The Worm Within: The First Chronicle of Future Earth

By Sarah J Newton

"Classic fantasy packed with exquisite and original touches..." - Jaine Fenn, author of the Hidden Empire series.

“Thrilling, inventive, and full of wonder.” - Howard Andrew Jones, author of The Desert of Souls.

"The start of an absolutely fantastic new series!" - GMS M

• Language: English
• Publisher: Mindjammer Press Ltd
• Release date: Jun 1, 2017
• ISBN: 9781911380436

Book preview

PROLOGUE

Are they dead?

Are they even human? Look at those teeth, the way their lips are pulled back. That long, thin head. They can’t be human.

They are from a time before time, Old Varda intoned. "They are Helemor." In the flickering lantern light he looked round at their faces, pinched with fear. As their priest he knew he had to speak with authority, even though this was outside his experience.

Everyone shuddered. One or two stepped back from the two metal sarcophagi and the purple glowing windows which illuminated the heads within.

They were deep in the ancient complex, below even the corroded tunnels which honeycombed the ground beneath the great city of Korudav. But, after endless graveyard darkness and lifeless catacombs, here there was light. Not lantern light, but something stranger: mysterious, diffuse, unsettling. The walls — of metals no longer found in the exhausted Earth — hummed.

They can’t be Helemor. I’ve seen paintings in the temples. The Helemor were monsters: these look more like men.

Old Varda saw the tension on Trenegar’s face. The temple warrior had forgotten the axe of shell-like alagin in his hands, streaked with gore — their descent had not been unopposed — but now a superstitious fear froze his features. Not only his; the priest knew the expedition stood on the edge of panic. This was beyond understanding.

Pictures become distorted as the memory grows strange with time, Old Varda said, in a voice calculated to reassure. If they aren’t Helemor, then they’re perhaps an earlier form, closer to men before the Fall — from the Time of Stars, before they were warped by the Void. These are not monsters.

Holding his staff high in his zoic prosthesis, the priest placed his good hand over the violet glow which lit the face in the first metal coffin. In a practised voice he intoned syllables in an unintelligible tongue. Slowly, gold suffused his fingers.

Look — we have it, he whispered. A soft purpurescence illuminated his face from below, mixing with the gold of his divination.

I don’t think this one is dead.

CHAPTER 1

In the Chronomancer’s Tower Iago lingered by a window, a luminact hovering at his shoulder on bat-like wings. A jumble of books and unravelled scrolls lay ignored on a table. He clutched an armload to his chest, and squinted into the courtyard below.

He had spent so many afternoons here — as punishment or on library duty, shirking the wood-stacking or water-carrying or hiding from his fellows — gazing out over the Forest of Jasmai from its uppermost floors. He could trace the Grand Canal southwards, from where it left the slave plantations of the Timosian Properties, and follow it to the distant waters of the Falais, on whose shores lay vast and ancient Korudav, the City of Leaden Walls. His heart would quicken when he directed his gaze northwards, to the peaks of Amadorad above the endless forest, snowcapped even in summer, protecting the Autocracy from the death-filled wastes beyond.

That afternoon a figure had approached the Tower from the east, up the tree-lined defile from the Korudav road. He had eyed it out of curiosity at first, wondering if it was not another messenger from the Great Temple at Korudav, like the one which had called away the high priestess so unexpectedly the day before. But then something had caught his eye, and with a motion of his hand he had invoked a cantrip, and saw the figure was mounted, approaching at a fast and loping pace.

The breath caught in his throat, and he leaned into the open window. In his magnified vision the mount moved not with the frankness of a horse, but with a feral gait, tearing into the earth and pulling itself forwards, like a predator stalking its prey. Few in the Venerable Autocracy had the right to ride the chelother: its foul temper and aggressive streak made it the battle-mount of only the most fearsome warriors.

The beast drew up to the verdigris bronze portals of the gatehouse, and growled threateningly with a mouth full of teeth and fangs, clawing the ground. Blind Tyrus the Doorkeeper emerged with trepidation.

