The Calling: Saga of the End of Times, Book One

By Christine Swanson

In the world was Lore and Lore delighted the eye. It spread itself across the land, whispered to men through the earth and foliage, through crystalline devices. Here, one form of Lore develops-there, some diverse facet, each the embodiment of man's greatness. But Lore is cunning, for men can only think to be great, and conscience often doesn't speak loudly enough.

Here is the epic struggle between men and the Lore they wield, a conflict mirrored in the ordeals faced by the hero who would save them. He was bred to be a leader, a Lifeward with no other emotion than anger. What strange hand turns a stone heart into an aching void? What unworthy Lifeward dares to live such blasphemy? Adored by some, but despised by his own kind, Saydon is beleaguered by his flaws, disgusted with himself. And yet, he refuses to surrender, for above all else, he is goaded to answer the whispers calling his name.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Trafford Publishing
• Release date: Feb 3, 2006
• ISBN: 9781412238007

Christine Swanson

Christine A. Swanson was born in Ladysmith Wisconsin, resided there and in Upper Michigan for many years. A country girl at heart, oft times mirrored in her outdoor scenes, she now resides in the very woodsy Seattle Washington area with her husband George and wonder dog Blaze. She began writing at a young age just for the love of words and their art form, she has completed several short stories and has more novels in progress.

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Copyright 2005 Christine Swanson.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the written prior permission of the author.

Cover Design and Map by George Swanson

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ISBN 978-1-4122-3800-7 (ebk)

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Contents

Prologue

THE WILD

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

The MARCH

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty One

Chapter Twenty Two

Chapter Twenty Three

Chapter Twenty Four

Chapter Twenty Five

Chapter Twenty Six

The Lord inspires me to write,

George inspires me to finish.

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Prologue

The peacefulness of the age grew out of the bounty of the land; men no longer labored to fill their bellies, or struggled to keep clothes against their backs. Give men ease they will seek pursuits other than survival, this in an attempt to quell that part of their psyche which thrives with adversity—so it was when we set out. It was the need to be tried and proven that compelled us to explore, growth was inevitable. Crafts were perfected and all too soon specialised—our minds hungry, desirous for knowledge. We reached into the wilderness void and attempted to uncover the secrets of the world. But, that was at the beginning…because…it was a peaceful age which steadily, subtly turned perilous. I recall the long lingering days of summer happiness, but each season passes to another and so it was that winter came upon us.

I am the scroll of events, but it already exists forever etched upon the endless climbs of my mind. More—it is my duty to record for I am of the Ancient and my Lore antiquity. I am a Loresman from the Fifth Age of the Clansmen, one of five who have mastered a crystal.

Crystals are our allies, in service since we first ventured into the Wild and used to reach the Pattern of Lore. Though we do not understand intricacies, or mechanics, we do know the internal properties that trigger a gem. Much as a voice in the caverns falls louder, echoing ever wider, so too a crystal amplifies and empowers thought. They are a power source, energy encapsulated in flawless stone. If a mind can be trained, a man may use that part of his intellect to trigger a gem. But, it is usual that only one facet of Crystal Lore can be learned with the training time long and difficult. The gem is elusive, the connection between man and stone uneasy.

Many of our people cannot learn Lore, cannot understand the art in the mechanism. Just as some may not inherit the gift, a rare few have been doubly graced. In my lifetime, only one has adapted to all forms and facets that are contained within the Pattern of Lore. In part, the perilous times I have stored upon these parchments concern this Loremaster.

The world is wide; our continent alone contains many races. We know we are not unique; others use the crystal sources even as we do. But there are some, and these are beyond our comprehension, that have traded the life giving words of the Creator for the harsh and dreadful world of evil.

And so the end of our summer happiness is come, but the question lingers, did we herald the end, even call it upon ourselves somehow? This is the Saga of the End of Times, a title not our own for we have been written into another history, but a petition I must record even as it unfolds.

-Tammeron the Ancient

THE WILD

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Chapter One

And if there be solace in numbers, what of

barren times when one man walks alone?

