A Chronicle of Endylmyr II: Magic Calls to Magic

By Charles Hall

Five years after his failed siege of Endylmyr, the Khan believes he has captured Kreena the Sorceress, and the Raven who is the source of her power, when in fact he is the actual captive. Facing conspiracy at home, he plans to restore his ascendancy with another attack on Endylmyr and the West, prompting

• Language: English
• Publisher: URLink Print & Media, LLC
• Release date: Oct 24, 2022
• ISBN: 9781684863105

Charles Hall

Charles Hall is the Financial Administrator for two churches in the Wilmington area, Treasurer of Imagine Ministry, an international ministry serving in Nicaragua, and attends Second Mile Church. Charles' first book, "Finding Treasures in the Psalms," was published in 2021 and has been an encouragement to those who have read it. Charles and his wife, Vivian, have been married for 42 years and are blessed with one daughter, Emily and her husband Joe, one son, Bren and his wife Austin, and seven grandchildren, Brynlee, Walker, Tatum, Reese, Luke, Anders, and Gracie.

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A CHRONICLE

of ENDYLMYR II:

MAGIC CALLS TO MAGIC

CHARLES HALL

A Chronicle of Endylmyr II: Magic Calls to Magic

Copyright © 2022 by Charles Hall. All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any way by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording or otherwise without the prior permission of the author except as provided by USA copyright law.

The opinions expressed by the author are not necessarily those of URLink Print and Media.

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Published in the United States of America

Library of Congress Control Number: 2022919512

ISBN 978-1-68486-309-9 (Paperback)

ISBN 978-1-68486-310-5 (Digital)

11.10.22

Contents

Prologue: The Tale of Faren and The Queen of Frost

Chapter 1 Gylfalin Rides East

Chapter 2 Gwynyr Rides to the Rescue

Chapter 3 The Hunt

Chapter 4 Aboard Ship

Chapter 5 The City Across The Sea

Chapter 6 While The Cat Snores

Chapter 7 An Unexpected Ally

Chapter 8 Gwynyr Rides East

Chapter 9 Magic Calls to Magic

Chapter 10 Return to Farenmyr

Prologue

The Tale of Faren and The Queen of Frost

Faren lingered in the fumes and mists of the betweenworld, tendrils of fog curling round his unchanging form. He had been trapped there for generations, silently watching events unfold in the material world, beyond his reach, beyond his ability to influence except indirectly, and often beyond his concern. Though isolated, Faren was not entirely alone on this plane of existence. From the time of his earliest adventures in the betweenworld he sensed the presence of many ethereal entities, though over the long years he had made direct contact with only one, the Queen of Frost, known to some as the Queen of Winter, and to others as the Ice Queen—a beautiful ghost of a woman draped in a glittering crystalline gown.

The Queen of Frost was a sorceress who, like Faren, had found access to the world between worlds while meditating one day. In her explorations she had visited it far too frequently, living so long in a state of insubstantiality that she eventually lost the ability to resume corporeal existence and return to the realm of her earthly origin. At their very first encounter in the silence and swirling mists of the betweenworld the sorceress warned Faren that his frequent visits put him in danger of sharing her fate; that there could come a time when he, like her, would lose the power to reassume the flesh and blood substantiality of earthly existence. How or why this might come about was something she could not explain, and so remained a mystery to Faren. Indeed, the very fact of existence itself remained a mystery: while at one time he had wondered why and how things were the way they were; now, from the perspective of his broad experience of alternate worlds, he had come to wonder that anything existed at all, not that it took one particular form or another.

Still, long before Faren reached the point when he could no longer reenter the world, and long before he and his followers separated from the settlement at Endylmyr, he became fascinated with the Queen of Frost’s magical abilities and offered to become her assistant. Since he could move from the world to the betweenworld and back again, as she could not, she accepted his offer, requesting he bring her seven items—a white falcon, a white owl, a black raven and four polished, crystal globes.

It was no easy task she set him. As one expected to make a great warrior some day and, in the event his older brother was unequal to the task, to lead his people, he learned to ride while still a child and mastered the sword and bow by his sixteenth year. But Faren had never trained in any occupation. He was at best a casual hunter, possessing no skill with snares or traps. Eager to please his secret mistress, he sought out a reknowned trapper, a wiry and weathered little man named Pendyr. Eager in turn to please the son of the community leader, Pendyr taught Faren to set snares that would trap without killing, and suggested where he might find the species he sought.

One chilly morning, as the sky grew light in the east, Pendyr wrapped himself in his green wool hunter’s cloak and accompanied Faren through the postern gate in the newly erected log palisade, built to protect the settlement from bandits and marauders. He led his young charge to a well-worn game trail that followed the contours of a rocky meadow before disappearing into the thickets of fir and pine covering the lower slopes of the mountains. At Pendyr’s instruction, Faren carried nothing with him but his bow and a full quiver, a full waterskin, two loaves of coarse bread, his snares, and a fire- making kit. If he wanted meat, he would have to hunt for it. With a respectful bow and a few words of encouragement Pendyr sent Faren on his way, and then turned back towards the young city of Endylmyr, the piney scent of the fresh logs filling his nostrils.