By his apparel the rider was a man of status. With a haughty yet casual assumption of authority, he reined back his mount’s toothy maw and leaned down as the zoan fused into the doorkeeper’s empty eye-sockets scrutinised him intently.

I am Kazimir vel-Tanis of the Legion of Lord Regos. I am here to see Master Pellegraine.

Pellegraine! Iago edged closer to the casement, careful not to let the armload of scrolls fall. Surely no one of consequence could want anything to do with that reclusive and irascible renegade? Yet the legionnaire’s snow-white surcoat emblazoned with heraldic insignia, the lavish decoration on his lacquered kite shield, the pennant on his flamelance, could not be denied. 

Doorkeeper Tyrus vanished into the Tower, muttering alarmed imprecations against the summoned priest, and the legionnaire leaned over the fiery orange mane of his steed, whispering soothing words. After several minutes a bronze portal creaked below. The legionnaire looked up, and Master Pellegraine stepped hastily into the summer sunshine.

Captain. It was Pellegraine’s voice. From his hiding place above, Iago saw only his back, and the thinning patch in his long, greying hair. So it is you.

The legionnaire’s face hardened. His mouth assumed a stony grimace, his blue eyes unmoving. You look older.

Iago held his breath. The students of the Chronomancer’s Tower loved Pellegraine for his kindness and unconventionality — he had been there ever since they had arrived as orphans in their earliest childhoods — but the scholar-priests of the God of Time had never treated him as one of their own. How could a mere peddler of words dare to speak to a mighty warrior from the empire’s legions?

Hah! Master Pellegraine spat out a laugh. You’re not so young yourself, you old bastard! Nor so thin!

Iago stood, open-mouthed. Laughter broke out from both of them, the hard face of the legionnaire dissolving into warmth. 

It’s good to see you, my friend, he said. Look at us — in our finery, me with my honours, you in hoary exile — he waved his arm in mock appreciation of the Tower — and those… ridiculous robes. Who’d have thought we’d make it so far? That we’d even be alive, after all these years?

Iago watched the top of Master Pellegraine’s head as he nodded. It’s been a long time.

Fifteen years! We have some catching up to do! How’s the life of a humble teacher suiting you? Have you thawed Jen’s heart yet? No?

Master Pellegraine looked aside. We can reminisce later. You never make courtesy calls. What’s wrong?

Kazimir’s smile fell. You’re right, of course. I’m bringing bad news. Reports from the northern frontier: the quarantine may have been breached. We may have an infestation within two day’s ride. Inside the Autocracy.

The hairs on the back of Iago’s neck rose. He knew the tales of the monsters which swarmed beyond the Mountains of Kadram which formed the Autocracy’s northern frontier. History and myth were filled with stories of the Chaos Wastes, of desperate battles against the Foes of Man. But they were the legends of the Helemoriad, of long-dead heroes and the wars of gods. Nothing to do with today.

For a moment Iago glimpsed a world he’d never seen before. Like a chink in the reality he thought he knew, a window to a deeper, perilous existence which lay beneath. A world unsuspected, a hair’s breadth from the one he lived in every day. One by one, the scrolls in his arms slipped from his grasp and fell to the floor.

The two men looked up sharply at the sound. Come inside, Pellegraine said. I’ve information, too — and we may be overheard here. We have to keep this to ourselves. For now, at least.

Kazimir stared at the window where Iago hid with his heart in his mouth. How long can a thing like this stay secret, I wonder? Bad news has a habit of announcing itself.

The Venerable Autocracy of Sakara was the oldest of the Springtide Civilisations. While other lands had crumbled before the tides of time and Chaos, the Autocracy had endured, preserved by the constancy of the God Emperor, reincarnating in his line of Avatars in his palace of Glorious Kados. The world might grow senescent, but it survived through obedience to the gods which had saved it from destruction. Humankind had fallen, but that did not mean that those who studied might not contemplate with awe the glories of its past.