-Unknown

Shadows chased a figure moving too quickly through the bracken, only they able to follow a virtually unmarked trail. A ragged gasp drifted across the dewy hillside, echoed back until the figure clamped his lips to secret his location. A smolder grew on the horizon and he turned into it, a stone etched silhouette at first, then flesh. His shadowy face conjured dark contemplations, the rigidity said nothing of emotion, but as the veil of dark lifted a contradiction came true. Myriad sensations flashed and contorted the rugged face. Stress lay in the lines as if night had extracted any notion of calm, only raw and agitated senses were left behind.

Saydon slipped through the snagging briers with rapidity, a distraction from the battle for his face. Soon, daylight would offer a view from the down-sloping hills of the Mount to the heather and rock canyons in haze far below. Farther on, in the heart of the wide valley, he may catch a glimpse of the Wild River plunging along its northward course. His destination waited on the far bank, the beautiful, well-sung Wild Lands.

Saydon tossed his head as if to be rid of an invading insect, in truth it was the uncanny and persistent sensations tainting his thoughts. Trepidation had stalked him all through the night, a rider on the restless winds. Subtle whistles, perhaps distant cries, had attempted to invoke these sensations. Successfully it seemed, for even as the first fingers of light streaked the sky his apprehension did not fade. And yet, well schooled and noteworthy, his facial muscles relaxed into their firm and resolute grimace, one he regularly masked all non-essential emotion, even anger, behind.

The fine tone of his body was obvious, enviable, the musculature not too bulky, but well defined and like steel. His weariness was easy to conceal. More so since he was of the mountain breed, the Lifeward, his aspiration battle, anger the crux of his existence. Endurance came with breeding, this proven by the unwavering strides he took. Lifeward could weather five days of nonstop travel and under more relaxed conditions, go without sleep for much longer. Saydon quickened into his fourth day like a runner. Amid his thirty-sixth summer, he was at the height of his physical prowess and would not suffer side effect or depletion from his extended exertion. Strength and arrogance coupled with the resources of war made a Lifeward capable. It was fitting they controlled all the Knownlands since no one could, or even dared to challenge their authority.

Saydon made his way down the rock littered slope. A warm sun etched the eastern horizon, a promise to take the chill from his limbs. He raised his head into the glow, suddenly awash in an invisible hand of reddish hue. The mountains ragged glory; the snow upon the upper heights burned like blood canopies. He soaked in the blaze, his silhouette thrown tall against the golden cliffs.

For all of his previous desire to see, he didn’t seem to care now, he barely glanced into the valley, its depths still untouched by the dawning. Halfway down the canyon, the vista of the valley spread wider, revealed by a fleet edge of mist evaporating light. A flat plain extended two to three leagues toward a massive stand of trees wherein the Wild River snaked toward the sea.

This was an unknown region for the Lifeward. A steep mountain range separated the Wild from the Knownlands and a coastline of coral and jagged cliffs thwarted entry by sea. To the south lay Blue Tor, a vast expanse of craggy rock ribs, the backbone of the Mount. Very few had traversed it; for its disjointed canyons and jutting teeth like abutments seemed to swallow all who ventured within. The Wild River flowed out of Blue Tor, spilled over a monumental drop. A cloud of spray rose above a cavernous hole in the bedrock, the origin of the Wild River’s angry journey. The Knownlands were secure, too peaceful. Searching for challenges, the questing eyes of the Lifeward turned to the mystic lands of the Wild. Saydon followed on the heels of several scouting battalions now vanished. His mission? Locate his missing brethren.

By mid-morning, Saydon gained the valley edge. He stopped long enough to nibble on a bit of dried meat and wet his parched lips. Then, as if goaded, he trudged on across the dry plain footing the hills. The relentless stare of the sun made sweat bead up and energy, like his thoughts, evaporated into the air.

Alone. The word turned over and over in his mind, took on the cadence of a song. Saydon forced his face to remain impassive, not to belie how he ached for Sheeban, his companion of many summers. Sheeban was titled Oracle, as well as Battle Master. She was part of his quest, acting as a Crystal Bearer.. .they two... journeying alone. Only now, she was gone, taken the night before by...