Faren was gone for a week. Then, one evening, as his family was beginning to wonder if they would ever see their second son again, he appeared out of the gloom at the door to their log and wattle house. Looking thin and worn, his cloak torn, he triumphantly bore a white bird on either shoulder, and in his arms cradled the stoutest raven any of them had ever seen.

In the ensuing days, as he recovered from his ordeal in the wild, Faren made reed cages for his menagerie. One morning he stopped to bargain at the glass blowers’ shop. The man and his apprentice listened carefully to Faren’s description of what he was seeking.

Well, sure, my boy, I could blow the spheres you describe, and your horse would make more than adequate payment, he answered thoughtfully, scratching his graying head. But such spheres would be hollow and fragile and difficult to transport without careful cushioning. We do however have four clear stones my apprentice here found in the pool below a waterfall in the mountains. They’ve been tumbled smooth over time. It will take some work, but with a piece of hide and a little abrasive paste I can probably polish them to the glassy finish you want. You might scratch one accidentally, but you’d have to dash it against the rocks to crack it. Here, boy, go fetch those crystals of yours for us.

When Faren left the shop a weeek later, all three were happy—Faren to have obtained the orbs requested by the Queen of Frost, the blower’s apprentice to have acquired a fine mount, and the blower to have produced four beautifully polished crystals at the request of a member of the city’s leading family. In his delight Faren gave them each a handful of gold pieces.

The Queen of Frost appeared pleased with the caged birds when Faren presented them to her. When he handed her the heavy leather sack holding the crystals she removed them one by one, unwrapped their doeskin coverings, and ran her hands over their polished surfaces.

Ah, they are beautiful; they are perfect. I thank you, she murmured with the ghost of a smile. You will not regret the effort to which you have gone.

By the time he returned, a few days later, the Queen of Frost had worked what she called a Spell of Intent that had the effect of linking each of the birds to one of the polished crystal spheres, endowing each with the ability to display miniature images of whatever they beheld in the world in the interior of the orbs themselves.

I have infused them with other powers as well, she informed him. On my first attempt, I was able to endow the raven with the ability to allow the master or mistress of its orb to look into other worlds—though without entering them—and to understand and speak any language they might encounter as though it were their own. I was able to accomplish more with the other birds. Used together, the owl and the falcon will enable untrained persons with a gift for magic to enter the betweenworld, and to pass from there into other worlds—or into other times and places and other possible eventualities in their world of origin. In the right hands they will also possess the power to harness the forces of nature to the intent of the orb-holders. Sadly, trapped as I am, I have yet to invoke that power successfully, or to share my contrivances with one, like yourself, who can still return to the material world and put them to the test.

The Queen had been lost in the world between worlds for a long time, far longer than Faren—so long she had lost the desire to visit any world, even that which had once been her own. She found that watching scenes of a past that now had no recognizable present—and which, in any event, she could not enter—brought little comfort. More aggressive tribes had long since driven her people from the rivers and hills of the homeland she had known ages ago as a girl. Over time they had moved from one temporary home to another, mixing with other peoples as they eked out a living, eventually losing the distinct, original identity she had once known and shared. Forced to accept that all things human—even the tongues they spoke—were impermanent and constantly changing, she eventually succumbed to the isolation of her new existence while the world went on without her. She gradually began to lose interest in humans and their tangled, impermanent affairs altogether and distracted herself by toying with magic that did not change over time, but that she herself could never use.

At that time, Faren still enjoyed the ability to reclaim physical form, and continued to move back and forth with increasing ease between the world and the betweenworld, seeking knowledge of what had once been and of what was yet to come. Emotionally and morally invested in the outcome of Earthly events, especially those of his own people, he retained his dream of establishing a community based on his people’s ancient ethos of reciprocity, rather than the imperative of individual gain that had begun to take hold as commerce developed—a community free of artificial hierarchies based on accidents of ancestry, wealth or physical power; a community based on compassion and equality.

Faren saw from the betweenworld the fate that would befall his new settlement as well as the threat to Endylmyr itself that would arise in the East, but now he also saw the means by which that threat might be thwarted. He implored the Queen to surrender her magical creations. He felt the urge to foster and protect his people while they still persisted in the actual world, divided as they now were between the fortified camp of Endylmyr, and the raw, new settlement of Farenmyr. If she acquiesced, he would carry the Queen’s magic back to the world to save his people.

When he asked what she might want in exchange for the magical combinations of birds and orbs, she paused before speaking.

I want to die, she finally spat out with a brittle laugh that reminded him of the sound of shattering ice. Can you give me that?

No, my Lady, Faren quietly replied, sensing a portent of his own future in her answer.

Ah, I remember having been addressed in that manner before, she mused, softening again and smiling slightly at his use of the honorific, but not for a very, very long time.

