An Older Universe: The Chronicles of the Northern Earth, #2

By James Peart

In a fantastical realm, diverse characters grapple with the consequences of forbidden magic and the pursuit of power. The sorcerer Arch uses the mystical Niemane to transport beings across dimensions, but imperfect alignments lead to tragic mutilations. The protagonist, a druid named Daaynan, and his companions, including a hunter named Riegel and a mysterious songstress, must navigate these treacherous realms. Their journey is fraught with danger and betrayal, as they uncover hidden truths and confront powerful enemies. As realms intertwine, the characters' loyalties and sacrifices are put to the test in a high-stakes battle that challenges the very fabric of their reality.

• Language: English
• Publisher: James Peart
• Release date: Jan 18, 2025
• ISBN: 9798230386155

James Peart

I am a writer based in County Kildare, Ireland, an extraordinary setting and in my view a wonderful backdrop for a writer. I write novels across a range of genres and subjects in order to explore the human condition in all of its variety. I believe our lives are essentially an exercise in restriction, with each one of us revealing different degrees of this restriction. Some of us are born healthier, prettier, more intelligent, driven, socially more adept, or more astute in the transaction of our daily business. Some of these traits can be learned, perhaps honed to a fine degree, while others are fixed from birth. What defines us as people is how we respond to these limitations, making us, for example, happy, resigned, persistent, thoughtful, caring, or regretful. It is our interactions with others, as we seek to influence people or events around us, that not only determines these states of being, yet makes us endlessly entertaining for me a writer.

Book preview

Prologue

Inside a run-down shelter on the flat surface of an alien world, a young boy huddled close to his sister, seeking protection he knew she could not give.

Outside, far beyond the meager dwelling, the beginnings of a storm stirred to life. Bright flashes of lightning streaked down from the firmament, igniting the earth with enormous red-orange flares that shot back towards the welkin, flew to the circular boundary of this foreign horizon, or tore across the land beneath. Where they coasted the surface of this strange earth, leaving scorching trails, they seemed to be hunting for something. They continued their wayward tracks, as if guided by a crooked, unsteady hand through the electric wires of a puppeteer, slamming into everything that obstructed their bent and twisted passage.

The boy gripped his sister tight, his fingers biting into the skirt around her waist until she cried out. Other noises outside—the heavy-booted sound of men approaching—drowned her whimpers. She whispered his name, a word unpronounceable in any other tongue but theirs. They’re coming back! What shall we do? They drew each other closer, so close each could hear the other’s heartbeat. I don’t want to die like this!

The men stopped somewhere in the town, then began to roam around the perimeter of buildings, barking orders to each other in harsh, guttural tones. Neither the boy nor the girl could make out what was Being said. The metal on their boots clocked on the pavement stones in an irregular pattern as they frequently stopped to peer inside buildings. Doors crashed open and shut, sending echoes throughout the complex of dwellings. Suddenly, not ten steps from the shelter where the boy and girl lay hidden, there was a vicious roar followed by a shriek of alarm and helpless cries. A heavy thud signaled the end of the cries. The boy squinted his eyes shut, praying to his alien god, hoping the men wouldn’t find them. Beside him, the girl’s body felt slack, as if she had lost consciousness from fright. He didn’t dare open his eyes to check, irrationally fearing it might draw the men to their building. Instead, he pleaded with his deity: if it took these men away, he would never lose faith, not for a single moment.

Far away, the storm turned westward with a bounding scream, its electric flares burning along the ancient meridian lines of this strange world. Had anyone been close enough to listen, and equipped to survive the storm’s proximity, they might have sworn there was a note of recognition buried deep in the tempest’s clamor. It raced along the surface, flattening homes and carriages, stripping trees and plants from woodlands, crashing hill into dale, its electrical tendrils scorching everything in its path, leaving utter destruction in its wake.