Saydon wasn’t sure of the events, but he did remember the crystal in her hands. The communicative gem was their link with the Knownlands, also used to search for the missing Lifeward. Saydon winced, but his expression denied any movement. What could make her eyes glow so brightly? What outside influence did that? Sheeban was dead before he could break her connection with the crystal, her mind burned of life. Saydon’s seared palm confirmed the fervent intensity of the gem, now a tangible reminder drawing his gaze again and again, eyes filled with realizations too blasphemous to name.

Saydon hardened his face; his journey had grown all the more difficult. Sheeban was his only link with the brother Lifeward, but her body lay useless beneath the stones of the Mount. He cursed the strange sensations mixing his mind, silently vowed to remain impervious. Lifeward didn’t feel, nor did they mourn for dead bodies; he would need all his abilities to finish the task at hand, and these did not include tears. The weapons-belt encircling his waist sported a fist-sized pouch in which Sheeban’s crystal dangled. It tapped against his thigh and he pretended not to notice.

It was mid-afternoon when the first trees welcomed him. Saydon slumped against a trunk to drink, preferring to remain upon his feet, wariness a reflexive trait. The possibility of assault occupied his thoughts now, for indeed Sheeban’s death bore the marks of an attack. Unable to rest, he forced his body onward, paced like a cat from tree to tree, keen ears scanning the perimeter. The foliage thickened, swallowed his trace. The deeper he delved the larger the trees grew, their massive trunks supporting limbs which meshed and closed overhead. Red tinged leaves shimmered softly upon a gentle breeze, a continuous canopy of an oak and maple mixture. The press dropped Saydon into a preternatural dusk.

All too soon, the sun would fall below the western horizon and with it would fade the possibility of travel through the already dusky forest. Though Lifeward eyes could pierce any darkness, Saydon opted to minimize his fatigue. He pulled the pack from his back and hunched into a hollowed out wood monolith. The night stretched long and activity no longer held his vile thoughts at bay. Perdition! The curse reverberated against his tired eyelids.

Saydon put food to his mouth, forced the needed nourishment through the nausea of his long trek. Light, clean tasting wine washed away the cold scraps. Taken by a sudden urge, he upended the bottle only to force it from his lips a moment later. He gazed into the black of the now arrived night and betrayed none of the tumultuous sensations making new their assault.

Lifeward do not fear,

Lifeward imperviously understand,

Lifeward eyes do not tear,

lives of the land lay in my hand.

Saydon gathered strength from the dirge, sang it within. The crickets in the forest joined his inaudible song, a lonely addition. He slumped deeper into the tree after retrieving a solang from his pack.

The solang offered little comfort from the chill creeping into his thoughts. Sheeban had fashioned it for him from the inner bark of a sabin tree. Wide strips were dried, woven, then dampened and pounded. The latter process was done several times to relax the woven strands into a meshed barrier, the texture became suede softness. She made one for herself as well, aware of the harsh cold waiting for them in the upper climbs. Saydon had wrapped Sheeban in hers before leaving her on the side of one of those very climbs. He wondered if she was warm, safe from the chill he could not be rid of. But then, the unusualness of the thought captured his attention and a thread of anger pulsed to life. He looked at his right thumb, at a half moon scar above the knuckle.

With a charred hand, he pulled a long dagger from his belt, laid it on his bent knees, his chin lowering to rest against it. The sharp blade edge reassured him, the stone familiar to the hands that had fashioned it. On many occasions, its pointed argument had swayed the outcome of hovering defeat. He would count on it now.

Impulsively, he pulled the leather pouch from his belt, freed the clear crystal. A dull glow shoved back the deepening darkness; flawless perfection seemed innocent, lonely. He touched it; almost a caress and smooth coolness crept into his hand. Deep inside, at the core, he thought he saw a gyration.

Saydon drew his eyes away, trembling hands returned the gem to its pouch. The art of use was beyond his gender, thus Sheeban’s presence on the journey. But, his link was severed, surely alone was not word enough to describe the peril. Disturbed, he pushed all thought from his mind and invoked sleep, his ears left as sentinel.

* * *

Rising with renewed limbs, Saydon pushed from the tree hollow, senses primed. He stowed the solang and munched on a meat strip while musing over the serene forest. All at once, he noticed it—a perplexity—morning had a voice. Dawn whispered through the tall green giants and an aura of clean warmth radiated back. But, if he truly listened, actually strained to hear, he realized a soft ringing, the sound of many commingled voices. For a moment it seemed creatures danced, transfixed from another time or just vaguely seen because his eyes had not the unique nature required for discernment.