No, my friend, she went on you cannot give me my death any more than I can give you yours. And, sadly, the time will come when you, too, will crave death above all things. But now, while you are still tied to the world and your people, I will simply give you the birds and their orbs. It might prove satisfying to see them used in the service of a grand cause such as your own. Though I still find pleasure in simply exercizing my skills, my contrivances have no effect here except to remind me of my isolation. You, however, are still able to bring them back into the world where they have potency.

Faren accepted her gift gratefully and returned to the ordinary world with the birds and their associated orbs, confident he now enjoyed an advantage over the enemy in the East. He sent Peregrine sailing aloft twice a day to keep watch on the passes over the Eastern ridges and the trails leading down into the plain, reading whatever the falcon beheld in the polished crystal.

Faren commissioned a stonemason to drill a socket that allowed him to mount the owl’s gleaming orb on the end of a staff and would often walk along the river after sunset, his way lit by the glow of the owl’s orb while the bird glided silently above the mountains, revealing what he saw in the crystal at the tip of the staff. The raven proved useful in allowing Faren to communicate with traders from the East and South who spoke no Westron, yet whose fabrics, iron cookware and arrow points were essential to life in fledgling settlement.

He took daily instruction from the Queen of Frost, as well, first fashioning a necklace from translucent stones he obtained from the glass blower, and then constructing a small crude doll out of willow and twisted reeds. Finally one day, with the Queen’s coaching, he slipped into a transcendent state and successfully willed a magical link between these objects and the fourth crystal.

Well done, my friend, the Queen praised him. These objects will give you the ability to move from world to world without limit, as long as you are careful to maintain your connection to the material world. I would warn you not to use them except in times of crisis. If you allow yourself to become lost to the world, these items will not help you find your way back. You will become my companion in eternal isolation.

Faren acknowledged her warning, assuring her he would proceed cautiously. Yet, in his fascination with the betweenworld and the secrets it held of the past, the present and the possible, he revisited it almost daily. One day he discovered to his chagrin that the Queen was correct. Without warning he suddenly found his sublimation to the betweenworld was complete, that he could no longer imagine himself back to the world. Faren could watch as his oldest daughter took possession of the Queen’s birds, crystals and devices, and as they passed eventually, over several generations, into the possession of Queen Hilwyst, but he could no longer will himself physically present as he had once done so easily.

He watched helplessly the night an Eastern army carefully maneuvered its way over the mountains towards Farenmyr, hiding during the day, moving only by night when the settlement slept. It was obvious the enemy knew something of the magical devices. And though the owl could have spotted them, Hilwyst, a competent woman—though one more interested in song and legend than in magic or the art of war—never thought to assign a night watch. Hilwyst had been betrayed by one of her ministers for a generous portion of Eastern gold, and though Faren had witnessed the betrayal, he could find no way to warn her.

Ironically, Hilwyst’s betrayer fell in the first confused moments of battle with an Eastern arrow through his lungs, clutching a purse full of gold he would never spend. Hilwyst herself was raped and slain shortly afterwards, though not before she had successfully cached the necklace, orb and doll, and Faren’s scrolls recording details of the creation of the magical items by the Queen of Frost. The falcon, the owl and the raven escaped. The falcon found its own way back to the betweenworld and its creator, the Queen of Frost, eventually to be delivered by her into the hands of Pendaran the Archer. The owl flew north to the mountain tribes who recognized it as the magical entity it was and placed it in the care of the village shaman. The raven crossed a broad stretch of southern ocean to another land, where it was adopted by a small community of mountain dwellers, eventually to become the magic familiar of Kreena, Keeper of the Spirits.

This will not do, the Queen of Frost announced when she first saw the disposition of her creations. The birds are mute, disempowered, without their crystals. Before Pendaran finds his way to me, I must have an orb to give him.

But what can we do? asked Faren.

While we lack the power as individuals to achieve material presence in the world, I believe that together, using the Spell of Intent, we may have the power to draw objects onto this plane, and then to place them back where we please.

At the Queen of Frost’s suggestion the two lost magicians entered a transcendental state together. To Faren’s great surprise and to the Queen’s great satisfaction they discovered they could indeed will the crystal orbs from the material world to the betweenworld. They found Peregrine’s orb lying loose in a fold of Hilwyst’s torn and bloodied gown. They found the owl’s orb in the pocket of the dead traitor, and they found the raven’s in Hilwyst’s burning quarters. Acting together with concerted wills they distributed two of the spheres to the owl and the raven, placing one beneath each of the magical creatures so that to those flesh and blood humans who discovered them it appeared that the bird itself had produced the orb, much as an ordinary bird might lay an egg. The Frost Queen herself kept the falcon’s egg, waiting for the time she had foreseen when Pendaran would wander from his world into hers, and she could deliver both crystal and bird into his hands. They left the necklace, orb and doll where Hilwyst had hidden them in a hollow space beneath a paving stone, waiting to be found by Deng.