The storm slowed to a charging cycle as it approached the outskirts of the town, gathering mass as it hovered, almost in contemplation. The boy flinched as the men outside reacted to its approach with a string of oaths and curses, their footsteps scattering. One man approached the narrow door of their shelter, his boots clopping up the steps leading to the entrance. The boy thought he would enter. The door rattled as the man tried the locked handle, mouthing obscenities. There was a pause, followed by a powerful kick, and the upper part of the door fell inward. The boy clutched his unmoving sister tighter, attempting to bite down on his panic, though it did no good.

Then, a fierce volley of cries as the storm split and channeled between the buildings, sweeping through what lay there, shards of lightning spearing what the winds had stirred, destroying everything they found. The piercing clatter and blast rose high above the bewildered screams of the men. It was over in moments, the storm lifting to the firmament once more, drawn back into dark, scudding clouds that passed overhead.

The shattered upper half of the door permitted glimpses of the devastation wrought upon the town. The girl stirred, reaching for her brother, but he was already peering out into the aftermath. Miraculously, none of the dwellings had been touched: domiciles, trading huts, stores, ale houses, and indoor markets lay unmarked. Even their facades remained intact: the sign from a nearby ale house, the storefront awning, the bright canopy, all untouched.

In the spaces between the buildings, bodies lay everywhere. Some were faceless, as if the wind or lightning had cut out their features. Others were bruised from head to toe, their limbs torn from torsos that writhed in agony. They were picked up and thrown to the earth, again and again, the boy said. The girl stared at him, horrified.

What kind of storm could do this? she asked, clutching a silver locket that had fallen from his pocket. She looked down at it, her fingers moving woodenly. Glancing outside, she saw some men had been literally torn apart, their limbs severed, torsos still writhing.

The boy saw her distress and moved to comfort her, but she flinched away. It’s alright, he soothed, just think of what they would have done to us.

She held the locket before him. Inside was a picture of a storm, small but clear, depicting elements of the storm that had just passed. Near the bottom was an engraving of a lightning bolt striking a man’s face, rendering it featureless.

He reached for her hand, but she recoiled, her expression filled with fright and wonder. What have you done?  What have you done here?

Chapter 1

Riegel Kopk glanced behind him and saw a man emerge from the wall of trees and step into the glade. Instinctively, Riegel quickened his pace. The man wanted something from him. What that was, he could only guess. He had spotted him earlier, moving silently through the forest, his presence betrayed only by subtle movements. The man wore a thick, dark broad-cloak over ragged, loose-fitting garments. The tattered cloth caught the wind as he walked, allowing Riegel to spot him. He stood nearly seven feet tall. His head and face were partially hidden by the broad-cloak’s hood, adding to his imposing presence despite his worn attire.

He was closing in now, crossing the glade with purposeful strides, still heading directly for Riegel. A decision had to be made: turn and fight, or flee back into the dense forest. Riegel's eyes darted to the trees. This part of the forest was unfamiliar, the trees packed tightly together, offering narrow passage at best. He could make a break for the North East Sing, but there was no guarantee he would escape the man's pursuit. Worse, his home lay near the forest. Leading the stranger in that direction was not an option.

Cursing his luck, Riegel reached for the hunter’s bow strapped to his shoulder, alongside his quiver and forage bag. He drew an arrow, fitted it against the string, and aimed at the man. These light arrows were designed for forest hunting, where wind was minimal, yet they carried enough force for accuracy over the short distance between them.

The man lifted one large hand in a gesture of peace. Hail, fellow. There is no need for that.

Riegel kept his bow raised. Who are you and what is your purpose here?

The other man began to lower his hood slowly, careful not to make any sudden movements. Riegel followed this action with the tip of his arrow, watching closely. When the man's face was revealed, Riegel gasped. It was sculpted with sharp planes and angles, severe high cheekbones casting stern, haunting shadows over the lower half of his face. His eyes, a cold, translucent blue, were framed by dark lines grooved into his forehead and cheeks, giving him an almost spectral look. It was easily the most forbidding face Riegel had ever seen.