The age of the Chronomancer’s Tower swaddled Iago like a familiar smell, and he felt the deep roots of time which grew around its gnarled stones. It had stood since the founding of Korudav, when Chaos had been driven from the land, its cupolas and spires stained with the verdigris of millennia. It promised constant slumber, and forgetfulness from woe.

The rest of that afternoon his mind was a whirl. He went through the motions of everyday tasks he had done since he was a child, replacing and rewinding scrolls, keeping the ancient shelves in order, until the light began to fade, but every moment the questions in his head clamoured for answer until he could no longer hear himself think. He felt surrounded by ghosts, by strangers who had nothing to do with him any more, although he had known them all his life. What was the secret Master Pellegraine was keeping? Set apart by the information he had unwittingly overheard, half of him felt exhilarated at knowing something not even the temple’s pilogiarch was privy to. But the other half was appalled, and a pit opened in his stomach with the fear that everything he knew might be threatened by a hidden and ancient enemy. And why had Pilogiarch Vlathu left so suddenly the day before? Unreality haunted him, and there was no one he could tell.

That evening, his fellow students in the temple refectory found him distant, and rapidly left him to his private thoughts. 

And what thoughts! Pictures filled his mind from the lurid stories of his childhood, the grotesque fairy-tales of the monsters which had once almost destroyed the world.

Darkness found him creeping through forbidden parts of the Chronomancer’s Tower. The fifth floor held the Library of the Leaves of Gold, a repository of the rarest books of sorcery and temporal lore, thought-records engraved upon plates of precious metal and inlaid with enamels and precious gems, so old that no one had any inkling of how they could ever have been made. No one below the priesthood was allowed –- the very doors were said to be protected by spells and traps — but a room off the staircase belonged to Master Pellegraine. With a mortal fear of creaking timbers Iago crept breathlessly to its door and placed an ear to the lock.

There was the sound of voices within. One was raised, as if in alarm.

Look, the raised voice said, it’s obvious. We have to find out for ourselves — this isn’t something you can delegate to others. If it was mishandled… We can’t let people know, not yet. There’d be panic. Pandemonium!

If what you say is true. But do we know it is? Could it really have been Old Varda? The messenger yesterday said there were rumours of strange events in Korudav at the time of the expedition’s disappearance — but that’s more than a hundred leagues from your reports. Could there be a connection? Did the priest disturb something? You know how these things work…

Iago’s heart pounded. The other voice spoke in measured tones which he placed as those of Master Pellegraine. He pictured him wandering up and down the dais of the lecture theatre, hands behind his back, head up and chin out as he expostulated upon some key point of contention. Old Varda, the scholar-priest in charge of the Tower’s beadles, had left on an expedition a month ago…

What do we really know? Master Pellegraine’s voice went on. The priest left to explore a ruin in the city precincts of Korudav which he believed might date to the Time of Snows. A routine expedition — a reward for its leader. No danger was expected, yet neither he nor any of his company has returned. If the message Jennisa — he corrected himself — Pilogiarch Vlathu received from Korudav is telling the truth, there are troops in the precincts, the entire site has been sealed by the Autarch’s artificers, and the expedition declared lost with all hands. The very next day, you arrive with reports of a ravening monster killing peasants outside Chimur Fortress on the northern frontier — completely the opposite direction. A monster with the twisted form of a man, which, when finally overcome, was found to be wearing the robes of a Chronicler of Unthar and possess accoutrements which strongly suggest it was all that was left of Old Varda. A hundred leagues from where he had last been seen.

Kazimir grunted. You’ll admit the evidence is compelling.

But do we actually know this was the Shakh? That it’s an infestation? They haven’t been south of the Kadram Wall for a thousand years.

