To Rouse Leviathan: Second Edition

By Neil Lynn Wise

In this sequel to The Lost Warrior, Morgan Caeda continues his quest to uncover the secrets of the Mhoul. Morgan and his companions enter the mysterious forests of Aijalon where some of them are captured by Mhoul soldiers and taken to the citadel Ragoulgard. After escaping from Ragoulgard and the cruel experiments of the Mhoul scientist Dragoslav, they journey to the subterranean city of Shieldaig. To penetrate the defenses of the Mhoul capital Morgan and Maximilian must survive the labyrinth of Cnoc Thor and its deadly guardian. In the end, Morgan faces his worst fear, the return of the Lucca.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Mar 21, 2012
• ISBN: 9781469177847

Neil Lynn Wise

Neil Lynn Wise was born and raised in Oregon. A lover of books, he is especially fond of science fiction and fantasy novels. At college he dabbled in military science and commercial art, before meeting the woman of his dreams and settling down to complete a Bachelor’s Degree in Wildlife Science. After working for a state fish and wildlife agency, he entered law school and now practices environmental law on the wet side of Washington State. Neil and his wife Marcie live in the country with their dogs and horses.

Book preview

Prologue

The Mhoul sat in one of the towers of Tor Na Mora, on the island of Skara Thrae. Black wrappings, the material a coarse fabric that gleamed like spun metal, swathed the creature’s entire body. An ebon hood and cloak shrouded the head and shoulders. Thick goggles covered its eyes, a dim red glow leaking through the heavily darkened lenses. A complicated apparatus with a speaker grille encased the lower part of the bandaged face. On the Mhoul’s shoulder crouched a rith, a loathsome creature like a toad with a single eye on a stalk. A crystal skull rested on the desk before the Mhoul. Twin beams of greenish light poured from the eye sockets, casting grotesque shadows across the stone walls. Where the rays intersected, an emerald curtain of light hung in mid-air. A second figure, nearly identical to the first, was dimly visible in the veil. The apparition raised its head, and the rith on its shoulder peered into the room.

Dirgelord Molid, I have information, the phantom shape pronounced, the voice hollow with distance.

Molid acknowledged the other, the cold, metallic words emerging from the speaker grille. Sagor, what information?

Those you seek have left Carnac, Sagor said.

Finally. What did they do there? Molid asked.

Princess Celestine and her companions spent considerable time with the Baron Serenus, a professor at the Academy. As a child she was a student of the Baron, sent there by her father. Morgan met with Maelin, the Princess of Saxhaven. Maximilian, the other mercenary, mainly stayed in the taverns, Sagor replied. He hesitated briefly, and then continued. Someone attempted to kill Maelin.

Molid leaned forward slowly, the dry rustle of the movement filling the sudden silence. Who?

It is uncertain. I assume by your reaction that you did not order her assassination? Sagor asked.

Malissa, Molid grated, clenching gloved fists. Molid’s rith stiffened and its claws dug into the black fabric.

The Hedonae? She would not dare, Sagor protested.

Molid leaned back. I will speak with Malissa. Continue.

The assassin failed. The Princess now has a personal bodyguard, a man named Vasari, Sagor said.

Is the assassin dead? Molid asked.

Yes, he was bitten by Maelin’s Poma during the assault, Sagor answered.

Malissa thwarted by a lapdog. Molid chuckled, a horrible sound. Where are the westerners going now?

Morgan and Maximilian’s destination is Kalixalven, Sagor said.

Why? Molid asked.

Unknown. After leaving Aquarquff, the Windrider sailed north to the Seir and proceeded upriver to Kalixalven. It took our agents several days to discover that Morgan was no longer aboard. We now have reports that the Windrider is docked at Kalixalven. Perhaps Morgan and Maximilian intend to rendezvous with the ship, Sagor said.

And Celestine? Molid asked.

She will travel east to Aijalon in search of her brother, Sagor replied.

Talbot is now in Aijalon? Molid asked.

Yes, he left Carnac before she arrived, Sagor said.

Why did Talbot go to Aijalon? Molid asked.

It is rumored he seeks the Elixin, Sagor said.

The fabled elves of Aijalon? Molid mocked. He is mad as well as restless. I assume Celestine and the mercenaries are not without escort.

Celestine has fifty soldiers from Carnac, while Morgan and Maximilian travel with thirty Ha’ashtari, Sagor replied.

Ha’ashtari? Those who pursued them across the Waste, intent on killing them? Molid asked.

The same. They have decided Maximilian is . . . ta’hoda, Sagor said.

Ta’hoda, Molid repeated.

According to Ha’ashtari myth, the lost spirit of some great warrior, Sagor explained.

Their mythology is unimportant. Dispatch Harriers and Immortals to intercept both parties, Molid ordered.

I will inform Ssardon, Sagor said.

Make it clear to Ssardon that I want Celestine, Morgan, and Maximilian alive, Molid added.

Yes, Dirgelord, Sagor said.

Morgan and Maximilian serve the Monachus of Khulankor. I want what they know. You almost lost them once, when your agent in Aquarquff abandoned them to the Ha’ashtari. I will not overlook such a mistake a second time, Molid said.

Sagor tilted his head slightly, and the creature on his shoulder suddenly seemed disturbed. You did not overlook it the first time. You had my man in Aquarquff killed, Sagor said tonelessly.

Both Mhoul remained unnaturally still for a moment, black statues unmoved by breath or nerve. The riths twitched in silent unison. Are you questioning my decision? Molid asked, the artificial voice more harsh than usual.

No. You are the Dirgelord, Sagor said. Does the siege at Tantagnel continue?

The tense moment passed, and Molid accepted the change of subject. Tantagnel still stands. Ryde and Thuro will not admit they are beaten, and the Haggas are incompetent. The castle is beyond the range of the sound cannons on our ships and the portable cannon we sent through the Gate never worked again. Our technicians cannot explain the problem and the devices are too precious to risk in experimentation. We are exploring other options, but they will take time. Which makes it even more important that I recover Celestine. A threat to her may convince Ryde to surrender. The Mhoul fell silent, contemplating the ultimate fate of Celestine’s father. Finally, Molid spoke again. What of the Fargate?

The excavation is complete, Sagor said, and then paused. But there have been other problems.

What problems? Molid demanded.

The keystone appears to be damaged. We have asked the Lucca for instructions on its repair, Sagor said.

And the Monachus? Molid asked.

Nothing unusual, Sagor said.

