CHAPTER ONE

Child of Prophecy

The sky was alight with streaks of gold and crimson as the sun rose above the great plateau that was home to the temple of the Desh-Ka priesthood. In the distance, the brooding shadows of the mountains of Kui’mar-Gol were swept away as sunlight fell upon their snow-covered peaks. The Great Moon, an enormous glowing disk, was setting behind the mountain range as if fleeing the rising sun.

In the center of the temple loomed the Kal’ai-Il, the place of atonement. A ponderous circular construct of stone that had been the first structure built in the temple many thousands of years before, the Kal’ai-Il served as a reminder to all of the pain and humiliation that awaited those who strayed far from the Way. It was at the heart of not only the ancient martial orders, but of the schools of the Way, the kazhas, where the young of their species were taught and trained to serve in society.

Around the Kal’ai-Il stood the other structures of the temple where the warriors and members of the non-warrior castes lived, worked, and trained. While every building had its purpose, the heart of the temple was in the five stone rings that stood next to the Kal’ai-Il: the sand-filled arenas where the warriors learned the arts of war.

At the center of the five rings was a large stone dais, upon which now stood a solitary figure, T’ier-Kunai, high priestess of the Desh-Ka, her silver-trimmed black cape rippling in the light breeze that swept over the plateau. In her right hand she held a staff of black metal, the shaft glittering with the intricate inlay of the same living metal from which her sword blade had been fashioned.

Around her, their heads bowed in respect, knelt the other priests and priestesses of the order. They were few compared to the other martial orders, numbering only a few hundred. Most served outside the temples, as leaders of the larger kazhas, but returned for events of critical importance such as this. Few their number might be, but these priests and priestesses were the most powerful warriors of their species. On more than one occasion in the long and bloody history of the Kreela, the warrior priests and priestesses of the Desh-Ka had defeated entire armies.

In the arenas, hundreds of warrior disciples, arrayed in precise rows, knelt in the sand facing T’ier-Kunai. Their heads, like those of the priests and priestesses, were bowed in respect to the high priestess. They were silent, but the air was tense with expectation, for this day was one of the most anticipated of every year.

Nearest the dais were the acolytes who hoped one day to enter the priesthood. Most who had started upon the path to claiming a Collar of Honor had long since given up or died, for to join the ranks of the Desh-Ka was to travel a long and deadly path. But these had already traveled far, each and every one a highly accomplished warrior. Their efforts had been rewarded with a band of black living metal around their necks that they would wear until they died. And upon their breast plates was inscribed the outline of the Desh-Ka rune in cyan. The outline would be filled in for those few who survived to join the priesthood and don the sigil of the order on the collar about their necks.

In the next rows knelt the disciples who had yet to be judged worthy of joining the ranks of the acolytes. Many had been living under the harsh strictures of the order for years, and a few had been here their entire lives, sons and daughters of the priests and priestesses who called this place home, or children who had nowhere else to go. All wore the gleaming black metal armor of the warrior caste, along with the swords and other weapons made of living steel that felt as natural in their hands as the razor sharp black talons on the tips of their fingers. Some had been blooded in battle, but most had not.

At the rear of the crowd knelt a handful of younglings. Some were only months or even days out of the creche, while others would very soon join the ranks of the disciples. They wore no weapons, only the traditional black undergarment that was ubiquitous for all the castes in their society, over which was fitted supple black leatherite armor that, when they were older and stronger, would be covered with the metal armor they would wear for the rest of their lives.

The younglings looked much like their parents, with cobalt blue skin and dark eyes flecked with silver. Their hair, while short, was already divided into the seven braids that tradition demanded, and would never be cut unless they were cast out of society. Their talons, little more than sharp fingernails now, were the same black as the talons of those who knelt in the rows ahead of them. Those traits had been universal among the Kreela since the dawn of history nearly four hundred thousand years before.

And yet, among the hundreds who knelt upon the sand, one was different from all who had ever lived and died, as recorded in the Books of Time. A female disciple, her place was in the center of the first row, just behind the acolytes. It was a place earned not by age, for she was only fourteen years old, but by right of accomplishment. While her skin was as blue as that of the high priestess who stood silently on the dais, the young warrior’s hair was pure white, glistening like snow in the growing light of the sunrise. At the ends of her fingers, clenched now into tight fists, were talons of brilliant crimson that were matched by the nails on her toes.

The temple was silent as the sun burst over the edge of the plateau to shine full upon those assembled in the arenas. Upon the Kal’ai-Il, an acolyte rammed the intricately carved striker that hung from metal chains against the huge gong suspended between two pillars atop the ancient structure.

The deep sound echoed across the temple, and when it faded away T’ier-Kunai began to speak.

“You have trained hard and well my children, just as you always have.” Her sonorous voice carried well, easily reaching not only the kneeling warriors, but the robed members of the non-warrior castes who stood, heads bowed, beyond the waist-high walls of the arenas. “With every wound you have suffered, with every ache you have endured, with every concept you have learned, you have taken yet another step along the path that is the Way.”

“So has it always been,” the souls around her, from the youngest child to the oldest priest, replied, “and so shall it always be.”

“Soon you will face the Challenge. For some it shall be your first, while for others it will be the seventh and last, when you shall earn the title of warrior.”

T’ier-Kunai looked toward the sun, which was now halfway above the edge of the plateau, sending spears of light through the scattered clouds above. Then she turned back to those who knelt before her. “As tradition demands, I now release you for your free time. From now until sunset two days hence, you are free to go where you will and do as your heart pleases. Go now.”

The warriors raised their left fists to their right breasts, the crash of metal gauntlets upon breastplates echoing across the arenas as they rendered tla’a-kane, the ritual salute.

T’ier-Kunai rapped her staff once upon the dais, and the gong of the Kal’ai-Il again sounded.

***

Ayan-Dar stood and turned to watch chaos erupt among the disciples. The precise formations of warriors and the robed castes disintegrated as they rushed away as quickly as they could, while trying to give the impression that they weren’t rushing. Their lives were governed by traditions and orderly rituals in all things, save this one.

He smiled as he watched the majority of the warriors, all of whom were far younger than he, rush toward the stables where the magtheps, two-legged riding animals, were kept. Others, knowing there would not be enough of the shaggy-coated creatures to ride to their destination, made for the barracks where they would snatch up the packs of provisions they had prepared that morning before heading out on foot. There was a low buzz of excitement and more than a few fangs-bared grins. “Were we ever that young?”

“I once was,” said T’ier-Kunai, who had come down from the dais to stand beside him. “I am not so sure about you.”

The old priest snorted. Ayan-Dar was older than the high priestess, and by the number of pendants that hung from his collar could perhaps claim to be the more accomplished warrior. There was a time when he could have become high priest of the order, but it was an position and a responsibility that did not suit him. He had lost much of his faith, along with his right eye and arm, over eighty years before in the war with the Settlements. He had questioned the purpose of his life every day since then, wondering why he should bother to take another breath when his life held no purpose other than to train others of his kind to fight and die. He believed in the rightness of the Way, the code by which his kind had managed to survive for hundreds of thousands of years, but not the stasis into which his species had fallen. Civilizations rose and fell, wars were fought and won or lost, but there was little else. Even the old gods that his kind had once worshipped had been discarded, having proved themselves false when his species nearly annihilated itself ages before.

His doubt, his growing belief that life itself was worthless, had changed fourteen years ago when a child had been born, a child unlike any other. A child foretold by prophecy, who would unite their race across the Homeworld and the stars. Her name was Keel-Tath, daughter of Kunan-Lohr and Ulana-Tath, who had been slain by the Dark Queen, and he had helped to raise her here in the temple after the death of her parents.

He watched her now, racing Ria-Ka’luhr, a young priest who had tried to save her mother from death at the hands of honorless ones, to the low wall that ringed the temple at the plateau’s edge. The temple had no need of the great fortifications boasted by some of the cities, such as Keel-A’ar, where Keel-Tath had been born. The priests and the builders of the Desh-Ka were the defense of the temple, and were far more formidable a defense than even the greatest fortifications. Massive walls had not saved Keel-A’ar, which had been reduced to a smoldering pyre by the Dark Queen not long after Keel-Tath had been born. He had watched the city and its inhabitants burn, and seen the girl’s father thrown into the flames. Sometimes in the night he could hear echoes of the screams, tens of thousands of souls crying out for justice that had never come.

Keel-Tath easily bested Ria-Ka’luhr in the sprint, and Ayan-Dar doubted the priest had simply let her win. Certainly, he could have won by using the powers he had inherited when he joined the priesthood, but in a foot race Keel-Tath was a devil to beat, even as young as she was. She ran with power and grace beyond her years, and Ayan-Dar was overcome with a sense of pride as he watched her. He could feel the excitement and yearning in her blood, but he also sensed her acute loneliness. She was surrounded by those who would keep and protect her, yet she was more alone than any other soul among their kind.

“You cannot keep her here much longer, Ayan-Dar.” Beside him, T’ier-Kunai, too, watched Keel-Tath as the girl vaulted to the top of the wall. Ria-Ka’luhr came to stand beside her, and they exchanged smiles. He was her ever-present companion when he did not have other duties. For that, Ayan-Dar was thankful, for Ria-Ka’luhr’s sword was one of the swiftest among the priesthood, and it would take a small army to fight their way through him to harm a hair on Keel-Tath’s head.

Perfectly balanced, the young warrior stood upon the wall and looked down at the steep, switchback trail that was the only way to reach the temple on foot or beast.

“This will be her second Challenge,” T’ier-Kunai went on, “and if she does as well as I suspect she will, she will be made a sword mistress to the less-accomplished disciples. It is time that you stopped coddling her. She must be free to do as the others. She must be allowed to go beyond our walls.”

Keel-Tath raised her arms and waved, no doubt at the first group of disciples who must now be charging down the trail on their magtheps. Ayan-Dar could hear good-natured hoots and shouts, many of which he suspected were directed toward the young white-haired warrior. She was well-liked and respected (which, he noted, had been earned by her fierce reputation in the arena, where she had even bested some of the acolytes), yet none had come forward to become her tresh, her partner in, and for, life. It was not a sexual pairing, although sometimes it led to that. To become tresh was for two individuals to share an intense empathic bonding through the song that ran in their blood, and the bond wasn’t broken until death. It was one of the few things, Ayan-Dar thought, that gave any true meaning to their lives.

It was rare for a young warrior not to bond with another, and he worried for her. Perhaps it simply was not yet her time. Keel-Tath was still young, and tresh pairings had occurred as late as the fifth Challenge. He hoped she would find someone, for he and Ria-Ka’luhr, though they shared a close relationship with her, were poor substitutes.

“I have not meant to be cruel to her or,” he raised an eyebrow, “coddle her, as you say. But you know as well as I what awaits her beyond the temple.” Ayan-Dar nodded toward the lowlands, which stretched into the distance toward the mountains of Kui’mar-Gol. “The Dark Queen subjugated all the kingdoms of T’lar-Gol not long after Keel-Tath was born, and is finishing off what resistance remains in Uhr-Gol across the Eastern Sea. Even though her focus is there, her claws and fangs are everywhere, even at the base of the trail that leads up to the temple.” Casting his second sight down the mountain, he sensed the cohort of the Dark Queen’s warriors that was permanently encamped in the forest below, close to where the trail joined one of the roads that led farther into the lowlands and the cities. Warriors from the cohort were posted along the trail to watch the comings and goings of those who dwelled at the temple. They did not even bother to conceal themselves, but stood out in the open, right next to the trail, as those who served the temple filed by. Ayan-Dar bared his fangs, an instinctive reaction to the anger that welled up in him at their paltry attempt at intimidation. No ruler had ever before possessed the hubris to spy on the Desh-Ka, or any of the orders, let alone to be so brazen about it. He would have liked to send the heads of the warriors back to the Dark Queen to inform her of his displeasure, but knew that T’ier-Kunai was content to leave them be as long as they did not actively interfere.

“As I have told you before,” she said, “even though it is against tradition for a priest to accompany a disciple on her free time, I would allow you to take her where you would, and you need not walk or ride.” She placed a hand on the old priest’s good shoulder. “I know that you fear you may not be able to protect her beyond the safety of the temple. But she is no longer a helpless youngling, and your prowess in battle is undiminished. There is nothing beyond these walls, save the priesthoods of the other orders, that could harm her before you could whisk her to safety. And the other priesthoods would not harm one of our disciples.”

Ayan-Dar knew what T’ier-Kunai said was true, but Keel-Tath’s life was far too important. The high priestess still did not believe the girl had been born to fulfill the ages-old prophecy of Anuir-Ruhal’te, but Ayan-Dar believed it with all his heart. Keel-Tath was beyond precious. She was the very future of her entire species.

T’ier-Kunai leaned closer and lowered her voice. “It also might be a chance for her to draw blood with her blade, should the opportunity arise.”

Despite his worries, he grinned, baring his fangs.

“Even if her sword remains in its scabbard,” T’ier-Kunai continued, “you must stop being foolish. Take her where she would like to go for her free time, as long as you judge it safe to do so.”

“I would take Ria-Ka’luhr with me, if you would allow it.”

“I will not.” She stared at the young priest standing next to the girl. “He has other duties to perform.”

Ayan-Dar turned to study her, his eye narrowing. “You do not trust him.”

She frowned. “I trust him with a great many things. But I would not trust her life to any but you and those who guard the creche. And as our newest priest, still after these years, he has yet much to learn.”

“Do not hide behind words, high priestess,” Ayan-Dar said quietly. The other priests and priestesses had, with the quiet dignity of their positions, followed the fleeing disciples and were well out of earshot. Duty awaited them. They would not be going on their own free time, for that was a luxury of the young. “You have never fully trusted him since he returned to us from his quest. You have hidden your feelings well from the others, but you cannot hide them from me.”

T’ier-Kunai spared him an annoyed glance before turning back to watch Keel-Tath, who was still waving at the parade of warriors and robed disciples moving down the trail. “All I have is that one moment when he lay in his chambers after being punished on the Kal’ai-Il, when I felt as if there were two of him. One was as I expected him to be, an accomplished acolyte, soon to be a priest, in great pain. The other was of a tortured soul, mad with rage and anguish. It was as if that one was locked away in a cell and the door had somehow been left ajar for just a moment before being slammed shut.”

“The senior healer said it was due to his head injury.”

The high priestess shook her head. “I do not presume to understand the healer’s craft, but this was something else, a glimpse into his very soul that I cannot and will not dismiss as imagination or some artifact of injury.” She clenched her fists in revulsion and pity at what she had sensed in that tiny purgatory. “It was real, Ayan-Dar, as real as the Great Moon that orbits our world. What concerns me more is that even in the ritual of the Change, when I held his palms and shared blood as the power of the Crystal of Souls swept through us, I saw nothing of that tortured soul. Since then, Ria-Ka’luhr has been nothing less than an exemplary young priest in all things.” She nodded toward Keel-Tath. “And has been nearly inseparable from her.”

“You think he has somehow been

suborned?”

“I think nothing, because I know nothing for certain, other than the reality of that single glimpse. Even though it has been years, I can still recall it as if it just happened. The keepers of the Books of Time have searched for references to such a thing, but have found nothing that satisfies me. And not knowing chills me, old friend.” She blew out a breath. “We will speak no more of this now. Gather up Keel-Tath and take her wherever in this world or among the stars she would like to go.”

CHAPTER TWO

City Of The Dead

“I spoke to the high priestess, and she had words of praise for you, child.”

Keel-Tath bowed her head as Ayan-Dar spoke and brought her left fist to her chest in the tla’a-kane ritual salute. “Thank you, my priest.” Her right hand rested on the handle of her sword, her fingers caressing the tough leatherite wrapping. The weapon was perfectly balanced, perfectly sized for her hand. Like the armor that fit her body like a second skin, when drawn the sword was an extension of her body and will. And with training from both Ayan-Dar and Ria-Ka’luhr, she knew how to use it better than the more junior acolytes.

She looked up at the great warrior who had been her mentor, protector, and surrogate father. “What shall we do while the others are on their free time?” It had been a huge disappointment for her last year, when the other disciples had been given their leave, but Ayan-Dar had held her back, fearing for her life. She understood his intentions, but not being able to go with the others chafed. On the other hand, he and Ria-Ka’luhr had spent the entire time with her, and in the end she was happy she had not gone with the peers.