Look at the signs. What else can it be? It fits everything we know. There are documented encounters from the deep patrols along the frontier. We know the Chaos beasts are cursed by Gumazhdu the Mutator, that they can pass the curse on to whatever they touch. Any animal larger than a mouse is a potential victim. The victim’s form remains, but suffers continuous, rapid mutation — and hideous agony. And the ability to infect others is passed on, and so the Chaos spreads. The fact that we’ve maintained the quarantine for a millennium shouldn’t blind us to the facts.

Iago felt his lips grow cold, and his mind reeled. Old Varda — dead? Or worse? He was hardly a man well-liked by the students — his unbending adherence to the Tower’s rules saw to that. He would lurk silently around the dormitories after the lanterns were dimmed, or stand noiselessly behind the scrollstacks in the library, waiting to catch a miscreant in flagrante. But for him to be dead? It was beyond imagining.

There was the sound of someone pacing slowly up and down.

But the distance, from Korudav to the Highlands. Varda was a priest of Unthar — he had no access to sorceries of transportation. I take it you’re not suggesting he walked through some kind of tunnel?

"I have… a source, inside the Autarchal Palace in Korudav. This source has told me the Autarch has recently gained a new advisor — one with knowledge of manatines and the devices of the Ancients. An advisor who isn’t human, but some unknown species of jeniri."

"The Cousins of Man? You’re saying Varda’s expedition may have found a planing machine beneath Korudav?"

It would explain Varda’s re-appearance by Chimur Fortress. They do exist, you know.

I don’t doubt it — but a functioning one, hidden and unknown since the Fall? And there would need to be a second planing machine somewhere in the highlands around the fortress! And if there’s a Chaos incursion there…

It could spread to Korudav at any moment. Or anywhere in the Autocracy where there’s another planing machine — even beneath the God-Emperor’s palace in Kados. Now you see why I came.

And yet a functioning planing machine would be a priceless find. The possibility of expanding our knowledge of the Ancients… The artificers make a great show of their mysteries, but it’s all mummery. The gulf of time is simply too great. The secrets of those devices were lost millennia before even the Time of Snows, and the Earth’s too old and exhausted to let us ever create their like again.

There was a pause. If only you’d come two days ago. This information would have been useful to Jen — to Pilogiarch Vlathu before she left for Koru —

For the gods’ sake, Pell, call her by her name! You’re still holding that grudge? You’re priests, not children!

It was her decision to become pilogiarch, Pellegraine said, coldly. She put that first, not me. She showed what she valued most.

The silence was longer this time.

Well, don’t you have sorcery?

No. Our temple has cantrips to contact minds in close proximity, nothing more. Unthar’s power is over time, not communication. Only the Virikki can maintain effective contact over that kind of distance.

A courier, then? Kazimir continued. Perhaps on a fast horse…

I’ll arrange it. But the news will reach her too late. She’ll arrive in Korudav tomorrow.

The conversation died down again. While his mind raced, Iago imagined the two of them lost in thought, perhaps avoiding things not said for many years. There was the sound of chair legs grating on stone, and the pacing began again.

Where’s the body of the priest now? It was Pellegraine’s voice.

Locked away by the chelarch of Chimur Fortress. Someone had the presence of mind to realise it might be important. Apparently there was a mob demanding the body be burned — they used the soldiery to restore order. Not a good situation. But in any case… mmm?

The legionnaire’s voice trailed away. There was the sound of a creak on the other side of the door. Suddenly, Iago sensed another person standing just beyond it, inches away, separated by only a thin layer of wood. He froze. His mind raced, looking for escape.

The door burst open with a gust of air and a flash of candlelight on the darkened stair, and Iago fell into the room beyond.

Whaaat! Master Pellegraine roared. What’s this? A spy in our midst?

There was the flash of a dagger being drawn from a sheath. The legionnaire advanced menacingly.

Pellegraine held out his hand to stay the blade. That probably isn’t necessary, Kaz. This boy’s one of my students…

Kazimir grunted, narrowing his eyes at Iago as he hung limply in Pellegraine’s grasp. Do you know what this is, lad? he said, waving the shining weapon in front of the apprentice’s face. Iago had only seen alagin, never metal, and he looked from the blade to the legionnaire in astonishment. Steel…? he breathed.