Faren watched for generations as events unfolded in his world of origin, knowing that reuniting the birds with their crystals would have eventual consequences, knowing the time would come when the threat from the East would rise again and they would be harnessed together to protect Endylmyr from foreign domination.

Now Faren watched Kreena the Sorceress as she, in turn, watched the world, pleased the Raven had passed to one of such clear moral purpose. He saw her world rubbed out and flattened by the sudden eruption of a long inactive volcano, not only once, as it transpired in real time, but over and over again as he drifted in and out of random portals to other times and other worlds—vignettes of realities that might or might not belong to his world, and which might or might not unfold quite as he witnessed them.

Chapter

I

Gylfalin Rides East

As Friend of the Raven and Keeper of the Magic, Kreena wandered for weeks through the forests of her homeland seeking a vision that might explain the source and nature of the vague yet disquieting dreams that had begun to disturb her sleep each night, but which she could never seem to recall the following day. One morning just before dawn, as she lay dozing in a bed of soft ferns beside a small spring, she was startled out of sleep by an explosive roar louder than any waterfall or river rapids she had ever heard, louder than thunder. Realizing that the alarming sound came from the direction of the village, she struggled to stand only to be rocked by a powerful gust of sulfurous wind. Dropping to all fours Kreena crouched in fear while the ground shook as though the earth itself was breaking apart beneath her. After a while it gradually quieted, trembling occasionally every few minutes before calming completely.

As the sun came up the sky shone with a strange muted light; the air grew thick with acrid fumes. Realizing that something monumental, something beyond her experience was occurring, she stood and lofted the bird into the twilit sky. She removed a darkened crystal orb from the pouch she had worn around her neck and shoulder nearly all her life—since before she had experienced her first ‘moon,’ and before she had developed the full breasts that seemed to change the way the men and boys of the tribe regarded her. As images appeared in the orb she discovered that her village had completely disappeared, as though it had never existed. Where it had once nestled beneath the peak the crystal showed only a wide crater filled with a bubbling mass of liquid fire, and, beyond that, a vast circle of denuded trees knocked to the ground and fanning out from the eruption, as if brushed down by some giant hand.

When she listened in her heart for the buzz of thought she had gradually learned to hear after taking her grandmother’s place as friend of the Raven, she found only silence—utter, isolating, frightening silence. Lost and alone, aware she might be the only surviving member of her people, she wandered north, away from the mountain and forests and the foul odor that filled the air, striking out for a sea she had never seen, but on whose shores, tribal legend held, those still living would someday be reunited with family and kin who had passed beyond.

She walked for days, while the Raven flew ahead, tracing wide circles in the cloudless sky, but providing images of nothing but desert and occasional outcroppings of rock. Finally, when her meager supplies ran out, she began to weaken from hunger and thirst. One morning as she stopped to rest, she sent the Raven aloft and consulted the crystal. It revealed images of moving figures in an otherwise empty landscape: she thought she could make out what appeared to be a small hunting party of tall, dark men, a few bony dogs and a half dozen strange, hump-backed beasts of burden. The group was camped beside a small muddy waterhole, where the odd beasts grazed on the sparse brush that grew at the water’s edge. Willing the bird back, she waited till he came to roost on her shoulder, fed him the last few grains of seed from her depleted store, and then started plodding forward again, afraid to linger lest she fail to find the strangers before dark.

Just as the sun began to set, Kreena spotted what looked like smoke not far ahead. Marshalling what remained of her will and energy, she picked up her pace and arrived at the hunting camp while there was still barely enough light to walk. Instinctively stopping at the edge of bow range, she tried to call out, producing no more than a feeble croak before wavering and collapsing to her knees. She had never been so thirsty in her life. In a last desperate movement she thrust her left arm out, let the Raven sidestep its way to her forearm and lofted it into the dusk, willing the bird to attract the hunters’ attention. As she watched in a daze, beginning to fade into unconsciousness, the Raven swooped low over the camp, brushed the tallest man with a wing and came to rest on the ground, cawing and hopping clumsily, dragging one wing in feigned injury.

The raven was a rare bird in these desert regions. His sudden appearance threw the hunting party into panic. The men reached for weapons and crouched, looking anxiously around as if expecting an attack, despite the fact their camp was extremely isolated. As far as Kreena could tell, they hadn’t bothered to post a guard. After exchanging a few words with his companions, one of the men must have decided to treat the Raven as a potential meal, not a threat, and ran after it in an attempt to seize it, like a village boy chasing a chicken. As the man got close, the Raven jumped into the air, flapped its powerful wings and glided gracefully away in the direction of its mistress, lighting again twenty paces ahead and turning to watch its pursuer. It repeated the maneuver as the hunter lunged again, coming to rest this time on Kreena’s shoulder. As the hunter peered into the twilight gloom he suddenly spotted the dust covered figure kneeling in the dirt, unblinking raven perched on her left shoulder, and called out in surprise. The last thing Kreena saw before finally slipping into unconsciousness was a crowd of black faces staring at her in wonder and curiosity.

