The Altar of My Fate: The Rosteval Saga, #1

By Michael R. Schultheiss

"Game of Thrones meets Conan the Barbarian in this epic tale of adventure." ~Reedsy Discovery

 

A warrior questing for glory…

A slave-girl with a secret…

Can they claim the ancient altar?

 

Trained to the warrior's path, Rosteval yearns for glory and craves adventure in unknown lands.

 

Leading the war-band he created, he sets off on a quest to brave a formidable desert and the swords and arrows of a growing number of enemy tribes.

 

He expected the mounting dangers… but he didn't expect Ghaitta, the beautiful slave-girl with a secret… and the power and peril of an ancient altar, an artifact of the vanished Shaper race.

 

As his enemies multiply, Rosteval is forced to confront an immortal adversary and the looming specter of defeat. Can Rosteval and Ghaitta avert disaster, and claim the fateful power of the ancient Shaper altar?

 

Brimming with fierce tribes, deadly perils, ancient powers, and sexy slave-girls, The Altar of My Fate is the epic fantasy adventure you've been craving. Get it now.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Michael R. Schultheiss
• Release date: Mar 26, 2022
• ISBN: 9798985190403

Book preview

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DEDICATION

To Beka: my love, my light, my joy, and the one who convinced me to give this project one more try.

Copyright ©(2021) by Michael R. Schultheiss.

All rights reserved.

No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher or author, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.

Published by Lyamgallal Press LLC.

Cover designed by MiblArt.

Contents

Maps

1. To Capture A Concubine

2. Hamarvan the King

3. Two for a Toss, Three for the Night

4. Hare-Killer and Wishbone

5. On the Trail of Ogre

6. Pellakeshra and Fargandra

7. The Dawn Ambush

8. The Fargand Southern Army

9. Duel at Garhuwan

10. Into the Sebaiya

11. Sahaudas

12. The Waters of Orzawal

13. In Search of Kurjayak

14. King of Bulwandi

15. The Tiger and the Red Lion

16. Blood of Kings and Gods

17. The Pursuit of Chaghodak

18. The Serpent and the Rishva

19. Out of Bulwandi

20. Sword-Gift

21. The Battle of Javubali

22. The Gifts of the Shapers

23. The Way West

24. The Rishva-Altar

25. A Race of Wolves

26. The Prince Without Peer

27. The Pathways of Fate

Author's Note

The Adventure Continues...

Contact the Author

Maps

The Ketaryat Realm

The Ketaryat Realm

The Sebaiya and Lohiman Kingdoms

The Sebaiya and Lohiman Kingdoms

1

To Capture A Concubine

IT ALL BEGAN that day when I was nineteen, the day we tracked down the concubine who had opened her master’s throat and left him floating in a crimson pool of his own blood.

My name is Rosteval, son of Bosvadal, and on that day I rode on the open plains with my uncle, Galvoban, and twenty-five men from our household in search of the woman who had slain one of our kinsmen.

We rode for much of that warm, late spring day as the hounds followed the scent through the rustling tall-grass. Even from the back of my mount, I could see signs of the woman and her companions: the hoof-prints of their horses, places where the grass had been trampled.

Like the rest of the men, I was girded for war: a pointed iron helmet on my head, a lamellar cuirass of sewn-together iron plates over a cotton tunic with wide sleeves that covered my upper arms, leather guards on my forearms, as well as cotton trousers and leather boots.

My bow hung in its case over my back, my quiver of arrows hung at my side, and I had a single-edged iron blade, about fourteen inches in length, in a scabbard at my belt. I also wore a pair of bronze bracelets, each of which was studded with a glass disc about an inch in diameter: the one on my left wrist glowed with silver, while the one on my right wrist glowed blue.

The dogs were ogre-hounds, great dark wolfish beasts about the size of hyenas, and their barks and howls were clear signals that the trail presented them with no difficulties. They had been bred to hunt ogres, bears, lions, and hyenas, and to track down runaway slaves—or, in this case, a concubine and an armed party.

Toward mid-afternoon my cousin Daryubal reined in next to me, his yellow-gold eyes sparkling with mischief. This is a lot of trouble to avenge Juryodan, you know.

I snickered, sensing the joke. How do you mean? At nineteen I was sinewy and whip-strong, my complexion the tawny brown so common among my people, my eyes the same yellow-gold as Daryubal’s—an inheritance from my father.

Daryubal gave a playful, leering grin, baring his teeth. Man of his size needs a large mount, no?

I laughed. An aurochs, maybe, or a mammoth. He could ride it… and mount it, too. Juryodan had been a giant of a man, with an appetite more voracious than that of an ogre. I had also found him about as agreeable as an ogre.

