Which one of you did it this time? Why must you be so paranoid? As usual, neither of the two shrouded women responded.

The Steward approached the Hengekeeper’s rigid corpse and removed the document. He held it out at arm’s length. With your permission, My Lord.

The Grand Peer nodded.

The Steward opened his hand and let the report fall.

With a deep and near silent throat song, the Grand Peer seized the report in mid-air with his voice and drew it to him. You may use your weaves to dispose of the body.

The Steward snapped to attention and gave a rigid bow. My Lord. He set a weave to the corpse and voiced a guttural tone. The body lifted on a vibrating bed of air and followed him out the door.

Once the scroll was in his hands, the Grand Peer turned to Lord Butcher. Now tell me why I should not kill you too.

I am loyal, My Liege, and my hands are still curled. Lord Butcher smirked and placed his fists under his armpits.

Loyal . . . perhaps, but competent? The Grand Peer gripped the staff and stood. Did you not hear the former Hengekeeper’s report? Why and how did the Great Western Henge ring? Who is the Cherished Pair that rang it? Who finished building the Great Western Henge and when did it happen? Why didn’t you see this coming?

The Spymaster’s protruding eyes sank into his skull as his lids closed to slits. His jaw clenched, and he hissed through his teeth. I will find out.

Do you not understand me? The Grand Peer moved from behind the desk and tapped the floor with his staff. You are too late.

Lord Butcher’s body slammed into the ceiling.

The Grand Peer’s voice turned to that of a grinding landslide. Do you recall what your mission is? Remind me, if you can, how and why have our plans to conquer all of Rendor and tune the great henges to my specifications yet to bear fruit?

"My Liege, our plans to conquer the Eastern Realms through subversion and assassination have met more resistence than we thought possible. A well-coordinated opposition in Charlstone has denied our efforts to undermine and replace the Dewy Knoll Priory and disrupt the Merchant’s Trade House. In the long run, however, the strategy has worked and the fall of the Charlestone Kingdom is within reach.

Our efforts to collect the last two of the five master henge keys to assemble the Anvil of Rendor has not been productive. The master key for the Great Western Henge was once in Charlestone. We have two Inquisitors following a promising lead in the Greybull Kingdom in the Western Realm. There is still no sign of the fifth and last henge key, which will fully ring the Great Heart Henge here in the Central Realm. We have people at every henge, library and archive searching for clues that may lead us to it. I, myself, spend much of my time researching our ancient documents.

Except for the Great Western Henge. We have no one at the Great Western Henge. Jem and Tess’ caustic voices seared the Grand Peer’s spine.

Shut up, I’m busy.

Breathless, Lord Butcher squirmed as the Grand Peer raked him across the raised coffer ceiling. The master spy, to the Grand Peer’s amusement, controlled his ragged voice with considerable effort.

The Grand Peer nodded with mocking satisfaction. Now, if you will kindly tell me why it has taken so long to subdue the east? Is it because my plan was flawed, or perhaps . . . The Grand Peer frowned, tilted his head and pressed a finger to his temple. I’m just curious . . . is it because a ragtag horde of unimbued, untrained sewer rats managed to thwart your very expensive and highly trained Inquisitors?

Yes, my Liege. Battered and bruised, Lord Butcher protected his head from the deep panels of the wooden ceiling. My Inquisitors met with some unfortunate resistance. We have tracked down those remaining Dewy Knoll Priory Councilors. They will soon meet their ends. Only Sir Tomas Campanill remains at large. He is the one who commands those sewer rats in the Charlstone Kingdom.

Which leaves us with one obviously working henge—a henge with a Cherished Weaver. Now, tell me how they did it. How did a tiny village full of single-toned, country half-wits like Kerner finish it? He let the Spymaster fall to the floor.

Lord Butcher rolled over and slowly rose up on his elbows. He wiped a stream of blood from his face with his fist.