Nothing except the sudden appearance of Morgan and Maximilian, who have been sent by the meddlers at Khulankor. Never forget the Mons Monachus are the only enemy on this planet that can stop us, that can condemn us to slow extinction. We have to know what they are doing, Molid said.

Which brings me to my last report, Sagor said.

Well? Molid prompted.

Our agents in Carnac suspect Morgan has an aurellium sword. He must have retrieved it from the Empire weapons cache near Aquarquff. It is possible he obtained other devices as well, Sagor said reluctantly.

Molid stared at Sagor’s image, and then slowly stood. The Dirgelord made a strange gesture along the side of the bandaged skull, like someone brushing back a long vanished lock of hair. Aurellium, Molid said in a low voice. The thing on Molid’s shoulder became agitated, pushing itself up and down on toad legs as its eyestalk waved restlessly. The Mhoul looked down at the metallic wrappings and gloved hands. Their dead flesh felt nothing, but aurellium absorbed the Luccan energy that gave them life. Molid imagined a sword made of aurellium, its glittering blade tearing through the metasilk and draining . . . That weapon must be destroyed.

Yes, Sagor agreed.

Keep me informed, Molid ordered, touching the top of the crystal skull.

As you command, Dirgelord, Sagor said as the emerald light faded.

CHAPTER ONE

Ambush

Satyrs watched as Morgan and his companions passed through the cliffs above Carnac. The goat-men perched on rocky ledges, with their dark eyes fixed on the party. Seeing the travelers’ escort, they did not attack. The ta’hoda Max made a rude gesture as he rode past them. The Ha’ashtari laughed at Max’s taunt, but the satyrs gave no sign that they understood.

Once the riders reached the plains beyond the cliffs, they formed two groups, and moved side-by-side through the Waste. Max and his Ha’ashtari made up one band, Morgan, Celeste, and the Carnites the other. Ha’dros led Max’s party, the Ha’ashtari warriors encircling the ta’hoda. Max rode the dappled gray Ha’dros had given him, with the Shadows Ha’sim and Sha’lor at his flanks. Morgan rode a massive black horse, and Celeste a roan, both gifts from the Baron Serenus. Celeste carried her Ha’ashtari weapons—lance, knives, and bow. The Ha’ashtari warriors had been slightly offended by this, but no one tried to take the weapons back. Morgan wore his metasilk cloak. Its dense fibers would turn the cold wind as well as enemy weapons. Captain Rusk and his Carnite soldiers separated into columns on either side of Morgan and his companions. The soldiers rode silently, their eyes scanning the frigid prairie around them.

Diomedes bounced along on his pony, but his insatiable curiosity distracted him from the discomfort of riding. He urged his pony in one direction, then another, always eager to observe some new wonder. A solid Carnite soldier named Tak, who was in charge of Diomedes’ safety, patiently recovered the errant scholar time after time. Diomedes chattered continuously about the natural phenomena around them. Tak listened politely but had little to say in response. Soon after leaving Carnac, Morgan engaged Diomedes in conversation, questioning him about the eastern lands of Faerie, the forests of Aijalon, and their inhabitants. Amazed at the depths of Diomedes’ knowledge, Morgan began to view the little man with new respect. But when Diomedes found out that Morgan had been to Faerie, and had traveled as far east as the Mhoul capital of Mogda Thal, he pestered Morgan with endless questions. Morgan answered a few, and then tried to stem the flow without being rude, but finally had to ride away. He was satisfied that Diomedes would be a capable guide for Celeste, but he had no desire to spend the rest of the journey with the little scholar fastened to him like a leech.

Max watched Sha’lor as she rode. She sat straight in the saddle, her head held high. The sun glinted from her shiny black hair, the tousled mass bouncing slightly with the horse’s movements. Her mahogany skin was rich and flawless, marked only by the delicate tattoos. Clad in Ha’ashtari leathers, she also wore a heavy cloak of antelope hide. She was aware of his gaze, but chose to ignore him.

Tell me about your sister, Max said to Ha’sim. Max spoke in Trade, the common language used by most human races on Kalnaroag.

Glancing at Sha’lor, Ha’sim frowned. What do you want to know?

Whatever, Max said with forced nonchalance. Sha’lor struggled to maintain her aloof aspect.

She is two years younger than me. We are Ha’keel’s only children, Ha’sim began.

What’s your mother’s name? Max asked.

Sha’tay. She was killed when we were young, Ha’sim said.

Max looked at Ha’sim. I’m sorry.

Sha’twa, our grandmother, watched over us. Sometimes more closely than Ha’keel preferred, Ha’sim said with a wry smile.

Your father never remarried? Max asked.

No, although he had many offers. He is a great warrior and a wise chief, Ha’sim said.

I agree, Max said.

They rode in silence for a while. Then Max leaned toward Ha’sim. Does she have a man now? Max whispered, nodding at Sha’lor.

No, Ha’sim replied in a hoarse whisper.

Has she ever had a man? Max asked.

Ha’sim, Sha’lor said with a sharp note of warning in her voice.

Ha’sim rolled his eyes. Ask her.

Sha’lor turned to Max, who met her gaze. How about you? she asked.

What about me? Max asked innocently.

Have you ever had a woman? Sha’lor asked.

Max suddenly felt uncomfortable. Well . . . yes . . . several.

Sha’lor raised her eyebrows. What about Celeste?

Celeste? She wants Morgan, Max said. He doesn’t share.

Sha’lor looked away. Outlanders, she muttered, but somehow she seemed pleased.

Max decided to steer away from these dangerous waters and turned back to Ha’sim. Tell me more about this ‘lost one’ tradition.

Ha’sim looked relieved. You are ta’hoda, one of the lost ones. Although you belong to an inferior race, you have the spirit of a great Ha’ashtari warrior, a spirit that found its way into an outlander. One day you will lead us to glory.

When did you decide I was ta’hoda? Max asked.

At first we did not know. Then we saw your courage, your skill in battle, the way you instinctively followed ka’chi, Ha’sim said.

Actually, it was Celeste who taught us your codes of warfare, Max admitted.

Sha’lor glanced at Celeste. She is not a typical outlander woman.

There was also your love of the kill, the joy of combat, Ha’sim continued.

I’m not sure I love to kill. Most of the time, I don’t feel anything, Max said, his eyes distant.

And you rode the Equo, Sha’lor said. It was a sign.

Ah, yes. The centaur, Max said. That was quite a ride.

There is something else, Ha’sim said.

And what would that be? Max asked.

Our shaman, Ha’grippa, said you were brought to us for a reason. To stand by our people in a time of great need. You were the ta’hoda of prophecy, Ha’sim said.

So what is this great need? Max asked.