Ayan-Dar frowned at her. “What shall we do? Have I taught you nothing, child? You are to have your free time, of course.”

For a moment, Keel-Tath stood, mouth agape, as her mind seized on what he’d said. “I

I am to go?”

Grinning, Ayan-Dar leaned down and clapped her on the shoulder. “Yes, child. You are going on your first free time.” He bent down slightly so his face was level with hers. She instantly averted her gaze, looking toward the floor, and bowed her head. “Look at me, Keel-Tath.” He reached out and gently lifted her chin, and she reluctantly looked into the scarred face with its single eye, the other covered by a black leatherite patch. “I know things have been difficult for you, being locked away in the temple, and for that I would beg your forgiveness. The high priestess is right: if you are to understand the world you are to inherit, you must walk the path beyond our walls. I will not lie to you, child: with every beat of my heart since the day you came to us, held out to me by your dying mother, I have feared for your life. I believe that even now the Dark Queen will spare nothing to harm you. But I — both of us — must set aside our fears and step out into the light of understanding. The high priestess has given me permission to escort you this time, although in the years to come I suspect that will not be the case. Then, you will be on your own.”

Tightly gripping the handle of her sword, Keel-Tath said, “I am not afraid, Ayan-Dar. For if you are at my side, what harm could befall me?”

Ayan-Dar grunted. “Do not place overmuch faith in me, child. I am old and tired, and my sword does not fly from its sheath as it once did.”

In the blink of an eye, he had drawn his sword, and held the blade before her surprised eyes.

“There, you see? Slow. Ponderously slow. Now you do it.”

Keel-Tath did not have to think. Her blade sang from its scabbard as her feet shifted smoothly to a combat stance.

Nodding with approval at her skill as he squinted at the sword tip that was a mere hand’s breadth from the sigil on the collar at his throat, Ayan-Dar said, “Again, child, very good. I see that Ria-Ka’luhr has not been lax in his duty as your personal sword master. Your draw is nearly as fast as some of the older acolytes.” He lowered his voice and spoke in a conspiratorial tone. “You must be careful not to embarrass them in the coming Challenge like you did last year.”

“I will not leave them time to be embarrassed, my priest.” She returned his grin with one of her own as she sheathed her sword, loving the sound of the blade as it slid home in the scabbard. “They shall beg for mercy!”

“Ah.” Ayan-Dar rolled his eye heavenward as he sheathed his own sword. “Such humility. But never mind the future, child. The time is now, and the question is this: where would you go for your free time?”

That was something about which Keel-Tath had given a great deal of thought. She had never been able to go on her free time, Ayan-Dar keeping her at the temple for her safety. Each time as she slept alone in her barracks she had pondered that question. Every time she had reached the same answer. Of all the places that might exist beyond the walls of the temple or among the stars in the sky, there was only one that would be the destination for her first time away.

“Keel-A’ar.”

His face grim, Ayan-Dar nodded. “As it pleases you, child. But we cannot tarry long, for the eyes of the Dark Queen are fixed upon that place.”

He held out his hand, and she took it, a sudden stab of fear running through her heart, for she realized what was coming. She knew those of the priesthood could travel instantly wherever they wished, merely with a thought. But where they traveled in that instant was said to be infinitely dark and cold. She had always thought her first trip beyond the walls would be on the back of a magthep. Never in her life had she imagined this.

“Whatever you do,” he told her, “you must not let go.”

She took a deep breath, her eyes locked on his, and tightened her grip on his hand.

Then the world around her disappeared.

***

Syr-Nagath stood on the balcony of the keep in the city that had before that morning been the seat of the greatest kingdom on the continent of Uhr-Gol. Warriors were still dragging away the bodies of the last defenders from the room, while porters of water were hard at work cleaning the blood from the floor. She had let her warriors take most of the glory, but it was her right to take whatever blood she wished, and she had killed everyone in the keep by herself. She was covered head to toe in blood and gore, and was idly licking the blood from her lips as she stared out at her latest conquest.

Beyond the keep, the city was quickly returning to life as the vanquished joined with the victors and the dead were fed to the pyres that burned in the fields beyond the shattered walls. Much of her army, which was only one of many, stretched halfway to the horizon. Most of them had not been needed in the actual attack, but served to give pause to the defenders.

The builders were already repairing the walls that had been breached by the great siege engines she had used to take city after city. Even the strongest walls were unable to withstand the machines her builders had created using the blueprints provided by the keepers of the Books of Time. Once the walls were battered down, she unleashed her hordes to satisfy their honor in battle. While it had been a bloody conquest, in truth far more enemy warriors had lived than died, for her goal was not to kill, but to conquer. Where quarter was asked of her warriors, it was freely given. Thus did her armies grow ever larger.

The same did not necessarily apply to her, of course. Some of those who had defended the keep had held their swords aloft in pledge to her, but she had been in a fierce killing mood and had slaughtered them all, warriors and robed ones alike. There had been a time when those who served her had taken her to task for such behavior, abhorred under the teachings of the modern form of the Way that the fools followed. But after cutting the braids of enough of those who spoke out, casting their souls into eternal darkness, the others who might have taken issue with her methods either kept to themselves or committed suicide. It was little consequence to her either way.

Now, Uhr-Gol was all but taken. Several kingdoms remained defiant, but they were a trivial matter that she could leave to her underlings while she set her sights on the final prize: the island continent of Ural-Murir. Already her plans were in motion, for she had warriors aplenty and even builders to spare to create the fleets she needed to carry the war across the great and perilous Western Sea. Those preparations were nearing completion, and it would be but a moon cycle before they were ready to set sail.

She was about to turn away when she felt a stirring in her blood, a rise of excitement from one of her small army of chosen ones. They had all been warriors once, but with the aid of magic so dark and so ancient that the priesthoods would have hunted her down had they known she possessed it, she had taken their very souls in her hands. They were hers to do with as she willed, and through their eyes and ears, their feelings, she sensed what transpired in the world far and wide. One of them, her most prized possession, was a young priest of the Desh-Ka, Ria-Ka’luhr. He was a dagger whose tip was a short thrust away from the heart of that ancient order and the hated child, she of the white hair and crimson talons, who lived among them. More than once over the years that had passed since the child’s birth had Syr-Nagath been sorely tempted to have him kill her, but she had stayed her hand. The child had not yet posed any threat, and the priest was far too valuable to waste without good cause. Part of her design was to destroy the priesthoods, starting with the Desh-Ka, who were the most powerful, and he was in the perfect position to help destroy them when the time came. His exposure as a traitor could not be lightly risked.

Syr-Nagath had also kept eyes and ears open for any sign of the child outside the false safety of the Desh-Ka temple. One of the places that was closely watched was Keel-A’ar, where the child had been born and where Syr-Nagath had burned alive the child’s father, Kunan-Lohr, and the city’s other inhabitants.

The puppet who was commander of the watch over Keel-A’ar was the one she sensed now. The white-haired child had appeared at the gates to that city of the dead.

***

She was old, then young. Young, then old. Time crept and flashed by, and around her was only darkness, darkness that could consume the entire universe. Cold, a bone-chilling freeze worse than the terrible winters of T’lar-Gol, pricked her skin and drove icy spikes through her flesh.

Then she was standing on an open plain under the warm morning sun. She could tell from her shadow that it hadn’t moved, despite the sense that a great deal of time had passed. She still shivered inside from the deep cold of the nothingness. Momentarily disoriented and off-balance, she swayed and would have fallen had Ayan-Dar not still been holding her hand.

As the vertigo passed, she loosened her grip and let go his hand, which he rested on the handle of his sword.

“Behold,” he said softly. “Keel-A’ar, the city of your birth.”

Before them rose the ancient walls of the once-great city. The fused stone that had withstood countless assaults over the course of millennia was now a sickly gray, scarred and pitted, with no builders to repair or maintain it. The battlements had been ravaged by the weapons the Dark Queen had used, and now stood like broken teeth along the top of the wall.

Keel-Tath stared through the main gate, around which the stone had been blackened and glazed from the heat of the fires that had consumed the city and its inhabitants. Her hand clenched around the handle of her sword as she slowly stepped toward the gray, dead earth that lay beyond the threshold. Only she knew it wasn’t earth. It was the ash, packed hard over the years by rain and sun, of the dead. Of what once had been her kin. The Dark Queen had killed everyone in the city and then poisoned the earth within and around it. Nothing grew for half a league beyond the walls. The land was dead and lifeless as the surface of the Great Moon.

Many times had she tried to imagine what the city would look like, but even her most vivid nightmares, which still visited her nearly every night, paled against the reality. The nightmares were born of the terror and agony of the people who had died here, especially her father, whose emotions had pounded through her blood, even as an infant. The emotional bond had been so strong that the healers had been forced to keep her tiny body sedated for days, but the pain and fear had never left her. Even now they were her constant companions, like her shadow cast by the sun.

But the city itself had not been why she wanted to come here. While the deaths of the tens of thousands of citizens had been an unspeakable tragedy, two of those deaths were bound to her heart.

“Where are they?” The words were difficult to force from her lips, and she could feel the warmth of the mourning marks coursing down her cheeks. “My mother and father?”

“There, child.” Ayan-Dar pointed to a sword whose point had been driven into the ground. The living metal, still gleaming as when the blade had first been forged, was fused with the earth, which had been molten and turned to black glass. “The sword belonged to your mother. Ria-Ka’luhr recovered it after she was killed, but we never found your father’s. T’ier-Kunai melded your mother’s blade with the earth where we burned your mother’s body and poured your father’s ashes over hers. For as long as the Desh-Ka exist, this will be a monument to their sacrifice, and none, not even the Dark Queen, would ever dare desecrate it.” He frowned. “At least so long as she still has reason to fear us.”

Keel-Tath came to stand before the sword, a lonely marker in the barren wasteland. As she touched the handle, which was made of crystal and inlaid with gold and other, even more precious metals, she asked softly, “Did you see my father die?”

Closing his eye, Ayan-Dar nodded, and she sensed his shame. “Yes. The high priestess and I were witness to this abomination. And to your father’s death.”

“You watched it, but could do nothing to stop it?”

She felt a sudden wave of anguish from her old mentor, and even before he spoke, she knew the truth

Ayan-Dar knelt beside her, and she could sense the weight of years upon him. “I am so sorry, child. I would have intervened, cast aside my vows to the Desh-Ka and sacrificed my honor to stop the Dark Queen. But I had already disgraced myself before T’ier-Kunai, and could not bring myself to do so again. I do not expect you to understand, or forgive. Our Way is not one to tread lightly, and there are many burdens we would rather not bear. I have many, far too many, such burdens upon my tired soul. But of all that I bear, standing here, bound by honor to do nothing while this city and your father perished, weighs upon me the most heavily.”

She felt him touch her shoulder lightly, but she pulled away. In that moment, her heart was full of bitterness and loathing for him and T’ier-Kunai, for the Desh-Ka, for the Way itself. “What is the Way, when the mighty Desh-Ka can only stand idly by while a monster such as Syr-Nagath ravages the land and its people?” A wave of anger and hate rose within her, and she saw Ayan-Dar recoil at its intensity. “The day will come,” she told him, “when I will tear the beating heart from the Dark Queen’s breast and feed it to the animals of the forest.” Taking in her hands the blade of the sword that was the monument to her parents, she went on, “This I swear to you, my mother and father.” Turning to look back at the dead city, she said, “And to you, the fallen of Keel-A’ar, and all the others who have suffered the Dark Queen’s evil, I swear this shall be so. I swear.”

“You cannot take vengeance as a member of the priesthood, even as a disciple,” Ayan-Dar said. “No matter how difficult it is, we must stand apart from the events beyond the temple walls and the kazhas that we serve. I wish very much to change that, child. But for now, that is our Way.”

She stood there for a long time, staring through the gate of the dead. “It is not right,” she said at last. “They died on my account, Ayan-Dar. All of them. And the queen hunted down those who called Keel-A’ar home and killed them, didn’t she?”

“Yes. If there are any left alive, they are among the growing numbers of the honorless ones.”

She turned to stare at him. “Honorless? It is the queen who is without honor! Tell me that what she did here was part of the Way, that it was honorable.”

“Syr-Nagath comes from the Ka’i-Nur, child. Their Way is much older and even more brutal than ours. Such things as this,” he looked through the gates, imagining again the raging flames that consumed the city’s population, “are not forbidden to them, or to her. When I was in their temple to learn of the prophecy of your birth, their warriors thought nothing of slaughtering their own keepers of the Books of Time to get to me, something that we would never even contemplate. But we are powerless to interfere.”

Before Keel-Tath could respond, Ayan-Dar turned to the east, where the forest crept to the edge of the lifeless wasteland around Keel-A’ar. A full cohort of mounted riders was thundering toward them, a plume of dust rising from their magtheps’ clawed feet. Ayan-Dar snorted in derision. “It took them long enough. I wager their leader will lose his head for being so slow to react to our appearance. They would have been better off posting their watch within the city, but so far as I know no one, not even honorless ones, have set foot within its walls since the slaughter. The spirits of the dead are restless here, I wager.” Looking back at Keel-Tath, he said, “We should probably move along, for I doubt T’ier-Kunai would be happy if we slaughtered them all.”

“No.” Keel-Tath moved up beside him and drew her sword. Her blood was on fire, and her body shook with rage. She shifted the sword to her left hand and drew one of the deadly shrekkas, an edged flying weapon, from where it was clipped to her left shoulder. “I would like to pay my respects to Syr-Nagath.”

“As you say, child.” He also unclipped a shrekka, but did not draw his sword. Unlike Keel-Tath, he only had one arm. “The high priestess did say to let you blood your sword if the opportunity presented itself. And so it has.” He leaned over and whispered in her ear. “But I think taking on a full cohort, almost five hundred warriors, on our own is a bit ambitious, is it not?”

She looked into his eye. “Not for you.”

He huffed. “Perhaps in my younger days, child. And that was a very long time ago. But we shall at least give them something to think about.”

The two of them stood there, facing the charging warriors who quickly closed the gap. Keel-Tath’s heart beat faster, fear mixing with the anger that raged in her soul. But she would not run. She would not. Not until she had blooded her sword in battle.

Ayan-Dar grunted, and she felt a wind at her side. Something flashed across the distance to the attacking cavalry, and the head of the warrior who carried the queen’s banner fell from his shoulders. The body toppled from the magthep, causing the warriors behind to dance out of its way, lest their own mounts fall.

Twice more did he throw a deadly shrekka, and twice more did enemy warriors fall. Keel-Tath looked up at him in wonder. The enemy warriors had not yet closed to throwing range.

The priest drew his sword. “Shield your eyes!”

Keel-Tath, trusting that the elder warrior could protect her, threw an arm over her eyes as a hail of shrekkas flew from the leading rank of the queen’s warriors.

The weapons disappeared in bright flashes and claps of thunder, caught in a tight web of cyan fire that erupted from the blade of Ayan-Dar’s sword to form a shield. Keel-Tath peeked out just enough to see what was happening, and was rocked by the explosions as the metal of the weapons disintegrated.

The cyan web vanished to reveal the first rank of warriors. The magtheps and their riders, blinded by the flashes and disoriented, stumbled. The cohort’s orderly formation and fearsome charge was blunted and thrown into utter confusion. Braying magtheps and screaming riders in the first ranks tumbled to the ground, some of them trampled by the warriors coming up behind.

“Now, child!”

With a howling war cry, Keel-Tath followed Ayan-Dar right into the center of the maelstrom. Remembering that she still held her shrekka, she hurled it at a nearby rider who was coming to her senses. The weapon slashed through the enemy warrior’s throat, and she fell from her mount as a gout of arterial blood spurted from the wound.

She turned to see Ayan-Dar, and stood for a moment, transfixed, as he whirled around her like a sword-bearing tornado. His blade was barely visible, so fast did it move in his old but powerful hand, hacking and stabbing their enemies.

A warrior on a magthep charged her. She feinted to one side, then deftly whirled to the other as the warrior’s blade flashed down. Her own blade cut through his upper thigh, and with a scream he fell from his mount.

Another warrior lunged at her, and she parried his blade. He was far larger and more powerful, and quickly drove her back, separating her from Ayan-Dar. Glancing behind her, she saw other warriors, on foot now, moving in.

