Journey's End: Book Three in the Ponticar Series

By Jay Seaborg

Ponticar, a city full of corruption and power, beauty and ugliness, the center of all the Empire's strength. The city had the power to draw people from anywhere in the world and it was calling Elena, Dark, and Rolf. They found themselves being pulled into the middle of a mystery. Something was going to happen in Ponticar and they were going to be there when it did. Ponticar, where everything began, and now the end of everything as they knew it. Journey's End.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Dec 15, 2002
• ISBN: 9781462082773

Jay Seaborg

Jay Seaborg lives with his wife and daughter in Mt. Airy, Maryland.

Book preview

JOURNEY’S END

Book Three in the Ponticar Series

Jay Seaborg

Writers Club Press

New York Lincoln Shanghai

Journey’s End

Book Three in the Ponticar Series

All Rights Reserved © 2002 by Jay Seaborg

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping, or by any information storage retrieval system, without the written permission of the publisher.

Writers Club Press an imprint of iUniverse, Inc.

For information address:

iUniverse, Inc.

2021 Pine Lake Road, Suite 100

Lincoln, NE 68512

www.iuniverse.com

ISBN: 0-595-26257-0 (pbk)

ISBN: 0-595-65562-9 (cloth)

ISBN: 978-1-4620-8277-3 (ebook)

To Maria, Kristin, and Erin

Contents

Acknowledgments

C Η A Ρ Τ E R 1

C Η A Ρ Τ Ε R 2

C Η A Ρ Τ Ε R 3

C Η A Ρ Τ Ε R 4

C Η A Ρ Τ Ε R 5

C Η A Ρ Τ Ε R 6

C Η A Ρ Τ Ε R 7

C Η A Ρ Τ Ε R 8

C Η A Ρ Τ Ε R 9

C Η A Ρ Τ Ε R 10

C Η A Ρ Τ Ε R 11

C Η A Ρ Τ Ε R 12

C Η A Ρ Τ Ε R 13

C Η A Ρ Τ Ε R 14

C Η A Ρ Τ Ε R 15

C Η A Ρ Τ Ε R l6

C Η A Ρ Τ Ε R 17

C Η A Ρ Τ Ε R 18

C Η A Ρ Τ Ε R 19

C Η A Ρ Τ Ε R 20

Acknowledgments

The writing of this trilogy has been a labor of love and would not have been possible without the help of many people. To my friends I would like to extend my heartfelt thanks for their eagerness for new books, support for the story itself, and constant words of encouragement that kept me to the task of getting the tale told. Jodi Trautman designed the cover and provided a convenient place to bounce random thoughts about fantasy and writing in general. I would like to thank my mother, Phyllis Seaborg, for reading fairy tales to me and introducing books at an early age. For countless hours of editing and for enduring the commentary that ensued as a result of it, I would like to thank my wife, Maria.

I hope you enjoyed reading this story as much as I enjoyed writing it.

C Η A Ρ Τ E R 1

Missark Massif

Ericsson had never felt so lonely. He squatted behind the shelter of a huge boulder, using its bulk to shield him from the constant wind which seemed as much a part of the mountains as the peaks and cliffs around him. Looking to the south, he could just make out the flags waving on the ramparts of Arenal, more than twenty miles distant as the crow flew, but as remote as the moon to him and his men. In between them and the city stood hundreds of peaks similar to the one he was now on, as well as thousands upon thousands of Charian troops. Ericsson knew the chances of ever seeing the inside of Arenal again were small, but would never let his men think he had given up hope.

Below, hidden in a small valley, lay his command. Of his original hundred soldiers, he now had sixty. The rest had fallen in one of the many raids over the past nine months. The losses had been made good by volunteers from the mountain people, mostly young men eager to test their skills against the Charians who had been burning and destroying their villages and crops. Ericsson would not want to take the replacements into any sort of pitched battle, but for his purposes they were perfect. Hit and run raids, ambushes, and the quick thrust of guerilla warfare were second nature to the mountaineers, whose knowledge of the terrain had proven invaluable. His force was now at one hundred twenty men, all veterans of at least a half dozen encounters with the Charians.