Daryubal howled. Still laughing, he drew a leather skin from his saddlebags and took a swig. He smacked his lips, and I could smell the kumis—fermented mare’s milk—on his breath.

Truly, we all know what happened, he said with a smirk, his eyes glinting. She got tired of it, and decided to stick him for a change.

I threw back my head and laughed, and when my uncle Galvoban turned his mount toward Daryubal’s and swiped at his son with the back of his hand, cuffing him on the ear, I laughed some more.

Fool lads, both of you, to value a kinsman’s life so lightly, he said, his large eyes darting and dancing from Daryubal to me and back. Even if he were a lush, a glutton, and a drunkard—and I’ll allow he were—still, it’s a blood debt.

Daryubal gave a small smirk and rubbed at his ear. I am but a colt, and my father is the great stallion.

I grimaced. Juryodan was Lord Varyem’s man, uncle.

Galvoban frowned, and his nostrils flared as he inhaled deeply. He grasped my shoulder and upper arm, just past the edge of my lamellar cuirass, and squeezed with fingers that felt like five iron rods. If my shoulder and upper arm had not been thick with muscle and sinew—after all, I had been practicing archery since I was a boy of six—his grip might actually have hurt.

Truth, my boy, and who is Lord Varyem to you?

The words came to me by reflex. Varyem the Usurper, son of Beregan the Red Adulterer, of the line of Beregan the Elder of the Barduvatra, the one who unjustly reigns as prince of the Barduvatra, the People of the Storm, since my father Bosvadal fell in battle against our enemies.

His eyes rolled and danced, the whites flashing. True, boy, and don’t ever forget it.

I will never forget that I am Rosteval, son of Bosvadal of the line of Verestam, rightful prince of the Barduvatra. My father had died when I was but a babe in arms, fighting the Moggad-Dahra, our enemies to the east. We were not that far from the frontier with their realm.

His mouth broadened into a smile. True words. Now, back to the chase. Hounds are near the quarry, I’ll reckon. Any luck, we’ll catch the murderess and her party before they cross to the Moggad-Dahra.

I was rightful prince of the Barduvatra, and Varyem son of Beregan the Red Adulterer, of the line of Beregan the Elder of the Barduvatra, was the illegitimate crony my grandfather Hamarvan, king of all the Ketaryat tribes, had put in my stead. All the same, a blood debt was still a blood debt, and a duty was still a duty: we had been tasked with avenging Juryodan, and that was what we had to do.

We rode with scant conversation after that. I took the strands of what I knew, or thought I knew, and tried to weave them together in my mind.

The woman was a dark-eyed beauty named Lotaipa, and by all accounts she was a spirited woman, a skilled rider, and a songstress who delighted in the ballads of her people. A part of me could understand how a woman with such a spirit might balk at becoming the eleventh concubine of an ogreish man like Juryodan… but then again, she was the daughter of a minor clan among the Jala-Luwahra, while he was the first cousin of Lord Varyem, who reigned as prince of the Barduvatra—however illegitimately, in my view.

A little over an hour later, the ogre-hounds bayed, and we finally caught sight of our quarry: perhaps a dozen figures or so, riding with spare mounts behind them. Most seemed to be warriors—even at a distance, I could see the glint of their iron helmets in the sun—and the woman, Lotaipa, was in the lead, her long, dark hair streaming in the wind.

At our approach they shouted, and blue spiraling Rishva-forms, whirling helixes of blue light surmounted by blue-glowing spirit-figures, shot up over the heads of the woman and perhaps five of her companions. They streaked away at speed, the blue light suffusing them and their mounts, their blue Rishva-forms and spirit-figures spiraling over their heads.

I raised my left wrist with its silver disc, bringing it closer to my face, and made a resonant, droning aural hum, an emanation resonance. A silver Rishva-form about three feet in height sprang into being, surmounted by a silver spirit-figure who stood about another two feet in height, and I willed it to hover overhead even as a warm, exhilarating sense of power and speed flooded through me. All around me, the others were doing the same, and ahead of us the other six—or perhaps seven, it was hard to tell—of the enemy warriors were deploying their own silver Rishva-forms and spirit-figures.

Now the hunt was on, and by acts of will we lent power to our mounts and to the ogre-hounds, thread-like tendrils of power shooting out from our Rishva-forms to connect with the hounds and grant them speed beyond even their considerable abilities.

As we galloped toward our enemies, I drew my bow with a smooth, practiced motion of my right hand, and grasped three arrows with my left. This was not my first combat—I had been in skirmishes with bandits and Moggad-Dahi raiders since I was sixteen—but the stakes were higher this time. Either we would succeed in avenging the death of our late kinsman Juryodan, or we would fail. I did not lament Juryodan’s passing, but I knew my uncle Galvoban was right: we could not suffer a dishonor to the name of the Barduvatra, not without exacting vengeance.