The big warrior made a sweeping overhand cut aimed at her head. She knocked it to the side with her left gauntlet, then made a lightning swift lunge with her sword, driving it into his abdomen just below his breastplate. She shoved the gasping warrior backward, twisting her sword free with both hands as he fell.

Looking around, she saw that she was completely surrounded. Gathering her courage, she charged the nearest warriors.

But her blade found only a spray of blood. The torn bodies, some of them cut in two, collapsed before her. Ayan-Dar stood there, sword in hand and covered in the blood of his enemies.

In Keel-Tath’s eyes he was the vision of a war god from the ancient days, the stuff of legend, and she ran to him.

“It is time for us to leave, child,” Ayan-Dar shouted as a solid ring of warriors closed in. “Take hold of my belt!”

As she did as he ordered, she turned to the warriors, now rushing toward her and Ayan-Dar, fearing they would escape. “Let the blood we spilled here be a message for your honorless queen!”

Then there was only darkness.

CHAPTER THREE

Coming Of Age

“The priestess will no doubt be upset with me for placing you in such danger, but she will be very pleased with you, child.” Ayan-Dar’s smile was gruesome, with blood smeared over not only his face, but his lips and teeth, as well. He hawked and spat. “You did well, and I may take some small measure of satisfaction in your training.” After flicking most of the blood from his sword, he withdrew a soft cloth from a pouch on his belt and wiped the blade clean before replacing it in his scabbard. “And I suspect the Dark Queen will be most upset with those tasked with guarding Keel-A’ar.”

Keel-Tath, still shaking with the rush of fire through her veins, took out her own cloth and cleaned her sword, her movements a reflection of those of the priest. She had expected him to return them to the temple, but she was confronted with unfamiliar surroundings. They were in a small clearing among trees the likes of which she had never before seen. They were huge, twice as tall as the trees of the forests in the lowlands beyond the temple, with widely spaced leaves that were as large as Ayan-Dar. One end of the clearing was bare of the enormous trees, but she could not tell what lay beyond; the ground seemed to open onto the sky. She heard a deep rhythmic sound coming from that end of the clearing. She had never heard such a sound before, but found it very relaxing. She also noticed that the temperature was somewhat cooler than it had been in the lowlands of Keel-A’ar, and the air was more humid. “Where are we?”

“We are at the southernmost tip of the island continent of Ural-Murir, in the kingdom of Ku’ar-Amir,” he told her. “I was born in a village not far from here, and used to spend my free time in this place.”

“But you are Desh-Ka!” Looking around them, she could not understand why he would want to spend his precious free time here, in the middle of a forest of strange trees. “I thought you were born on T’lar-Gol.”

“Yes, my bloodline is pure Desh-Ka, but the seed of that great tree long ago spread across the world. I was born of porters of water here, and after I left the kazha as a warrior, my liege lord took me north to T’lar-Gol to fight in the wars back then.” He smiled, but she could see in his eye that there was neither humor nor pleasure in the recollection. “Our army was destroyed and my lord killed. The few of us who survived were scattered, and rather than declare my honor for the victor — the one who started the last war we had with the Settlements, I might add — I found myself standing at the threshold of the temple. It was either that or become an honorless one, and I would have rather taken my own life. It is strange, though. I had never really thought before then about becoming a priest. That was simply where my Way led me.”

“I am glad it did.”

He snorted. “You are in the clear minority in that, my dear, at least if you were to know the thoughts of my peers.”

“That is not true! They all respect you.” She fell into step with the elder warrior as he walked toward the opening that led from the clearing, although she still had no idea where it led to.

“They respect my sword, child, but little more. I am a heretic, and I suspect that if any other than T’ier-Kunai were high priestess I would be stripped of my collar and banished to the Great Wastelands.”

Keel-Tath was stunned. “They would not dare!”

He eyed her carefully. “It is a rare, rare thing, but such has happened before. Remember, child, our people, our entire species across the Homeworld and the Settlements, is held in stasis by the priesthoods. They were formed as a check against our self-destructive nature, to hold us in a balance that would allow us to fight like the animals we are inside, but never let any of our worlds become so powerful that they could destroy the others.” His blood-covered face twisted into an expression of sadness and frustration. “They believe that what we are now is all that we ever will be, and that to deviate from the path we have taken since the end of the Second Age is to court our doom. There is nothing but blood for the warriors and toil for the robed castes, forever until the universe itself dies.” He spat again. “The old gods were cast down and forsaken when we nearly destroyed ourselves in the Final Annihilation, but no one ever thought to put anything in their place. Since then have we been lost. We have nothing but kings and queens, wise or foolish, in which to put our faith. There is nothing for our souls but emptiness.”

“I have faith in you,” Keel-Tath told him softly. “And in Ria-Ka’luhr. And the high priestess.”

“The faith of which I am speaking is spiritual, child. It is not something that is taught anymore, but only read about in the Books of Time, should one dig deep enough. Most of us believe we have souls, and that there is an afterlife. But without faith in something higher than ourselves, there has been no way for us to bridge the gap between this life and the next. We hope. We wish. But we have no faith that there is truly anything but darkness beyond the veil of death.”

“I do not understand.

“I know.” He put his hand on her shoulder as they neared the opening to the clearing. “Few do, even among the priesthood, for to contemplate such things is to stray onto questionable ground. Those of the priesthoods are too busy focusing on their sword craft and powers to wonder what awaits them beyond the funeral pyre. Yet to me, it is an important subject, and yet another aspect of my heresy.”

“I wish you would not say such things,” she said, fear taking root in her heart for him as the two of them stepped through the opening between the trees. The ground changed from dark loam to white rock, and the sound she had been hearing grew much louder. “You shouldn’t

oh.”

They had stepped out onto a great ledge of rock, beyond which lay the ocean that surrounded Ural-Murir. And rising from the water were dozens of tall rocky spires, with more of the strange tall trees clinging to them.

Beyond the spires was nothing but the ocean itself, stretching to the far horizon. Just setting — or rising, for she wasn’t sure which way she was looking — was the Great Moon, its glowing silver face reflected in the countless waves of the sea.

Stepping near the edge, she looked down. Far, far below, the waves crashed against the rocky face of the sheer cliff on which she stood. That, she now realized, was the source of the sound she had heard in the clearing.

Leaning a bit farther out, she was nearly overcome by a sense of vertigo and would have fallen had not Ayan-Dar clapped his hand on her shoulder, gently pulling her back.

“Watch your step, child. It is more than a full league to the waters below. And in the quite unlikely event you should survive the fall, the things that dwell in the waters would make short work of your flesh and bone. The water of the oceans means death. Remember that.”

She came away from the edge, but only by a single pace. She was captivated by the view, her breath coming in shallow gasps as she periodically forgot to breathe. Her life had been spent within the temple walls, and while the view of the lowlands and the mountains of Kui’mar-Gol was beautiful, it was nothing like this, and nothing in the Books of Time could have prepared her for such a sight. “I understand now why you came here for your free time.”

“I still come here sometimes, when I need a moment of peace.”

“What are those?” She pointed to small objects, in garish shades of red and green, floating on the ocean.

Ayan-Dar laughed. “Those are ships, child! Merchantmen mostly, but warships, as well.”

“But

they are on the water! Are they not in danger?”

“Every moment of every day,” he answered, his voice grim. “I rode on such a ship to reach T’lar-Gol, and would lop off my remaining arm before I did so again. But the fools who sail those ships have something no one else in the world does.” He turned and pointed at the huge trees behind them. “The a’in-ka tree. Their wood is tough as iron and more durable, and they secrete a natural repellent that insults the senses of all but the most terrible sea creatures, driving them away. They grow only here, in the kingdom of Ku’ar-Amir. Such is their value that more than one war has been fought over them.”

“So these people, of all who live on our world, are the only ones who sail ships upon the seas?”

“No, there are others, many others, on all the continents. There are many who make their livelihood from the sea, catching the smaller creatures to eat and for their oil. But few souls beyond Ku’ar-Amir are brave or foolhardy enough to venture beyond the horizon from land and risk their lives in the deeper realms of the oceans.” He paused for a moment, a thoughtful expression on his face. “There are creatures in the deep that were never tamed by even the greatest of the ancient civilizations before the cataclysms of the Second Age. Creatures that could destroy a warship far larger than any now afloat, or an entire fleet of the vessels you see here, with barely a twitch. To them, even the greatest genoth would barely be worth notice.” He nodded at the ships, most of which were sailing toward the horizon and some distant land, while others were putting into port in what looked like a large city several leagues distant. “Those who sail on Ku’ar-Amir’s ships cross those depths, braving the things that swim below to take what they would to distant lands.”

“And warriors?”

“Oh, yes, a great many warriors,” he said. “More than one king or queen has risen from here to expand their realm to the far reaches of the world, for control of the sea conveys a huge advantage over those bound to the land. Ships can move warriors and the robed castes, even engines of war, from one place along a coast to another quickly and in great numbers. They can even take attacking forces up major rivers to attack inland.” He glanced at her. “Something you should perhaps remember when you rise to power.”

Keel-Tath’s heart sank at his words, and she stared out at the sea. “I wish I could take one of those ships and go far away,” she whispered. “I feel as if the entire world is waiting to crush me, to steal away a life that I have yet to live.” She turned to face him. “I did not wish for this, Ayan-Dar. I did not choose the path you claim that I must follow, written by an oracle who died nearly two hundred thousand years ago.” Holding out her hands, the gauntlets and her armor still covered in blood, she said, “I am content to be a warrior like any other, and perhaps someday, if my will is strong enough, to be a priest like you. But the rest

” She shook her head. “Will anything in my life be as it should?”

He was silent for a long moment, and she was afraid that she had somehow offended him.

“Child,” he said at last, “every moment of our history since the Final Annihilation at the end of the Second Age two hundred thousand years ago has led to your birth. And I believe that every moment since you came into the world is leading us to a different life, a new and better Way, with you at its center. Everything about you is different, Keel-Tath. You ask if anything in your life will be as it should.” He put his hand on her shoulder and leaned closer. “I would say to you that everything has been as it should, even the terrible tragedy that befell your mother and father. You are destined for great things, child. But to unite our kind, here and across the Settlements, we need a sword that is not gently shaped by the armorer’s hand, but forged in flame.” Taking his hand away, he followed her gaze out to the distant horizon. “The things in your life that have been the most difficult have strengthened you the most.”

“Then I do not wish to become any stronger. It is too much to bear.”

Ayan-Dar put his hand to her cheek. “You do not bear your burden alone. Never forget that.” With a chuckle, he added, “And perhaps it is not such a great burden after all, since I may be the only one other than the Dark Queen who truly believes it.”

Keel-Tath tried to smile, but her expression turned into a grimace of pain as a surge of heat exploded inside her. With a gasp, she doubled over as the pain became excruciating. She felt as if her entire body was on fire. The sensation was similar to the heat of the bloodlust that took warriors in battle, that she had felt earlier when fighting the queen’s minions at Keel-A’ar, but this was so much worse. Overwhelmed, she sank down to her knees and bowed her head to the ground as her red talons clawed at the hard-packed earth. Her soul, her blood, was on fire.

“What

what is it that burns me so?” The words came to her ears like a whimper, and through the agony that wracked her body, she was ashamed.

Ayan-Dar pressed his armored hand against her forehead, a look of worry on his face. He closed his eyes, and after a moment, his expression relaxed. He took his hand away, then drew her close. She wrapped her arms around him, her body shivering against his as the pain ebbed and flowed, much like the ocean waves far below.

“Your body has just come of age, child,” he said softly into her hair as he cradled her. “As in most things, you are a bit ahead of your peers.”

Without any warning, Keel-Tath vomited, her stomach spasming so hard she felt as if her gut was being torn out. Her breath came in ragged gasps as she fought for air.

“The worst will pass in a few moments.”

She tried to nod, but the effort sent another wave of pain, spikes hammered deep into her bones, through her body. Huddling against the old priest’s chest, she fought to keep from screaming as the pain washed over her.

Then, as quickly as it had come, the agony began to recede. Blinking her eyes open, she was ashamed to see that her breakfast had soiled his breastplate. “I am sorry, my priest.”

“That is nothing, child.” Ayan-Dar gently helped her to a sitting position. With a wry grin, he said, “You spoke of the powers of the priesthood. This one is useful, but has likely won few battles.” With a wave of his hand, the mess smeared across his armor fell away to the ground. Producing a bright red cloth from a pouch on his belt, he wiped her mouth clean, then handed her the bag of ale he had strapped around his shoulder. “Drink this, but it will not taste right to your tongue. Nothing will over the next day or so as your body adjusts.”

Keel-Tath took a swig of the ale. “Ugh!” She spat it out. “That tastes like

”

“Magthep piss?”

She nodded, and Ayan-Dar laughed.

“That is what T’ier-Kunai said when the fire came upon her. Or so she told me.” He shrugged. “I wouldn’t know, of course. Normally a healer helps the young females through this time, but it looks like you have only a broken down old priest to lean upon.” He looked toward the city. “To satisfy my conscience, we should have a healer examine you to be sure all is in order.”

“Can we?” She handed back the bag of ale, unwilling to take another sip. “Will they not hand me over to Syr-Nagath?”

Shaking his head, Ayan-Dar said, “No. I am sure the Dark Queen will discover that you are here, for she has eyes and ears everywhere, but there is little she can do. Her pestilence has not yet reached this continent, and the kingdoms, including Ku’ar-Amir, are united against her. And the Nyur-A’il priesthood, of course, will not interfere.”

At that, Keel-Tath gave him a dark look, a glimpse of the even darker thoughts that ran through her soul about the priesthoods.

Ayan-Dar stood up. “Are you fit to walk?”

“Yes, my priest.” She got to her feet, her legs unsteady beneath her. She walked beside him as he slowly led her along an ancient path in the ledge where the rock had been worn smooth, heading south, in the direction of the city. Remembering that both of them were still covered in blood, she said, “Should we not cleanse ourselves before we greet anyone, show proper respect?”

He shook his head. “No, child. While I do not expect to find enemies here, we may not find any friends. None should be fool enough to meddle with a Desh-Ka priest and his ward, but the blood of those we have slain shall be a warning to those who might be tempted to raise their swords against us.”

CHAPTER FOUR

The Seafarers

The city was farther away than Keel-Tath had imagined, and it was past noon by the time they arrived at the nearest gate. Like almost every city, Ku’ar-Amir had tall and thick stone walls topped with battlements, which were lined with warriors. More were guarding the gate and standing watch around the vast perimeter. Unlike the walls of the temple and Keel-A’ar, the stone of which these walls were made was nearly white, the same color as the cliff from which they’d come. Then she understood: the entire city, which was larger even than Keel-A’ar, had been cut from the stone face of the land where it met the sea. Buildings, mostly golden-domed structures of rock bearing ornate carvings and the runes of The Tongue, rose up in great terraces from the harbor level to the top of the escarpment, nearly a league above.

“They know that the storm sweeping across the world will soon blow in their direction,” Ayan-Dar told her as they approached the first ring of guards that defended the gate. “Normally there would not be nearly so many warriors watching the approaches.”

Keel-Tath stopped goggling at the buildings that soared above and sought to focus on what Ayan-Dar was saying. “Some of them are as young as I,” she whispered.

“Yes. They must have stripped the kazhas of every child who can wield a sword. The priests and priestesses of Nyur-A’il cannot be pleased.”

“Is such a thing even permitted? Does not the Way demand that those who have not completed their Seventh Challenge not be committed to war?”

Ayan-Dar grunted. “It does, but it is also written that the masters and mistresses of any domain have first claim to those living under their banner. The priesthoods normally hold sway, for few lords have the courage or need to challenge them. But this is a different war from any that has been fought since the end of the Second Age. Few but the Dark Queen understand that. But if the lords here are willing to pull even the young from the kazhas to strengthen their defenses, then perhaps the veil of ignorance has been lifted from their eyes.”

The eyes of the warriors had been following them for some time, and now that they were close they knelt and saluted Ayan-Dar.

“Welcome to the city of Ku’ar-Amir, priest of the Desh-Ka,” the captain of the guard said. “My mistress welcomes all who do not live under the banner of Syr-Nagath.” He looked up and fixed his eyes on Keel-Tath, who returned his gaze without flinching.

Ayan-Dar returned the salute. “She is a disciple of our order, and has no love of the Dark Queen. We would rest and take a meal in your good city, if your mistress would permit.”