Convinced they had been entrusted with the safekeeping of a sorceress and her familiar—or, a few even conjectured, a goddess—the hunters kept their camp for two more days, plying Kreena and the Raven with food and water until she seemed strong enough to travel. On the morning of the third day, they helped her onto the back of one of their strange pack animals and started home. Two days later, as they proudly lead Kreena through the main gates of their mud-walled city, citizens stopped in surprise to stare at the beautiful, bronze-skinned woman with long wavy black hair and a Raven on her shoulder.

1

Chi Lung, Child of the Gods, Khan, Rightful Ruler of the East and Emperor of All That Exists stood just inside the open window of the inner citadel and watched as the sun dropped behind the mountains. Though the sky over the peaks still turned the same deep violet he had enjoyed on uncounted prior occasions, this night he found it failed to fill him with the accustomed sensations of peace and quiet calm. For the first time in his tenure as Khan his mastery over all things earthly was being challenged by a coterie of Field Marshals, Generals, and Troop Commanders, and at least one Imperial Minister—all men whose careers owed everything to his patronage. Feeling betrayed and suddenly vulnerable, he took a cautious step back from the window. Political conditions had deteriorated over the last few months. It was not unthinkable that an assassin’s arrow might find him here in his most secret of strongholds.

It was five years now since the event that had come to be known as The Calamity in the West. The consequences of that calamity were finally coming to fruit. Tzantzin, his most competent general had never returned, presumably lost to the barbarians—though no one had witnessed his end— and Chanjho, effective and loyal despite his dalliance with one of Chi Lung’s many wives, was reported slain in his own quarters in a bizarre and as yet unexplained nighttime attack.

At the time it seemed to make good sense, but Chi Lung could see now it had been a mistake to send his two most loyal and effective generals on such difficult and poorly defined missions. He expected Chanjho to defeat the pastoral tribesmen who roamed the steppes just beyond his western borders with ease, and to return in short order with the magic they were rumored to possess. And considering all his skills and long experience in the field—not to mention the advantage of the magical owl and the staff of light he had sent with him—he assumed Tzantzin would make short work of the barbarian town and seize whatever magic the Westerners possessed.

Yet events had taken a turn he had never imagined possible. If the stories told by surviving fighters were to be believed, the barbarians and the nomadic herdsmen had joined forces and had somehow called up a storm fierce enough to destroy his armies. On the one hand the tales of returning veterans had fired his imagination: he had never dreamed of powers on such a scale. On the other hand those powers had soundly defeated two of his finest armies, raising doubts among the people regarding his claims to omniscience and infallibility. Now, after five years of steering through a treacherous sea of minor plots and counterplots, he found himself faced with the threat of insurrection and possible loss of control over the empire his father had established and that Chi Lung had spent his life expanding and consolidating. As the day faded he turned to extinguish the candle on his writing table, to avoid being silhouetted against the lighted interior of the room. Feeling fairly safe in the dark he stepped closer to the window, yet the moment he placed his left hand on the sill, a crossbow quarrel struck the stone frame above his head and shattered, showering him with splinters of wood and fragments of feather. Though he was nearing the end of his prime, Chi Lung’s reflexes were still very sharp. He spun quickly to the right and flattened himself against the wall as another bolt flashed through the open window and buried itself in the paneling of the opposite wall.

This would not do. He was long accustomed to a protected and privileged life, first as son of his father, Chi Chen, the previous Khan, and then as heavenly ordained heir to that high station. He had never before felt the need to take more than ordinary precautions for his personal safety. Still confident of his superiority as a thinker and leader—despite the evidence that his infallibility was exaggerated if not downright illusory—he quickly closed the shutters, relit the candle, and pulled a chair up to the table. If circumstances had deteriorated to the point of attempted assassination, it was time to quell the budding rebellion and restore his former unchallenged dominance.

He called for refreshment and watched distractedly as a young serving girl entered carrying a tray, the contours of her firm young flesh revealed by the thin silk shift she wore. He looked her over, considering whether or not he should have her stay the night, but decided against it. He had much to think over at the moment; he would find other occasions to pursue the pleasures of the flesh. When she had swept up the wooden fragments of the poorly aimed bolt he sent her away and sat alone, lost in thought, sipping the strong and slightly effervescent rice wine she had brought, searching in his mind for the seed of a plan.

An image came into his mind of Miyoku, Tzantzin’s widow, her sweet face outlined by her long, glistening black hair. The only daughter of one of his less important ministers, he had purchased Miyoku from her family as a gift for Tzantzin upon the general’s return from a particularly long but successful campaign. Chi Lung had refrained from punishing her or her children for her husband’s later failure, partly cause it would have been an unpopular move at a time when popularity had suddenly become a matter of importance, but mainly because his instincts told him she and her boys, as well as her father, might make important allies some day. That day appeared to have arrived. An idea began to form in his mind.