The Grand Peer placed his boot on the man’s neck and slammed him to the floor. I’ve heard your theory about the henges and it is weak. Convince them. He swept his arm around and pointed to the two enigmatic women, Jem and Tess. They know the Great Western Henge. They dug and searched for the resonance chambers. Convince them the Western Henge was complete and that their eyes and calloused hands deceived them.

L’Dred did not move. He did not speak. Submission amounted to liberation and he complied. We really must find another way to punish Lord Butcher. He is too clever for his own good. The Grand Peer lifted his boot and brought L’Dred’s compliant figure to a kneeling position in front of him.

Do you wish to amend your theory, Lord Butcher?

L’Dred grimaced and rolled his head and neck. Yes, my Liege . . . on further consideration I wish to amend. He cleared his throat and continued. "It is true time, and a large workforce, is needed to build the chambers. However, is it possible to ring a henge without the resonance chambers? He took a deep breath. We know from the histories that the ancient Cherished Weavers built the chambers. Yet, there are old smoke parchments suggesting the stones were in place prior to the Cherished."

The Grand Peer studied his Spymaster and Chief Interrogator for a long moment. He then returned to his desk, sat and retrieved the Henge Scholar’s Report. You are reaching for a very short thread, Lord Butcher. It is, however, untestable. Only henges with resonance chambers have ever rung.

May I suggest, My Liege, considering the incontestable evidence from Jem and Tess, L’Dred gestured to the two silent women, and the ringing of the Great Western Henge that it is indeed possible?

The Grand Peer raised his gaze from the report and fixed it on Lord Butcher. Through the link with Jem and Tess he heard the only reply he could give. We will consider your new theory.

My Liege, if the Great Western Henge has no resonance chambers might it also not be as powerful as the other four? Perhaps we need not fear an active henge in the west.

The Grand Peer lowered his brow in thought and laced his fingers together in front of his shrouded face.

Also, My Liege, the histories tell of people at one henge instantly communicating with another. I assume you will be using the The Great Central Henge to contact whoever is using The Great Western Henge. May I suggest an effort to recruit those in power there, especially the old Hengekeeper, a man by the name of Thaddeus Stonebreaker?

You think there are others in Kerner Village we can entice to join us?

Yes, my Liege. It will cost us nothing and will sow suspicion among their leaders. However, it may take time to receive any favorable responses. In the meantime, I suggest we coordinate a significant assault on King Gerald and Western Knoll Priory.

Hmm. The Grand Peer’s eyes narrowed in thought. He, like all rulers, liked his boots licked and enjoyed motivating people to cater to him. However, he was no fool. The plans laid out by the Spymaster had already unraveled for the most part. Nevertheless, he might have a point about the Great Western Henge. If it had no resonance chambers, it might take more than one Cherished Weaver to ring it as it had at the end of the Great War. At least two Cherished Weavers had struck the Great Western Henge to devastating effect.

The Hengekeeper’s report verified the henge had not fully rung. A bloody attack in Grange and a strike at those ringing the Great Western Henge could help demoralize his most potent foe. This, Lord Butcher, is why you live.

Rain pelted Grindall Sykes’ worthless, sodden hood. He cursed his endless streak of bad luck and pulled the hood off his head. A few hours ago, his wife, Becka, had swindled him for the last time. To his grim satisfaction, as far as he knew, she was still falling to her death. However, her cackling laughter had firmly burned itself into his memory as she fell and emptied her purse into the air. Fifty precious silver coins glinted like the night stars as she and his hard-earned treasure descended into the darkness of Grim Ridge Gorge.

For the third time since he threw her off the bridge, he opened the one thing he had retrieved from her—a pouch of copper coins—and pebbles. His unbelieving eyes counted the meager contents. He knew how to count to ten, but with each count, he reckoned only eight coppers. He cursed the tally again and the wicked sow who had deceived him.