The man's eyes studied Riegel in turn, glistening with what he thought was amusement, though he couldn’t be sure. My name is Daaynan. I come from a place called Fein Mor, here in the Northern Territories. I have been traveling in the South for many weeks and must stop here in search of food and rest before returning home.

Riegel lowered his bow slightly, still wary. I know Fein Mor. You came from the South, you say, the Southern Territories? You could have taken a more direct route back. What brought you to the Sing first?

I had business to complete. I was looking for a man who might help me answer some questions that arose during my travels. Information about his discovery guided me here.

What sort of business were you conducting? Riegel pressed.

It involves those who practice sorcery, ensuring its proper and cautious use, and preventing its abuse by those who seek influence for their own selfish aims. From what I’ve learned, this man could help me in this regard.

The man's tone was matter-of-fact, his speech and manner direct, designed to put people at ease. His looks and bearing, however, had the opposite effect, Riegel thought. Daaynan was vague about the nature of his business. He condoned the proper use of sorcery, but what did that make him? Was he some sort of law enforcer? He clearly wasn't armed—Riegel had seen him move earlier in the forest, and those rags would have revealed a weapon. That severe look in his expression wasn't meant for him, Riegel was sure. He had worked with other hunters and trappers, some cutthroats and bandits; he had stayed alive by reading their faces. Daaynan didn’t seem like a general people-hater, either; he didn’t fit the type.

Riegel lowered the bow, placed the arrow back in the quiver, and strapped the bow to his shoulder once more. Indicating the weapon, he shrugged and smiled briefly. Occupational necessity. No offense.

Daaynan nodded. Quite alright. It's rather sensible of you.

Riegel thought the way those words were put together made for a strange expression, one he hadn't heard before. He put this aside, closed the remaining distance between him and Daaynan, and extended his hand. I'm Riegel. I'm a hunter by trade, though I've learned to be a trader of sorts, plus a general rounds-man or anything, really, that pays to keep the wolf from the door. He looked the man up and down. Are you some kind of lawmaker?

Daaynan gave him a rueful smile, his harsh features softening a little. I like to see myself as a peacemaker, hunter, though I admit that there are those in the Northern Territories who would think otherwise; indeed, they might deride such a notion.

Riegel continued to watch him. He found it difficult to lift his gaze from the big man. Daaynan’s eyes seemed to draw you in. They were compelling, hinting at aspects of his character that Riegel was sure lay beyond his understanding. He noted that Daaynan had not addressed him by his given name when he had the opportunity to do so, something which added to the impression he was forming of the man. Well, he brought himself to answer, my home is not far from here. It is part of the Sing which covers this forested area and a number of small towns and settlements outside it. You are welcome to stay the night. I haven’t much in the way of food, he indicated the empty bag strapped to his shoulder, but I think there’s still some bread and dried fruit in the hut, along with the best mead this side of the borderlands.

Thank you for your hospitality. I shall only require a night’s lodgings.

Together they walked from the glade back into the forest, side by side. Riegel commented on the success of the day’s hunt, or lack thereof, and spoke more generally about hunting grounds in other regions he wished to visit. He discussed the importance of baiting and tracking as essential components of the hunt. Talking like this, side by side, without having to look Daaynan in the eye, Riegel found it easier to converse. His curiosity began to build once more.

You’re from Fein Mor, you say? I’ve never been, but...isn’t that where the Druids are from?

I find that rather convenient, Daaynan said with a faint trace of mockery, since I count myself as one of their number.

Riegel said nothing for a time. Daaynan, he answered finally, I think I’ve heard of you. You helped put an end to the last Steward of Brinemore, if I have it right. Longfellow. Karsin Longfellow.

He is no more a threat to these lands, that is true, Daaynan said, his voice growing cold in recollection.