The woman herself would have to be killed, of course, along with all of her accomplices. I wondered how Galvoban would do it, and how long it would take.

As we closed the distance with the enemy rearguard, they all drew out arrows and aimed them toward us.

My intuition suddenly screamed at me that something was very wrong about those arrows, that their points did not have the glint of iron, that they seemed larger and heavier than arrows should be, and then the enemy loosed them even as I grasped the dreadful truth.

GAIDJENT CHARM-ARROWS! I shouted, hoping that even in the heat of the moment my warning would do some good.

I saw an arrow impact on my uncle Galvoban’s lamellar cuirass, glimpsed the broad bone arrowhead before it exploded with a sharp CRACK and a burst of luminous mist, shards of bone flying everywhere along with a handful of the small iron plates of his cuirass.

Another arrow took one of our warriors in the face, and he fell to the ground—dead, I was certain. I glimpsed a third warrior who had been hit in the shoulder, and saw a bloody stump where his arm had been. I couldn’t account for all of the arrows, but a few others had definitely hit the ground and exploded there.

My uncle swayed and almost fell—I could see his eyes rolling in a half-dazed fashion, and there were fresh cuts on his face and a dark, spreading stain where the arrow had hit that told me some of the bone-shards had entered his body.

Galvoban let out a roar, like a lion who has been blooded and is now out for revenge.

FEED YOUR GUTS TO MY DOGS, I WILL! he shouted, and he drew out his bow and arrows.

With a skill honed through long practice, my fingers nocked an arrow to my bow. The bow had an almost yoke-like shape, and it felt like a living thing in my hands as I drew it back, my muscles rippling in a practiced motion as I willed the three layers of sinew, wood, and horn to bend. I sighted, released, and without waiting to see if I hit, I nocked, sighted, and loosed again.

The enemy had seemingly expended all of their Gaidjent charm-arrows in one round, and small wonder: I knew that such charms were obtained only at great expense. Now the enemy warriors drew iron-tipped arrows out of their quivers and loosed them at us.

But they were six in number—six now, I realized, seeing the corpse of one on the ground—and we were still twenty-three. Six could not stand for long before twenty-three.

My uncle blew a quick blast for attention, and then I saw his silver Rishva-form and spirit-figure whisk ahead, streaking toward the enemy position. I understood instantly, and willed mine to do the same even as the others followed suit.

We mobbed the enemy Rishva-forms with their spirit-figures, and we willed their power to leach to us. One on one we could have made but little headway, but with twenty-three to six it was no great difficulty to begin drawing their power into our own Rishva-forms, slowly leaching them of the enhanced power they needed to stay in the fight.

At the same time, we peppered them with more arrows, and I thrilled as I saw another of their number topple, an arrow through his throat and another embedded in his eye.

The remaining five stopped trying to shoot arrows at us. First one and then another recalled their silver Rishva-forms and spirit-figures, and then deployed their blues.

I gave a war-cry: LABARAKTANA! OVERCOME-AND-SLAY! Everyone knew blue Rishva were easier to leach from than silver Rishva—but they also granted greater speed.

The enemy streaked away, five mounted figures moving so fast that it was difficult for the eye to follow.

Galvoban let out a roar. They flee! The blue, men, the blue!

It took a simple act of will, no more than a thought, to withdraw my silver Rishva into my left bracelet even as I drone-hummed the emanation resonance to the blue Rishva-form in the bracelet on my right wrist. The blue Rishva shot into the sky, both Rishva and spirit-figure about the same size as the silver but possessed of much greater potential for speed.

The wind in my face tugged at my dark hair and my beard, and I laughed at the thrill of it as my horse now streaked forward with a speed that would credit even the hunting party of Father Sun himself.

The grasslands were wide and open, and as we put on speed, we quickly closed the distance with the rearguard and the woman and the warriors in the van. There was nowhere for them to run, nowhere for them to hide, nowhere for them to escape to.

Unless they can make it across the frontier, I thought, laughing to myself. Even then, they would need to find a party of Moggad-Dahra to protect them. No one really knew exactly where the frontier started and ended. Hamarvan our king and the king of the Moggad-Dahra had made various agreements about the ownership of specific cities, towns, and the banks of specific rivers, creeks, and lakes.

Even so, that left a great swath of territory, an ill-defined ribbon of borderland, an ambiguous zone with unclear and often locally contested borders. No one, not even my uncle Galvoban, who had been born and grown to manhood in these eastern lands, knew exactly where the border was supposed to be.

Something in the corner of my vision drew my eye north, toward the horizon.

Clouds… no, more than clouds, I realized, my eye resolving the multiple spiraling Rishva-forms.