Ha’sim frowned. We are not sure. The threat is not obvious yet.

Maybe it has something to do with Morgan and the Mhoul, Max said.

How would that concern the Ha’ashtari? The Mhoul have not entered the tari’shan for generations, Sha’lor said.

Not yet, anyway, but they’re up to something, Max said.

If they come here, we will kill them, Sha’lor said simply.

Being dead already, they’re hard to kill, Max pointed out.

No matter. If they come, we will fight them. If we die, we will die bravely and face the Ru’kafee, Ha’sim said.

Ru’kafee? Max asked.

When a Ha’ashtari dies, they face the Ru’kafee, the final test of bravery. They will fight their fears one last time. If you have conquered most of your fears in the first life, your opponent will be small and weak. If you take many fears with you into death, your opponent will be powerful, and you may lose. If a Ha’ashtari loses this final battle, they are condemned to Tar’bal, a great stone tomb filled with cowards and ruled by Bal’igna, the god of fear and cowards. If a warrior wins the final battle, they ride the arch with the gods forever, Ha’sim explained.

Riding horses for eternity? Your view of heaven is grim, Max remarked, drawing puzzled looks from the Ha’ashtari. So, tell me again what Shadows do.

We are the ta’hoda’s honor guard, Ha’sim said.

Max frowned. So I suppose it’s improper for a Shadow to . . . become too . . . familiar with . . .

Sha’lor fixed him with a level gaze. While I am your Shadow, I cannot lie with you, she said bluntly.

That’s not exactly . . . Max began.

It is not? Sha’lor asked sharply.

Well, not that I wouldn’t want . . . Max realized he was falling into a trap and shut his mouth.

Where did you come from? Ha’sim asked, coming to Max’s rescue.

From the north, across the mountains and the river Seir, Max answered.

Why did you return to the Waste? Sha’lor asked.

I came with Morgan, Max said.

He said he was an enemy of the Mhoul, Sha’lor said.

Yes, he serves the Mhoul’s greatest foe, Max said and then paused. Morgan disappeared twelve years ago after the Mhoul massacred his entire army. I thought he was dead. Then, suddenly, he appeared near my camp in Saarland.

Perhaps the shame of defeat drove him away, Sha’lor said.

There was no shame, Max said quietly. But no one could tell him that.

He is your friend? Ha’sim asked.

Yes, Max said.

Ha’sim glanced in Morgan’s direction. A powerful warrior. It is good to have friends like that.

Yes, it is, Max agreed.

Tell us more, Ha’sim prompted. You said Morgan came to your camp.

I was guarding caravans traveling the road from Saxhaven to Androssar. Not glorious, but it was steady pay. When Morgan came back, I left the caravans and went with him to Androssar. It was there that we met the Princess, who had also made enemies of the Mhoul. From Androssar, Taurus brought us south along the coast to Aquarquff, Max said. You remember Taurus, great bearded gent, with the large hat and the larger thirst.

Sha’lor nodded. Yes. Noisy outlander.

That’s him, Max confirmed.

He was with you in Aquarquff, and at the archery challenge, Ha’sim added.

And you know the rest, Max concluded.

Why do we go to Aijalon? Sha’lor asked. You are one of us now. Stay here.

Morgan is going to the mountain Dragonback, in Aijalon, Max said.

It is not fitting for the ta’hoda to serve an outsider, Sha’lor protested.

I don’t serve Morgan, Max retorted. He needs my help, so I travel with him.

How will we get to this Dragonback? Ha’sim asked.

Taurus is waiting in Kalixalven, with his ship the Windrider. He’ll take us up the Seir and then we’ll travel overland, Max said.

I have never been on a ship, Sha’lor said. We do not need ships.

Max surveyed the arid steppes around them. No, you probably don’t.

What will we do with our horses? Ha’sim asked.

I never thought about that. We’ll figure out something when we get there, Max said.

I am not leaving Cha’nu, Sha’lor warned, stroking the neck of her mare.

Max smiled at the thought of Taurus’ reaction to livestock on his precious warship. This should be an adventure, he said softly and looked at his two Shadows. Have you two ever been out of the Waste? Other than trips to Aquarquff or Kalixalven?

There is no reason for us to leave the tari’shan, Sha’lor said.

You don’t have to go. You can just escort me to the foothills and then return home, Max said.

Sha’lor threw back her head, nostrils flaring. You would have us disgrace the shen’tari tribe? To leave you would violate our oaths as Shadows.

That will not happen, Ha’sim confirmed hotly.

Max held up a hand to fend off their outrage. Never mind. Forget I mentioned it. But what am I going to do with you?

We are Ha’ashtari, Sha’lor said. We know how to conduct ourselves.

Just don’t kill anyone in Kalixalven. And Captain Taurus won’t take kindly to you stabbing any of his crew, even if they are condemned criminals, Max said.

I will kill to defend you, or to preserve my honor, Sha’lor said.

That’s what I’m afraid of, Max said.

What did you call Taurus’ crew? Criminals? Ha’sim asked. We are not familiar with that word.

People who break the law, Max replied.

Ha’ashtari who break the law are killed, by their tribe or their own hand, Sha’lor said.

In Saarland, ship captains can purchase lawbreakers to work on their ships, Max explained.

And you call us savages, Sha’lor scoffed.

What will we do at Dragonback? Ha’sim asked.

Morgan will know, Max said.

He has not told you? Sha’lor asked.

Morgan won’t have his orders until we get to the mountain, Max said vaguely.

I do not understand, Ha’sim said. Are we meeting someone there?

He has . . . visions, Max explained.

Visions? He is a shaman? Sha’lor asked.

Ha’sim nodded wisely. The ta’hoda would have his own shaman.

Max shrugged. Close enough.

No one spoke for a while. Max tilted his head back and let the distant sun warm his face while the cool breeze searched for openings in his cloak. He squinted against the glare and lost himself in the huge dome of sky over the Waste. The silver arch, silent and awesome, hung overhead, as the moon Asa rose faintly in the northern reaches.

Sha’lor studied the man riding beside her. Max’s dark hair and closely trimmed beard contrasted sharply with his white skin. He was handsome, but his eyes lent a coldness to his face—dead eyes, like pale blue holes in a mask. The most striking aspect of the ta’hoda was the way he moved. Inhumanly graceful and fluid in his actions, incredibly fast, his lean muscles deceptively strong, he reminded Sha’lor of the sith’gaa stalking its prey. Max, as usual, wore dark clothing and carried two black swords. He had bested Ha’sim in the challenge at Aquarquff, proving himself a master with the bow.