Riegel appeared not to notice. I was too young to remember him. My father told me what happened. He told me all the stories of what happened before Brinemore was renamed Abalene after the daughter of the First Deviser of the region. From what he said, Longfellow was no loss to anyone. He turned to the Druid. Did you...did you put an end to him yourself?

He immediately regretted the question. A dark, brooding aspect fell over the Druid, as if a shadow suddenly occupied the space his body filled. His face drained of color, his eyes veiled by some unfathomable emotion. His entire body grew stiff, radiating waves of disquiet that seemed to ward the air around it. Riegel stepped back in alarm. Then, as quickly as it had arrived, it was gone. Whatever unknowable emotion had fallen over the Druid vanished without a trace, his normal look and aspect—if you could call it that—restored.

A swift apology rose to Riegel’s lips, but before he could complete the first word, the Druid cut him off. Hunter, they say there is great game to be caught in this region of the Northern Earth, and some splendid views to enjoy as you eat it. Since I do not often visit this part of the world, and am unlikely to be back anytime soon, I wonder if you would share with me what you know about it. I would, of course, reward you for this service.

Riegel shook his head. No, no I couldn’t accept payment for that. I’m happy to help you...Daaynan. Think nothing of it.

In that case, I could tell you things about Fein Mor that might interest you.

I—I would like that. Really. And it was true, he thought. This man, if he was the Druid known as Daaynan his father had told him about in many stories of Brinemore, was a dangerous individual, yet equally intriguing.  Game to be caught, indeed.  Was he playing a game here? Was all that an act just now?  He could tell him twenty tales of hunting stags with men that never existed, but he felt that Daaynan would know if he were lying. Not that Riegel had any tells. He had learned to falsify and dissemble along with the best in his trade, a skill necessary in winter when pickings were lean and as many as ten hunters were tracking the same beast. But this man would know.  He would know because he would know.  Riegel saw no other way to put it.  Partly because the man walking beside him was more than a man, more than a Druid perhaps, though Riegel’s idea of what a sorcerer at Fein Mor busied himself with was hazy at best.  So, he invited the Druid to recount the goings-on of those in his community, listening with genuine interest, more than a little fascinated at the prospect of what he would learn.

Fein Mor refers both to the region and the sorcerer’s keep at its center. More than twenty years ago, when I was first made a Druid, the keep became my permanent home. I existed within its walls alone, unaccompanied by any other living person. My encounter with Karsin Longfellow occurred during that first year, the details of which I assume you are already familiar with from your father. It does not matter if they are not entirely accurate; events often alter as they are passed from mouth to ear, and I have no wish to remedy the specifics of the legend they have become. They carry a general truth, which must suffice. After these events, when a relative peace had been restored to the Northern Earth, I began to consider seeking help for the day-to-day running of the castle. I reached out to the wider community to employ those willing to assist me. The number of candidates spoke more about the scarcity of employment in the region at that time than any genuine enthusiasm for the work or their prospective employer.

Daaynan offered Riegel the same rueful look he had seen earlier, which warmed him in an odd way. He wouldn’t go as far as to say the big man was endearing, his earlier odd reaction still foremost in the hunter’s mind, but his direct manner of speaking allowed Riegel to like him a little better, even to begin to understand him.

Nevertheless, whether enthused or not, I began to take on helpers—one at a time at first, later in groups. Many of them were young and eager to learn the ways of the Druid stronghold and the order itself. But half hoped to use the experience they gained there elsewhere, while others simply did not fit into the Druidic way of life. It takes perseverance and discipline to master this lifestyle, not to mention the additional duties and responsibilities that come with employing magic.

The forest ended abruptly at the peak of a hill that angled down toward a rudimentary settlement of huts, shelters, and trading houses. Sparse clusters of individuals moved from one point to another, none in too great a hurry. Despite its sleepy appearance and small population, the village exuded a bright, lively energy carried in the appearance of its occupants and the look of the buildings. Fashioned from local stone, some houses were finely decorated, if not elaborately so, with cheerfully colored storefront awnings that matched their surroundings. The trails and pathways between the buildings were clean and neatly meandering.