Miyoku had never remarried, nor had he ever replaced the disloyal Fah as a wife. There was little the people enjoyed so much as the pomp and circumstance of an imperial wedding and the drinking and merrymaking that would follow it. By marrying Miyoku in an elaborate and public ceremony he could shore up his eroding prominence and cement ties with a well-known and well-respected family at the same time. And there was the added prize of Miyoku herself—a demure and chaste beauty who, according to his spies, had taken no lover in the five years of Tzantzin’s absence. He smiled to himself in the dim light of the single taper: she should be more than ripe for resumed conjugal relations.

He drained his cup and called for the girl to fetch another as the plan began to take shape in his mind. Miyoku’s twin sons must have reached fighting age by this time, or nearly so. If he were to declare Tzantzin officially dead, honor him as a fallen hero of the Empire, announce his intention to elevate Miyoku from the marginal status of widow to wife of the Khan, and at the same time bestow honorary commissions on her sons, perhaps even awarding them a berth in the Imperial Officers’ School of the War College—an honor ordinarily reserved for the sons of close relatives and high ministers—he might well change the current power dynamic in his own favor.

As the serving girl bowed and left him alone with a fresh cup, he glanced at the wall opposite. The fletched tail of the crossbow bolt just showed where it had penetrated the wooden paneling, an odd decoration on an otherwise unadorned surface. He was about to call for a servant to remove it, but changed his mind. No, he decided, he would leave it there for now as a reminder of the danger he faced, and of the need for extreme caution.

He finished the second cup of rice wine, extinguished the candle and reopened the shutters, taking care to keep clear of the opening. As a precaution he called for a guard from the trio stationed on the landing outside the door: it was a sheer drop of five stories to the ground with neither climbing vine nor other handhold for a would-be assassin, but he would take no chances. He had chosen this room in an obscure corner of the palace because it seemed unlikely enemies would think to look there. The crossbow bolt proved him wrong. Still, he had his guards and for the moment he felt safe. He lay down on a thick horsehair mattress that had been the scene in the past of many a carnal romp, content this night to be alone with his thoughts. Once matters were settled at home, perhaps he would make another attempt to seize the power objects still held by his enemies; perhaps the time was right to send a scouting party into the western plains. Drowsy from the wine, he pulled a blanket over his shoulders and drifted into a deep and contented sleep while the guard watched patiently from his post at the door.

2

Gwynyr, daughter of Angmere, wife of Gylfalin, acting Mistress of Endylmyr, turned Wylfyr toward the City Gates, loosed the reins, and gave him his head. Her armed escort, an annoying consequence of her elevated social station, dug their heels into their horses’ flanks, trying to keep up as the tarafyn flew across the turf. Wylfyr was beginning to show signs of age, but even at the end of a long day’s ride he could outrun any horse in the West.

Gylfalin had been absent for a week. When she rode out that morning Gwynyr held hopes she might cross paths with him as he returned from a scouting mission in the southeastern plains, but after a half day’s ride without contact, she reluctantly decided to head back to Endylmyr. The first herds of the spring season would be making their way northwards. It was very possible that Gylfalin’s scouting mission had become a hunting party; if that were the case, the butchering and processing of game could easily add as much as a week to his trip. If he did not return by dawn, she would search again tomorrow, or better still, have Pendaran send Peregrine aloft to see if the white falcon could spot him and his band of scouts.

After handing Wylfyr off to a stable hand she made her way through the city to the new and nicely appointed quarters that came with her temporary role as Mistress of the City. There she joined Alfydd and Angmere for dinner. While Darlydd still cooked and served the meal, the change in her status from servant to consort showed when she took a seat at Angmere’s side and ate with the family like the wife she had nearly become.

No sign of Gylfalin, dear? Angmere asked, though Gwynyr had not mentioned the goal of her day in the saddle.

Gwynyr looked at her father closely. Like Wylfyr, he had aged noticeably over the past five years and was beginning to develop a shortness of breath that worried her.

No. Gwynyr shook her head and looked out the window to the view of the mountains afforded by their new quarters. She shrugged her shoulders, as if she were shaking off the chilling sense of mortality. The sky was turning a deep indigo, and a few stars were already beginning to appear.

The days are getting longer and it’s about time for the first herds to appear. He’s most likely butchering blackhorns. She pushed darker thoughts from her mind and reached for a slice of warm bread as she spoke. It’s also possible he rode clear to Farenmyr to examine the ruins; he’s been talking about doing that for years.

Perhaps Peregrine will find him in the morning, Angmere offered after a long and thoughtful silence.

Perhaps, she answered.

In response to a message from Gwynyr, delivered the preceding evening by personal courier, Pendaran rose at dawn. As he left their bed he glanced back at Helwydd still deep in sleep, her red hair fanned out across her pillow like the tail of one of the exotic birds he had seen in Bupali’s palace on one of his far too frequent journeys to the Southern Princedom. He lifted the white falcon from its perch beside the bed, stroked its head while walking to the open window and with a few murmured words of endearment gently launched the bird into the morning sky. The falcon swooped low over the roofs of the city, flapped its wings to gain altitude and soared off towards the eastern horizon.