Max sighed, briefly content. I could grow fond of this place.

Of course, Sha’lor said. It is your home.

* 20259.jpg *

The three-day journey eastward from Carnac was relatively uneventful and too short for Morgan. He dreaded the thought of leaving Celeste, especially when she faced the dangers of Faerie. But try as he might, he could not think of any reasonable alternative. She would be in more danger if she stayed with him, and she did have a guide and an escort of capable soldiers. Morgan told himself that he could not afford to be distracted by worries about the Princess.

So why did he keep watching her when she was not looking, admiring her beauty, the rich auburn hair and exotic blue eyes, the trim, athletic figure and the way she moved? Why did he keep thinking about her and torturing himself? In Carnac, the Princess had made it clear that they could not be together, at least until sometime in the future. She was right, after all. Her land had been invaded and her family trapped in a castle under siege, and he had his mission for the Mons Monachus to consider. Not a good time for romance. Morgan reminded himself that life was cruel and women a mystery. He tried several times to talk with Celeste, but she seemed quiet and sad. He hoped she would miss him. Morgan shook his head, trying to clear it. Why would he want both of them to be miserable? It would be best if Celeste forgot him altogether.

The travelers passed several herds of the spiral-horned antelope and observed other creatures of the Waste. Hawks soared overhead as wasterats watched from their burrows. The vast steppe stretched out around them, seemingly endless, its blanket of grasses rippling in the wind. The weather was constant, clear and cold. At night they camped at various oases, where they drank from hidden springs or wells and sampled cached rations. Around the campfire, they heard the mad howling of hyenas and several times the roar of the hor’gaa, a large winged predator, rumbled through the night. The Ha’ashtari and the Carnites told war stories and Max joined in with some harrowing tales of his own. Sha’lor, her dark eyes intense, watched him quietly while he spoke.

When they entered rif’tari territory, a party of warriors from this tribe soon appeared. The Ha’ashtari conferred briefly and then twenty rif’tari joined Max’s escort. The newcomers greeted the ta’hoda respectfully and pledged their service to him. The rif’tari, taller and lighter-skinned than the Shen’tari, wore green as their tribal color.

Finally, the riders reached the river Argurion, a vein of blue and green in a sea of bronze. Vegetation lined the banks, seeking the life-giving moisture. To their right, the river divided, the north fork flowing into the Nageff, the canyon that split the sheer cliffs of the Barrier Lift. The other branch of the river angled to the south. To their left, the river flowed out of the foothills, which rose steeply to a jagged range of mountains. Beyond those peaks lay the mighty Seir, and Kalixalven. Morgan hoped Taurus and the Windrider would be in Kalixalven, waiting to take them upriver to Dragonback. They forded the main stem Argurion at a low spot, their horses stepping carefully through rushing water and slick rocks. It was early enough in the year that the snow visible on the mountains had not begun melting. Later in the summer, the Argurion would be swollen with glacial runoff. On the far bank, Morgan and his companions dismounted as they prepared to go their separate ways.

Morgan gripped Captain Rusk’s hand. Guard the Princess well, Captain. Faerie is full of hidden dangers.

Rusk smiled. Don’t worry. I’ve been to Faerie before.

All too soon, Morgan faced Celeste. Both seemed at a loss for words. In spite of everything, I’m glad I met you, Celeste, Morgan said finally.

Nodding, Celeste dropped her eyes. Me too, she said and then looked up at him. Be careful, Morgan. She searched the big man’s face, memorizing the ruggedly handsome features, the strange gray eyes, the unruly brown hair, and the scar that etched his left eyebrow.

Morgan indulged himself one last time and stared into the depths of Celeste’s entrancing eyes. Suddenly, he realized the Ha’ashtari and the Carnites were watching them and he tore his gaze away. He climbed on his horse. Let’s go, Max, Morgan said gruffly.

Max walked over to Celeste and gave her a hug. See you later, Princess.

Celeste looked after Morgan, who rode slowly toward the foothills. Take care of him for me, Max, she said sadly.

Always have and always will, Princess. When this is all over, I’ll tie him up and dump him on your doorstep if I have to, Max assured her.

Celeste smiled, and shook her head. Can’t force him, Max. He has to make his own choices.

Max mounted and turned to follow Morgan. He’s too stubborn and stupid to make his own choices. You know that as well as I do. Give my regards to your brother when you find him.

Celeste lifted her hand, but Morgan had already disappeared around a bend in the trail. As Max rode away, his Ha’ashtari gathered around him. Then the Princess nodded to Captain Rusk. Take me to Aijalon, Captain.

* 20261.jpg *

Morgan’s party rode up a steep trail in the lower reaches of the mountains. The rugged peaks, silent and majestic in the early afternoon light, clustered before them. The wind was even colder at this altitude and Morgan pulled his cloak tighter. He stopped his horse and looked back at the Waste. He could see the silver threads of the Argurion, nestled in emerald ribbons. On the far side of the river, the plains stretched forever. A great mountain, wreathed in mist, loomed on the southern horizon. From this height, he could see the Barrier Lift. Beyond the cliffs sprawled the tangled growth of Aijalon. One fork of the Argurion roared through the Nageff, throwing up a curtain of spray that formed a distant rainbow. The other branch of the river meandered into the Waste, then looped back to spill over the southern rim of the Nageff. Morgan looked away. Celeste should be halfway down the Nageff by now. He was not likely to see her again. Suddenly he noticed several of the rif’tari had left them, evidently scouting ahead on foot. Their fellow tribesmen now led four riderless horses. The rif’tari were taking their role of escort very seriously. As if summoned by his thought, one of the rif’tari appeared, perched on a spur of rock beside the trail. The scout signaled to the other Ha’ashtari and Ha’dros spoke to Max. Morgan rode ahead as Max turned to meet him.

What’s happening? Morgan asked.

Max nodded toward the rif’tari. They brought back a trophy. Looks like trouble ahead.

What kind of trouble? Morgan asked.

Let’s have a look at their catch. That will explain much, Max said as he dismounted and massaged his aching back.

Morgan and Max left their horses with one of the Ha’ashtari and climbed the rocks beside the path. Max’s Shadows stayed with him and Ha’dros joined them. They soon reached the waiting rif’tari.

What is it, Ha’korl? Ha’dros asked the rif’tari, speaking in the Trade language for Max’s benefit.

The man pointed behind him, into a narrow cleft in the rocks that paralleled the trail. Another rif’tari crouched there, beside a body half-hidden in the shadows.

Ha’korl answered in Trade. Maybe the outlanders can tell us, he said, descending into the rift.