His escape from Kerner and the nightlong descent from Grim Ridge to the broad, forested, fertile Greybull Plain was a solitary one. The few folks he had come across lacked any coin for him to nick. He had filched a stupid tuning fork from a Tinker, imprisoned in one of the Squire’s dusty storage rooms, and now, to his surprise, everyone in Kerner was out to get him. If not for that strange little man, L’don Banks, with that pouch of silver and a magic wand, he’d still be there. Now, however, he needed rest and money—the more the better.

After three days his luck turned. He stopped alongside the road, yanking at his tunic to relieve the annoying tug on his hairy armpits. Through the trees, he glimpsed a well-dressed merchant headed his way. If he ain’t got coin, nobody got it.

Grindall eased to the side of the road and found a good-sized rock. He skulked behind a shrub. The rush of a nearby creek helped disguise his noisy movements.

Rames Lock strode with confidence and kept his senses sharp. The winding road that rose from the Greybull Plain up to meet Grim Ridge could hide an army. However, his well-trained senses could perceive the presence of any Weaver or animal within a hundred yards—more if he stopped and focused.

Peaceful places like this often hid thugs like the four he left in a heap back at Potters Lake. The hundred paces ahead seemed clear, except for the hundreds of voids created by naturally occurring Null stones strewn among the towering megaliths of Grim Ridge. He didn’t concern himself with them. He allowed his mind to wander, as it tended to do on seldom-used roads.

With the ringing of the Great Western Henge, the palace intrigue he was accustomed to would soon change. The King’s argument about lack of time and resources would disappear. Age had slowed Rames, and his once adroit political mind had tired. He lacked the stamina of his more youthful competitors. With assassins now stalking the streets of Grange, the Capitol city of the Greybull Kingdom, the crown questioned everyone’s loyalty and suspicion spread throughout the Citadel. The Craft Trade House had lost a number of Trade Ministers and Guild Leaders, throwing the institution into further disarray. Daring raids into the Citadel itself resulted in many of King Gerald’s administrators and advisors dying, upending the function of government. The Grand Peer’s deadly exploits seemed everywhere in Rames’ kingdom.

The crown needed Weavers, real Weavers, not the single-toned ninnies the Five Trade Houses of Rendor had bequeathed to the world. The old policies of the past didn’t work any longer. The Grand Peer, de facto ruler of the Central Realms, had seen to that. Multi-toned Weavers trained from an early age by the Grand Peer were now wreaking havoc and subverting the nine kingdoms of Rendor.

Rames came from the old school—a very old school. Imbuements were for entertainment, not for permanent strictures on society that only a Great Henge could remove. An imbuement now meant one thing—everyone was exactly the same—boring.

I hope the gods burned the Weaver who created this mess. Rames ground his teeth as he envisioned the sorcerer who developed those deeply imbedded weaves. I’ve never tasted tones with so much bile. He paused, recalling how the enchanting golden-eyed Master Weaver walked—and died—among the stones of the Great Western Henge. Too bad—

His stomach clenched. He sensed movement behind him. Like an empty shadow, it crept slowly out from the dimness of the forest.

He turned.

Grindall swung the stone.

The merchant’s skull caved. His body fell.

Grindall searched the man’s body and retrieved a purse filled with coin. His heart raced as he opened it and poured the contents into his hand. Two silvers and more coppers than he knew how to count. He laughed and, with quivering hands, returned the coins to the pouch.

If I can snag me another purse like this in Grange I can get to the Central Realm and deliver this here letter. He patted the pocket with the secret note to Lord L’dred Butcher. Yep, I’m going to be a rich man.

He danced for miles as he continued his journey.

Voices drifted all around him making no sense at all. The savory fragrances of life and death mingled, taunting him to decide which he would embrace. Rames Lock, the Bull of Rendor, lay slain and unbridled by flesh and bone. He did not breathe. He did not see, nor taste, nor feel. And now the voices, too, faded to silence.

The black veil hovered, stroking his soul, searching for sin and purpose. He could not change his ways now. During his life, he had done what he had to do. His faults were too great. Condemnation, he was sure, would soon follow. He wondered what the Seven Hells were really like. Is it true? Will the gods forever deny me the beauty of all twelve tones?