RISHVA-STORM! I shouted, hoping I would be heard over the sound of the horse-hooves, and pointed north. As I did, I saw that it was gaining on us rapidly. I could see dozens of blue Rishva-forms and spirit-figures, or Rishva-shades, much larger than the ones we were wielding: some of them whirled along on the ground, kicking up dust, while others hovered several feet or many feet in the air. I glimpsed silver Rishva-forms and Rishva-shades behind them, also far larger than the ones we had used.

And now I could hear the Rishva-storm, too: a rhythmic whirring sound, one that put me in mind of a great flock of large birds with furiously flapping wings. Dust blew into my face, and I winced, my eyes smarting.

The woman, Lotaipa, and her party cheered at the approach of the Rishva-storm, and turned north. I knew what they intended as soon as I saw them change course: they were going to try to give us the slip.

Galvoban gestured toward them. DON’T LET THEM ESCAPE! he shouted. I saw his jaw was set and his eyes flashed and rolled in a way that told me he was bound and determined to get them.

But even as we turned our pursuit to follow Lotaipa and the men, I could see that they were angling toward the storm and would likely intersect it.

Galvoban urged his mount forward, kicking its flanks with his heels, and I followed suit, exhilarated to be engaged in a pursuit like this.

Lotaipa and her party reached the Rishva-storm and were swallowed up by it, hidden from our view.

And then we were in the Rishva-storm, and the whirling spiral-forms were all around us. I lowered my blue Rishva-form and Rishva-shade and slowed my speed, hoping to avoid the corrosive effects of the silver Rishva-forms and Rishva-shades all around us. I could see the others doing the same.

I heard it first, a great throbbing hum in the very heart of the Rishva-storm. Even as I turned, I saw it: a mighty column of a Rishva-form, massive like a great cedar tree, and white rather than silver or blue—though I saw shadows moving within it.

A white Rishva-form! Eagerly I looked up, my eyes taking in the spirit-figure or Rishva-shade standing atop the Rishva-spiral, perhaps thirty feet up: a glowing figure of white light about the size of a man. As it drew closer, I could see shadows clinging around it and billowing behind it.

And then it happened: even as the white Rishva-form swept past us, the white Rishva-shade turned its head and looked at me. I could see no eyes or discernible facial features, but I knew in that moment that it was staring at me.

I felt a sense of mental contact, as if its mind—if it had a mind—was reaching out and probing my own.

The moment passed, and the white Rishva-form surged past us.

By the time we were clear of the Rishva-storm, Lotaipa and her party were visible only as small figures in the distance. The ogre-hounds howled and streaked forward, muzzles slavering, hair standing up on their backs and necks.

Quarry’s getting AWAY! Daryubal shouted, but his face was gleeful, and a wild light was in his eyes. He was enjoying this, probably more than any of us.

I drew on the blue Rishva and kicked my heels against my mount’s flanks. The gelding I was riding snorted and began to gallop, but I knew that even with the aid of the Rishva, our horses would soon need rest and water. For that matter, so would the ogre-hounds.

As we drew closer to the fugitives, I saw a low rise in the ground ahead. I blinked, not certain of what I was seeing. I looked again, and saw the glint of iron.

There was a low rise, and on it there were riders drawn up in a line.

RIDERS AHEAD! I shouted, and two or three other men sounded the alarm at the same time.

As we drew closer, I saw that they were many—dozens, perhaps scores? It was hard to be certain, but they were more numerous than we were by far. Iron helmets glinted on their heads—warriors, then, prepared for combat.

We drew closer to the fugitives, and now I could see that a small, slow-moving river lay ahead—it had been hidden from my view by the tall grass.

Ahead of us, I heard Lotaipa give a cry of triumph as her horse plunged into the river, kicking up plumes of water. Her companions also began to whoop with delight.

Galvoban blew two quick blasts on the horn, the signal for us to rein in.

Even as I reined in, my horse snorting and blowing, my mind was weaving cords into a rope.

I took in the warriors on the other bank with a glance: their complexions were tawny, but yellower, sallower than those of my people or the Jala-Luwahra. Their faces were flatter, too, but many of them had the same yellow-gold eyes common among my people—common, I knew, among all the tribes that had come out of the Roof of the World. They wore long-sleeved robes that came most of the way down their legs, and the ones who seemed to be the leading men wore red robes with black vests, and their clothing was embroidered with a variety of patterns in white, green, and blue thread.

The other thing I noticed was that all of them carried bows, quivers of arrows, and swords sheathed at their sides.

Moggad-Dahra, I thought. Our enemies to the east. My heart was pounding, both from the gallop and the prospect of what was to come. I wondered if they would attack us and force us to flee. What a chase we would give them!

Lotaipa and her companions were making their way across the river, the water coming no higher than the knees of their horses.