“She would. And you did not have to coat yourselves in blood for my benefit, great warrior priest of the Desh-Ka.”

Keel-Tath turned from the guard to see a tall and lithe female warrior step through the gate, followed by a dozen bodyguards. Keel-Tath could tell from the length of her hair that she must be nearly as old as Ayan-Dar. But she was still beautiful, and Keel-Tath caught a glint in Ayan-Dar’s eye, and she could feel a flood of warmth in her blood from his emotions.

When the tall warrior was only a pace away, she knelt, as did all those in sight of her, even the warriors on the wall. She bowed her head and rendered a salute, which Ayan-Dar returned with great solemnity.

“Li’an-Salir,” he said softly as the warrior stood and gripped his forearm in hers, the greeting of warriors well known to one another. “It has been a long time.”

***

Keel-Tath walked beside Ayan-Dar as they followed Li’an-Salir’s First, the warrior who acted as her sword hand in all things, to the great hall. She’d had little time to speak to Ayan-Dar since their arrival. After leaving her in the care of a healer, who said, after staring long and hard at Keel-Tath’s hair and talons and examining her thoroughly, that all was in order, Ayan-Dar went on some errand of his own.

Once the healer pronounced her healthy and released her, Keel-Tath had indulged in the luxury of a long, hot soak in the communal bath, washing the blood and grime from her body and rinsing clean her hair. When she emerged nude from the steaming water, a young robed male stood waiting, holding her armor, weapons, and undergarment. He ran an appreciative eye over her body, then bowed and left her be when she took her things. She stared after him for a moment, then looked down at herself, wondering what it was that he saw.

After donning her armor, she made her way from the bath to find Ayan-Dar and the First waiting for her. The priest, too, was clean, and his armor seemed to shine brighter than usual. His mood, both in his expression and the emotions she felt in her blood, had lightened considerably.

“Who is Li’an-Salir?” Keel-Tath asked her mentor.

“She is the mistress of this place.” He turned and narrowed his eye at her. “Were you not paying attention?”

“Of course I was, my priest,” she said, trying not to show her exasperation. “And you know perfectly well what I mean.”

Ayan-Dar looked at the First and rolled his eye heavenward. “Impudent, is she not?” Then, to Keel-Tath, he said, “She was my only lover, if you must know, and she also bested me in all seven Challenges at the kazha. Like you, she excelled at everything. I think the only thing she never did was to kill a genoth with her bare hands.” His tone lost some of its levity. “And she was one of the other survivors of the doomed expedition to T’lar-Gol in my long-lost youth about which I told you.” He paused. “This is the first time I have seen her in these many years.”

“But I thought you said that you come here when you need to find some peace.”

“To the clearing where I took you, yes,” he replied. “But I never had cause to come to the city. My only travel to Ural-Murir on behalf of the temple has been to confer with the priesthood of Nyur-A’il, and even that was on rare occasion. The high priestess seems to think my skills at diplomacy are lacking.” He shrugged. “It was enough to know that she was alive. I could feel that much in my blood. Beyond that, our ways had long since parted.”

“But you wish they hadn’t.”

Li’an-Salir’s First threw Ayan-Dar a bemused glance as he said, mild annoyance creeping into his voice, “There are many things I might wish, child, but wishing for them does not make them so. And you should not bully old warrior priests. It is unseemly.”

Keel-Tath spent the remainder of the walk in silence, gawking at the city. This was, after all, the first city she’d ever seen beyond the graveyard of Keel-A’ar. She had read about many cities, including Ku’ar-Amir, in the Books of Time, but her idle studies of the ancient texts could not fully prepare her for this. Even though the city was on heightened watch for any sign of the Dark Queen, the warriors and robed castes went about their business, and the streets were alive with the vibrant colors of the robed ones and the chatter of daily life. The stone of the buildings she passed was like the Books of Time, and told in words and images the history of the city. It had been founded in the First Age, when her kind had first spread across the world and (so the keepers of the Books of Time told her) were not quite so warlike. But such cities did not grow old and die, for the builders kept them pristine, repairing the ravages of time and war, and modifying them at the will of their masters or mistresses. She looked down and saw her reflection in the cobbles of the street, which were made from obsidian glass that was a striking contrast to the near-white stone of which the buildings were made.

The main street that led from the gate was the only one in the city that ran straight and level. From what Keel-Tath could see of the buildings ahead, some of which were huge, this central thoroughfare formed the heart of Ku’ar-Amir. It joined the gate through which they’d passed with a similar gate on the far side of the city. In between, other streets branched off and either led down to the massive harbor or up into the terraced ranks of buildings that rose up to the top of the escarpment that overlooked the sea.

But before they reached any of the buildings at the city’s center, they entered what she assumed was the city’s main marketplace. She had never seen so many people before, and twice Ayan-Dar had been forced to stop and wait for her after she’d stopped to gawk at something, totally unaware that she had done so.

The smells were at once familiar and different. They passed vendors bartering food, weapons, and other items of daily life. The aroma of a dozen different kinds of meat and fish, much of it raw, but some seared and flavored with burning wood, reminded her that she hadn’t eaten since that morning, and her mouth flooded with saliva. There were also fruits, cakes made of grain and other things she’d never seen before.

Her stomach growled, and she cringed in embarrassment as Ayan-Dar glanced back at her. She could tell he was trying to suppress a grin, but not managing very well.

As they made their way through the throng of robed ones and warriors, Keel-Tath saw that those in view of Ayan-Dar knelt and saluted, rendering their respects to a warrior priest as was proper.

But after doing so, their eyes fixed on her, and the raucous banter of the market gradually stilled. By the time they were halfway across, the market had fallen silent, with every set of eyes glued to the young female warrior with white hair. Their stares were not hostile, but she would not call them friendly, either, if there was such a thing as a friendly stare. She could sense little from most of them, for there was very little of the Desh-Ka bloodline to be found amongst them. What she could sense was mingled curiosity and suspicion, with a tinge of foreboding. Even though it was faint, it was not a pleasant emotional sensation.

Feeling the first prickle of fear, she forced herself not to walk any faster or get closer to Ayan-Dar and the First. She would not shame her priest or herself before these strangers. Instead, she held herself straighter, palm resting on the handle of her sword, and swept her eyes across the crowd. You are a disciple of the Desh-Ka, in the presence of one of the order’s most powerful priests, she told herself. You need not be afraid.

At last, they reached the end of the market. While Keel-Tath would not have admitted as much to anyone, especially Ayan-Dar, she felt an acute sense of relief when they left the crowd behind. She was not accustomed to such scrutiny. There were other people along the streets, of course, who reacted much the same as those in the market, but there were not nearly so many.

The street opened onto a central plaza. In the very center, of course, was a Kal’ai-Il. Unlike the one at the temple, which was of dark granite, the stone used in this one was white, quarried from the face of the escarpment ages ago. This stone was much softer than granite, and to her eyes it was not only scarred and pitted, but looked like it had slowly melted in places, worn down by wind and rain. Several of the enormous cap stones and pillars that formed the rings around the central dais had been replaced over time, but she knew that they had been put in place only with the use of muscle power by hundreds of warriors and simple tools. Building and maintaining the Kal’ai-Il was not the province of the builders and their magic.

On the seaward side of the plaza was a broad stairway, at least a hundred arm-lengths wide, that was flanked by spires that rose nearly a quarter of a league into the sky. At the top of the stairs was a promenade that looked out upon the harbor and the sea.

“I will take you up there later,” Ayan-Dar told her, following her gaze. “You will never see a more beautiful sunset anywhere upon the world.”

She looked up at him, realizing that she had stopped walking again. “I would like that very much, my priest.”

“Come. We are almost there, and we must not keep our hostess waiting.”

Keel-Tath nodded, following after him.

Opposite the promenade was a small walled city within the city, almost a miniature version of Ku’ar-Amir.

Keel-Tath moved closer to Ayan-Dar and lowered her voice. “What is that?” She nodded at the fortress, which she knew from the Books of Time would have qualified as a city of modest size in many places in the world.

“That is the keep,” the First answered. “If the outer walls are breached, that is the final line of defense. It also serves as the living quarters for the city’s mistress. And here,” she gestured ahead of them, “is the great hall, where you will dine with Li’an-Salir.”

The building was enormous, larger even than the coliseum at the temple where those entering the priesthood were ordained. But unlike the coliseum, which was a ponderous domed structure, the great hall was made of stone and wood, metal and glass. It was a study in graceful curves and spires, at once delicate and powerful. It dawned on her that it was a reflection of the sea, of wind and wave, the creatures that dwelled in the deep, and the great ships that sailed from this harbor to distant shores.

It was at that moment that she wondered what Keel-A’ar must have looked like before it had been destroyed, before the people who lived there were burned alive or hunted down like meat animals.

Clenching her fists, trying to stifle a roaring surge of hatred toward the Dark Queen, she vowed that she would someday rebuild it and make it a thing of beauty that would last for ages to come.

“Are you well, child?” Ayan-Dar was looking at her, an expression of concern on his face.

She nodded, realizing that he must have sensed her emotions. She had to control herself better. “I am fine, my priest.”

“This way.” After watching the exchange in silence, the First led them through the doors, nearly as tall and wide as the city’s entry gate, to the great hall.

“Oh.” The hall could have easily fit thousands, perhaps even tens of thousands, without anyone feeling crowded. The floor was a giant mosaic of tiny tiles, and when Keel-Tath looked down as she walked, she felt as if she was flying above the sea. The ceiling, high above, was supported by pillars with ornate carvings of serpents, mouths agape, spiraling upward. And on the ceiling itself was another giant mural of the sky. The clouds in the mural moved, and she wondered if it was a trick of the eye as she walked, or perhaps it was the reflection of the sun through the slender windows that rose from floor to ceiling at close intervals all the way around.

At the far end of the hall was an entrance to a small chamber. Small was a relative term, of course. This room, she saw, was perhaps only as large as one of the barracks at the temple where a full hundred disciples lived. She had not had a good look at the walls in the main hall, for they were so far from the center she couldn’t see them in detail. But here she could see that they were covered in mosaics made of precious metals, telling of the rise and fall of ancient civilizations, perhaps dating back to the First Age.

“My mistress,” the First said formally as they approached a large table around which stood eight warriors and robed ones, in addition to Li’an-Salir, who stood at the head of the table.

“Warrior priest Ayan-Dar of the Desh-Ka, and his disciple Keel-Tath.” She bowed her head and saluted.

Li’an-Salir gestured to the two chairs on her left. “Ayan-Dar, please do me the honor of sitting by my side. Keel-Tath, you may sit next to your priest.”

Ayan-Dar bowed his head and saluted, and Keel-Tath followed his lead. He moved to the chair beside Li’an-Salir, and Keel-Tath stood at the table on his left, beside a tall, slender robed male wearing the color of the keepers of the Books of Time. The keeper eyed her with open curiosity, as did the others around the table.

With a nod, Li’an-Salir sat down in her chair, and the others followed suit.

CHAPTER FIVE

Council Of War

Sitting in the chair felt awkward to Keel-Tath. She had heard of such customs, of course, but the temple did not use chairs. The disciples sat or knelt on animal hides during their meals, and the tables were much smaller.

“I thank you for your hospitality, mistress of Ku’ar-Amir,” Ayan-Dar said. “But I was not expecting to be invited to a council of war.”

“Do not act surprised, old friend,” Li’an-Salir answered. “You surely know that any gathering such as this in any city not already held in thrall by Syr-Nagath constitutes a council of war, in fact if not in name. The business of war is in our blood, but the war she wages across the world now is different from any other.” She paused, looking at Keel-Tath as a host of robed ones brought food and drink to the table. “But before we attend to that, I wanted to ask if all is well with your disciple and her coming of age.”

Ayan-Dar turned to Keel-Tath, and with a raised eyebrow and nod of the head prompted her to answer.

“Yes, mistress. The healer said that all is well. The fire in my blood is gone, and I have regained my strength. Things still taste and smell strange to me, but she said that would soon pass.”

“Indeed it will.” Li’an-Salir looked thoughtful. “Did anything strange happen when the healer examined you?”

Keel-Tath blinked, not sure how to answer. “Not that I am aware, mistress.” She felt vaguely uncomfortable under Li’an-Salir’s gaze, and noticed that everyone else was staring at her, as well.

Leaning forward slightly, Ayan-Dar asked, “Is there a point to your question, mistress? And is this a topic to be discussed before your council?”

“I am simply curious. After examining your disciple, the healer made a rather interesting discovery: her healing gel bonded to Keel-Tath.”

“That is impossible,” Ayan-Dar blurted, looking down at his white-haired disciple, his eye open wide in amazement.

“So it is said, but it is true nonetheless.”

“What

what does this mean?” Keel-Tath looked to her priest, wondering if she was in some kind of trouble.

“What we call the healing gel,” a female in the white robe of the healer caste said in a soft voice that cut through the silence, “is actually a symbiont, a living organism that bonds to a healer very early in the healer’s life. The symbionts are able to share information with one another through touch about any creatures they have ever been in contact with, and are also able to share that information with the healers, who in turn can guide the gel to effect repairs to the body.”

Keel-Tath nodded. All this, she knew. Everyone did. None among their race, even the honorless ones, suffered from disease or injury unless they chose to do so. Warriors cherished their battle scars, but there was no harm that could be done to the body, short of destroying the brain, that the healers could not repair like new.

The healer leaned forward, her eyes fixed on Keel-Tath. “The bond between healer and symbiont is for life, child. When a healer dies, the symbiont passes to a new healer, preserving the knowledge that was gained. And during a healer’s life, that symbiont is merged with many others to pool and share knowledge. Some of the symbionts — or, rather, the knowledge they contain — date back to the dawn of the First Age. They represent the most complete record of our species, far more so than even the Books of Time.”

Keel-Tath shook her head. “I still do not understand.”

“When the healing gel touched you,” the healer said, “did you sense anything?”

“Well, perhaps.” Keel-Tath fought to concentrate, to recall the sensations she’d felt when she was with the healer. “I felt strange when she put the healing gel on my belly. As it worked its way into my flesh, I could

see things. A jumble of images that I did not understand. I thought it was just another part of the transition to womanhood.”

Li’an-Salir asked, “Did those images fade away once the symbiont was taken back by the healer?”

“Yes. Well, mostly.” She was still plagued by occasional bizarre flashes in her brain, like random lightning. “What does this mean?”

“It means, child,” said the keeper of the Books of Time beside her, “that you are an impossibility, beyond even the uniqueness of your hair and talons. No symbiont has ever bonded to one of the non-healer castes in all of history until now.”

“The healers are the first ones chosen from the creche, taken as infants and bonded with the symbionts,” the healer went on. “The symbionts meld with them, in a way, and teach them to understand how to communicate. They never, ever break their bond until the healer dies. Until now.”

Li’an-Salir nodded. “Do not be distraught, Keel-Tath. We do not hold you responsible for what happened. Like much in life, it is a mixture of wonder and tragedy.”

Keel-Tath felt a sudden sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach. “What do you mean, mistress?”

“She means,” Ayan-Dar said quietly, “that the healer who examined you died not long after you left her. She could not survive the breaking of the bond with the symbiont.”

Across the table, the elder healer nodded, a trace of the black mourning marks under her eyes.

Aghast, Keel-Tath stood and reached for the small dagger she kept on her belt, just behind the scabbard of her sword.

Ayan-Dar’s hand gripped hers before she could draw it. “No, child!”

“I cannot make amends for such a thing,” Keel-Tath cried, horrified that she had been responsible for the death of a healer. One of the most basic tenets of the Way held by all the orders, with the possible exception of Ka’i-Nur, was to protect the robed ones. And among those, the healers were the most precious of all, for they were the fewest and were the foundation of the survival of their species. To kill a healer, or to let one die without fighting to save her, was to commit a terrible atrocity. Only the killing of children was worse. Keel-Tath could not live with such a stain on her honor. She struggled to draw the dagger, but Ayan-Dar’s hand held hers in a steel grip.

“We do not ask you to.” Li’an-Salir came to stand behind Keel-Tath’s chair. Taking her by the shoulders, the city’s mistress gently forced her to sit back down. “You are an innocent in this, child. No one, not one of us could have foreseen that such a thing could happen.” Leaning down, she turned Keel-Tath’s face toward hers. “I well understand why you feel as you do. Your sense of honor runs deep; Ayan-Dar would have no less from any he would call his disciple. But you must learn that honor requires more than sacrifice. Sometimes it demands something far more terrible: forgiveness, even for yourself.”