But, why search for purpose? If I am dead then surely my purpose, my weave, is complete.

The black veil slipped through his mind smoother than the finest silk, lighter than a wisp of smoke, yet within it, he sensed a ruthless resolve and a forgiving heart.

You are not yet mine.

The blackness vanished. The White Veil embraced him, giving life. He heard his own voice command, "Weave."

Chapter Two

The Witch, the Wizard and the Giant

Black, rain-choked clouds filled the sky above the Great Western Henge and dispensed their heavy burden on the now silent singing stones. It seemed the gods themselves wept for Willim Campanill.

Maynard Woods, the seven-foot-something giant forester, held Willim’s son in his robust arms protecting him as best he could. He knelt beside an inconsolable B’Tris Campanill who cradled her husband’s body in her lap.

Thaddeus Stonebreaker, keeper of the great henge, stood with an impatient silence in the downpour. His long, grey braid flowed from under his floppy wide-brimmed hat. Maynard had already threatened him twice to be quiet and wait.

Tim Waxman, a beekeeper, and his timid son, Carl, were the first to arrive after the henge rang. They attempted to move Willim, but B’Tris wouldn’t allow it. Maynard reckoned more folks would soon come and help with Willim’s body. B’Tris was inconsolable, weeping and embracing her stricken family.

It was almost an hour later, when two men from Kerner arrived, that Maynard began to urge B’Tris to leave.

Rained soaked, cold and weary, Maynard Woods carried K’Las Campanill from the Great Western Henge. Bernard Brewer, owner of the Feisty Wench Pub, and Tim Waxman carried Willim’s lifeless body. B’Tris, shrouded from the rain by Tim Baker’s rain slicker, followed. The half-mile trek to the Waxman’s small farm was wet, somber, and wearisome.

Maynard remembered little of the tragedy. Nevertheless, Thad peppered him relentlessly with questions about how it all happened.

I don’t know, Maynard said. How many times I gotta tell yeh? I don’t know what happened.

You must have seen or heard something. Thad slogged and slipped along the muddy road as he tried to keep up with the giant, half-naked forester. I saw you holding onto the boy after he went to the ground. What did he do?

He saw his Pa get killed, that’s what. Maynard hefted the mud-covered boy, trying to keep his grip on the lad. Must’ve passed out from the shock of it all.

The boy opened up a trench and created the vortex that killed that Inquisitor. Thad stumbled again. Water poured from the brim of his hat.

Might be he did. I don’t know. And, I don’t know nothin’ about no . . . vortex . . . whatever that is. Lightning lit up the sky, revealing a small rushing creek ahead of them. Maynard did not slow as he waded through the rapids.

Tim Waxman and Bernard Brewer managed to struggle through the water, but B’Tris hesitated. Concerned she would lose her footing, Maynard knelt to lay K’Las on the wet verge of the road. To his relief he saw Tim Waxman’s son, Carl, and Tim Baker help B’Tris cross the stream.

Maynard tried to stand, grunting as he heaved K’Las back up to his bare chest. Good gods. Why’s he so heavy?

Another flash of lightning revealed Thad standing next to him again. Thad touched Maynard’s big hands.

Keep yer paws off me, wizard. Maynard leaned back to shift the boy’s weight higher on his chest. His arms trembled with fatigue. Go find yerself someone else to do your magic tricks on. Leave me and the boy be.

Thad drew his hand back. Your hands are black. What happened?

In the thundering darkness, Maynard barely saw the outline of his hands. They’re covered in mud. Maynard kicked at the old hengekeeper. Get away from me, yeh sotted wizard.

Maynard stumbled, nearly dropping K’Las. B’Tris rushed to his side and propped him up. Let me carry him.

I got him, ma’am. Don’t you worry none. Maynard shoved his chin out to point up the road. The Waxman place is just ahead.