Galvoban held up his right hand, a neutral gesture of greeting, and guided his mount closer to the bank of the river. I rode beside him, and Daryubal rode beside me, and the rest of the men formed an approximate line on either side of us.

Hail, greetings, Galvoban said, speaking in our Ketaryat tongue. He repeated himself in Orestamarian, the language of the Jala-Luwahra and the other peoples who had inhabited this land before us.

A man in the center of the enemy warriors spoke. Greetings to you, he said in Orestamarian.

I could see Lotaipa and the others making their way into the party of Moggad-Dahra. One warrior dipped his head to her, a sign of deference, and offered her a water-skin. She took it and drank. Other warriors started to offer water to her men.

Galvoban’s eyes flashed, and he sucked in air through his teeth. I am Galvoban, son of Verestam, of the line of Bardamal of the Barduvatra. I greet you in the name of the king of all Ketaryat tribes, Hamarvan of the Ashvasadra.

My mind was already weaving the cords together. The Moggad-Dahra were not attacking so far. Instead, they were staying on the far side of the small river.

That probably meant they thought it was the border, or at least thought they had a reasonable case it was.

Clearly, they were in league with Lotaipa, had planned to be here to defend her once she reached the border. The question, of course, was why? What did the Moggad-Dahra care for the murder of Juryodan? The man had been ogreish, true, but I could think of no reason his death would matter so much to them. If they wanted to kill a warrior who was well-placed in the Magradol Commandery, either my uncle Galvoban or Lord Varyem would be a better prize.

The Moggad-Dahi warrior had thin mustachios, and a well-trimmed beard that only came down a few inches below his chin. I am Gurtokrin, son of Yedchak my father and Sedzokrin my mother, of the Bali-Umbatra of the Moggad-Dahra.

Galvoban beamed, laugh-lines creasing around his eyes. Good! Good! You know me, and I know you. Tell me, Gurtokrin the son of Yedchak and Sedzokrin, for what purpose have you come to Ketaryat land?

Gurtokrin raised a single eyebrow and extended his right hand toward the river. We were out watering our horses at the Tadjemai. If you cross the Tadjemai, you will be in the territory of the Moggad-Dahra.

Galvoban frowned, but I thought I knew what Gurtokrin was talking about: my man Sabtemor had drilled me in Moggad-Dahi place-names.

Uncle, I said, leaning toward Galvoban.

My uncle turned his head partway toward me. Eh?

I think he means the Tayyakora.

Galvoban’s eyes rolled. Tayyakora? he growled. He put his smile back on his face, but it was strained. He turned back to Gurtokrin and raised his voice: We call it Tayyakora, my lord Gurtokrin, a part of our domain. He pointed beyond Gurtokrin. The border’s east, the creek called Dulohain.

Gurtokrin shook his head once, and pointed south with his left hand. The Tadjemai, what you call Tayyakora, it is only your domain past the gateway altar near the big trees, about a half-day’s ride from here, where it meets the creek you call Dulohain. The corner of his mouth curled. Perhaps a full day’s ride, for a Ketaryat.

Galvoban puffed out his chest, his smile slipping a little more. Tayyakora is part of our domain. Dulohain, that’s the border.

Not here, Gurtokrin said. Here, the Tayyakora is the border.

Galvoban frowned and pointed to Lotaipa. That woman, she has slain my kinsman Juryodan. Satisfaction, we need, to avenge our honor. Send her back over, and we’ll forget the border.

Gurtokrin rubbed his beard. "There’s one problem with that. She is on Moggad-Dahi land. That means I can give her sanctuary if I wish—and I do wish."

Lotaipa turned her horse to face us, her dark eyes shining with triumph. Strands of her long, dark hair were plastered to her face—she was sweaty from the long ride.

Your plan will never work! she said in Orestamarian. The prince, the Rishva, all of it—you will be undone!

None of her words made sense to me, but they were fascinating: the first real clue we had regarding her motivations.

We should probably head back, I said to Galvoban in a low voice, speaking Ketaryat.

Galvoban grit his teeth. Duwairos’ balls, I hate it, but you’re right, my lad. His face hardened, and he looked back toward Gurtokrin. Hear me, Gurtokrin: this is NOT OVER! We will avenge Barduvat blood!

Gurtokrin’s yellow-gold eyes glinted. As surely as the gods fight ogres, so the Moggad-Dahra fight Ketaryatra. So it is across the face of the world, from the Dark Sea to the White Sea. He turned without another word and began leading the party away.

My fingers twitched as I fantasized about loosing a shaft at Gurtokrin. How dare he liken us to ogres?

Galvoban waited until they were gone, and then he began to curse and swear, his eyes dancing wildly, whites flashing.

By the cock of Duwairos and the fat tits of Ruvaspa, no man takes a fugitive from Galvoban, son of Verestam!