Ericsson had learned much in the time he had been leading them. The Ponticarian soldiers had adopted the dress of their mountaineer allies, ridding themselves of the heavy armor favored by the army and replacing it with leather vests. The long swords they had originally carried had been put aside in favor of wickedly sharp hunting knives as long as a man’s forearm, perfect for close combat and much easier to use. Most of the soldiers had been passable bowmen before they began their new life as guerilla fighters. Now they were expert with the short bow favored by the mountain people. It was accurate up to one hundred yards, and a good archer could shoot three arrows in the time it took the first to find a target.

Ericsson rubbed his beard, wishing he could indulge in a long, hot bath. He had never felt so filthy in his life, but that was one of the realities of life on the run. All the men were bearded and wearing clothes that had seen better days. On rare occasions they were able to get a fresh change of clothing from one of the villages or take the time to relax and wash what they had, but their life made it necessary to keep on the move, and those days were few and far between.

Above him, thick gray clouds slowly moved across the sky like huge herds of cattle. Expert at reading the weather now, Ericsson sniffed the air and knew there would be snow before the week was out. Winter came early this high up, and they would have to find somewhere secure to camp during the long snowy season. Down below, the leaves would just be starting to change. Up here, winter was ready to begin.

He heard a commotion and looked down below to see two of his scouts ride in escorting a Charian prisoner. The Charian was blindfolded and had his hands tied behind him. They had not captured anyone in weeks, and Ericsson brushed the dirt from his trousers as he carefully picked his way down the steep hillside to where his men waited.

Messenger, his sergeant informed him, holding up a thick bundle of papers wrapped in burlap. With dispatches.

I’ll take those, he ordered. See what you can get out of him. Where was he captured?

Found him down on the main road, one of the scouts reported. No escort or nothin’, sir, just him. Tracked him for two miles before we took him. No sign of it being a trap.

All the same, let’s put out patrols to be sure, Ericsson said.

Thought you might say that, sir. I’ve already ordered them out, the sergeant told him.

Let me know what they find. I’ll be in my tent reading these.

He emerged a halfhour later wearing an expression of grim satisfaction. The messages contained information about a projected troop movement through one of the passes not far from their camp. Apparently the Charians were sending one of their princes to take over command of the eastern wing of their forces.

Ericsson made his way to the edge of camp where the interrogation of the Charian messenger was taking place. One of the mountaineers was methodically laying out an array of knives on a piece of canvas, promising the prisoner that he would soon be screaming for mercy. The Charian had been gagged, and over the mouthpiece, his eyes bulged as he stared at the deadly arrangement.

We’re going to be moving again? the sergeant asked. After all this time, the man could read Ericsson’s expression fairly well.

We’ll be breaking camp before nightfall.

What about him? he said nodding toward the Charian.

Tie him up and bring him along. He might prove useful.

I don’t think this one is a real soldier anyway.

Why do you say that? Ericsson asked.

Seems a bit soft compared to the Charians we’ve met so far. Doesn’t look like he’s been out campaigning, and the scouts said he was easy to take. We’ve always found that their army messengers were tough to track. This one wasn’t.

Ericsson looked closer at the shivering prisoner and for the first time, noticed that the man had a small loop of red cloth near one shoulder. He squatted next to the Charian and flicked the loop with his finger.

Moko, do you know what this is for? he asked one of the mountaineers.

He’s a royal servant. The loop shows he works for the King.

Sergeant, forget the interrogation. Order the men to break camp now. We’ll interrogate him along the way. Moko, stay next to him and see what you can get out of him while we ride.

Finally the gods had seen fit to give him a gift. If they could get their hands on one of the royal family, there was no telling what sort of effect it might have. He wished he knew what was happening in Arenal.