Cold steel… the legionnaire hissed. Sharper than alagin, a thousand times more valuable… He waved the dagger before Iago’s nose, and he found himself crossing and uncrossing his eyes trying to follow it. Did your studies tell you where it comes from?

L-L-Ladabran… Iago stammered, not taking his eyes off the blade. 

Another world… The legionnaire bared his teeth, his eyes ablaze. No metal in the Earth any more. This weapon came through the planing machine beneath the God-Emperor’s palace itself. Unimaginable treasures from the Time of Stars. Imagine who I am to have a blade like this. Imagine how little trouble I’d have slitting the throat of an enemy ear to ear if I felt it necessary… He motioned the dagger towards Iago’s jugular. The cosmos is a big place, and very easy to get yourself killed in if you set a foot wrong.

The legionnaire lowered his hand. He returned to his seat, his huge shoulders heaving. Iago stood rooted to the spot, unable to take his eyes off the blade. It had come from a distant world, one which had not been ruined, drained of all its resources in the war of the gods. He knew his lessons as dry abstractions — but to experience the vivid reality…

Listening at doors can be a dangerous occupation, young apprentice, Pellegraine said, eyeing him seriously.

Y-yes, Master. Iago unclenched his fists, wincing at the pain. But Old Varda is dead…? He blinked back sudden tears.

So you overheard… Pellegraine cast an eye towards Kazimir. It’s all right, my boy. No one’s going to kill you. Not now, at least.

The legionnaire tossed his head, returning the dagger to its sheath. Does this whelp have a name?

Despite his emotion, Iago’s pride was stung. It’s Iago, L-legionnaire.

Iago what?

He wasn’t a child. I beg your pardon, he replied, forcing himself to face the soldier. My name is Iago Menteus of the House of the Viridian Scribes, First Circle Aspirant of the Temple of Unthar, Lord of Time. I — I am honoured to make your acquaintance.

Kazimir grinned. And our name is Kazimir vel-Tanis of the House of the Noble Sakari, Legiadimact of the Legion of Lord Regos, Indomitable. We are pleased to have you know us, Master Priest.

Iago stared at the legionnaire. Sakaraic was a complex tongue, a descendant of the High Tlanik of antiquity, capable of expressing fine nuances of status. Any introduction was a ritual which firmly established the social hierarchy of its participants.

Legionnaire… he began, then corrected himself. M-my lord…

"Never seen an astriger before, eh, lad?"

Dumbfounded, Iago shook his head. No, my lord… Never. He blinked, looking around for an answer. No one ever comes here from the cities… And with your dagger to my throat, you towered over me so much, I never thought…

Kazimir — Lord Kazimir — threw back his head and laughed, eliciting a smile even from Master Pellegraine. Then his smile froze.

Lighten up, lad, he said. So now we know who outranks who, on the great ladder of cringing and condescension in our stagnant Autocracy. His lip curled. And it wouldn’t have made a blind bit of difference if you’d been the God Emperor’s son himself — I’d still have whipped your hide without breaking a sweat.

Iago stood speechless. The web of respect language and social deference stretched out before him in mind-numbing complexity.

Master Pellegraine addressed the room as though he were giving a lecture. This… boy… is quite possibly the worst apprentice librarian I’ve ever had the misfortune to know! He’s lazy, careless, and uninterested. A disgrace to the librarian’s profession!

Iago hung his head, his eyes burning with shame. But Master Pellegraine went on. But put a map before him, or a locked door or a chest, or a piece of ancient writing, and his eyes catch fire! Isn’t that right, boy? Iago looked up at Master Pellegraine, his heart giving a jump as he detected a note of humour in the chronicler’s voice. 

You’re wasted indoors, my boy! Pellegraine exclaimed. Detective work’s what you need! Skulking in shadows and listening at keyholes, eh? he laughed. A spot of… investigation! He winked at Lord Kazimir. How d’you fancy some fieldwork?