The others followed the rif’tari and gathered at the bottom of the gully. Ha’korl gestured at his companion. Sha’fel, he said.

Morgan and Max glanced at the rif’tari woman, and then looked again. They could not help but appreciate the dark beauty of the Ha’ashtari. Unlike the other women they had seen, she wore her hair long, bound in a thick braid. Sha’fel returned their stares in a bold, frank manner. Max noticed Sha’lor glaring at him, and quickly turned his gaze to the corpse. The form was roughly human and obviously dead, its throat cut. The lifeless eyes stared at the sky. They were strange eyes with indistinct pupils and irises. The body had ashen, hairless skin and leaked pale blood. The corpse wore a uniform, gray with black trim, and light armor—a simple helmet, breastplate, arm guards, and greaves. A dagger hung in a scabbard at the belt, next to an empty sword sheath. Morgan and Max locked eyes over the body.

Ha’dros spoke first. Lo’an, he breathed.

Max looked at him. Lo’an?

Ha’dros struggled to translate. No . . . soul. I have heard stories of gray ones who came from Faerie beyond the cliffs, long ago.

A good description, Max commented.

You know of such creatures? Ha’korl asked Max.

Yes, I’m afraid so. We call them Immortals, Max said. They serve the Mhoul.

Have you fought them? Ha’dros asked.

Yes, many times. As you see, they can be killed, even if their humanity is suspect, Max said.

Not human? Ha’sim asked.

Ha’korl regarded the body. He did not cry out and tried to fight us even with his throat cut.

Morgan knelt beside the Immortal and pointed to the forehead. Etched into the smooth skin was a vertical bar, black against slate. First generation.

At the Ha’ashtari’s puzzled looks, Max tried to explain. As I said, the Immortals aren’t really human, at least not anymore. They started as humans, working for the Mhoul. But when they were killed, the Mhoul. . . brought them back, reborn to fight again. That’s why they’re called Immortals. See the bar? This fellow was a One, a first-generation Immortal. The process only works three or four times, and each time a little bit more is lost. Ones can fight and carry out orders in battle. Twos are shock troops. Anything more than charging straight ahead and killing anyone in their path is beyond them. Threes are usually camp servants, and Fours nearly beasts of burden.

Ha’dros looked disgusted. Lo’an, he repeated. These things have no honor.

Yes. No ka’chi for these, Max agreed.

What are their weapons? Ha’korl asked. How do they fight?

The Immortals have poor vision after being reborn and don’t make good archers. Horses won’t bear them, something about their smell. So the Immortals fight on foot with swords, spears, and shields. They’re fearless and hard to kill—they feel little pain. They obey orders without question. With close supervision, the Immortals can be quite effective, Morgan explained and then stood up.

Max regarded his old comrade-in-arms. And they won’t be alone.

What do you mean? Ha’dros asked.

Krang Fere Harriers, Morgan replied.

Who are they? Ha’korl asked.

The elite soldiers of the Mhoul army. They also serve as officers for the Immortals. The Harriers are born and trained in the Krang Fere wilderness. There are tales of a great pit called Purgatory, where the Harriers are turned into weapons, Max explained.

I have not heard of this Krang Fere, Ha’korl said.

A harsh land, devastated by an ancient war. Worse than the Waste, Morgan said, his eyes distant.

Worse than the Waste, Ha’korl repeated. Do you insult us, outlander?

He only means a land that breeds worthy opponents, Max said quickly.

Are these Harriers worthy opponents? Ha’sim asked hopefully.

Yes, Max said. Tough, well-trained, ruthless.

How will we know them? Ha’dros asked.

Crimson and black uniforms, fancy breastplates, red capes and plumes on their helmets, Max explained. They favor heavy basket-hilt rapiers and matching smallswords.

The Harriers also regard shields, bows, and horses as suitable only for cowards, Morgan remarked, watching the Ha’ashtari.

The mahogany warriors stiffened and Morgan felt the weight of their displeasure. Max glanced at Morgan and smiled. See? The Harriers also have no honor. No ka’chi for them either.

Did you see any Harriers with the Lo’an? Morgan asked.

Yes, Sha’fel said. Red is not an easy color to conceal.

Where did you find this one? Max asked.

Ha’korl pointed toward the mountains. They wait for us near the pass.

An ambush. How did they know we were coming? Morgan mused.

Max shrugged. They always seem to know. The question is—what do we do now?

How many are there? Morgan asked.

About forty roosters and Lo’an that we saw. There may be others hidden in the rocks, Sha’fel answered.

Roosters? Max asked.

Ha’korl laughed. That’s what we call them. Red roosters.

When have you ever seen roosters? Do the Ha’ashtari raise chickens? Morgan asked.

This time both rif’tari laughed. We are not outlander farmers. We have seen them in Aquarquff and Kalixalven, Sha’fel explained.

A good name for them, Max agreed.

We have to use the pass to reach Kalixalven. It would take too long to find another route. Maybe we should prepare a counter-ambush, Morgan said.

Counter-ambush? Max asked.

Morgan squatted and picked up a stick. Yes. Ha’korl, draw me a picture of where the enemy waits.

* 20263.jpg *

Morgan guided his horse up the trail, followed by thirty Ha’ashtari. They were just entering a narrow defile, where the walls climbed in rocky steps on either side. An unnatural silence blanketed the valley. Suddenly, soldiers in red-plumed helmets appeared above them and cast spears at the Ha’ashtari. Morgan’s companions raised their shields and dodged or deflected all but two of the deadly shafts. One Ha’ashtari fell from his saddle, pierced through the back, while another slumped forward, and clutched his bleeding throat.

A voice came from the cliffs above. That one. Take him alive. Four Immortals dove from the rocks and tried to drag Morgan from his mount. The black twisted abruptly, its nostrils flaring at the scent of the gray-skinned attackers. The horse’s move caused one of the soldiers to miss his mark and sprawl on the rocks. Morgan caught the second soldier in mid-air and dashed him against the canyon wall. The Immortal slid downward, thrashing convulsively, his back broken. The last two assailants landed on the horse’s neck and clung to its bridle. Morgan’s mount reared and lifted the Immortals into the air. The first soldier recovered and ran toward the black, who lashed him with iron-shod hooves. The Immortal staggered back with his arms over his head and pale blood splattered on the stones. Morgan punched one of the Immortals hanging from his horse’s neck, driving his fist into the pallid face. The soldier’s head snapped back and his helmet flew off, but he continued to hold on. Morgan had to strike him twice more before he fell away. Morgan drew Lex Talionus, his two-handed sword. He brought the pommel down on the other soldier’s helmet and kicked him in the ribs. Though barely conscious, the Immortal managed to maintain his grip. Morgan smashed his sword hilt into the dented helm a second time and the Immortal dropped to the ground. Morgan’s horse surged ahead, trampling the soldier it had kicked earlier.