Arenal

Trumpets sounded, calling men to their stations on the walls of the beleaguered city. The citizens of the town had grown so used to the sound that they slept through the early morning summons, confident enough in the army’s abilities that they no longer feared for their safety. Arenal had grown used to this. Over the past two years it had been captured and re-captured, re-built itself after the Charians had wrecked the city, and become a focal point for the war in the north. The sounds and sights of battle were now normal background for its citizens, who went about their day to day business as if the fighting was not important.

To the soldiers rushing to their positions, battle could never become routine. They knew far better than the people they protected how precarious the hold was on the city and surrounding countryside. Ponticar had been forced to send reinforcements on a regular basis, always enough to hold the city, but never a large enough force to completely push the Charians back to their own side of the river. It was a stalemate, but one maintained at the cost of many lives.

The magicians of the Guild had played a major role in this, establishing themselves as the most reliable means of defense. The Guild had seen quickly enough how important it was to hold Arenal and, consequently, had sent a dozen wizards into the city. This had proven to be a wise move. Charian attacks had first used magic from their own sorcerers, but had soon seen that this was not going to be effective. In fact, it had proven to be disastrous, and they had lost many of their wizards in the early fights. Now, the wizards stayed well in the background, but this effected the efficiency of their spells to the point where they were of little real use to the Charian commanders.

The sun was barely over the horizon, and watchers on the battlements could already see thousands of men in motion, moving like a human tide across the ground separating the city from the Charian camp. They moved in the disciplined lines the defenders had come to know so well.

Stubborn bastards, aren’t they? one of the veterans remarked as he flexed his bowstring and notched an arrow.

How many you figure they’ve lost now? his companion asked.

The man spat out a bit of breakfast lodged in his teeth and shook his head. Your guess is as good as mine, but can’t be less than ten or fifteen thousand. We’ve lost a bit more than four thousand men over the past six months. We’ve got to be taking three or four of theirs for every one of ours lost. Got to be close to fifteen thousand by now.

Hard to believe they’re still at it. Wonder if they’ll stick it out through winter.

Probably. Rather be in here than out there once the snows come. Get ready, here they come.

The two men, along with thousands of their comrades, loosed arrows and quickly reached for more as the first assault wave approached the walls. The meaty sound of the shafts thunking into their targets or bouncing off shields was soon drowned out by the roar of battle as orders were shouted, trumpets blared commands and men screamed in pain or defiance. The sound got louder and louder as the fight grew in intensity, sending the crows which roosted in the forests nearby winging into the air. They knew from experience that they would once again be feasting on human flesh, and they circled high overhead, patiently waiting for their meal.

General Henrick Hansen, commander of the legions stationed in the city, listened to the sounds of battle from his headquarters in the center of Arenal. He could judge the ebb and flow of battle well just from the sound, but had also set up an efficient system for getting reports from each section of the city. For some time now he had been expecting the Charians to try something different, but their tactics had not varied in months. Each and every morning they came out of their camp and attacked, sometimes one section, sometimes another. There had been a few close calls in the beginning when the Charians had actually broken down part of the walls, but the intervention of the magicians had pushed them back and given the defenders time to make repairs. It had been more than six weeks since the besiegers had even managed that much. It made him uneasy. No army would be taking these kinds oflosses without reason, though he was hard pressed to see what that reason might be. Arenal was secure, and he meant to see it stayed that way.

Anything from the south wall? he asked one of his aides. The southern part of the city had barely been probed in all the months of assaults. Hansen had reduced the forces there by a quarter, using those men elsewhere, but he had not been convinced the area would remain untested.

I got a report ten minutes ago, General. Same as always, a token force on the road from Ponticar, but no other signs of activity.

Let’s give them something to think about. Order an assault. Put two thousand men in the attack.

Commander? the aide asked scribbling down the order.