Master? Iago struggled to think.

I’ll be leaving the Tower shortly. Urgent business to attend to, can’t wait. I’ll need an assistant. Meals to prepare, fires to light, horses to tend. Hard, dirty work, and dangerous as likely as not. And — he added conspiratorially, as you’re only too aware, there’s a mystery to solve. The death of one of our own…

Master… I don’t…

Come on, boy! You’ll come, yes? He cast a sidelong glance at Lord Kazimir, who stared fixedly, a tight smile on his face.

Oh, Master, yes! Yes, of course! But — really?

"Never mind that right now. Run to the Doorkeeper and see if you can get an exeat for tomorrow. Explain you’re going with me if he gives you any argument."

Yes, Master! Thank you! Iago turned to run.

And boy?

Master?

"Come straight back afterwards — you’ll sleep here tonight. Not a word of what you’ve heard to anyone, yes? Not even a thought."

Master, of course not, no. Iago swallowed, remembering the cool glint of the Ladabran blade. Thank you, Master. He turned his head to Lord Kazimir. Thank you too, my lord.

That’s all right, lad, Lord Kazimir replied. Iago looked at Pellegraine again, and then — as if afraid he might change his mind — tore open the door and charged down the corridor as if the hosts of darkness snapped at his heels.

With a small smile Pellegraine walked slowly to the door and closed it. He turned as if lost in thought, to the ancient mahogany desk piled high with books and scrolls, a rickety orrery.

You shouldn’t have done that, you know. Kazimir regarded him from the far side of the room.

What was I supposed to do? Pellegraine said, sourly. His hand set the orrery spinning. We could hardly kill the boy. And if we didn’t take him, the whole thing would be all over the temple in a day and the province in a week. Anyway, he’s… special. He has a sense for history — for the flow of time — I’ve never seen in a human mind. It’s safer this way. He’s completed his basic sorcerous instruction, and I need an assistant. He held his hand up to his forehead, wiped away the grimy feeling he had there, gazed thoughtlessly out of the window. It’ll do him good.

If it doesn’t kill him. He’s far too young, Pell, you know he is.

Pellegraine turned his head slightly from the view. He’s sixteen. Not much younger than you were when you killed his mother.

Kazimir’s eyes widened. The Witch of Shaful? This is the child — you raised it here after all? What were you thinking?

Pellegraine turned, eyeing Kazimir steadily, then his tension broke in a rush of words. "Ah, Kaz, you remember how it was. It was a baby — it had no father we could find, its mother was dead. I’ve watched the boy — guided him. I couldn’t have wished him to grow up better if he’d been my own.

You saw the look in his eyes. You know how it is when you see someone like that, someone who’s a bit different from the run of the mill, a bit of a maverick. Eh? He has spirit — and a gift, too, I think.

"A gift? You’d better hope that’s all it is. I’m amazed Jennisa ever let you do it. Something so… typically you. I’ll bet she never lets you forget it. And the lad knows nothing?"

I’ve thought it better to keep it from him. He has romantic notions, I’m sure all orphans do. They’re better than the reality. The coven of Shaful is nothing that should ever haunt a child’s dreams. He knows he has inherited his abilities — but he assumes he’s done so like any other apprentice at the Tower.

And has he?

Witches and wild sorcerers share the same talents as any priest — just unfocussed or untrained, or perverted by ideology. His upbringing here has been the boy’s salvation.

By the gods… what a weird family the three of you must make. Kazimir shook his head, baring his teeth. And this sense for the flow of time? You said you’ve never seen the like?

Pellegraine glanced at Kazimir sharply, but held himself to a shrug. He’s gifted. More than me. He sees… patterns — makes connections. Chronomancers are born as well as made.

A chronomancer? Really? You think he may be that special?

Possibly. The temple has helped him direct and develop his gift, and will continue to do so. Anyway, he has the spirit — he’s more like us than anyone I’ve met in years. I’m not just saying that.