A mystery tried to expand his intellect, an immense concept saturating toward awareness. The forest was alive with something beyond mere existence. It wanted to wobble him, he knew it even as a voice entered his unbalanced ear, whispered words of feeling—alone—perdition—is she warm?—the words he had said.

Confusion almost took hold of him then, but he fought it off, refusing to discover the reason for his odd behavior. The crystal bounced against his thigh, pulled him away. He caught the pouch as if it were an incoming projectile, eyes seeming to pierce the protective covering. Saydon stood uncertain for a moment, searched the leafy boughs. It was over. Turning abruptly, he dropped his breakfast and walked from the campsite, impassivity falling rock firm.

Morning waned and with it went the trepidation. Saydon walked through the immense forest, his face resolute. Deeper and deeper he delved, squeezing between the trees as they grew closer together. They seemed to discuss his passage, sentinels at a gate, protectors of...what? The absence of forest creatures played foremost in his mind. Lifeward communicated with wildlife and Saydon could use an ally.

After a time, the forest thinned and he walked uninterrupted. Soon, the faint sound of rushing waters touched his ear. A full league passed underfoot before he stood on the high bank of the Wild River. Saydon watched the frothy anger heave and plunge along the course of the riverbed, aimlessly buffeting the steep embankments.

The sun had dipped below zenith and afternoon stared hotly into his back. Saydon’s mountain apparel, jerkin and trousers of tough molanna leather were too heavy for the warmth of the lowland. He ducked his head to loose his crisscrossed shoulder bands, removed his jerkin without taking off his weapons-belt, which he stuffed into the pack.

The river raged too wide where he stood so Saydon looked upstream, but his search was fruitless. The current defaced any possible aid to his crossing and the only other alternative was one he’d rather turn aside.

Saydon rummaged through his pack, retrieved his solang and a thin coil of rope. He rolled the solang and used the rope to secure it to his back, tightly wrapping the remaining coil around his chest, weapons-belt and other trappings. Once done, he crouched to munch the remaining rations and guzzle the dwindled wine. He stood with the pack in his arms, hurled it into the froth of the river. It bobbed for a moment before dragging down into the seething undercurrents.

Stone-faced throughout the process, his intent to defy the tormenting peculiarities of the past days, he appeared to possess undaunted determination. With weapon secure, hand looping the leather thong he’d made for his knife around the swells in the hilt, Saydon moved to the edge of the river. He shoved his tangled passions aside, spread his arms in a wide arc and pushed off from the bank.

Icy waters enveloped him, the sudden shock knocking air from his lungs. A surge pulled him down and he fought to regain the surface. He rose far downstream, muscles bunched, straining against the rampant deluge. Surges and undercurrents battered him, forced him into the depths time and again. Each interval seemed infinite and his lungs soon screamed for air.

A powerful current traversing an underwater boulder clenched his body, swept him toward the craggy wall on the far bank. Saydon grabbed at the rock face and the torrent pummeled his back, fisted him into the stone. Flesh caught on the sharp edges, tore and ripped free. Heaving strength from every part of his body, he climbed, air whistling in and out of his lungs.

Saydon gained the safety of the river bank; water gushed from his solang and smattered the ground. He took a few steps before crouching and rolling onto his back in the grass. The sky stared down serenely, seemed unaware of the battle that had occurred under its watchful eye. He lay there for a moment, allowed his body recuperation, time for the blood seeping from his chest to slow. The sun warmed and soothed, melted the icy touch of the river from his skin, brought to life extremities white and numb.

A muffled shout in the distance lifted Saydon’s head. He heard it again, a battle cry distorted by a tinge of pain. He lumbered to his feet and blood from his chest painted the ground beneath. Before completely aware of it, Saydon was running toward the cry. It was the vow rooted into his heart driving him, for a protector must answer any need. Strength laced his veins, his response guaranteed and a product of lifelong instruction. He didn’t notice his painful chest or the steady thump of the crystal against his thigh.