The Ha’ashtari milled around in the canyon, their horses nearly panicked by the Immortals. They would have made easy targets for a second rain of spears, but something else happened. On both sides of the defile, behind the Harriers, bowstrings twanged. Arrows tore into their ranks, and punched through the ornate black armor. Max and twenty rif’tari archers exacted a heavy toll. Pale soldiers stumbled from their positions, silently clawing at the cruel shafts. Though riddled with arrows, several more Harriers threw spears, but the Ha’ashtari below easily avoided the weak casts. Dying soldiers tumbled into the canyon to be finished off by the warriors waiting there. Officers shouted commands and the remaining Harriers moved to cover in a hail of arrows. By the time they escaped the deadly storm, fewer than half of the original ambushers remained unscathed. When one of the officers yelled again, his cry was answered from farther up the trail. Morgan reined in his horse and listened. He could hear the sound of more soldiers coming down the gorge. The battle was not over yet.

As Morgan turned his mount, another Immortal leaped at him. They were still trying to take him alive, but Morgan had no such restraints. He split the soldier with his sword and left him crawling through the rocks. Other Harriers and Immortals remained hidden in the cliffs above, waiting for the reinforcements.

A sudden thought struck Morgan. If the Mhoul sought to ambush his party, what about Celeste and the others in the Nageff? He spun the black and urged him into a gallop. Morgan charged back through the startled Ha’ashtari, who sprang aside. Max jumped onto a rock, his bow in one hand. Ha’sim and Sha’lor appeared on either side of him, watching for danger.

The Princess! Morgan yelled as he rode past.

No, Morgan! Max objected. Wait! Morgan ignored him and pounded furiously down the trail.

Sha’lor watched the departing figure. Does he flee in fear?

No, it’s not fear. Something far worse, Max said, shaking his head sadly. It’s love.

Love? Sha’lor asked scornfully.

Actually, my shaman just had another vision, Max corrected himself.

Ah. That would explain it, Ha’sim said.

Max shouted down to Ha’dros and his warriors in the canyon. Engage those soldiers coming down from the pass. Delay them as long as you can and then follow us. Max turned to his rif’tari archers. Stay and fight with the Shen’tari, he ordered and headed for the horses.

Ha’sim and Sha’lor ran beside him. Where are we going? Sha’lor asked.

That fool Morgan. . . going to charge into an army of Mhoul soldiers . . . and get himself killed . . . trying to rescue the Princess, Max panted. Sett save me from women and heroes.

Sha’lor frowned, but Ha’sim nodded. The ta’hoda’s shaman leads him to greater glory. The odds are too even here. A more worthy battle awaits us, he said.

Yes, Max agreed. That’s what I meant.

Down in the canyon, the Ha’ashtari could hear the soldiers approaching. They pulled their lances free, adjusted their shields, and prepared for a charge. Sha’fel called to Ha’dros. We are supposed to fight and then run? Is that what the ta’hoda said?

Ha’dros shook his head. Bal’igna seeks to deceive us by twisting the words of the ta’hoda. Would the great ta’hoda have us flee battle? No! To the death, Ha’ashtari! We will ride the arch tonight! he shouted, his lance raised.

The Immortals and Harriers coming down the trail heard a series of bloodcurdling cries and the sound of galloping horses. The Harriers slowed, wondering what lay below.

* 20265.jpg *

Morgan rode headlong down the narrow path that threaded the Nageff. The river, now a raging torrent, crashed through the canyon. The trail clung to the scant space between water and cliff. He was deep in the Nageff. The walls rose high above his head and the trail angled steeply. Spray from the rapids mixed with the foamy sweat on Morgan’s horse. The black, a powerful animal, was still going strong despite the furious descent from the mountains. But Morgan knew he could not travel much farther at this pace. If he did not reach the Princess soon, he would have to slow down.

The roar of the river drowned all other sounds. Morgan galloped around a bend and into an Immortal rear guard. His charging mount, which could not stop, climbed over the massed troops. Several Immortals fell into the river and were swept away in a tangle of waving limbs. Morgan roared a challenge and chopped around him with his sword, cleaving a path through the crowded soldiers. The unnatural scent of the Immortals threw Morgan’s mount into a blind fury. The sheer numbers in the narrow space slowed the black and the soldiers began to strike at horse and rider. Morgan parried several thrusts, but felt his mount falter as the majestic beast suffered serious wounds. The horse reared and cleared a path with its slashing hooves. Then Morgan’s mount leaped through the opening and gained some headway. But they could not break free and Immortals surrounded them. The black surged ahead, shoving through the soldiers. A spear blade cut the straps holding Morgan’s pack and bedroll, which slid from the saddle into the surging attackers. An ashen soldier plunged a spear deep into the horse’s belly. The dying animal fell and pitched Morgan over its head. He lost his sword as he somersaulted into their attackers. Morgan’s mount strained to its feet one last time, though mortally wounded. The black kicked out with its back legs, lashing through the Immortals. As they turned to defend themselves, Morgan rolled clear. The massive gelding slipped into the river, several spears protruding from its sides. The powerful current caught the horse and washed it downstream.

Morgan heard someone shouting, striving to make himself heard over the water’s roar. A Harrier sergeant appeared beyond the mass of Immortals. The man’s dark complexion contrasted sharply with the pale skin of his troops. Back into formation! Then kill him! the sergeant yelled.

There was a momentary lull as the Immortals obeyed. Morgan looked around. His sword remained in the chest of a writhing Immortal, too far to reach. Across the canyon, the southern fork of the Argurion plunged over the brink in a deafening cascade. At the bottom of the gorge, the trail crossed an old stone bridge, then circled around behind the falls and entered a large hollow worn in the rocks. It was there that Celeste’s escort had made its last stand. The Carnites fought on foot and Morgan could not see their horses. With their backs to the cliff wall, the stalwart men fought in a thin line against a surging wave of Immortals and Harriers. The gray soldiers carried no shields, which would be nearly useless in such tight quarters. Those in red and black, with rapiers and smallswords flashing, darted gracefully among the combatants. As Morgan watched, a Carnite fell, pierced by several blades. In that brief glimpse, he saw no sign of Celeste.