You haven’t changed, my friend. Always into danger with the ones you love.

You did it once.

Kazimir winced. And never again. Maybe Jen’s way is right after all.

Pellegraine frowned. I don’t know any more. Maybe none of us can help ourselves. Maybe that’s what binds us together — duty, love, trust. People like us.

Kazimir spat out a laugh. Heroes, you mean? Come on, Pell, I’m thirty-five years old. I’ve a gut which would put a pregnant sow to shame. It was a long time ago, my friend.

Pellegraine shrugged. Thirty-five’s no age. It won’t take you long. You need some exercise, my old warrior. Something real — you’ve grown soft on marching practice and parade grounds. You need to feel a sword in your hands and use it in anger again.

Kazimir grimaced. He looked at his hand, flexed his fingers. Maybe you’re right, he muttered. Maybe I do need to be out there. He gazed out of the casement window, to where the wind moved in the cedars. Although it doesn’t look like we’ve got much choice.

CHAPTER 2

Almost nothing ever happened in the ivied quadrangles of the Chronomancer’s Tower. Nestled in academic splendour beneath the slumbering eaves of the Forest of Jasmai, for countless years its priests and students had come and gone, quietly and studiously living and dying as they memorised the age-old mysteries of Unthar, God of Time. Passing them from generation to generation, they preserved and hallowed them as the cycliads turned. But nothing actually happened; nothing new, that is. History was something that had happened long ago, little more than an object of scrutiny, passed from hand to hand for abstract speculation in its candle-lit halls.

At the crack of dawn the following morning a small party set out from its gates. Swathed in mists, the world held its breath. To the north and west the cedars and cryptomeria stood tall and bleached by the passing night, waiting for the rejuvenating touch of the first light of day. 

The path they took headed east to the Korudav Road, then turned north, away from the province’s heartlands and towards the slave plantations of the Timosian Properties which bordered the barren Sheal Highlands. Hugging the forest eaves, the ancient road stretched before them, empty at this hour.

At the front, mounted on a chelother which breathed steam and growled, rode Lord Kazimir vel-Tanis, Legiadimact of the Legion of Lord Regos, his shoulders hunched against the dawn chill. Behind him, on a passable dappled palfrey which chewed its bit and tossed its head to keep its distance from the chelother, came Master Pellegraine, in travelling robes of verdigris hue, a carven quarterstaff slung across his back, looking ahead for signs of others on the road. Last of all, on a plain grey nag, came Iago.

He stared into empty air, his stomach protesting at the earliness of the hour, and blinked as the damp teased tears from his sleep-encrusted eyes. His hooded travelling cloak itched, and the boots Master Pellegraine had given him pinched his toes, unused to anything more confining than sandals. His master had given him heavy gloves — even gauntlets — but had not insisted he wear them. Nevertheless he frowned at the preparations, thinking of what they might mean. He thought back to the previous day, wondering how on earth he’d come to this point, with his master and a warrior he barely knew, heading into unknown danger.

As time passed the aches in his back and neck dissipated and his spirits rose. His earlier confusion gave way to excitement and growing exhilaration, as he began to realise that — whether for a day, a week, or a month — he’d at last broken free of the humdrum confines of his life at the Tower. Was this life, at last, which had suddenly descended upon him and snatched him away to adventure and danger? Something he’d dreamed about, glimpsed in books and scrolls — perhaps one day something worthy of a Chronicle… And he, Iago Menteus, of the House of the Viridian Scribes, would write it!

A sneeze destroyed his reverie. Bless you, lad! Lord Kazimir called.

Thank you, my lord, Iago spluttered, reddening but less fearful of the imposing warrior. Master Pellegraine appeared not to have noticed.

A handful of miles east of the Chronomancer’s Tower the paved road emerged from the trees alongside a pellucid green canal, stretching straight as a die to the north and south. At its side, over a lichen-encrusted bridge, ran