First hesitating at the crib of their twin daughters, finally sleeping soundly after a restless night, he stepped to a small chest that stood against the wall and removed the crystal orb. It was still wrapped in the same doeskin that had protected its polished surface since Ice Queen first gave it to him, nearly a decade earlier. He unwrapped the now stained and tattered piece of hide, laid it on of the table with the orb at its center and watched as the crystal slowly came to life with swirling inner light. As he patiently waited for the first images of Peregrine’s flight to appear, he glanced at the sleeping Helwydd. For one who had never intended to marry, he had become surprisingly comfortable with domestic life, discovering small but simple, unforeseen delights—like the surprising and exciting fullness of Helwydd’s breasts after the birth of their sons, and the warmth of her welcome on his return from long hunting forays. These more than compensated for the limits fatherhood placed on his wonted freedom.

Before long, images began to take shape within the orb, becoming clearer and better defined as the falcon swooped lower. At first, Pendaran was unsure what he was witnessing, but as the bird descended and the scene came into focus, he found himself watching what looked like a minor battle. He recognized Gylfalin by his beardless face and long graying hair. The veteran scout was part of a group that appeared to be surrounded by a somewhat larger force wearing the distinctive black leather armor of the Khan’s cavalry, and riding Eastern ponies. As he studied the images in the orb he realized the smaller group had heaped up the bodies of slain blackhorns to create a circular barrier for defense. There was no sign of their horses. Pendaran assumed they had been captured or driven off by the Easterners.

As though in answer to a telepathic command the falcon soared in a wide circle, revealing terrain that was empty in all directions, except for a small herd of the wild, hump-backed blackhorns grazing contentedly a few hundred paces or so to the north, and an even smaller herd of Western horses grazing nearby. Many of these still wore saddles and were packed with gear. The two herds peacefully ignored each other.

There were no obvious geographic features that identified the specific area for Pendaran, though he guessed from what Gylfalin had told him of his intentions before setting out that the scene must be somewhere in the general area of Farenmyr, the destroyed and abandoned city where Deng had found the bundle of magic objects a half-century ago. Sure enough, as Peregrine climbed higher and higher, the collapsing walls and the traces of nearly overgrown building foundations showed faintly near the grassy banks of a river in an otherwise uninterrupted sweep of spring grass.

Pendaran rewrapped the orb and placed it in the small satchel that he wore on a strap over his shoulder. There it nestled among the spare bowstrings, feathers, and small chunks of pine resin the resourceful archer always carried with him. He pondered for a moment, with a growing sense of alarm: he had not seen that black lamellar armor since they had buried the last of the Easterners slain in the siege five years earlier; and not only did Gylfalin appear to be in immediate and serious trouble, he had to take the presence of Eastern fighters in the plains as possible early signs of yet another campaign against the West. With Gwynyr’s permission, and with Peregrine’s help perhaps he would lead a party to Gylfalin’s rescue—though, from what he had just seen in the orb it seemed doubtful that Gylfalin and his small band of scouts could hold out for the three or four days it would take to reach them.

3

Gylfalin peered out from behind the barrier of stiff, blackhorn carcasses, swatting away the flies that had begun to swarm as the air day warmed and watching for signs of movement in the long spring grass. The Easterners had attempted several mounted charges over the last two days, but he and his two dozen scouts had driven them back, shooting a good number of them out of the saddle each time they entered the range of the long Western bows, and shooting their ponies from beneath them on the occasions they pressed too closely. The Easterners appeared to have become frustrated by the disparity in range between their own short bows and the long though clumsier bows of their intended victims. They hung back at a safe distance now that it was clear conventional cavalry charges were not only ineffective, but costly. So far that day they had made no attempt at all to overrun the small band of Westerners.

The beast that gave Gylfalin cover had become a pincushion of black- feathered arrows loosed by the Easterners on the last of their failed charges the day before. They had very nearly overwhelmed the beleaguered scouts, but the Westerners’ determination and superior archery had spared them for the moment and cost the Easterners at least a dozen fighters, while not a single defender had been lost. Were he in their place Gylfalin would have waited for hunger and thirst to defeat his enemies for him, but the Khan’s men had so far shown no sign of patience. He expected their next ploy would be to leave their mounts behind, move in under the cover of the tall spring grass and attack on foot from close quarters.

He drew his short sword from its scabbard and laid it in the trampled grass at his side while continuing to scan the area in front of his position. He involuntarily licked his dry lips in thirst. Luckily the weather was still cool, but even if they used their stores very conservatively, he and his scouts would run out of water in another day or two. As it was, they were already beginning to run short of arrows. They could recover Eastern arrows by pulling them out of the ground or digging them out of the blackhorn carcasses, but working them out of the wall of carcasses was dangerous work, exposing them to Eastern archers hiding in the grass. Gylfalin had watched the blacksmith’s son, Piers, topple forward over a carcass with a black- fletched arrow in his ribs as he tried to refill his quiver. Once weakened by dehydration, and short of ammunition, they would all fall just as easily before a determined assault.