Riegel gestured at a stone-paved corridor that disappeared to the west of the settlement. My home is through there. Let’s continue before it gets dark.

Chapter 2

Together, Riegel and the sorcerer walked down into the village and along a twisting corridor that eventually opened onto a paved courtyard surrounded by several prettily-decorated houses. Riegel approached one of these houses, fiddled briefly with the door’s latch, and motioned for the Druid to step over the threshold ahead of him. Inside, it was dimly lit, with sparse furnishings arranged next to thick oak walls and around a large stone pillar in the center of the main room. The pillar featured two hearths on opposite sides, and the remains of a fire burned in one, with lingering spools of smoke rising to the overhead beams.

Welcome to Critters’ Ridge, Riegel said to Daaynan. It is my home, he added simply. He pointed to a corridor running along the north face of the dwelling. There is a room with a large sink for washing at the end there, and a bath too, should you need it. The water should still be warm. I left here only a short while ago. He glanced at the Druid’s rags. There are also fresh clothes in a cupboard. Feel free to put them on.

Thank you, hunter. It is most appreciated, the Druid replied, walking down the corridor and disappearing from view.

Riegel moved toward the active fireplace, grabbed a bellows lying on a flagstone before the hearth, and picked up a handful of wood from a nearby basket. He placed the sticks carefully on the fire and, using the bellows, breathed life into the embers. Once the fire was rekindled, he walked around the room and lit rows of lanterns hanging from the walls, illuminating a staircase that wound up to his sleeping quarters above a rudimentary cooking area. He then sat in the center of his living quarters and waited, pondering what the other man might tell him and wondering if it was something he wanted to hear.

A full hour passed before the Druid re-emerged, dressed in a thick, dark blue robe suitable for outdoor wear. He seemed taller than ever, the robe too short to reach the ends of his arms and legs, leaving his wrists and ankles exposed. Some of the travel fatigue had left his expression, yet that imposing other-worldly look remained, enhanced by the light slanting into the house through a nearby window.

He gestured for the older man to sit in a comfortable-looking chair. Put yourself at ease, he said matter-of-factly. The other man glanced around briefly before sitting. The décor was minimal but homely in a simple fashion. A handful of prints hung on the north-facing wall, depicting plain yet striking images of the forest and town lands of the Sing. Some prints depicted members of the Kopk family: Riegel’s father and mother, a brother, and two sisters. The Druid smiled, seemingly satisfied that his expectations of the hunter’s abode had been met.

Riegel disappeared into another room and shortly re-emerged holding two great glasses of mead and a plate with bread and fruit. He handed one of the glasses to Daaynan, set the plate on a nearby table, and lowered himself into a chair next to the Druid's, taking a sip of the amber liquid and watching the other do the same.

The two men sat in silence for a time, each studying the other, giving nothing away in gesture or expression.

Finally, Riegel pointed at the clothes the sorcerer now wore instead of the rags he had arrived in. Something tells me you encountered a lot of trouble during your search for this man you mentioned. You said he practiced sorcery. What form did it take?

Daaynan's gaze brightened, hinting again at that spectral quality Riegel had noticed during their initial encounter. The surroundings of the house diminished this somewhat, but not completely. I will tell you this, he said, but to do so, I must first continue my story.

Is that what it is, just a story?

The other man leaned forward slightly in his chair, his eyes locking onto Riegel’s. I do not lie, hunter. And Riegel believed him. He didn't care to question that gaze any further.

I’m sorry. It’s just that...well, in my profession, I come across all types of individuals, each with a different tale to tell. He paused. It makes you naturally cautious.

Daaynan smiled, and there was a measure of warmth in it. Naturally. I understand you better than you think, perhaps.

Riegel decided to set this comment aside. Go on, then.