B’Tris remained by his side, her hand on his arm, ready to catch her son if Maynard should fall.

Maynard trudged up the small knoll to the Waxman cottage. The doorway was big enough to allow entrance for everyone but him. He waited while Tim and Bernard carried Willim’s body inside. When Tim Waxman returned, he relieved Maynard of his burden. B’Tris followed him inside.

Tim Baker and Bernard Brewer emerged from the cottage with a windproof lantern. They looked Maynard up and down and then, Bernard, a burly man in his own right, turned to Thad. The Squire wants to know what happened out here.

I wish I could tell you with any certainty, Mr. Brewer, but I think the boy did it all. Thad leaned as if to confide a secret. But, it might have been the tinker woman. Thad pointed to Maynard. Ask him. He was there when it happened.

Not convinced, Bernard set himself between Thad and Maynard. That ain’t good enough, Thad. Tell us everything, or answer to the Squire hisself.

"I’ll talk to the Squire hisself when I’m good and ready." Thad’s mockery of the big innkeeper irked Maynard.

He wants to know now. Accustomed to ill-mannered people, Bernard held his ground. I ain’t askin’, I’m tellin’ yeh. Talk now or we haul yeh into the Manor in chains.

Are you threatening me? Thad scoffed at the Innkeeper. With what . . . a paper chain is stronger than any single-tone links you can spin. I know your tones, big boy, and they don’t impress me any more than your ale does.

Infuriated at Thad’s mockery of the honest innkeeper, Maynard lowered his shoulder and rammed it into Thad’s chest. He pressed the wizard into the cottage’s log wall and cursed as Thad’s lung emptied. Maynard pressed as hard as his trembling legs allowed. I’m tired of yeh. Plain and simple tired of yeh.

Thad fought for air as he spread weaves around Maynard’s head. Maynard’s jaws clamped shut. Every weft and waft Thad spun disappeared into the giant as fast as he could weave them.

Tim Baker and Bernard pulled Maynard from the gasping wizard. Thad sagged to the ground. Maynard stumbled backward, falling into the mud and pouring rain.

Thad got to his feet and staggered away into the darkness.

Tim Waxman threw open his front door and ran out into the rain. What’s goin’ on out here?

B’Tris emerged from the cottage with a lantern held high. She glanced at the two Kerner men in search for answers. The men shrugged. She then ran to Maynard’s side, knelt in the mud, and examined the giant.

What’re yeh doin’? Maynard blinked and shook his head, trying to shed the pool of rain filling his eyes and nostrils. His mind swirled as mental spools of thread wound up the last of Thad’s weaves.

B’Tris commanded action from the beekeeper. Tim, he needs to get out of this rain.

The two Tim’s looked at each other in a moment of confusion. Tim Waxman, realizing she was talking to him, called for his son. Carl, get some blankets and take ‘em to the pig shed.

It took all three men to help Maynard up and trudge to the only other shelter available.

Carl returned with several old blankets covered with a rain slicker as Maynard settled into a pen filled with fresh straw.

Her eyes bloodshot and a brow heavy with grief, B’Tris moved the lantern light to his shoulders and swept away the mud and rain from his upper arm. You do not look well, my friend. Her fingers moved to his wrist and hand. Your arms are deeply discolored.

Carl handed the blankets to his father and came to B’Tris’ side. Our pig shed has a virtuous roof on it, ma’am. So ol’ Iggy and Maynard should be good n’ dry. And, I got enough blankets here to keep him warm.

Me or Iggy? Maynard sighed and tried to reach for a blanket. His arms moved like a bucket of winter molasses, slow and heavy. My fingers are numb. Maynard strained to close his hand. Can’t hardly feel ‘em.

B’Tris jammed her finger into the big man’s arm. Did you feel that?

Yeah, I think so. If he hadn’t watched her poke him, he might not have noticed.

She handed the lantern to Tim. "I need to prepare a poultice for him. Do you have