With the black of the mourning marks streaming down the skin of her cheeks, Keel-Tath nodded understanding. She knew she would never forgive herself, that the healer’s death would always be a stain on her soul. But she would honor Ayan-Dar and Li’an-Salir’s wishes. “Yes, mistress.”

“Good.” She caressed Keel-Tath’s cheek. “We will speak no more of this.” Li’an-Salir returned to her seat.

Ayan-Dar said, “You promise me you won’t do anything foolish when I let go your hand?”

“Yes, my priest.”

“Very well, child.” He released her. Leaning closer, he added softly, “Heed her words. She had to say something like that to me once, a very long time ago. A very wise mistress is Li’an-Salir.” He handed her a mug. “Drink this. It was made special for you, for the time your body is going through.”

Her mind still numb, Keel-Tath accepted the mug and put it to her lips. The drink had a mild sweet taste and warmed her stomach. After a moment, she began to relax.

As Li’an-Salir and the others began to eat, Keel-Tath sipped her drink. She had no appetite now, and was content to listen to the discussion of the elders, which immediately turned to the Dark Queen.

“I noticed when we entered the city,” Ayan-Dar said as he began to shred his meat with his talons, “that you maintain an unusually heavy guard. Do you fear an attack so soon? Syr-Nagath has yet to complete her conquest of Uhr-Gol.”

Li’an-Salir nodded as she finished swallowing a piece of fruit. “They will only hold out another few weeks at most, and I do not trust Syr-Nagath to be predictable. There is nothing to prevent her from opening a second front here while she finishes off what resistance remains on Uhr-Gol. She certainly has enough warriors to do so. Regardless, she will not command my honor or my sword.”

“I would not dissuade you from being prepared, but I doubt the Dark Queen will strike here before she has consolidated her gains. To open a second front would be a potential risk that I doubt she will take. She could, I grant you, and in previous wars we have seen ambitious leaders do such things. But those were wars of honor, where advantage was often conferred upon the enemy, and when cities were not burned to the ground with every citizen trapped inside.” He glanced at Keel-Tath, and she could feel the echo of his sorrow. “Syr-Nagath is fighting this war solely to win, and she is not only gaining warriors, but builders, as well. Her capacity to build more complex machines and weapons is growing rapidly, which will make your defense even more difficult.” Li’an-Salir nodded unhappily. “My question is,” Ayan-Dar went on, “what then? Even if she unites the Homeworld and attacks the Settlements, what does she intend?”

“I do not know what she plans, but she is certainly ambitious, far more than any of us had believed. And advancing her technology by gathering more builders is not our only worry. Did you know that she met with the high priest of the Nyur-A’il?”

Ayan-Dar stopped in mid-chew to stare at Li’an-Salir, who cocked her head and said, “You did not know?”

“No,” he said, swallowing what was in his mouth and pushing away the golden plate laden with food. “I did not. I do not mean to insult you, mistress, but are you sure about this?”

“Yes. I received a visit from one of the younger priestesses three days ago, who came here on business related to the kazha that serves the city. Her sword was mine before she took up the collar, and she told me that the meeting took place a fortnight ago at Syr-Nagath’s encampment in Uhr-Gol.”

“Did she provide any details?”

“No, although she hinted that such meetings have taken place with the leaders of the other orders here on the Homeworld, and possibly with those among the Settlements, as well.” She pinned him with her gaze. “Has she met with the Desh-Ka?”

Ayan-Dar told her, “No, she has not. T’ier-Kunai would have informed me of such a thing.” He slammed his fist on the table, rattling the plates and mugs from one end to the other. “What can Syr-Nagath possibly hope to gain, and why would the priesthoods agree to meet with her? The orders will not involve themselves in outside affairs.”

Li’an-Salir’s eyes shifted to Keel-Tath. “The priesthoods know of the prophecy, of course. Everyone has since the doom of Keel-A’ar. Even the honorless ones have heard of the child with white hair and scarlet talons, the one who shall unite us all. Most do not believe, but some do.” Her eyes turned back to Ayan-Dar. “Perhaps Syr-Nagath is trying to convince the priesthoods that the prophecy is indeed true, and they may believe it, or fear the possibility, just enough to be willing to entertain whatever it is she has to say. The priesthoods would have much to lose if our kind, here and among the Settlements, were united under a single banner.”

“Especially if it were hers,” Ayan-Dar countered. “I can only believe that she aspires to destroy the priesthoods herself, and the Way along with it.”

“Yes, but she was clearly not the one foretold by Anuir-Ruhal’te’s prophecy. The priesthoods believe that Syr-Nagath is no more than one of the leaders who have arisen over the ages to unite the Homeworld and do battle with the Settlements, only for all to fall to ruin once again. They see in her no long-term threat to the stability of the Way. I know for certain that is how the Nyur-A’il see her, and I have heard indirectly that the Ana’il-Rukh, your counterparts on beleaguered Uhr-Gol, believe the same.”

“As do the Desh-Ka,” Ayan-Dar said, his mouth turning down into a fierce grimace. “None are pleased with Syr-Nagath’s conduct of her war or her atrocities, but until or unless she makes a direct transgression against one who bears the collar, they are content to do nothing, to say nothing. They think she is just another great warrior, that this is just another rise that will eventually lead to yet another fall. But never before have they held counsel with such leaders as you have described, and I cannot see anything good coming of it.” He took a drink from the large mug of ale, then set it back down. “Long have I counseled for the priesthoods to become involved in the lives of those who live beyond the temples, those we guide to the Way as we have done for ages past, but not in this fashion, not by treating with a monster. I wanted our powers to be used to break us from the endless rise and fall of civilization, yes, but to take our people higher, to where they deserve to be.” He looked at Keel-Tath. “But if the priesthoods should choose to take the counsel of the Dark Queen, all may be lost.”

As Keel-Tath sat there, listening, the fire in her blood again began to burn. But this was not the uncontrolled flame that raged through her earlier when her body went through its change. This was a cold fury that wrapped itself around her heart, a fury that she held close and quiet, that she did not wish the others of her bloodline, Ayan-Dar most of all, to sense. She did not know if she could hide it, but she would try. The Dark Queen, of course, was her enemy, and had been since the day she was born. But now the priesthoods, too, seemed to be aligning against her. She felt as if she was falling into the sea beyond the walls of the city, into the maws of the terrible creatures that lurked beneath the waves.

“Then what hope have I?” Her words fell into the silence, and the elders all turned to look at her. “What was the point of my even being born, or the prophecy by a long-dead oracle, if the most powerful of our kind, the priesthoods, would see me dead?”

“That is not what was said, child,” Ayan-Dar told her.

“But that is what you fear, is it not? If the orders listen to the words of the Dark Queen, if they come to believe that I could change the Way itself, would they not do anything to stop the fulfillment of the prophecy? And how better to do that than to kill me?”

Ayan-Dar opened his mouth to say something, then slowly closed it.

“You cannot deny her the truth,” Li’an-Salir said quietly.

“I will let no harm come to you,” Ayan-Dar vowed, shaking off the armored gauntlet from his hand. “Before the eyes of all who witness this, I swear. Take off your gauntlets. Draw your dagger.”

Unsure what the old priest was thinking, Keel-Tath did as he ordered. After removing her gauntlets, she drew her dagger from its scabbard and held it, point toward the ceiling.

Holding his hand to one side of the blade, he said, “Take my hand, the blade in between us. Then draw it across our palms, that we may share our blood.”

“Drakash,” Keel-Tath whispered, her eyes wide with surprise. It was an ancient ritual that dated back to the earliest times of the Desh-Ka, a physical and spiritual bond between two warriors of the order. It was never done with a warrior before they had completed their seventh and final Challenge. She did not wish to think of how T’ier-Kunai would react to what her mentor was doing now, but part of her no longer cared.

Holding out her free hand, she clasped Ayan-Dar’s, then pulled the blade down, twisting it so the edge sliced through the skin and into the flesh beneath. His fingers closed around her hand, pressing their palms together. She felt a tingling in the wound that quickly spread up her arm, to her shoulder, then down into her chest. In but a few moments, the sensation had spread throughout her body as her eyes remained fixed on his. In that flicker of time, she felt as if she truly knew him, all of him, as if she had shared his very soul.

“It is done,” he said after what to her seemed like a very long time. He slowly let go her hand, and she stared at the long cut across her palm and the blood that seeped from the wound. “Bind it with a clean cloth and let it heal on its own. You are not a priestess, but you are bound by blood now to the Desh-Ka. They cannot now forsake you.”

“They may not be able to forsake her,” Li’an-Salir said, “but can they protect her? The Desh-Ka are the most powerful, but could they stand against the might of the other orders and Syr-Nagath’s hordes, should such a terrible day ever come?”

“We will not have to. The priesthoods will not fight one another. They never have in all the millennia since they were established.”

“Except for the Desh-Ka and the Ka’i-Nur. Do not think that there is anyone alive who has not heard that tale. And I fear that is but a taste of things yet to come.”

“That was different,” Ayan-Dar huffed. “They tried to kill me without cause and T’ier-Kunai intervened, as was her right. Besides, the Ka’i-Nur are not truly a priesthood, nor have they been since their crystal was destroyed at the end of the Second Age. None of their warriors have worn the sigil of their priesthood in nearly two hundred thousand years.”

“Do not fall prey to your own assumptions, great priest.” Li’an-Salir looked at Keel-Tath. “I do not know what the future holds for you, child, and I myself am not sure if I believe in the prophecy. But you may know this, just as surely as you now bear Ayan-Dar’s blood in your veins: as long as I am mistress of Ku’ar-Amir, you will be welcome here.”

CHAPTER SIX

Living Metal

That night, Li’an-Salir herself had shown Ayan-Dar and Keel-Tath to their quarters. They were high in one of the towers of the mistress’s personal domain, the keep, and looked out over the plaza toward the sea.

Keel-Tath stood on the balcony, watching and listening to the waves beyond the promenade as the stars twinkled above her in a black sky, bereft now of the Great Moon, which had set. She remembered little of the day after the counsel of war had finally come to its grim conclusion. It seemed now like the world was caught in the gears of a great machine that would, if left unchecked, grind them all into dust. The engine behind the machine was Syr-Nagath, but the greatest gears, beyond even the Dark Queen’s legions, were the priesthoods. Blinded by their own pride and the faith that what had been for ages past would be yet for ages to come, they could not see the truth of what the Dark Queen was doing. Keel-A’ar should have been their warning, a clear and vicious departure from the true Way, but they stood by and did nothing.

“They see, but they do not heed.” She spoke into the night, her words carried away by the light breeze. “No one can stop the coming darkness.”

“You can.”

Startled, she turned to see Ayan-Dar standing behind her.

“You still see the world through the eyes of a young warrior,” he told her as he moved up beside her, putting his hand on the rail next to hers, “not as what you someday will become. There will come a day when the Dark Queen is no more, and the name of Keel-Tath will be hailed by every soul under the heavens.”

“You are right, my priest. I cannot see these things.” She looked down. “I wish we had not come here. This was to be my free time, my very first. Instead of happiness, I feel as if death will stalk me at every turn once we leave this place.”

“I am sorry, my child. You must believe that I did not know these things would come to pass when I brought you here. All I expected when we came to the city gate was a warm meal, some ale, and a comfortable place to sleep.” He sighed. “But you must also not cloak yourself in fear or regret. Knowledge is often the best weapon in any battle, as are allies. Li’an-Salir is a very powerful ally, and was quite taken with you. More than that, while she is still conflicted, I think she believes in you, in the prophecy.”

“I wish I did,” Keel-Tath whispered. She took hold of her braids and held them before her eyes, the white hair now nearly black in the moonless night. “What if I am nothing more than an aberration, a freak?” Releasing her hair, she held out her hands, looking at them with a sense of loathing. “And what of the healer who died? Everyone says that all these things are impossible. What other horrors await me?”

“These things are not horrors, they are gifts.” Ayan-Dar took her chin in his hand and turned her to face him. “And I hope that there are many more, because these things, these aberrations, will give you the power you need to change the Way itself. If what I believe is true, there will come a time when nothing, not even the combined might of the priesthoods, will stand against your will. But for that to ever happen, you must believe.”

“Why must I? Because all the other prophecies of Anuir-Ruhal’te have come to pass, and so must this one?” She shook her head. “Ancient inscriptions on a pillar of stone are not enough for me. And even if I did believe, how will that stop the Dark Queen or the priesthoods, should she sway them with her guile, from sending me to the funeral pyre?”

“I will not let that happen.”

“But you cannot prevent it!” She put her hands on his broad chest, her palms on the cyan rune of the Desh-Ka that even without the light of the moon seemed to glow in the darkness. “As powerful as you are, my priest, you cannot stand against the other priesthoods or Syr-Nagath’s armies.”

“I would whisk you away to safety, just as I brought you here.”

“For how long? And what is the point? Even those who believe in the prophecy will not follow a warrior who does not stand and fight. I cannot unite our people if I run and cower in fear.” She wrapped her arms around him, and he pulled her close. “All I would ask of you is that when the time comes, do not let her take me. Even if you must plunge your sword into my breast, do not let the Dark Queen have my soul.”

“On my life and my honor,” he said softly, “it will be as you say.”

***

The next morning, Li’an-Salir had them dine with her for the first meal of the day in her private chambers. It was a time of reminiscing of long ago adventures, and the mistress of the city and Ayan-Dar even managed to make Keel-Tath smile with the tales of their exploits, some of which, Keel-Tath suspected, might even have been true. There was no mention of the Dark Queen or the war.

When they finished, Li’an-Salir took them on a grand tour of the harbor, showing the young warrior the source of the ancient kingdom’s prosperity.

“These ships!” Keel-Tath exclaimed as they walked along the piers. “Some are huge! How can they float upon the water and not sink?”

“If you place an empty dish, even if it is made of metal, into water, does it sink?”

Keel-Tath thought about that. “No, mistress. Not if it is right-side up.”

“With the ships, it is the same. They are large and heavy, but they rest upon the water in the exact same way as the dish.”

“These ones, what are they for? They are so much larger than the others.” There were seven vessels in the harbor that were much alike, but enormous even compared to the other large ships. She measured one of them by pacing the distance as they walked, and was stunned to find that it was over five hundred paces long. All of the ships carried sails, some with square rigging, while others, smaller and far more sleek, had triangular sails. The hulls were painted in bright greens and reds, with large runes along the prow and stern proclaiming they hailed from Ku’ar-Amir.

“These ships hunt the larger creatures of the deep for their meat and oil. Come, look and see.”

She led her two guests to a shelter along the pier that was as long as one of the ships and nearly as wide. Keel-Tath, unable to help herself, recoiled from the smell.

Li’an-Salir laughed. “Yes, it takes some getting used to. But here, look.”

Keel-Tath’s mouth dropped open in wonder. An enormous creature took up most of the space under the shelter, and an army of robed ones were busy carving it up. Blood ran in torrents into sluices set into the pier that channeled it away. Not a drop, she saw, fell into the water of the harbor, for that would attract unwanted attention.

The head of the thing was not dissimilar from that of a genoth, a terrible dragon that inhabited the Great Wastelands, although it was far, far larger. This creature could have quite easily swallowed the largest genoth that ever lived, and some of its teeth were as big as a magthep stood tall. The eyes, two on each side of the smooth black body, were as big as she was. The skin was covered in thick armored scales, and she could see where several enormous harpoons had been driven through to strike the creature’s vital organs.

Turning to look at the ship that was pulled right alongside, she saw that the thick wood of the hull bore fresh marks, scratches and gouges running the length of the vessel, that even now builders were working to repair.

“The meat you were served last night and this morning was fresh-carved from this beast,” Li’an-Salir said. “It is much sought after, and once it is salted and dried we use it for trade among the other kingdoms of the world. There are other things taken from the sea that those of the land consider valuable, but this one is the most prized. It is also the largest that we can catch.”

“There are

larger things?” Keel-Tath looked at her with disbelief.

“Oh, yes, child.” Ayan-Dar nodded, and Keel-Tath saw a haunted look cross his face. “Remember that I told you that there are some things in the sea that were never hunted even at the height of the First Age. There are things out there in the sea that eat creatures such as this.”