Another cry, closer than the last, slowed his gait. He approached stealthily, hidden by stately tree cover. Swiftly through the green he prowled with weapon in hand, ready for an argument. In a clearing ahead he beheld the throat of the crier. A creamy tan, now slashed crimson, smiled a bloody welcome.

Chapter Two

He was visualized, seen and known,

and yet, he remained a mystery to us

We tried to understand, but the world gave

us little time. How could we have known?

-Tammeron the Ancient

Saydon circled the glen, eyes intent on sign or threat. Nothing slipped sideways into shadow, or ducked down to rustle the brush. Even the earth lay strangely undisturbed, but for a few thick shards of glass. Reassured by his senses, he stepped toward the victim, aware of an uneasiness growing in his chest. Ah...a female, her tattered clothing was blood stained, in turn commuting to his hands. Her face—the expression! He shifted her and the slack head turned of its own accord, revealed an impassive stare. The gaze was adamant, denying death. His breath whistled. Perdition. A Lifeward—a Crystal Bearer! Saydon clenched her jealously as fleeting thoughts of Sheeban burned through his mind. He felt it and he whirled expectantly, attuned to those of his own kind.

A Lifeward stepped from the wood, then another and another. Saydon crouched low, waited until eight of his kind and two of strange origin encircled him. Whereas the Lifeward had darker, leaner facial features, the strangers looked to be of a hearty northern breed with noble nose and chin line.

One moved forward now, great age barely evident beneath his robe. He surveyed the dead woman, then Saydon’s bloody chest, eyes darting to precise locations as if seeking to fulfill some criteria. The hoary head shook with dismay. Silence hung heavy in the air as all examined the situation, each seeking to discern what trick of fate they beheld. Here stood a wounded Lifeward, dripping wet and wrapped all about with cord and blanket.

I am Loresman Eben, leader of the Clansmen.

Saydon looked through narrowed eyes, agitated by the Lifeward who ignored his upraised hand. He rose up stiffly, voice a conveyance for the displeasure he felt. Saydon, Third Forcer.

Is this your crime?

Anger brewed at the mere mention of such an affront to his vow. Saydon reacted to the offense by readying his blade.

A Lifeward moved to Eben’s side. Beware, Loresman. The weapon in his hand is the Argument.

Saydon recognized the brother. Mayal, explain why you do not submit to my authority, explain the impossibility of such an accusation.

Mayal assented, eyes like stones. Forcer, we are not disobedient without cause, we are constrained to suspect all who enter these lands. The question must be asked. Is this your crime?

Saydon’s lip curled ever so slightly. The vow holds me firm; I do not kill my brethren. Yet, I am forced to confess, no other evidence but my own marks this glen.

Saydon eyed the Lifeward. Surely distrust lay in Mayal’s face, a face so familiar in proportion. Mayal’s gaze fell to the dripping solang, traced the pattern of the weave. The visage of Sheeban, eye sockets burned empty, loomed before Saydon. The family resemblance goaded and tugged, confused his angry stance. He must tell Mayal his womb sister had fallen, but the thought made him sway as if struck. No Lifeward ever knew their true birth parents; it was done randomly, militarily—all were brothers and sisters as far as they would have it. It was a rare to have true kin as in multiple births. Postures turned rigid. Alerted, Saydon realized his uneven demeanor could be felt.

A second approached. I am Loremaster Winter. He confronted Eben. I’ve seen, now comes the time of trust. Will we believe our gifts? He has not defiled this place.

They talked quietly for a few moments, low audible tones of agreement passed between them. Eben disengaged. We extend our apologies and ask that you accompany us to our home. While you consider, we will bury and honor, as well we may, the dead woman of your clan.

I am not accustomed to such insult, nor is it customary to accept apologies from subordinates.

We see you do not know our high station, therefore, observe the attitudes of your brothers before forming an opinion. We will enlighten you when the time comes right, until then we beg indulgence.

Something about the uncanny old Loresman eased Saydon. He relented, uncertain of the questions he wanted to ask, uneasy with the sensations strumming the air. Aware of watchful eyes, he set to the task of untangling himself from the cord and solang, careful to keep his weapon still in hand.

Eben went to the fallen woman’s side, joined by four Lifeward, while the remnant took defensive stance around the glen. Saydon watched them; aware Mayal had stationed himself near, yet far enough away to dissuade conversation. The Loremaster Winter stood with the Lifeward, his strange eyes locked in a counter-study.