Very well. Daaynan took some bread from the plate, chewed, swallowed, and washed it down with a gulp of mead. He placed the glass back on the table.

"As you may or may not know, I am the Grand Druid of Fein Mor. Chief among my duties is to keep alive the practice of sorcery in the Northern Earth. This involves, among other things, ensuring the proper use of divination. I told you earlier that it takes perseverance and discipline to master our lifestyle, not to mention the responsibility you must assume when called upon to wield the power of the Druids.

Not everyone is cut out for that kind of life. Some of my students have a natural aptitude for it, while others had to study hard to master the required discipline. Among those with 'the calling,' some were impatient and wanted everything to happen at once, while some among the second group could not meet the order's requirements, no matter how hard they tried.

"This person whose whereabouts I am trying to find, a man who refers to himself simply as Arch, belonged to the latter set. He studied at Fein Mor, under my tutelage at first, until he broke from the order and began to practice sorcery by and for himself. Though he lacked any inherent talent, he possessed a brilliant mind. He could absorb vast quantities of material in a single sitting—absorb them, make immediate sense of them, and explain them to others so they easily understood. He frequently stayed up late, devouring endless volumes and texts, so much so that in a matter of weeks, he understood more than those who had been studying for years. I quickly recognized his skill and took him under my wing, giving him extra attention. Together, we explored philosophy, history, and the study of language, both in general and as they related to the Druids. We studied spell working, incantations, and many other forms of necromancy.

He was an apt pupil, to say the least, demonstrating both an insatiable intellect and enthusiasm for the subjects covered. After only a brief time, his knowledge of the Druidic arts approached my own. Understand, hunter, that I never had to learn this way. The Brightsphere taught me everything I needed to know in preparation for a life as Grand Druid.

Riegel raised an eyebrow. What is the Brightsphere?

The best way to describe it would be an intrusion into this world by a being from another realm, a cocoon inhabited by said being, allowing it to impart what it knows to those willing to learn. It chose to help renew the Druid order.

So that was how the Druids returned to the Northern Earth in the time of Brinemore, through this creature and you?

Daaynan brushed his hand to one side in a dismissive gesture. If I hadn’t found the Brightsphere, I would have found another way. We would have found another way. He added, sounding irritated, I received the calling long before I was aware of this creature.

But...why did this thing want to help the Druids?

Daaynan’s manner softened, his tone becoming reflective. That I cannot precisely tell you. It had a brother in the Northern Earth who lived in much the same arrangement. That creature, however, was imprisoned within its cocoon, held hostage by the former Steward of Brinemore to do his bidding. If the Steward had succeeded in his aims, perhaps this brother would have been held there indefinitely. By helping the Druids return to confront and defeat the Steward, it might have hoped to free its brother from servitude. Whatever the case, they both vanished back to the realm whence they came.

Riegel reflected on what the Druid said. Clearly, there had been some ill feeling between Daaynan and this creature. He detected a note of resentment in Daaynan’s tone, faint but there nonetheless. Did he feel used by the Brightsphere in some way? Had it not helped him as expected? These were interesting questions, though ones he would probably never find answers to. It occurred to him that, in being otherwise frank and open, Daaynan was building up to something, and he couldn’t help but wonder what.

The Druid continued. But I digress. Thanks to the Brightsphere, I did not learn what I know from books. The creature endowed me with sufficient knowledge to instruct others in the way of the Druids so that it would not have to teach them itself. And what exactly was the extent of that knowledge, Riegel wondered but did not say. What were the limits to his education, if there were any?