We’ll kill them all another day, Father, Daryubal said. That Gurtokrin, his head would look good on a spear, yes?

Galvoban nodded and sighed. That he would. Rosteval, what do you think?

I was used to Galvoban deferring to me in some situations. He was my father’s younger brother, but he had looked up to my father Bosvadal and had committed to raising me to follow in his footsteps as head of our family.

We will avenge the honor of the Barduvatra, I said. But not today. Today we go back. One of our men is dead, another lost an arm.

And there are a couple of dead enemies to plunder, Daryubal said. He grinned and licked his lips.

I nodded in agreement. Lotaipa said something about a plan, a prince, and a Rishva. I wonder what she meant.

Galvoban shook his head and sighed. No plan of mine. But Juryodan, he was cousin to Lord Varyem…

And Varyem son of Beregan the Red Adulterer, of the line of Beregan the Elder of the Barduvatra, is close to Hamarvan our king, I said. Hamarvan our king—and my grandfather, father of my mother, as well as the man who had made Varyem prince of the Barduvatra when my father had died.

We made our way back to our fallen man. The man who had lost an arm was with him—he’d stopped the bleeding with an amber-spirit.

Galvoban clapped him on his good shoulder. You will have the better part of a year growing it back, aye, but in the meantime, you will have such a story to tell.

Later, as we made our way back to our command post, I found myself talking to Galvoban alone.

Wish this hadn’t happened just now, he said, his brow furrowed. Hamarvan our king coming here and all—terrible time.

I get the sense that this woman Lotaipa planned it that way, I said. Well, her and the Moggad-Dahra. Why is it a bad time for us?

He sighed. Barduvatra have always guarded the frontier in the east. Tribes of the Jala-Luwahra rebel, we put it down. Moggad-Dahra invade, we fight them. That’s how it is. Hamarvan our king, though… it’s harder when he’s here, telling us how to do it.

A gentle breeze was rustling the tall-grass, and I looked out across the fastnesses of these plains of Orestamar. This was our land, Barduvat land. We were subjects of Hamarvan, true, but very few of his tribe, the Ashvasadra, had crossed the mountains and come east to Orestamar-land.

You are right, uncle, I said. I am to lead our family to glory, status, and spoils… but Hamarvan has taken my birthright and given it to Lord Varyem. Now he comes here with his armies. Where will it end?

He reached out and grasped my wrist. I could see a fervor in those rolling eyes of his, an urgency. You, Rosteval, you must gain power, glory, and spoils for our house: slave-girls, horses, cattle, things of gold and silver and precious stones, all of it. You have the spirit of your father Bosvadal.

I will, I said. I had always known this was my fate: to lead my house to glory, or perish in the attempt.

My thoughts drifted back to the white Rishva-form and the white Rishva-shade. Very few people had managed to bind a white Rishva-shade, and there were usually dreadful consequences: madness, for one.

I’ll do it, I thought. I’ll bind the white Rishva-shade.

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2

Hamarvan the King

WE SPENT THE night at our command post, a dusty baked-brick fortification with earthen walls and stout wooden gates. On the morrow we rode west, making for the city of Magradol where Lord Varyem waited.

Our pace was unhurried, and I used the time to ponder how I might bond a white Rishva. While we were riding, I told two of my cousins, Daryubal and Taromede, what I had in mind.

Daryubal looked at me and burst out laughing. You? Bond a white Rishva? What, you want to go mad like what’s-his-name, that Hurranian emperor?

I shook my head. It’s been done successfully—at least two Hurranian emperors managed it. My mother, Karyava, had insisted I learn to read and write both languages, Old Hurranian as well as the Shaper-Tongue.

My cousin Taromede inclined his head toward me, looking down at me a little on account of his considerable height. He gave me a long, thoughtful look. Well, if you don’t go mad, you could do great things. He stroked his beard, his large but surprisingly nimble fingers playing with the red beads he had knotted in its strands—he said he liked the look of them. "Of course, you could go mad."

Daryubal shook his head and gave a playful, leering grin. Rosteval, you may be crazy… but if it wins our house glory in battle, it will be worth it, eh?

I gave his broad, muscle-bound shoulder a friendly cuff. Exactly. Think of it, the Barduvatra riding with the white Rishva above us, riding east into the lands of the Moggad-Dahra, plundering Habredol and the cities beyond, all the way to the great White Sea. Think of the slave-girls, cattle, and horses we would win!

Daryubal howled his appreciation, and Taromede’s eyes gleamed.

One thought, Rosteval, Taromede said, a shrewd look in his light grey eyes. Will you seek tutelage from the Rishvant of your grandfather the king, the one called Haldua?

Perhaps I will, I said. In truth, I had very little idea how to go about my scheme; all I knew was that something within me was driving me to it, and it was a strong and clear feeling. Somehow, I knew, this was a part of my fate.