A sense of bewilderment hung in Saydon’s mind. Though his wounds could easily add favor to his part in murder, they had readily pardoned him. Lifeward knew better than to accuse another brother, but these strangers had not the same assurance. Perhaps, they had insight as to the real killer. Did not the surly mood of the Lifeward tell of a hated burden? Oh, yes, trait was a scowl, anger the feel in the air about them, but Saydon could sense more. And the men of Lore, Winter in particular, had said with a certainty that the crime was not his own. What manner of man could speak so surely that the force of his words swayed so many? Saydon pulled his eyes away, suddenly sickened by his ability to register the agonies torturing their hearts.

At any rate, Saydon concluded, a grimace placed carefully across his face, the answer to his ignorance lay with them. Perdition! He turned to Mayal. Mayal, I require information. What of the other Lifeward?

Mayal began to speak, but Winter interrupted. My friend, there is much we would also know. We ask that your queries be held in lieu of the council we will hold this night.

You must understand, Lifeward do not stand apart from their brothers. Camaraderie and knowledge are a birthright.

An understanding smile, or a wince of pain, (Saydon couldn’t decide which) spread across Winter’s lips. Perhaps then, the presence of your Lifeward brothers can ease your discomfort even though they hold to silence. Be reassured of my sincerity. Allow your weapon to find rest.

Saydon had forgotten the Argument and he notched it to its sheath. I wish it known that I object to your suspicion.

Winter nodded.

Mayal directed two more Lifeward to ready the body. They lowered the woman into a shallow hole, along with the fragments of her gem and covered her. A ritual not common to a Lifeward burial ceremony was performed. The Lifeward remained impassive throughout, though haunted by sleep worn eyes and shadowy thoughts Saydon could not know, they seemed unmoved by the woman’s death. Eben, who performed the ceremony, cried openly and a tear or two trickled from Winter’s eyes. When they left, the glen seemed to hesitate breathlessly over the dissipating violence.

The group moved in a southerly direction, veering to the east. They passed beneath leafy boughs, delved deeper into the monolith trees called menden. Though it appeared they followed no discernible path, the men moved with a confidence Saydon could not ignore.

Saydon kept pace with them, quiet; chest aching as it dried and cracked. He’d long since uncoiled the rope from his body, the loops dangling loosely around his middle, solang slung over one shoulder. His wounds were dry and caked brown forged undermining lines to his weapons-belt. The etchings seemed to gather where the crystal swung against his thigh.

The trek was of great length, twilight etched the azure sky when at last the trees thinned and grassy slopes over gentle canyons invited the party. During the journey, Saydon watched his companions closely, ready for any unwarranted advances or betrayals.

Winter paced near his side, shoulder length, golden hair swishing about his face. He seemed impenetrable, a man of vast endurance and possibilities. There rode on his young visage a kind of displaced knowledge, one that seemed to testify to a long and careful study of death. Yet, if that knowledge was fatal, Winter showed little outward sign. He walked as a man filled with vital life, not easily subdued. Saydon looked away, awed and slightly endangered by the Loremaster’s strong presence.

Mayal acted as First Ward, directing the party’s progress across the hillsides. Saydon estimated the amount of Lifeward in the area at twelve score, if the number of scouting parties sent to explore the Wild had not diminished. Mayal would be the highest authority. Saydon nodded agreement, ignoring his nagging thoughts of Sheeban.

Ahead, in the dusky pre-dark, sharply angled boulders pointed at the sky. The party loped to the first buttresses, then slowed and picked cautiously through a high stone avenue. The rock way seemed nearly pathless until a movement ahead revealed a figure stepping from the shadows.

Hail, Loresman. A sentry crossed his hands to his chest.

A weary Eben returned the salute. The Sentinels appear quiet this night.

Yes, Loresman.

Stones intertwined in a braided vine net and held aloft by a metal rod gleamed in the darkness beyond. The group continued to the rock torch, the Lifeward stealthy, the vast night continually pierced by their searching eyes. Saydon watched them and his body acquired a tense recognition.

They stepped from the Sentinels into a wide space at the foot of a high cliff edge. Saydon turned