"Like some of my former students, Arch developed his studies to a point where he became impatient to try everything he knew, to apply all that advanced learning to the world around him. I cautioned him to temper his impatience, but he would not listen, no matter what argument I employed against the perils of developing too far too quickly. He abandoned his lectures—he had been a popular teacher to the other students—and began working in secret, acquiring new sources of knowledge and their applications that lay outside the purview of traditional Druidic learning. There are safeguards imposed in the proper use of sorcery, precautions one needs to use in its application. He had dispensed with these to the extent that what he practiced now resembled more the dark artistry of witchcraft. Before long, we heard reports from the wider community of unexplained acts of violence involving bloodshed and carnage. On one occasion, a man was found dead near the hamlet of Castor with particularly brutal markings on his body. When I questioned Arch about this, he denied any involvement. Shortly afterward, he left Fein Mor.

Time passed, but before long, similar reports emerged from the south, within the kingdom of the Cru. The frequency of the acts had increased, and their nature had changed. Reports suggested he had visited a form of torture on his victims so gruesome it could not have been carried out with conventional weaponry. A knife or a sword is simply not capable of doing what was done to these victims; their bodies twisted, their features mangled beyond recognition.

So, what did you plan on doing?

So, hunter, I went there to confront him, to put an end to this practice, to his diseased interpretation of traditional sorcery.

Riegel stared at him for a long moment. Why, he eventually said, would he do these things you say he did?

Daaynan stretched his long frame back into the chair. "There is no doubt he did them. That was proven by witnesses here, and—when I questioned people there—in the south. The description they gave of him was too similar to the man I know. And he lied to me when I confronted him, of that I am certain.

So that leaves us with his reasons for carrying out these atrocities. Why would he do it? That is the question you have posed. I think he is trying to strike terror into the hearts and minds of those living in the Southern Territories. The people I met there were badly frightened. Even now, they go about their daily business with one eye pointed forward and one rolled behind them. Perhaps his overall goal is to engender hostility between the Cru dynasty and the North, to provoke the royals into attacking these lands. To what end, I do not yet know. It could be that he wishes the destruction of Abalene, or the existing Druid order, or both. If so, then he has become a threat, not only to these lands but also to the former Southern Territories and everyone who lives there. He simply must be found.

Riegel appeared to ponder this idea, staring at the Druid. When he spoke, his thoughts were not of the danger the rogue sorcerer presented to Abalene or Fein Mor, at least not impersonally. He continued to look hard at the other man, his expression slowly changing, displaying in turn frank speculation, disbelief, and finally open wonder.

You want me to find him for you, he whispered. Don’t you? That’s why you came here. You want me to find this Arch.

Chapter 3

Far to the south, near the border between the Cru Kingdom and the Lower Northern Territories, a man stood alone on the verge of the grasslands of the Yiel Valley. He peered at the broad expanse of open plain where it met the crimson dusk along the unsteady line of a shrinking horizon. His eyes blinked slowly, savoring the moment. He was tall, even for a man of the South, clad in a loose-fitting red garment that covered most of his frame. A hood, draped over his head, concealed his features, save for his eyes that shone with quickening awareness beneath its fold. There was a restless energy about them that bordered on fever; beneath their corneas, sparks flew to the center of the pupils, binding there in incipient fusion, as if carrying foreknowledge of what they would soon witness.

In one hand, he held a large broad-staff, carved out of ebony, with a golden amulet cradled by metal fastenings on its tip and ancient rune markings carved along the length of the shaft. The amulet pulsed in regular cadence like an exposed heartbeat as the man held the staff against the evening light, aglow with its peculiar voltage. In intervals, it revealed glimpses of the wide expanse of the Yiel Valley: the gentle sway of the grass as the wind disturbed it; the distant range of hills and mountains bracketing gorge and vale; regular flashes of horizon in scarlet haze.

The man looked around suddenly, as if troubled that he might be seen, yet there was nothing within miles of where he stood, the only movement the dying embers of the fading sun as it finally winked out of existence. Satisfied, he lifted the staff and faced it toward a distant point, reciting an incantation composed of words expressed in a particular sequence known only to him.

For a long moment, nothing happened. Then, abruptly, the amulet at the end of the broad-staff released an explosion of light, sending blinding bright contrails shooting into the night. Their afterimage was a