Hansen thought for a moment before answering. He had to have somebody aggressive enough to do some damage, but prudent enough not to lose his force. Put Captain Olsen in charge. Give him five hundred calvary as well. I want a real attack on their rear this time.

Yes sir. I’ll have them off within the hour.

Hansen had been thinking about this for some time now. Normal army policy called for letting the attackers spend their energies trying to break down the walls of a secure position while the defenders inflicted enough losses so the assault would eventually be called off. That policy had proven successful enough, and Hansen had not been willing to risk his men outside the walls. At least not while they were able to kill so many Charians at a relatively light cost to themselves. But the regularity of the reinforcements from Ponticar had given him a force of more than forty thousand men, and he felt the risk would be worth it now. He did not know why the Charians were concentrating all of their attention on the northern and eastern sections of the city, but he would let them feel what it was like to be on the other end of an attack for once. At the very least, it would be good for morale.

Master Dvoskin, can you have one of your magicians on the walls there to assist if needed?

Of course, the magician nodded. Dvoskin motioned to one of the underlings who had accompanied the magicians from Ponticar and whispered something in his ear. The man nodded and scurried off. We will have someone there before the attack begins.

When Olsen was ready the wizard sent two fireballs crashing into the Charian position, killing several dozen soldiers and throwing the rest into confusion. The cavalry thundered through the gate and hit the first line of Charians like a wave hitting the beach. The Charian forces had not been expecting to be suddenly on the defensive, and they quickly crumpled, leaving behind scores of dead, bodies soon trampled into the mud as the heavy mounts moved out in pursuit. Olsen’s men were disciplined enough to keep in formation, using their sheer weight to drive a wedge in the second line, so that the Ponticar-ian infantry could follow-up and make a breakthrough.

The infantry found itself engaged in a furious hand to hand fight, but one that was over quickly. Within ten minutes, they had annihilated all of their enemies, at a loss ofbarely a dozen men of their own. Flushed with the heady exhilaration of battle, the young officer in charge of the cavalry ordered his men to begin curling around the walls of Arenal, hoping to strike the undefended rear of some of the units attacking elsewhere in the city.

Sound recall, Olsen ordered his trumpeter, and the clear notes rang out above the din of battle. Reluctantly, the cavalry trotted back to where the rest of the force was drawing itself into formation.

Olsen leaned from his saddle. Just where in the hell do you think you are going, Lieutenant?

I was planning on making an attack on the Charians around the front of the city, sir. We have the advantage of surprise, and I wanted to follow up on it.

Did I tell you to do so? Olsen asked icily.

No sir, the young officer answered miserably.

Then I suggest you follow orders, unless you want to find yourself cleaning out stables. Keep in mind this is just a reconnaissance in force. Do as much damage as possible without risking the safety of the whole command. We have to be careful about when and where we attack.

Yes sir, the lieutenant replied stiffly.

Get a couple of scouts out. I want two hundred of your men acting as an advance guard, the rest spread out along the formation as flankers. Put another hundred in the rear. Understood?

Yes sir.

Good. Get yourself together and start acting like an officer instead of some yokel fresh off the farm. I expect my officers to follow orders exactly. See that you do so in the future.

The young officer saluted and turned to make his arrangements, knowing he had been lucky not to be relieved of his command. You could not make many mistakes out here, and he had already made one. He quickly dispatched a quartet of scouts, sending the troopers off with orders to make certain there weren’t any nasty surprises waiting for them on the road ahead. That done, he put his squadrons into the formation ordered by Olsen.

The road leading out of Arenal to the south forked less than a half mile from the city gates, sending one road off to the west and another twisting through a thick pine forest to circle the city and reconnect with the road that eventually entered Arenal through the north.

Olsen was not concerned with the distance. His men were certainly in good enough condition to make a three mile march in less than thirty minutes. He wanted to use the cover of the woods to screen his approach from the Charians, hoping to catch them unawares when he finally did attack. But the last thing he wanted was to march into an ambush himself, somewhere in the dark groves bordering the road.