“You really saw one?”

He exchanged a glance with Li’an-Salir. “Yes, on our crossing to T’lar-Gol long ago, we saw such a beast. It showed no interest in us, but I vowed to never again set foot on a ship.”

“The sea is not so harsh if you respect and understand it,” Li’an-Salir said. She smiled. “Ayan-Dar was terrified the entire voyage. I loved it.”

Ayan-Dar muttered something under his breath, and Li’an-Salir smiled. “Come,” she said. “There is more I would show you.”

By the end of the day, Li’an-Salir had taken them aboard some of the ships, including the mighty warships that were at the heart of Ku’ar-Amir’s power, and shown them the great beacon that sat atop one of the natural rocky spires at the end of the league-long breakwater that sheltered the harbor.

As they returned, Li’an-Salir took them on a different route, guiding them to the harbor’s opposite side where a long row of stone buildings faced the harbor. Most of the buildings were no higher than the dwellings higher up in the city, but a few of them were much larger. Two were large enough to hold modest-sized ships, and Keel-Tath noticed that water channels led to them from the harbor.

Ayan-Dar recognized the place immediately. “Ah. This is the foundry, I take it.”

“Yes. This is the heart of our metalworking, where the armorers ply their trade.”

Ayan-Dar frowned, shooting a quick glance at Keel-Tath. “It has been a long day, mistress. Perhaps we should retire for dinner. The temple has its own armorers; none of this will be new to young Keel-Tath.”

“I want to see it!” Keel-Tath had, of course, dealt a great deal with the armorers. Every warrior did. But the armorers of the temple created swords and armor, along with the collars for the priests. Other than that and the odd metal plate or dish, there was little else that the temple called upon them to create.

This, the foundry, was something else entirely.

“Very well.” Ayan-Dar was not happy, and Keel-Tath could not understand why. She saw him exchange a look with Li’an-Salir, who only turned and led them in.

The walls were decorated in art depicting life at sea using metal inlaid into the stone in such a way that it seemed that the metal was part of the stone. The likeness was amazing, as if she was standing on a ship gazing upon the scene. Hundreds of armorers, wearing the black robes of their caste, were at work. Many of them were toiling over pools and ingots of the living metal from which weapons were made, while others were gathered around forges that glowed red with heat where steel and other metals were fashioned. The projects on which the armorers worked seemed to grow in scale the farther the trio moved toward the largest buildings at the far end. Keel-Tath began to see blocks and tackle, levers and pulleys, used to handle the large fittings for the ships. When they reached the far end where the largest buildings were, she saw that they were not intended to hold ships. Instead, the largest fittings for the great hunting ships were made there before being towed out on barges to the ships. Looking across to one of the piers, she could see a great many armorers and builders working together to lift an enormous circular fitting from a barge to the deck. While she knew that the builders could fashion things from metal, it was much more difficult than to create from stone or wood. The armorers could make such things far more easily. Porters of water were also involved, and she could see that they had parted the water around that segment of the ship’s hull so armorers and builders could also work below the ship’s waterline in safety.

When Keel-Tath turned back, she saw that Li’an-Salir was holding something in her hand that glittered like the sun on the waves. It was smooth and oblong, not unlike an egg.

“Living metal.” She had seen it often enough in this form at the temple, for this was how it was first formed from the growing vats. Ingots such as this were taken from the vats by the armorers. Each one was different, tailored by the armorer to contain the precise amount of metal she needed to make a given weapon.

“Here, consider it a gift from me to do with as you would.”

As Li’an-Salir handed her the ingot, Keel-Tath noticed that both the city’s mistress and Ayan-Dar were looking at her with unusual intensity.

“I thank you, mistress of Ku’ar-Amir.” She took the ingot, noting that it was still warm to the touch. It must have been removed from the vats only moments before. She had always been fascinated by it. The armorer at the temple had a small ingot that she showed the disciples during their training, one that would never be forged into a blade. The touch of any but an armorer introduced impurities that had no place in a weapon. She felt a momentary pang of guilt, realizing that the metal she now held, perhaps enough for a small dagger, would never find its true destiny as a blade in a warrior’s hands.

“Stroke it,” Li’an-Salir suggested. “Use your fingers, just as you have seen the armorers do.”

Keel-Tath was stricken with fear, remembering the fate of the healer the day before.

“No harm can come to anyone,” Ayan-Dar reassured her. “Stroke it, caress it, or bite it, as you wish.” He grinned. “The only damage done will be to your teeth.”

“As you say, my priest.” She remained uncertain, but did as Li’an-Salir had bidden. Holding the ingot gently in one hand, she began to stroke it with her palm. The metal changed color where her palm touched it, darkening slightly, and even after a few strokes they could all see that it was flattening out and lengthening. The change was very slight, for it took a great deal of work to fashion an ingot into a blade, but there was no doubt that it was changing shape at the young warrior’s touch.

“By the gods fallen from grace,” Ayan-Dar said as he stared at the ingot in Keel-Tath’s hand, “I do not believe it.” He looked up to Li’an-Salir. “How did you know?”

“I did not, but I suspected. If she could take the bond of a healer’s symbiont, then why not shape living metal?” She turned an appraising eye upon Keel-Tath, whose hands were still now as her mind was staggered by the implications. “Or water.”

An armorer appeared at Li’an-Salir’s side with a shallow dish of water. The city’s mistress took it and held it out toward Keel-Tath. “Touch it.”

“No, mistress.” She stepped back as if the water was the deadliest of acids. With wide eyes, she looked to Ayan-Dar. “This is another impossibility, is it not?”

“Yes, child, but it will hurt nothing for you to touch—”

He did not have a chance to finish.

Keel-Tath had turned and fled, running as fast as her feet would carry her.

***

In the clearing where she and Ayan-Dar had first appeared, Keel-Tath stared into the fire. She was hungry, thirsty, and exhausted, but none of that mattered. Animals slithered through the dark forest around her, growling and chirruping, their eyes reflecting the glow of the fire, but she paid them no heed. Any other time, she might have been frightened, for she had never been in a place such as this. The only nights she had ever spent before coming here had been at the temple, where creatures were not permitted to prowl unbidden. Her sword lay across her lap should she need it, but the animals that watched her seemed content to stay hidden in the darkness, and did not stray into the light of the fire.

She felt a deep sense of shame at fleeing from Li’an-Salir and Ayan-Dar. Now did she truly feel alone.

“You are not alone, child, and you need not feel ashamed.” A familiar voice called quietly from the darkness.

She turned her head to see Ayan-Dar standing at the edge of the fire’s glow.

“May I sit with you?”

Nodding her head, she turned to again stare at the flames. “I am surprised you did not find me earlier.”

The old priest knelt beside her with a quiet groan. “I have known where you were the entire time, child. I watched you with my second sight, just in case something ill should befall you. I did not come earlier because I knew you would need some time alone.” He sighed. “I owe you an apology, child, and Li’an-Salir sends her own, as well. We were too eager to satisfy our own curiosity, and did not think of how it might affect you. For that, I am sorry.”

She nodded, but remained silent for a moment. “What does all this mean, Ayan-Dar? And how is it even possible?” Turning to face him, she went on, “I have been touched by healing gel before, and have even touched an ingot of living metal that the master of the armory once showed us when we were children. And water, of course, I have touched many times. Why is all this happening now? And how?”

“I can only assume the change your body underwent, your coming of age, triggered changes in you that we would never have expected. And how?” He made a rude noise. “That, even the healers do not know. Li’an-Salir and the masters and mistresses of the different castes spoke of your latent abilities at great length after you took your leave. The discussion had equal measures of disbelief, awe, and bafflement. The only conclusive result, which likely will not please you, is that most of those who dwell in Ku’ar-Amir are now believers, and that belief will spread with the sailing of every ship to distant lands.”

She nodded, a pained expression on her face as if he had just told her she would be chained to the Kal’ai-Il at sunrise and the flesh flayed from her back with the grakh’ta whip. “I have the gift of the porters of water, as well,” she said, her voice just above a whisper. “I found a small pool of still water in the forest nearby. I put my hand in it and imagined the water rising into a column, and it did. It did not shape itself as I imagined and was very small, but the water reacted to my wishes.” She clenched her hands into tight fists. “Even if I can do these things, I cannot control them. I have been raised as a warrior.”

“True. I have no answer for you, and the prophecy of Anuir-Ruhal’te is singularly unhelpful in this matter.”

“I would ask something of you,” she said.

“Anything, child.”

“Please do not tell T’ier-Kunai or the others about what has happened here. I do not think I could bear it. The peers would not understand. They would shun me.”

Ayan-Dar frowned. “Child, they will learn of it sooner or later. Better that it should come from you or, if you wish, me, than from tales one of the priests hears from beyond the temple walls.”

He said nothing about what the peers might do, and she took that as a tacit admission that her fears were just.

“Then only tell the high priestess, and ask her to keep it a secret for now. I beg of you.”

“That I will, child,” he said, untying a strap over his shoulder. “And now that we have concluded that small matter, I thought you might like something to eat and drink.” He handed her a satchel that was stuffed full of the succulent meat and other food from the sea and a flask of the sweet ale. “You will need to keep up your strength, for we must return tomorrow to the temple, and the next day is your second Challenge.”

Keel-Tath was grateful for the gift, but as she ate and drank, she wondered if her life at the temple could ever be the same.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Exile

The disciples were again arrayed around the central dais of the temple, much as they had been on the morning T’ier-Kunai had released them for their free time. Only now the acolytes stood beyond the low walls of the arenas. The savage contests that would take place on the sands this day were not for them, for they had all survived their seventh and final Challenge. This was a day for the disciples alone.

In her customary place among her peers, Keel-Tath knelt facing the dais where T’ier-Kunai stood. The priests were arrayed around her, standing and facing out toward the disciples this time. Keel-Tath caught sight of Ayan-Dar and Ria-Ka’luhr, both of whom had their eyes fixed on her.

She lowered her eyes, remembering the happy reunion with the young priest when Ayan-Dar had whisked her back to the temple, and the uncomfortable meeting with T’ier-Kunai, where Ayan-Dar described in no small detail Keel-Tath’s newfound abilities. Keel-Tath had sensed a great deal from the high priestess, not least of which was a feeling of conviction that seemed out of place. It was as if she felt right about something, but Keel-Tath had no way to discern what it might be, and it was far from her place to ask. She had answered a few questions the priestess had posed, but Ayan-Dar had done most of the talking. T’ier-Kunai, thankfully, had agreed to his request to keep this knowledge secret.

Pushing those thoughts away, Keel-Tath tried to focus on the here and now. It was difficult, for she was torn by conflicting emotions. She wanted to fight in the Challenge, for the bloodlust that was in the heart of every warrior was burning brightly, stoked by the feelings of those around her, their song flowing through her veins like molten metal. But as powerful as those feelings were, it was like a thin, brittle veneer over a vast emptiness in her heart, a chasm that had opened when she had first set eyes upon the tomb that was Keel-A’ar. Her contempt for the indifference shown by the priesthoods to the horrors wrought by the Dark Queen had become a ravenous beast in her soul that she could not contain with tradition or codes of honor that were nothing but lies.

It was then that she noticed that T’ier-Kunai had not yet spoken. The opening ceremony for the Challenge was brief before the drawing of the lottery for the first round of combatants. The silence had stretched on far too long.

Raising her head just enough to glance around her, Keel-Tath saw that the high priestess was staring right at her, her expression a dark, angry cloud. Ayan-Dar was staring at her, as well, a look of shock on his face. Several places to his right, among the junior priests, stood Ria-Ka’luhr, who also was looking at her, although his expression betrayed nothing.

In fact, all the priests and priestesses were staring at her, as were the acolytes and robed ones. Even the disciples, whose heads were still bowed as they kneeled toward the dais, shot nervous glances in her direction.

“One of the greatest strengths — and weaknesses — of our kind is the song of our blood,” T’ier-Kunai said, “for it reveals the truth in all things. Your blood sings to us, Keel-Tath, but it is a song that I cannot credit or understand.”

For just a moment, Keel-Tath wavered. She knew that she could have told the priestess something that would salve her displeasure. T’ier-Kunai had always shown great compassion and understanding for Keel-Tath. While she had never succumbed to any shows of favoritism, the high priestess had certainly pushed the boundaries of tradition to Keel-Tath’s benefit. A few words rolling off Keel-Tath’s tongue right now could make things better. But they could not make them right. Nothing could.

Gathering her resolve, trembling at the enormity of what she was about to do, Keel-Tath stood. “Is it so hard to understand, my priestess? You and Ayan-Dar stood and watched Keel-A’ar burn, watched the Dark Queen torture my father before casting him into the flames, yet did nothing. Syr-Nagath marches across the world, destroying all in her path, and all of you know that she is different from the other conquerors who have come before. She does this conquest not for honor or glory, but to destroy! She is everything that we are taught not to be, and yet you and the other orders do nothing.” Her voice rose with the tide of her anger. “What is the point of donning the collar, of having powers such as you, if they are not used to help bring justice to the world? Just one of you, just one, could have stopped her! I understand that we are called by our blood and the Way to fight, but what happened at Keel-A’ar was not a battle conducted with honor and for the sake of honor. It was a vengeful slaughter of innocents! And you all know that there will be more.” She slowly drew her sword. “When I stood at the gates of my dead father’s city, I made a vow.” Ayan-Dar, mourning marks already flowing down his cheeks, shook his head, and she imagined him begging her in his mind to stop, but she could not. Would not. “I vowed that I would have my vengeance on the Dark Queen for what she has done, that I would rip out her heart.” She drew the blade of her sword across the palm of her free hand, the same one that was still healing from where she had bonded with Ayan-Dar in the ritual of Drakash, and drops of crimson fell to stain the sand at her feet. “This I swear upon the blood of my father and mother, and all those who have suffered under the Dark Queen.”

The entire temple was deathly silent.

“None among us may take vengeance or interfere with affairs beyond our walls,” T’ier-Kunai said in a low voice, devoid of emotion. “If that is your will, so be it. You shall leave us as you came to us. Let all among the Desh-Ka know that you are forsaken.” Then she rapped her staff on the dais, the report echoing from the buildings surrounding the arenas and the Kal’ai-Il.

Trembling, Keel-Tath plunged the tip of the sword, its blade slick with her blood, into the sand. Then she began to undress. First the waist belt with her dagger and the sword’s scabbard, then the shrekkas attached to her shoulder, then her armor. She dropped each piece in the sand, a tiny part of her dying inside each time. She undid the bindings of the leatherite armor under the plate and pulled it off, dropping it at her feet. Then she undid her sandals. At last, she took off the black undergarment and stood nude before the host of the Desh-Ka.

The mistress of the creche, the black streaks of mourning marks running down her cheeks, approached and offered Keel-Tath a blanket, for she was wrapped in one when she came to the temple.

“No. I take nothing with me from this place but memories and thoughts of what could have been, of what should be.” With one last look at Ayan-Dar and Ria-Ka’luhr, whose company she would sorely miss for the short time she would survive in the outside world, she turned and made her way to the entrance to the temple. She stood at the threshold for a moment, trying to imagine her mother’s last moments as she fled from the pursuing honorless ones who killed her, spending the last breath of life to place Keel-Tath into Ayan-Dar’s outstretched hand.

With a shuddering breath, she stepped past the threshold’s ancient stone and began the long walk down to the foot of the plateau where the Dark Queen’s minions no doubt awaited her.

***

“T’ier-Kunai,” Ayan-Dar said, barely able to force her name through his lips as he watched Keel-Tath walk away through the ranks of still-kneeling disciples.

“Hold your tongue, Ayan-Dar, or I will cut your braids and cast your soul into darkness.”

The quiet words of the high priestess cut through him like the blade of a frozen sword.

“We gave her everything we had to give,” T’ier-Kunai went on. “If she wants to avenge her kin or tear out the Dark Queen’s heart, then she must do so on her own. She has made her choice, and if you interfere, I will cast you out, as well. Do not doubt my words.”

“I do not, high priestess of the Desh-Ka,” he rasped as Keel-Tath disappeared from his sight. He was clenching his hand so tight that his talons pierced the leatherite palm of his gauntlet and drew blood. “I honor and obey.”

“For what little it may be worth, I am sorry, Ayan-Dar.” She paused, then whispered, “I have loved her, too.”