A sudden fury exploded in Morgan and he grabbed a fallen spear. When the Immortals came for him, he met them in a rage, wielding the spear savagely. Morgan let the metasilk cloak take the rain of swords and spears. He shrugged off the blows and killed his attackers one by one. Morgan thrust the spear into a soldier’s chest, driving it through the light breastplate. He kicked a second Immortal into the river, and then crushed a skull with the spear-butt, caving in the helmet. Using the spear-shaft, he swept another Immortal’s feet from under him and drove the point into a pallid face. A sword struck Morgan’s shoulder. He twisted and shoved the shaft into the Immortal’s throat. A spear thudded into his back. He whirled and knocked his assailant into the water. Holding his spear crosswise before him, Morgan drove two more soldiers over the bank. Oblivious to anything but killing the warriors around him, he plowed through the Immortals like a relentless juggernaut.

A spear point tore across Morgan’s forehead. He sagged to his knees and nearly toppled into the river. Jamming his spear into the rocks, Morgan caught himself. He kicked backwards and broke the attacker’s knee. His hands slipped on the wet shaft and he fell beside the trail. The water roared at his back. Morgan rolled over and faced his enemy, the Harrier sergeant. In spite of his injured leg, the man thrust his spear at Morgan a second time. Morgan grabbed the shaft, jerked the Harrier forward, and kicked him in the stomach. The sergeant folded and Morgan cast him into the river. As the current bore the flailing soldier away, Morgan shouted after him. My name is Morgan Caeda. And you were supposed to take me alive!

Morgan stood and waited grimly for the next attack, but none came. Shaking the blood and sweat from his eyes, he realized no Immortals remained standing. He had fought his way through all the soldiers on the trail. Slate-skinned corpses littered the area. Several injured Immortals dragged themselves toward Morgan, leaving pale smears that soon dissolved in the spray. Morgan moved away from their grasping hands. Down below, the soldiers from Carnac still fought, although fewer of them remained. Morgan retrieved his sword and descended the slope. The inhuman survivors crawled after him, blindly obeying their officer’s last orders.

* 20267.jpg *

On the plains above the Nageff, Max and the two Ha’ashtari dismounted and looked into the canyon. They had skirted the edge of the rift, knowing they would make better time on the flat ground. Finally, they had found Morgan. They watched as he ran down the trail toward the Carnites. Max noted the big man’s wild appearance, including the dirt, blood, disheveled clothing, and borrowed swords. He glanced at the pallid forms scattered on the upper trail. We got here just in time, Max muttered.

Ha’sim gestured. See. It is three against many. Much more honor for the ta’hoda.

Three? What about Morgan and the Carnites? Max asked.

Sha’lor shrugged. Outlanders are of no consequence.

No consequence, Max chuckled grimly. From all the bodies down there, I’d say the Mhoul soldiers would disagree. At least about Morgan Caeda.

He might be worthy of some consideration, Sha’lor conceded.

Where is his horse? Ha’sim asked.

The Immortals probably killed it, Max said.

They killed his horse? Sha’lor asked.

The Lo’an are truly without honor, Ha’sim decided.

Morgan reached the bottom of the decline. Immortal, Harrier, and Carnite bodies covered the trail at the base of the falls. Several horses lay there as well, casualties of the ambush. From his position on the cliff top, Max could see behind the falls. Celeste was there, on her horse with Diomedes mounted behind her, clinging to her cloak. The roan paced nervously on a ledge, but there was no sign of the scholar’s pony. The surviving Carnites stood before the Princess. Max counted ten or twelve of them, but he could not see Captain Rusk. Roughly thirty enemy soldiers faced Celeste’s defenders. The Immortals and Harriers had already cast their spears and were now fighting with swords. Behind the Mhoul soldiers stood a Harrier captain, who directed the attack with sharp commands. And Morgan was charging from the rear.

Max turned to the two Ha’ashtari. My crazed shaman is likely to die unless we act. Kill everyone that gets near him, starting with that captain. But don’t hit Morgan, or you’ll answer to me, he said. By the look in Max’s eyes, the Ha’ashtari knew he was deadly serious.

Morgan crossed the bridge and ran silently toward the enemy. He intended to kill as many as he could before they realized they were under attack. The roar of the water covered the sound of his movements. He approached the falls from the side, relieved to finally see Celeste. Morgan vaulted a pile of bodies. He raised his sword to strike the nearest soldier, who was a Harrier captain. The man faced away from him and watched the struggle ahead. Before Morgan could reach him, the Harrier lurched forward. An arrow pinned the scarlet cape to his back. He was dead before he hit the ground. Morgan recognized Max’s arrow. An Immortal to Morgan’s left spun around with a Ha’ashtari arrow in his neck. The gray soldier clutched at the shaft and fell, thrashing and kicking. Morgan glanced over his shoulder. He scanned the cliff tops and spotted Max and his Shadows. With a cold smile and a prayer of thanks, Morgan raised his sword in salute and resumed his charge.

For the next few moments, Morgan became a harbinger of feathered death. Every soldier he approached sprouted arrows as the skillful archers on the cliff opened the way for him. He took advantage of the support and ran straight for the Princess. Morgan drove into the line of Immortals and Harriers, cleaving and stabbing. The soldiers turned to face Morgan as he entered the hollow behind the falls. The narrow trail allowed only two or three enemies to attack at a time. His sword slashing, Morgan chopped down one soldier after another. The Carnites left five men to guard the Princess, while the rest took the fight to the enemy. With hope rekindled, they charged the Mhoul soldiers.

The barrage of arrows almost ceased. Even Max would not risk shooting into the melee, for fear of hitting Morgan or one of the Carnites. Two Immortals came at Morgan, their empty eyes fixed on him. Morgan parried the first thrust and swung a mighty cut. His blow shattered the soldier’s sword and he slashed the Immortal with his back stroke. The soldier dropped to his knees and his broken blade clattered on the rocks. Morgan kicked him out of the way. He knocked aside a thrust and drove his foot into the second Immortal’s stomach. As the soldier crumpled, Morgan chopped deeply into the exposed neck. Shoving the dying Immortal away, Morgan slashed at the next two. He forgot all else and totally focused on his opponents. He moved by instinct and experience, reacting without thinking, as adrenaline surged through his veins.