Presently, as they approached the far side of the city, the scouts reported back that the road was clear ahead, and the Charians were fully engaged in attacking the north wall. Olsen had become something of a legend in the army by defeating a superior Charian force the previous spring, splitting his own command and catching the Charians between the two wings. He was tempted to use the same tactic here, then realized it would not succeed. The enemy was spread out over too wide a front, making it all but impossible to use any sort of pincer movement.

Instead, he decided that he would commit his entire force to one massive charge, fighting through to the main gate on this side of Arenal, destroying as many Charians in the process as possible. The scouts estimated fifty thousand men were on the field, but the odds were not as bad as they seemed. In the first place, not all fifty thousand were concentrated here in front of them. Secondly, the men were occupied in trying to overcome the stubborn defense of the city and create some sort of breech in the wall so they could get inside. Olsen believed that by the time the Charians were aware of their danger, it would be too late to construct any defenses against it.

Quickly, he gave orders to his subordinates, and they galloped back to their places in line. Olsen stood in his stirrups and waved his long sword over his head, the joy ofbattle shining in his eyes. For Ponticar and the Empire! he shouted.

Ponticar! came the echo from two thousand throats.

They poured out of the woods like bats from a cave, two hundred yards from the rear of the last line of Charians. The cavalry took the lead naturally enough, the horses wide-eyed behind their leather padding, their hooves making the ground shake as they roared toward the Charian line. Behind them the infantry trotted for the first hundred and fifty yards, then broke into a sprint so that they arrived before the Charians could recover from the horsemen’s attack.

The horses hit the line and simply trampled under large sections of it, their iron shod hoofs shredding the armor worn by the Charian soldiers. They reared on their hind legs as they had been trained to do, lashing out with their front hooves and taking down even more men. The troopers did not pause for long, slashing down at Charians with their swords and fighting their way through to gather at the foot of the great wall. They had suffered light casualties, losing no more than ten men. The gaps they had created were quickly being filled by Ponticar-ian soldiers, anxious to exploit the opening.

Come on men, one more charge! Olsen shouted, forming his men into two long columns and charging back onto the battlefield. The Charians had turned to engage the infantry in hand to hand combat, and the column sliced its way easily through the harried northerners. Once past, they wheeled smartly and resumed the attack. They fought their way back once more to the walls of the city, sheltering in its shadows while overhead flight after flight of arrows sped toward the Char-ian army.

Olsen looked over the carnage as his men firmed up their battle line, facing away from the city in case the Charians reorganized themselves enough for a counter-attack. The ground was covered with the dead and wounded, familiar backdrops to him after the months of fighting.

He noted that some of his men were dragging their own wounded toward the gate while others hefted dead comrades on their shoulders and followed more slowly behind. They would leave no one out here but Charians.

The northern invaders were in disarray on this part of the field. The survivors had fled back to the main Charian line, their arrival causing confusion as the men brought with them the chaos and terror they had experienced during the surprise attack. Olsen knew it wouldn’t take the Charian commanders long to get their men under control and bring them back in greater force, and he wanted his men safe inside the city before that happened.

Sound recall, he ordered.

The Ponticarians immediately fell into marching formation and moved at double time toward the gates of Arenal. Olsen saw that the enemy was indeed moving back toward them quickly, but they would be far too late to catch even the tail end of the force. He waited until the last man had safely entered the city before wheeling his horse and following them. As he trotted through the streets towards headquarters he could hear the clamor ofbattle once more. It was as ifhis part in the fight had never happened, and a less experienced soldier might have felt some frustration that he hadn’t even stopped the attack for more than fifteen or twenty minutes. Olsen knew better. His purpose had not been to stop the siege, it had been to clear the way to the south for more reinforcements to arrive and to inflict as many casualties as possible in the process. The Charians were a long way from home, and it would be difficult for them to replace any losses. This was a war of attrition and his part had been to increase the pressure on the besiegers. Winter would be here in a matter of weeks, and they would not be able to sustain any sort of operations if the weather was anything like normal.