Those last words only made worse the pain of Ayan-Dar’s broken heart.

Nearby, Ria-Ka’luhr, too, watched Keel-Tath’s departure in dumbfounded silence. But his feelings, if not his thoughts, were shared by one far away, whose blood was not of the Desh-Ka.

***

The switchback trail down from the plateau was empty of passersby; no one came to or departed from the temple on the day of the Challenge.

Keel-Tath walked in a daze, her bare feet slapping on the packed earth of the ancient trail. The mourning marks, cascades of black that began under her eyes, now flowed down her neck and her chest. Even her breasts were black with the pain she had wrought upon herself.

There was no choice, she told herself. Had she stayed at the temple, her life would have been a lie, a dishonor to her mother and father, to Ayan-Dar and all the others. She did not want to die, especially in whatever horrible way the Dark Queen would no doubt have in mind. But she would rather die than disgrace all that she had ever loved or held dear.

She briefly gave thought to trying to escape what she knew must await her at the foot of the trail, but the idea was so ludicrous that she laughed out loud. Where could she go that she, of white hair and crimson talons, would not be recognized? And there was no way to reach the lowlands from the plateau other than by the trail she was on: everywhere else was nothing but sheer rock. She had to take this route, and had to take it to its inevitable conclusion.

Behind her, she could hear the tone of the Kal’ai-Il signaling the start of the first round of the Challenge. She found herself imagining that she was in the arena, and her muscles twitched in sympathy to her thoughts, as if she was lunging and feinting with her sword. She heard the disciples cheer and howl. It was a sound that she had grown up with, that she had always thought would be a part of her life. Now it made her sense of loneliness even more acute.

She wondered if, when she died, she would see her mother and father. She would have liked to know them, to sense them in her blood. She had told Ayan-Dar once that she sometimes had dreams about them, but they were not dreams of the past, memories of her empathic bond with them before they died. It was as if they were whispering in her ear as she slept, but she could never remember what they told her.

He had not chided her for such thoughts as she had expected him to. “Those who came before the fall of the ancient gods believed in an afterlife, that our souls live on, but things now are less clear,” he had told her. “The Way insists that if our hair is shaved and the braids destroyed, that we will be cast into everlasting darkness. That implies that if we die with our braids intact, we will go somewhere else. But where? Many believe that that there is indeed life after death, but aside from whispers such as you yourself have heard — and I do not doubt such things — we do not know. Many, of course, do not believe in anything beyond this life.” He shrugged. “They make their obeisance to their fate should they fall from grace and have their hair shaved, but in their hearts it is an empty threat. But without the old gods, without something higher than ourselves to bridge the gap between the living and the dead, none of us can know for certain. It is like a great door that the Books of Time say was open in the ancient times, but that was slammed shut in the cataclysm at the end of the Second Age.”

Keel-Tath suspected that she would know if there was an afterlife soon enough.

As she descended toward the treetops below, she could see the clearing where the queen’s warriors who watched the trail were encamped. Small dots, warriors, were already moving toward the trailhead, as if they had received word that she was coming. She found that curious, but it did not matter any more than anything else did now.

Squaring her shoulders as she made the final switchback, she strode with her natural grace to the one whom she took to be the senior warrior, who sat at the head of the cohort, mounted on a badly scarred magthep. He was fearsome in size and appearance, looking perhaps as Ayan-Dar must have in much younger days. The thought sent a spear of regret through her, but there was no turning back.

“You are Keel-Tath,” the warrior said in a gruff voice.

“I am.” She stopped and saluted, feeling awkward and vulnerable without her armor.

The warrior did not bother returning her salute. “My queen, Syr-Nagath, has been awaiting you for some time now, child.” He looked at her bare body and frowned. “I would have expected the priests to at least give you a robe to cover yourself, but no matter.” To the pair of warriors who stood closest to her, he said, “Take her.”

The warriors grabbed her arms to hold her, but she offered no resistance. Other warriors put her hands and feet in irons, bound by chains. To the chains between her wrists was attached a sturdy rope that they handed to the warrior leader, who looked at her with pitiless eyes. “You should have stayed in the temple. The rest of your life, what might be left of it, will not be pleasant.”

The warriors around her averted their eyes, as if she was already a ghost, long dead.

Then he turned his magthep back toward the camp and kicked it into a full run, dragging her bound and naked body along behind.

Unseen by the queen’s warriors, other eyes watched from deeper in the forest.

***

With the final tone struck on the gong atop the Kal’ai-Il, the Challenge was over. It was well past sunset, and the arenas were brightly lit with hundreds of torches. The sands were red with blood, but no lives were lost that day, for the Challenge was not normally to the death, but to first blood, with the healers standing by to treat the more serious wounds. Victors had emerged from the single-round elimination matches, the combatants chosen by lottery, and losers vowed to sharpen their skills for the Challenge a year hence. And those for whom this had been the seventh Challenge rejoiced, for they had officially become warriors, and could join the ranks of the acolytes.

Ayan-Dar had stood there, as tradition and his place in the priesthood demanded, and watched the spectacle, but he remembered nothing of the exploits of sword and claw that day. His entire body, his entire soul, was numb, and there was a great bleeding wound in his heart that he suspected would never heal. Were it not for T’ier-Kunai’s restraining hand upon his at one point when he felt he could bear the pain no more, he would have torn out his throat with his talons.

“You will not bear this pain alone,” she had told him.

Part of him wanted to damn her to the cold darkness of eternity for what she had done, but he knew that she had been left with no choice. The only other alternative to what Keel-Tath had done and said that morning would have been to shave her hair. Ayan-Dar was thankful that T’ier-Kunai had not taken that road, for he would have drawn his sword against her without a moment’s hesitation. He knew that Keel-Tath was in the hands of evil, but there remained in him a tiny spark of faith. He still believed in her, believed in what she would become. And if that belief was well-placed, then destiny would see that she lived.

That is what he told himself now as he sat alone in his quarters. It was dark, for he had not bothered to light a torch. While he could see well in the darkness, there was nothing in here worth looking at in any detail. In fact, his eyes were closed. Nothing in this cold stone chamber, or indeed within the temple walls themselves, held meaning for him any longer. He felt as if he had failed, as if his entire life had been an unutterable waste.

“May I enter?”

He looked up as T’ier-Kunai’s voice, unusual in its softness, called from the door, which he had not bothered to close.

“Of course, my priestess.” He nodded and saluted, but it was a rote motion, bereft of enthusiasm or vigor.

She came in and knelt beside him on the bed of hides in the center of his room. “You must not do this to yourself, Ayan-Dar. I need you. The temple needs you.” She put her hands on his shoulders and leaned closer, her nose nearly touching his. “I will not let you give up.”

“Give up?” Ayan-Dar laughed, a brittle, bitter sound that echoed from the ancient walls. “Keel-Tath was my daughter in heart if not in blood, and now she is gone. I do not need the powers given me by the Crystal of Souls to know that she has been taken, and faces a lingering death at the hands of the Dark Queen.” He took a rasping breath. “Or worse.”

“What do you mean?”

“You know as well as I that Syr-Nagath hails from Ka’i-Nur, and the Books of Time there hold the darkest secrets of our kind. Do you think that when the Dark Queen learns what Keel-Tath can do, the powers she has inherited when she entered adulthood, that she will simply kill her?” He shook his head in the darkness. “She will twist the child into an abomination, a tool, a weapon to put to her savage purpose.” His voice rose, and he shouted so loud that his voice boomed up and down the corridor outside. “And we will sit idly by and let it happen!”

“What would you have me do? I cannot take back what has been done, nor can we step away from all that we have been for all these millennia. Syr-Nagath will fade into history, and the Way will continue as it has for ages past.”

“Then we, and the Way with us, are doomed, my priestess. Mark my words: Syr-Nagath will be the death of us all.”

He bowed his head, exhausted, disgusted with, and horrified by the world.

T’ier-Kunai kissed him gently on the head before she rose and departed, leaving the old priest alone with his broken heart.

CHAPTER EIGHT

In Chains

Pain. Blinding, mind-numbing pain. Keel-Tath’s body was torn with agony as the guards hauled her into one of the tents of the camp and threw her onto a thin pile of animal skins. She curled into a fetal position and lay there, shaking uncontrollably. She caught sight of her body and squeezed her eyes shut. She was covered in blood, for the skin had been flayed from much of her body after being dragged behind the camp leader’s magthep, and the metal cuffs around her wrists had cut her to the bone. The smell of her own blood and smoke from the camp’s fires filled her nose. She tried to spit the dirt from her mouth, but vomited instead, nearly choking on her own bile.

“See that she does not die.” It was the camp leader’s voice. “But you are to do nothing for her pain. We will be departing within the hour.”

Then there were heavy footsteps leaving the tent.

A moment later, Keel-Tath felt gentle hands caress her face. She opened her eyes to see a healer kneeling next to her. But what shocked Keel-Tath, even in her misery, was what she saw in the healer’s eyes. Fear.

“I am Han-Ukha’i,” she said in a soft voice. She leaned down to whisper in Keel-Tath’s ear. “I will take away as much of the pain as I can, but they must not know. Do you understand?”

With a series of uneven jerks of her head, Keel-Tath nodded.

Han-Ukha’i produced her healing gel, drawing it out from the flesh of her arm, and made to place it over Keel-Tath’s wrists.

“No.” Keel-Tath drew her hands away, moaning at the pain. She knew that some of the bones must have been crushed by the metal cuffs. “You must

not.”

“Child, it will not hurt you. You know this to be true.”

“You do not understand,” Keel-Tath rasped. “If it touches me, you will die.”

That gave Han-Ukha’i pause. “You are right,” she said after a moment’s contemplation. “I do not understand.”

“If

if you put the symbiont on me, it will bind to me.” Keel-Tath closed her eyes. “I will not have the death of another healer on my soul.”

“That is impossible, child.”

Keel-Tath opened her eyes and fixed her gaze on the healer. “Everything about me is impossible.”

Han-Ukha’i said nothing for several moments as she stared at Keel-Tath. Then she slowly nodded.

“I do not understand, but perhaps I do not need to.” Setting the swirling mass of the symbiont in the folds of her white robe, she carefully pinched off a piece of it. Kneading the piece with her hands, she spread the gel into a thin layer that was large enough to cover one of Keel-Tath’s hands.

“Please, you must not.” Keel-Tath tried to draw away again, but Han-Ukha’i took a firm grip on one of Keel-Tath’s forearms.

“Trust me.”

Keel-Tath watched in morbid fascination as Han-Ukha’i placed the gel over the bleeding wreck that was Keel-Tath’s right hand.

The effect was instant: Keel-Tath sighed in relief as the gel merged with her torn flesh and bone, numbing the pain as it began to repair the damage.

But she did not get the same flashes of images, of incomprehensible information, that she had when the healer in Ku’ar-Amir had examined her.

As if reading her mind, Han-Ukha’i said, “We often use small parts of the symbiont for the healing of minor wounds or guarding against new diseases. Parts taken from the whole,” she pinched off another piece, “are not bound to us, but become part of the host. Part of you.” She smiled as she flattened the second piece out and put it over Keel-Tath’s other wrist.

Keel-Tath sighed in relief as the second piece of gel merged with her body, but the sensation was not limited to her wrists. The fiery agony of her ravaged skin was dissipating, and after a few moments was reduced to a dull throb.

“Remember,” Han-Ukha’i cautioned her in a whisper. “You must pretend the pain still fills you should the warriors come.”

“Thank you for your kindness.” Keel-Tath reached out, carefully and slowly, to take one of the healer’s hands in her own. “Why are you afraid?” She had never seen a healer with fear in her eyes.

Han-Ukha’i flicked a glance at the entrance to the tent. “Because if you die, the Dark Queen promised to torture and kill me, then do to the place of my birth what she did to yours.” She looked back into Keel-Tath’s eyes. “Even for what I have done, easing your pain, she will probably have me killed. But to do what she asks is not part of our Way.”

“Then why does no one challenge her?”

“Many have. All have died by her hand in the arena. Few come to challenge her now, for the warriors have come to believe that she is invincible.”

“And what of warriors like the leader of this camp, the one who dragged me? How can he hold a healer, one of the most precious of our kind, under threat of death? That is against everything held by the Way!”

Han-Ukha’i clasped her hand over Keel-Tath’s mouth. “Quietly, child! The only noise you should make above a whisper is a groan of pain.”

As Han-Ukha’i took her hand away, Keel-Tath reached down and jabbed her talons into the raw exposed meat of her thighs. She screamed.

One of the guards poked his head in. At the sight of Keel-Tath writhing in pain, he nodded in satisfaction, ignoring Han-Ukha’i’s frigid glare.

“I do not want to sound

as if I am faking.” Keel-Tath panted the words as she slowly recovered from the searing pain that still radiated from her thighs. “You did not answer my question.”

With another look toward the entrance, Han-Ukha’i leaned down and spoke softly. “Most warriors bind their honor to her according to the Way once they are defeated in battle. They know nothing else. But some, like Shil-Wular, the warrior who leads this group, are bound directly to Syr-Nagath. How, I do not know. But they can sense her will, and are compelled to obey. The Dark Queen now ravages Uhr-Gol, yet she makes Shil-Wular and the others like him dance like puppets. I have known him for many years. He was once a great and honorable warrior. Now

” She shook her head, a look of great sadness on her face. Leaning closer, her lips brushing Keel-Tath’s ear, she said, “And she knows things that she could not possibly know. Shil-Wular had the warriors up and gathered around the base of the trail long before any of the scouts could have seen you. Through her, he knew you were coming.”

That stunned Keel-Tath into silence. She understood now why Ayan-Dar so feared the Dark Queen. She also knew that she was truly doomed. Any shred of hope she may have had for survival, let alone escape, was gone.

Squeezing her eyes shut, she curled against Han-Ukha’i’s legs and waited for what she knew would come.

***

Keel-Tath staggered through the darkness behind the magthep ridden by Shil-Wular, the cuffs around her ankles and wrists cutting deeper with every step she had taken since the group had broken camp and set off to the east. Shil-Wular had shown her a small mercy by keeping the pace slow, but it was a march of agony for her. Even with frequent tending by Han-Ukha’i, the pain was excruciating. Many times she had wanted to collapse, to force them to either carry her or kill her, but Shil-Wular had forced the healer to strengthen her body just enough to go on.

Finally, Keel-Tath had simply refused to get up again. The pain and exhaustion were overwhelming, and her only wish was to die. Shil-Wular, sitting astride his magthep, looked down at her for a moment. Then he reached out and grabbed Han-Ukha’i by the hair, nearly pulling her from the ground. He drew his sword and held it to her braids as she struggled in vain to free herself. “Get up and walk or I will cut off her hair.”

Defeated, Keel-Tath struggled back to her feet. Despite the blinding pain, she could not let Han-Ukha’i come to harm. That any warrior would threaten harm to one of the robed castes was something out of a terrible dream. Such things simply were not done, even among the honorless ones.

Without another word, Shil-Wular released Han-Ukha’i and turned away, yanking on the rope bound to Keel-Tath’s wrist chain.

Together, captive and healer followed their master.

Long hours had passed since then, Keel-Tath’s bloody footprints staining the road for the leagues that they traveled. She had endured pain and privation, for that was part of the Way, and even more a part of temple life. But she had never endured unceasing agony such as this. The flayed skin of her body was crusted over, but cracked and bled with every movement. The soles of her feet were raw, and she could again see the white of bone showing through the torn flesh of her wrists and ankles. Han-Ukha’i tried to get Keel-Tath to eat, but she could hold nothing down but a little water and a few sips of ale.

Keel-Tath stumbled and fell. With a growl of irritation, Shil-Wular reined his magthep to a halt.

Han-Ukha’i knelt down beside her and placed her hand on Keel-Tath’s forehead. “You must stop now, Shil-Wular, or you will kill her, despite all I can do. Then you can explain that to your queen.”

“Hold your tongue, or I will cut it out.” Shil-Wular looked around, a scowl on his face. It was dark, but the night vision of their kind was good, and the Great Moon hung directly overhead. “Move off the road.” He gestured to the southern side and a nearby clearing among the trees. “We will make camp there.”

Turning to the four warriors who acted as the guard for Keel-Tath and had been walking behind her on the long journey, Han-Ukha’i said, “Carry her. She must not take another step.”