Gylfalin thought he detected movement. The air was so still the shivering blades of grass a short distance in front of his position could only mean human or animal activity. He had seen no carrion birds yet and it seemed improbable wild dogs or wolves would brave the scene in daylight with the strong scent of humans all about. Taking care to keep low, and never taking his eyes off a thick patch of grass twenty feet outside the perimeter, Gylfalin rose slowly to one knee and carefully worked one of the black-fletched arrows loose from the blackhorn carcass protecting him and put it to string, waiting for a target. None appeared.

After a while, detectable movement in the grass ceased, and Gylfalin relaxed, assuming that the Western position had just been reconnoitered, but that in all likelihood the next attack would not come before the following dawn. Midday slowly passed into afternoon and afternoon into evening, giving Gylfalin plenty of time to consider the difficulties of his situation. He decided to send a couple of men out at dusk to see what they could scavenge from those Easterners who had fallen in the last attack: a few quivers of arrows and a full water skin or two might make the difference between survival and death.

But there were not only the matters of water and weapons. Their horses had been driven off in the first attack. Should his small force prevail—and he would do all in his power to ensure they did—their return to Endylmyr would long and slow and difficult without their mounts. They would need not only to defeat the Easterners, they would need to capture a number of their ponies as well—no easy task for men on foot in the endless, rolling grasslands.

Just as the sky went violet in the west Gylfalin called three men to his side and gave them orders to crawl out into the grass to scavenge what they could. The three returned after a while carrying armfuls of black fletched arrows and a half dozen water bladders. Pleased, Gylfalin thanked the men and sent them back to their positions. With the scavenged supplies his group could maintain the standoff for another day or so, although he had the feeling victory or defeat would likely come with the rising sun. Covering himself with his cloak he began to nod off, listening to the night sounds around him.

Gylfalin woke while it was still dark, lost in the strange mood of a dream of which he could remember only one image—a woman with long dark hair and dusky skin. He ate a piece of jerked meat from the pouch on his belt, washed it down with a draught of water from one of the captured skins, and quietly crawled around the circle of sleeping men, waking each and speaking a few words of encouragement. As he completed the circle and returned to his own bed he thought he thought he heard the rustling of grass and faint sounds of human speech coming from somewhere just in front of him. He nocked one of his few remaining arrows and waited.

As the sky began to lighten a dozen or more Easterners suddenly rose up and charged forward through the wet morning grass, brandishing weapons and shouting war cries. Gylfalin took careful aim at the closest enemy fighter, putting an arrow into the man’s belly just below the edge of his short armored jacket. As the man fell Gylfalin dropped his bow and reached for his sword. All but two of the attackers disappeared again into the long grass, pierced by Western arrows. Apparently unaware of their comrades’ fate, the two survivors continued their desperate charge. They leapt over the circle of blackhorn carcasses only to be felled immediately by sword strokes from two of Gylfalin’s scouts. The attack was over almost as quickly as it began.

The small band of defenders glanced around at each other wide-eyed while the men who had slain the intruders knelt to strip the bodies of weapons, adding two full quivers of black fletched arrows to the defenders’ stores. Unfortunately the Eastern skirmishers had come lightly equipped, carrying neither water nor food. As the sun cleared the horizon and lit the glistening prairie grass with clear morning light, his scouts heaved the bodies of the two dead Easterners onto the encircling heap of blackhorn carcasses.

Gylfalin caught the eye of one young scout. He knew little about the boy except that he was named Elfydd, and as the son of one of Friedmond’s City Guards had begged Gylfalin to let him join the mission, citing the boredom of routine duty as his motive. Gylfalin wasn’t sure what he read in the boy’s eyes now—perhaps some combination of shock and terror, perhaps determination as well. He certainly did not look bored.

Well done, Gylfalin assured the group. But this is not over by any means. And for good or for ill, the next attack may be the last. There will be no more piecemeal probes. They will likely come in force to try to overwhelm us. Even with their losses they must still outnumber us two to one. He hesitated. This time they may succeed.

Gylfalin barely slept that night. After a fortifying meal of blackhorn hump roasted over a small dung-fueled fire, and washed down by a few meager swallows of water, he wrapped himself in his cloak and stretched out on his side behind the wall of carcasses. He began to doze off several times only to be awakened again by the faint sounds of movement and murmured alien speech less than a dozen paces in front of him.

He finally gave up trying to sleep and rolled onto his back. As he studied the brilliant carpet of stars above, half listening to the enemy maneuvering around him in the dark, he thought of Gwynyr and her son, Alfydd. Gylfalin had grown close to the boy after the marriage. Over the last few years he had come to take