I could not have known it at the time, but it would be some years before I had cause to wonder about the source of that feeling that seemed so strong and clear.

Later that day, we stopped at a gateway altar to replenish our spirits. Along with several other men, I stepped onto the great circular glass surface of the gateway altar, which was large enough to park an entire ox-cart and team on. It was smooth, save for the gyre-form grooves that ran from the silvery metal rim to the raised central hub, but my leather boots found sufficient purchase. Motes of white light coursed along the trackways of the grooves, always from the edges of the altar to the hub.

I knew this gateway altar was like all the others in size and in the materials that made it, and this by itself was extraordinary. I had never seen two houses that looked exactly the same, or two carts, or two swords, or two of anything else. There were always small differences, little imperfections, small variations in the grain of the wood, and so on.

The altars, however, were all the same. And despite being ancient beyond all reckoning, they were pristine: no one had ever managed to chip the altar-glass, and not even the passage of time had tarnished the altar-silver casing.

Of course, I also knew this made a certain kind of sense. Did not the stories all say that the god Urvandos, called the Crafter, had given the Shapers the secret of altar-making? The Shapers had learned well, had wrought well, and had taken their secrets with them when they departed.

We all squatted around the raised hub of smooth glass at the center and placed our Rishva-discs on it, the silver first. Daryubal was on my right, Taromede on my left. As I finished my silver and reached for my blue, I heard the whirring, humming sensation that I had heard from the Rishva-storm, but much fainter, as if from a distance.

Daryubal cursed, and I looked up in time to see his blue Rishva-spirit streak into the altar, towing its Rishva-form behind it.

We should cross over and get you another one, I said.

Daryubal made a sour face. We’ll try it, and we’ll probably be waiting hours to catch a Rishva-storm.

Not at all, I said, pointing to the altar. There’s one not far from us.

Taromede nudged me with his bony elbow. You see through altars now?

I laughed. You’re both funny. I hear it, of course.

They looked at me as if I had said something absurd, but then Taromede shrugged. All right, Rosteval, show us.

I stared into the depths of the altar, focused on the light within it, and willed myself to cross over. There was a tugging sensation, a flash of light, and then I was on the other side, in Bright-World. Taromede and Daryubal appeared next to me, each flashing with light as they emerged.

The heat hit me, like standing too close to a bonfire. A vast expanse of desert sand and bare outcroppings of rock stretched in every direction, and billowing masses of multi-hued fire—silver, blue, white, red, amber, green, black—undulated and crackled in the skies above, lapping tongues and surging pillars of flame. Overhead, a whirling vortex of blue-silver-white-red-amber-green-black-banded fire hovered above the altar—the altar-vortex. There was practically no smell here: I could feel the heat of these waterless wastes stripping the moisture from my sinuses. I licked my lips, and they dried at once.

As my eyes adjusted, I peered around in all directions, looking for the Rishva-storm. Braided cables of glass were anchored at four equally spaced points along the edge of the altar, arcing diagonally upward to connect with sets of silvery metal pillars about twenty feet tall. The cables ran from these pillars to others, farther out, and I knew that they ultimately ran to the next altars in each direction. These too had been crafted by the Shapers.

I looked, and spotted the Rishva-storm to the west. It was smaller than the one we had seen during the pursuit, and I saw only silver and blue Rishva. Without a white Rishva, it would not be able to cross over from Bright-World, Ellaerugallal, to Main-World, Lyamgallal.

I pointed. There.

We were in luck: the Rishva-storm had come close enough to the altar to be drawn to it. When it came close enough, Daryubal held up his spirit-disc and started to draw a blue Rishva-form and Rishva-shade toward it.

I might as well follow suit, I said. With a thought, I extended my aural clasp, opening my Third-Eye-sight so I could visualize it as a glowing translucent sphere, about the size of an orange, that extended out from me by means of a spiraling cable that was equally spectral.

I chose a blue Rishva and focused on the process of binding it, a process that required the looping of spectral threads around it, drawing it into my aura-clasp like a fish on the line. It fought, of course, bucking and tearing at the tethering threads, but I overcame it after a little more than twenty minutes.

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Two afternoons later, we found ourselves riding the old Hurranian stone-paved road into Magradol, passing the hodgepodge of earthen and wattle-and-daub cottages and walled houses that marked the outskirts of the Lower City. Peasant men, women, and children thronged in the streets and in and about the wayside stands with their wares: food, trinkets, clothing, and so on.

The free Hurranian peasants shared the streets with the Yulha-folk, with their wide eyes and rounded faces, but did not stand too closely. The old Hurranian blood-law was kept by all, peasant as well as noble: true-folk of every tribe and nation were not to mix their blood with the Yulha-folk, for such matings diminished the virtue of both races.