How did it go? a fellow officer called to him as he rode past.

A thousand more who won’t see Charia again.

The man saluted as Olsen kicked his horse into a canter. He knew that General Hansen would want his report as soon as possible.

High over the city, the crows began to dip lower, gliding downward in preparation for their feast.

Thorvald Compound, Ponticar

Rolf secured the door to the small study using a simple closing spell to insure it could not be forced open. He walked to the oval rug covering the floor and knelt in the center of the pattern embroidered on it. Something Elena had passed on to him after her training with Thexta had led him to experiment with symbols and patterns. He remembered her talking about working within a sacred space and how much it had enhanced her spells. Rolf had believed he was powerful enough without such devices, but much to his surprise he found his power increased when he used the rug. He now did much of his work here.

As he prepared himself, Rolf wondered for a moment where Elena had gone once she left Ponticar. It was still difficult for him to understand why she hadn’t accepted his offer. He was now one of the most powerful people in Ponticar, connected to both the Magician’s Guild and the Thorvald family, the preeminent merchants in the city. There was no limit to how high he could climb, and she could have enjoyed it right along with him.

He shook his head, knowing that she would not have been content to be in the shadows. No, her damn stubbornness would have gotten in the way. Elena had probably done him a favor by leaving. How could he have risen this quickly or this far tied down to a tavern wench? It would have been a mistake. Rolf pushed the thought away, locking it deep within his mind where it belonged. She was gone and life moved on. He had other concerns now.

A few deep breaths to calm himself, a whispered incantation to light the candles placed around the room, and he was ready. In the flickering light of the tapers the scarlet rug looked like a pool of blood, and the silver pentagram embroidered on it glowed spectrally. Rolf could feel the warm familiar flow of energies moving through and around his body as he opened himself as a conduit for magic.

Closing his eyes, he pictured the meeting room in the compound below. Url Thorvald was sequestered there with representatives from the other families for their monthly council, discussing current events in Ponticar and in the empire as a whole. Rolfhad learned from Dark that knowledge was power and had been using the monthly meetings to practice his ability to project his consciousness into another place. A form of magical eavesdropping, and one of the more difficult skills to master. Many magicians were unable to do much more than get brief glimpses of something happening elsewhere. That would not do for Rolf’s purposes.

In the beginning, he could only hold the spell open for five minutes before it drained him, and he had to shut it down. Constant practice had allowed him to become skilled enough to keep it open for hours without feeling any ill effects. It was an ability he was careful to hide from Thorvald, knowing that his father-in-law would certainly expect him to use it to further the goals of the family. Rolf was happy to prosper along with the Thorvald clan, but he was not yet prepared to give himself over body and soul to them. Ifhe had learned one thing, it was to look out for himself. Rolf had opened up to Dark and Elena, and they had both chosen to turn their backs on him and go their own way. He did not hold a grudge any longer; it had been a valuable lesson for him. The way to get along in the world was to take care of your own needs first and foremost.

In his mind’s eye he could see the council room. Another mental surge and he was in the room, as aware ofhis surroundings as ifhe had actually stepped through the door. His observation point seemed to be about seven feet off the floor, though he could adjust the location within the room itself if he so chose.

Shipments are offby more than forty percent over the last quarter, one man said, reading from a piece of parchment. I expected that to happen in the north since the fighting around Arenal shows no signs of lessening. I didn’t expect it to happen in the west.

Pertosh, Url Thorvald said in reply, a frown on his craggy features. They’re taking advantage of the war to cut into our markets.

What are we going to do about it? asked the speaker.

I’m open to suggestions. I think we underestimated the strength of their markets, and I admit I never thought they’d go after trade this aggressively. We could either try to compete with them more aggressively ourselves, try to come to some sort of agreement, or simply concede the western markets for the time being.