A rapier came down on Morgan’s right arm. The metasilk saved his arm, but the force of the blow numbed his fingers. Morgan parried as a smallsword slashed at his head. Another rapier skidded from his ribs, but the metallic cloth turned the thrust. He caught the arm that held the sword and dragged the Harrier closer. He rammed his sword hilt into the soldier’s face, and kicked away an Immortal who attacked from the side. Morgan held the stunned Harrier and used him as a shield. A blade descended toward his face. Morgan ducked, but the sword crashed into his left shoulder and he lost his sword. In a grim rage, Morgan drove his foes back with the Harrier’s body. A fallen Immortal slashed at his legs. Morgan swung his living shield around and let it take the stroke. He shoved the bleeding form into his attacker’s face and jumped away. Morgan found himself unarmed, surrounded by Harriers and Immortals. Three Harriers faced him on the path. Two Immortals had climbed up the side of the hollow and were poised to jump on him. Injured Immortals reached up for him, relentless in spite of their wounds.

The Carnite counterattack had faltered. Only two men still fought. They had killed several of the Mhoul soldiers, but had failed to reach Morgan. He stood so far under the overhang that he doubted Max or the Ha’ashtari could get a clear shot. Morgan took a deep breath and prepared to die well. One of the Immortals above him leaped. Morgan tossed him aside, but the second soldier landed on his back and they went down. Morgan elbowed the Immortal in the throat, and he rolled away, choking on a crushed windpipe. The Harriers attacked before Morgan could regain his feet. Morgan wrenched up his hood, and curled, trying to protect himself with the cloak. Blows from rapiers and smallswords rained down on his head and back. He felt a blade gash his calf. Morgan kicked furiously and kept his exposed legs in constant motion. He connected several times, cracking shins and knees.

Through the din, Morgan heard a chilling war cry and the sound of hooves on rock. A broken figure in red and black fell on him and Morgan heard the Princess yell again. A hand grabbed his hood, trying to uncover his head. Morgan seized the hand and broke some fingers. He rolled onto his back and attempted to see what the Princess was doing. He dragged the fallen Harrier over him and let the body take any thrusts. An Immortal beside him launched forward, propelled by some irresistible force. Two Harriers were flung aside. Celeste’s horse loomed over Morgan, rearing and kicking out at the soldiers around him. The remaining Carnites formed a ring around the Princess and defended her flanks. The roan’s wild eyes showed its hatred of the Immortals, but Celeste forced her mount forward, her will unquestionable. A Harrier turned and aimed a thrust at the horse’s neck, but an arrow tore through the crimson soldier and he fell. Struggling to his feet, Morgan smiled grimly. The Ha’ashtari would risk killing him or the Princess to save the horse. He grabbed his sword and stilled three flailing Immortals.

Once Morgan had risen, Celeste backed the horse away. With her halo of tangled auburn hair and vengeful eyes, she resembled Tanasha, bride of the war god Thaar. Even the Carnites seemed fearful of her wrath. Morgan threw back his hood and looked around. The battle was over. Although the surviving Immortals still struggled to attack, they were too badly injured to pose a serious threat. All of the Harriers had fallen. Morgan raised his eyes to the canyon rim. Max and the Shadows rode west to join them in the canyon. Celeste appeared unharmed and was trying to calm her frenzied mount. Six Carnites still stood, now more concerned with dodging the prancing roan on the narrow trail. Diomedes, soggy and pitiful, huddled on the ledge above them. Celeste vaulted from the saddle and tossed her reins to one of the Carnites. The horse immediately dragged the man away from the fallen Immortals. The Princess ran toward Morgan and threw herself into his arms.

Celeste . . . I, Morgan began.

Just shut up and hold me, Celeste interrupted.

Morgan did as she asked. He held the Princess tightly, resting his cheek in her hair. In spite of everything Celeste had been through, she still smelled wonderful to him. And she felt wonderful, soft and firm, all at the same time. Morgan forgot about the watching Carnites. All too soon, the moment ended. Celeste gently pulled away and shoved a stray lock of hair behind her ear. She rubbed at an itch on her dust-streaked face and looked up at Morgan with a slight smile. I needed that. When you went down, I thought you were finished, she said and took another step back to examine Morgan from head to toe. They chopped at you like a piece of firewood. Are you all right?

Morgan tugged at a sleeve of his cloak. The fiber was becoming slightly frayed from all the abuse. Thanks to the cloak and the grace of Iosus.

How much of that blood is yours? Celeste asked, looking at his head.

Not much, Morgan said as he gingerly probed his wound.

Celeste turned and stared at a dead Immortal. Such strange creatures, wan and dismal, she said and then paused. They fought in total silence. No screams of pain, no battle cries. No fear, no anger. Nothing in their eyes at all. Just empty.

Morgan followed her gaze. Phantoms. They left their true lives behind. The Immortals are beyond passion or plan.

It was horrible. They wouldn’t stop, even when . . . Celeste began, her voice rising.

Morgan touched her arm. Celeste, it’s over.

I should feel sorry for them, Celeste said with a shuddering breath.

With the Immortals, pity could get you killed, Morgan reminded her. What happened here?

Celeste looked around. They came from both directions, attacking on the upper trail. The Immortals formed the first wave, with the Harriers behind. In this canyon, we had nowhere to go. Captain Rusk took half of the escort and held the upper trail while we retreated to the shelter of the waterfall. The horses were terrified of the Immortals and our withdrawal turned into a stampede. That probably saved us, because the Mhoul soldiers couldn’t stand against a herd of fear-crazed horses. Most of us made it to the falls. The horses wouldn’t stop there, so the soldiers had to leap off and let them go. Diomedes’ pony fell and was trampled, but Tak rescued him. I managed to stop the roan. Celeste gazed up the canyon, her face clouded with memory. Captain Rusk and his men dismounted, and then herded their mounts into the soldiers attacking from above. The Immortals butchered the horses as they fled. Some of the Immortals and Harriers attacked us, while the rest concentrated on killing Rusk’s men. We couldn’t help them. It was all we could do to hold our position. For a while, we fought the enemy at the bridge, but finally they pushed us back to the cliff. Celeste paused, her eyes moist. They died for me. Rusk and all the others.

I’m sorry, Princess. I should have seen this coming, Morgan said.

Don’t blame yourself, Celeste said and then frowned. What are you doing here?

They were waiting for us, Morgan said. Up in the mountains.

So what happened to the rest of your Ha’ashtari? Celeste asked. I saw Max and his Shadows on the rim.

Our rif’tari scouts discovered the trap and we killed most of the ambushers. But there was another party of Mhoul soldiers higher in the pass, Morgan said, and then hesitated. I knew that if Immortals and Harriers were in the pass, they would be in the Nageff as well. If the Mhoul knew my route, then they knew yours. I came back as fast as I could.

You left the Ha’ashtari in the middle of a battle? Celeste demanded.

Morgan studied his feet. "I