The smell of the city was strong here, the ripe smells of unwashed bodies mingling with the riper scents of human and animal waste from the latrines and midden-heaps, as well as the scents of cooking—I could smell bread and lentil stew—and the rich, heady scent of the earth itself, the bosom of Mother Ledduwan, after it has been bathed with rain. I breathed it in deeply: this was the city where I had been born, and it featured powerfully in my plans for the future.

As we headed into the city, the simple earthen and wattle-and-daub homes became larger constructions of wood or brick, with outer walls and peaked roofs that hinted at central courtyards. Many of these homes were also places of business, and we passed the wares of shoemakers, weavers, rope-makers, potters, and the other trades—all save for the tanners, of course, relegated to the farthest and most despised corner of the city because of the unsavory scents of their trade.

There were also taverns and inns, and many of these had balconies where the women of pleasure stood, or flounced, displaying their wares with the aid of garish and revealing clothing. Ordinarily I would have been quite taken by the spectacle they put on, to say nothing of the sultry, smoldering looks and lascivious suggestions they cried out to men who passed by, but today I paid them scarcely any mind.

As we made our way into the heart of the Lower City, we passed numerous stone columns, archways, and walls of ancient buildings. I thought little of them, having passed this way times beyond count. Other buildings were occupied: we passed temples, granaries, and administrative buildings, their wooden or tiled roofs in good repair.

We skirted the market in the central plaza, the true heart of the Lower City, but even riding along the edge I saw a dizzying array of wares for sale: grain, bread, fruit, livestock, ironworking and ironware, textiles, and a number of slaves standing beneath the open-air pavilions that marked the slave-market. My eye lingered on the slave-girls, displayed fully nude save for the slave-collars about their necks, their hands bound behind their backs. There were Yulha-maids among them as well, with their large eyes and wide foreheads.

Suddenly I saw men in black tunics and cloaks with silver hems walking among the slaves and inspecting them. I frowned.

Uncle, I said to Galvoban, and when he turned, I pointed out the men.

He sighed and shook his head, those wild eyes of his rolling. King’s already here. We’ll have to make sure his majesty is enjoying himself.

I had it in mind to ask the king for a boon, and now I realized I would have the opportunity to do so sooner than I had anticipated.

I’ll ask him when he is in his cups and in a good humor, I thought.

The Upper City was much more compact than the Lower City. We passed the towering temple of Bardalos the Thunderer, an edifice of glazed gray tiles replete with massive depictions of the Lord of Thunder with his bow and thunderbolt arrows, hunting ogres and assorted monsters and shadow-demons. At last, we made our way to the palace at the heart of it all. The outer walls of the palace were stone covered with glazed tiles that had been arranged to form imposing designs of gods, horsemen, and wild beasts in blue, gray, white, and black.

Black-clad royal guards ushered us into the large central chamber. The heady aromas of fresh bread, lentil and chickpea stew, and roast lamb hit me as we stepped in, and I saw men dressed in the fine tunics and trousers of great lords talking and laughing as they ate and drank. A cadre of beardless slave-youths in short tunics, most of them large-eyed Yulha-folk, and slave-girls in short dresses that bared their shoulders waited on them, refilling cups and bringing fresh platters of bread.

I heard music, and I looked and saw an entire troupe of musicians—drums, flute, zither, lyre, and a woman singer. It struck me as an extravagant indulgence: here in Magradol, the custom was for warriors to sing together in the evenings, songs of hunting, raiding, war, vengeance, and the charms of comely slave-girls.

The chamber was adorned with two great tapestries showing warriors hunting and warring. Most of the rest of the walls and the ceiling were covered with the hides of various beasts: lions, hyenas, aurochsen or wild-oxen, bison, even the hairy hide of an elephant.

My heart beat a little faster with anticipation as two black-clad guards led us toward the raised dais at the center of the room, where my grandfather reclined at table with several of his great lords.

But no sooner did I look toward my grandfather than my eye was drawn to the monstrous thing on display behind him: a massive hairy figure, manlike but too hairy and about half again as tall as a man. The face was hideous: wild mane of shaggy hair atop the head, sloping forehead, beetled brows, deep-set eyes—I saw these were man-made, perhaps painted wood or clay—broad nose, and large, gaping maw of a mouth.

An ogre, I thought. My grandfather dines before the preserved and stuffed hide of an ogre. The stuffed hide of an ogre he’d brought with him from the west, no less.

I knew my grandfather was an esteemed hunter of ogres. Everyone had heard the story about the time he had gone hunting ogre as a young man, along with his brother Parastam. At that time, their father Jarovitan was still alive and reigning as the king of the Ashvasadra, vassal to Vassairyu who had reigned as king