I don’t much like the idea of just throwing all that hard work away, said one of the representatives. We worked for years to establish a network out there.

I agree, Thorvald replied. I wasn’t suggesting we do that, but it was one of the options. We do need to think about what we are going to do there. The war has begun to become costly in more ways than

one.

What do you hear from Erickson? He should be keeping us informed about the state of things out there on the borders.

He has held up his end of the bargain, Thorvald replied. I can’t fault him there. But if you expected him to let us in on his long range plans, I think you were being a bit naive. Would you, if you were in his place? Any information we get from out there will be information we gather ourselves.

How are we going to go about doing that? We need someone out in Pertosh who can let us know what’s happening and what the situation is in the west. It’s hard to get through to there using the main trade routes. We can’t even send a caravan out anymore unless it has a hundred guards around it. And even then, we’ve lost two over the past three months to bandit attacks.

Let’s keep our issues separate, gentlemen, Thorvald counseled. First things first. I propose we send someone out to Pertosh to see what is going on there. He can report back to us, and we can make our plans accordingly.

Heads nodded.

Who can we send?

Thorvald answered, I have someone in mind. He’s been there once already, so he at least knows something about the city. I’m sending Rolf, my son-in-law.

Rolf reacted so strongly he almost lost the vision. It was necessary to keep emotions under check as much as possible when doing magic because they interfered with the efficiency of the spells. Thorvald’s words had caught him completely off guard. Pertosh? He had spent months working his way back from that coastal city, and now Thor-vald wanted him to go all the way across the continent back to it again. Pertosh was a long, long way from Ponticar, and he wasn’t certain he wished to be that far removed from the center of power, especially now that he had access to some of it.

There was more to it than that. Rolf had grown accustomed to the feeling of being able to stay in one place, no longer worried about who might be chasing him or how close they were to finding him. The richness ofhis life now was another incentive for staying in Ponticar. After more than a year living as what amounted to an outlaw, Rolf was thoroughly enjoying having servants who saw to his needs twenty-four hours a day. He was not anxious to give that up unless he had strong reasons for doing so.

He closed out the vision and slowly returned his consciousness to his body, breathing slowly and deeply to ease the transition back into physical form. When he was calm and controlled, he closed off the wards he had placed around the rug and sat for a moment thinking about the implications of what he had just heard.

This was far from a certain thing, no matter how Thorvald presented it to his peers down below. Master Servinsson would certainly have something to say about it. Rolf was on the staff at the revived Institute, the youngest instructor in the history of the school. IfThor-vald believed he would just be able to order Rolf all the way out to the coast, he was in for a shock.

Rolf remembered the months he had spent on the road with Dark and Elena, first running to Pertosh, then running away from it. Those months had been the most important in his life as far as magic was concerned. It was where he had perfected the lessons Dark had taught him here in Ponticar and where he had learned to use his powers in ways he had not imagined. The nights had been spent learning different lessons with Elena, and he could not help but compare her to his wife, Sasha. Elena had thrived in the rough conditions they had encountered, becoming a powerful sorceress. Sasha was a woman of Ponticar, at home in the closed and snobbish society of the aristocracy. He shook his head and smiled as he tried to imagine her wearing the same clothes for weeks on end, eating food cooked over a fire or not at all, or sleeping on the ground with nothing more than a blanket for warmth. He knew she would not last more than two days, if that long.

Well, why should she? Rolf muttered to himself as he rose and began putting out the candles. Nothing attractive about living like that.

Rolf looked at the last candle for a long time before blowing it out, staring into the flame and seeing other flames, other fires in his mind’s eye. He pushed away the thought. Those days were over forever. The people he had experienced them with had moved on and so had he. Why then had he been having so many memories about those months lately? There had been more than one night when he had awakened suddenly from a dream, certain he was sleeping beside a smoldering fire. His hands would reach for someone who wasn’t there, and Sasha would stir in her sleep, bringing him back to reality.