With a glance up at Shil-Wular, who nodded, they did as the healer asked. Keel-Tath moaned as they lifted her from the dirt of the road. She could tell, however, that they were trying to be gentle. No amount of gentleness could make carrying her anything less than another torment, but she was grateful that they at least tried. They clearly feared Shil-Wular, but they had also retained some sense of honor.

They took her into a small tent near the center of the camp and set her down on a bed of animal skins. Then the warriors bowed to Han-Ukha’i and left to take up their guard posts outside.

Han-Ukha’i produced a small glass vial and held it to Keel-Tath’s lips. “Drink this, child. It will send you into a deep, dreamless sleep that will help your body mend itself in the time we have until dawn.”

“You do not look well.” Keel-Tath could see, even in the flickering light of the lantern the warriors had hung in the center of the tent, that Han-Ukha’i was haggard, as if the flesh were hanging off her bones.

“Using the healing gel as I must is very taxing. It replenishes itself from my body, and I have not been able to sustain it properly.”

Keel-Tath reached out a bloody hand, and Han-Ukha’i took it. “I wish your sacrifice was not in vain,” she whispered after drinking the potion.

“Hush,” Han-Ukha’i told her. “Sleep now.”

Keel-Tath closed her eyes and was instantly fast asleep.

***

The warriors of Shil-Wular’s cohort busied themselves with the familiar tasks of setting up camp. Most were relieved when he gave orders to set up a full encampment, for that meant that they would be staying here longer than a day, no doubt to allow the captive and the healer accompanying her to recover enough to continue the long journey to the coast of the Eastern Sea. While there was more work involved in setting up the tents and basic defensive works, they looked forward to a few nights of comfortable sleep.

Divided into work parties, they unlashed gear and supplies from the magtheps used as pack animals and set to their tasks. Other warriors set out to a perimeter guard beyond the light of the campfires, around which yet more warriors began to prepare the evening meal.

Unseen shadows moved in the foliage at the base of the trees as the warriors on guard moved to take up their positions. There were only a dozen around the entire camp, for the only threat here was from bands of honorless ones, most of whom had the sense to give wide berth to a body of the queen’s warriors as large as this.

One of the guards, a young warrior from a village not far from here, found a comfortable spot beside a tree that was as big around as he stood tall. He was relieved to be away from the camp, relieved to be as far away as he could from Shil-Wular. He had known the cohort’s leader for most of his life, and had always looked up to him with the greatest respect. But after he had returned from a meeting with the Dark Queen several months ago, he had been different, as if his soul had been torn from his body. He was no more than a shell, bound to her will and whim, without conscience or caring for the Way or anything — or anyone — else. Shil-Wular terrified him.

Gnawing on the piece of meat that would be all he had for his evening meal, the young warrior looked out into the trees. The wind was coming up, the breeze rustling the tree tops high above. The broad leafed plants that were clustered around the bases of the trees waved in the breeze, making the shadows dance in the moonlight.

One of the shadows seemed darker than the others, and he peered more closely at it. There were many beasts in the forest these days, a common occurrence when so many warriors were drawn away to war in distant lands, and they were often a greater threat to travelers than the bands of honorless ones. But the dark thing he watched was not in the shape of any beast that he had ever seen, and it was growing larger.

It was then that he noticed other such shadows gliding from tree to tree, all heading toward the encampment.

He reached for his sword and opened his mouth to give warning, but the whirling blades of a shrekka, the whistling sound of its passage masked by the wind, took his head from his body before he could raise the alarm.

***

Keel-Tath struggled up from a warm and pleasant emptiness. She heard a voice calling her name, over and over. Something incredibly foul assaulted her nose, and she vaulted from the emptiness to see Han-Ukha’i’s face, just above hers. She was frightened, and in the background Keel-Tath heard shouts and screams, metal crashing against metal with lethal force. The sounds of battle.

“Keel-Tath! Wake up!” Han-Ukha’i cradled Keel-Tath’s head with one hand and helped lift her into a sitting position. “We are under attack!”

Though she was still groggy and her body was still on fire with pain, Keel-Tath did not need the experience of a seasoned warrior to know that there was a fierce fight going on in the forest to the south of the encampment. The cohort led by Shil-Wular was nearly five hundred strong, and it sounded like all of them must be at arms.

The flaps of the tent opening flew back, and one of their guards, the largest and strongest, stepped inside, his sword drawn but not bloodied. “A large group of honorless ones has set upon us. We—”

Han-Ukha’i screamed as the tip of a sword exploded from the guard’s breastplate, right over his heart. Mouth still open, his jaw hanging slack, he toppled forward at their feet.

In the doorway stood a shadowy figure, a female warrior draped in a dark cloak that shrouded her face. She put a foot on the dead warrior’s back and pulled free her sword before stepping inside. Two more warriors, similarly cloaked, appeared beside her.

“We mean you no harm, mistress,” the first warrior said, stepping forward and taking a knee on the animal hides on which Keel-Tath had been sleeping. “But we have little time. I beg you to let us bear you away from here.”

At first, Keel-Tath thought the warrior was speaking to Han-Ukha’i. Then Keel-Tath realized that the warrior’s entreaty was directed at her.

Before she could answer, one side of the tent fell in as a group of warriors outside, grappling with their claws, crashed into it.

The two warriors accompanying the cloaked stranger dashed forward and plucked Keel-Tath from her bed, while the first one took Han-Ukha’i by the arm and pulled her away, dragging her from the tent just before it collapsed. The lantern suspended from the center pole fell to the floor and tipped over, and flames quickly began to spread beneath the pile of warriors who struggled to kill one another.

“Healer, you may leave or come with us, as is your will,” the lead warrior said as she removed a wicked looking axe from her belt and with a deft stroke parted the chain binding Keel-Tath’s feet. “But your company would be most welcome, for we have no healer of our own to care for our mistress.”

Han-Ukha’i did not hesitate. She knelt before Keel-Tath, who was thoroughly confused, and bowed her head. Loud enough to be heard over the roar of the battle that was taking place around them, Han-Ukha’i said, “I pledge my honor to your service, mistress.” Then, standing, she said to the warrior, “Lead me.”

A ring of cloaked warriors, perhaps two dozen by Keel-Tath’s count, closed in around them to form a solid wall of swords. Most of Shil-Wular’s warriors had been drawn deeper into the forest on the southern side of the encampment, so resistance on the northern side was weak. Keel-Tath’s rescuers (she thought of them as such, although she knew nothing of their intentions other than they wanted to take her from the Dark Queen) quickly fought their way through and crossed the road. Not far into the trees were more warriors holding magtheps at the ready.

The cloaked warrior took one, a large beast that stomped its taloned feet. “Our mistress shall ride with me,” she called to those around her. She mounted the beast and reached down to help Keel-Tath into the saddle, the two warriors who had carried her lifting her up. Keel-Tath cried out in pain as the warriors put their hands on her torn flesh, and nearly passed out as she straddled the magthep’s broad back. The mysterious warrior, sitting behind her, gently wrapped one arm around Keel-Tath’s naked torso, holding her steady. “I am so sorry, my mistress,” the woman whispered, her voice hoarse. “We shall tend your wounds properly and remove your shackles as soon as we are clear.”

The warrior kicked her magthep to a full run, heading deeper into the forest north of the road, with Han-Ukha’i and a guard of two dozen warriors right behind.

CHAPTER NINE

The Tale Of Dara-Kol

Keel-Tath’s eyes fluttered open. She was lying on her side on a soft warm bed of animal hides, with one of them wrapped around her as a blanket. The light in this place, wherever she was, was little more than a soft glow. The walls were of carved stone that bore a mosaic, but she could not tell what it was. The stone of the walls was cracked and crumbling, and most of the tiles were missing. Turning her head slowly, she looked up toward the ceiling, which disappeared into darkness. She could make out the vague form of arches supported by columns, but little more.

Taking a deeper breath, she noticed that there was no pain. Looking at her hands, the terrible cuts made by the manacles were gone, as was her torn skin and flesh from being dragged behind Shil-Wular’s magthep. Her skin was smooth and unmarred, bearing only the scars she had carried with her as she left the temple. She also noticed that she wore a black undergarment now. Someone had dressed her as she slept. And next to her was a neatly arranged pile of leatherite and metal armor, along with a trio of shrekkas, and a long dagger. They were not her weapons, and the armor was worn and dented.

“You are awake.”

A shadow approached and knelt beside her. Keel-Tath had expected it to be Han-Ukha’i, but it was not. It was the cloaked warrior who had taken her from Shil-Wular, and Keel-Tath wondered what had become of the healer.

As if reading her mind, the warrior said, “Han-Ukha’i is asleep. Healing you taxed her greatly, but she is well. She only needs rest and food, which she will have.” The warrior was holding a plate of neatly cut meat, some fruit, and other food that she set down on the hides next to Keel-Tath. “You, too, must eat and regain your strength.”

Curiosity outweighed Keel-Tath’s sudden ravenous hunger. “Who are you, warrior?”

The warrior pulled back the hood that shadowed her face. She must once have been very beautiful, but now was badly scarred, and Keel-Tath could tell that no healer had ever tended the wounds. Half of the warrior’s left ear was missing, and an ugly weal, a burn scar, crept up her neck from beneath her breast plate.

“My name is Dara-Kol,” the warrior said. “I served your father, my lord and master Kunan-Lohr, and now do I pledge my honor to serve you, his daughter.” She bowed her head and rendered the ritual salute.

Keel-Tath gasped as a sudden burst of emotions — relief, joy, love, and anguish, all jumbled together — flooded into her blood from Dara-Kol. Her mind reeled at what Dara-Kol had said. She reached out with one hand, lifting Dara-Kol’s chin until their eyes met. “You served my father?”

“Yes, my mistress. I was young then, not much older than you are now.”

“But I thought that the Dark Queen had hunted down all who hailed from Keel-A’ar, all who had served my father or mother.”

“She did.” There was no mistaking the hateful bitterness in Dara-Kol’s voice. “There could be other survivors, but the last of whom I heard tell was killed seven years ago.”

“Then how

how did you survive? And how did you know to rescue me?”

“I will tell you these things, but first I have something for you.” From the folds of her cloak she produced a sheathed sword. She drew it partway out of the scabbard, and Keel-Tath could see that the blade was long and graceful, the handle beautifully ornate. The only swords of such beauty that she had ever seen had belonged to the priests and priestesses of the temple. It could only be from a high warrior. “This was your father’s sword. His last command to me was that I should deliver it to your hands.”

As Keel-Tath took the weapon, she could see, even in this light, the mourning marks under Dara-Kol’s eyes. “You waited for me all this time?”

Dara-Kol nodded. “You were the most precious thing to your father and mother, the pride of Keel-A’ar. Just before he was taken at the end of the battle of Dur-Anai, he gave me this and bade me to get it to you.” She squeezed her eyes shut for a moment. “Leaving him to die was the most difficult thing I have ever done, my mistress. Since that day have I wandered T’lar-Gol, from the Eastern to the Western Seas, even the Great Wastelands, staying one step ahead of those who hunted me, of those who would give your father’s sword to the Dark Queen. All that I did, I did for him, and for you, even though I knew I might never see you, that you might never know I existed.”

“You have done my parents, and me, great honor, Dara-Kol. I can never thank you for what you have done, what you have suffered in my name.” Keel-Tath set down the sword beside her, but did not let her hand stray from it. Touching the smooth, gleaming scabbard was the first and only connection she had with her parents since they had died. “I wish I was worthy of it, but I am not my father or mother.”

“You are worthy, my mistress! You are young, yes, but how many would have done what you did, forsaking the temple of the Desh-Ka to walk into the hands of the Dark Queen? How many blooded warriors would have such courage?” She shook her head. “I can feel your strength in the song of your blood. I follow you for who you are and what you shall become, Keel-Tath. I follow you for the sake of the future, not for what is done and gone.”

Keel-Tath sighed. “You have heard the prophecy of Anuir-Ruhal’te, then.”

“Of course. I doubt there is any soul alive on this world or among the Settlements who has not heard those blessed words.” She cocked her head. “You do not believe?”

Laughing with bitter irony, Keel-Tath said, “Why should I? Here am I, an exile from the Desh-Ka, wanted by the Dark Queen, with no power, no army, and no reasonable chance of living for long.” She looked pointedly at Dara-Kol. “Am I mistaken?”

“You must judge for yourself, mistress.” Dara-Kol moved the stack of armor next to Keel-Tath. “Come. Dress and then I will show you something.”

Keel-Tath did so, slipping on the leatherite that covered most of her body. It was tight in some places, loose in others, the poor fit a completely alien experience after the perfect craftsmanship of the armorers at the temple. The same, she found, was true for the metal armor, particularly the breast and back plates, which were not quite big enough.

Dara-Kol bowed her head. “My apologies, mistress.”

“It is nothing.” Keel-Tath picked up her father’s sword and held it for a moment. It was a heavy weapon, not crafted to her hand and one that she could not wield easily.

“I have chosen another for you that would be more suited to battle,” Dara-Kol said. “But you do not need it right now. You would honor me if you wore his.”

Keel-Tath nodded, extending a hand to Dara-Kol, who helped Keel-Tath to her feet. The young warrior swayed as blood momentarily rushed from her head. “I am fine,” she said, waving away Dara-Kol’s hand. After a moment, the dizziness passed.

After a moment’s consideration, she decided not to strap the sword to her waist belt, for the tip of the scabbard would have dragged on the floor. Instead, she strapped it over her back, the glittering handle showing above her shoulder.

“There,” she said, the weapon’s weight a welcome burden. “That will do.”

Dara-Kol led her from the chamber into a corridor that was as wide as a dozen warriors standing shoulder to shoulder. It was dark, save for a handful of torches that marched away in one direction. The most distant of them was but a pinprick of light. In the opposite direction, the corridor quickly vanished into darkness. They turned to follow the light of the torches.

“Tell me, what is this place?”

“It does not have a name, for it is so old the tongue is unknown to us. I think it may date back as far as the First Age. Perhaps a keeper of the Books of Time could tell us what the markings mean,” she gestured to strange glyphs lining the walls, now faded to near illegibility, “but no keeper will ever see this.”

“Why?”

“Because it is known only to the honorless ones. It has been a sanctuary since ages past, its secret never betrayed. It can only be found by those who have been here before, or brought by another.” Her voice lowered. “And once a warrior has lost her honor, it is gone forever. There is no returning to the Way. And so the secret has remained.”

Keel-Tath stopped in mid-stride and put a restraining hand on Dara-Kol’s arm, turning her so they faced one another. “And who is anyone to say that you are without honor?” She stepped closer. “I do not believe in my heart that I am to fulfill Anuir-Ruhal’te’s prophecy. But if someday I rise to become more than a simple warrior, to be like my mother and father, perhaps, the world will know that you have never strayed from the Way.” Shaking her head angrily, she went on, “It is the Dark Queen who is honorless, and the priesthoods who let her rampage across our world.”

“Thank you, mistress.” Dara-Kol bowed her head, then turned to lead Keel-Tath to the end of the corridor.

Keel-Tath found herself standing in front of a door that was at least as big as the one at the entrance to the great coliseum of the Desh-Ka temple. Unlike that door, which opened at the touch of a priest or priestess, this one required all of Dara-Kol’s considerable strength to swing open. When Keel-Tath touched the wood, she was shocked: it was completely petrified, the wood turned to stone.

This place is old, indeed, she thought.

“We are in the foothills of the Kui’mar-Gol mountains,” Dara-Kol went on as she pushed the door open enough for them to squeeze through.

“In the Kui’mar-Gol?” Keel-Tath was shocked. It would have taken days to reach them from where they had started. “I was unconscious all that time?”

“Yes, mistress. Han-Ukha’i feared that you would die, so she kept your body in a deep sleep to rest and heal.”

“I had always wanted to ride to the mountains.” Like her other dreams, that one, too, small though it was, had been taken from her.

“You did not miss much, mistress, save the constant fear of being captured.”

“Shil-Wular pursued you?”

Dara-Kol shook her head. “No, the others drew him away to the south, where they were met by a full legion of the queen’s army. They died well, as warriors, even honorless ones, should.”

“How many of your warriors were there?”

“Enough.”

Dara-Kol stepped through the doorway. On the other side stood four warriors, also clearly honorless ones, for their armor was poorly fitted and badly maintained, their weapons poorly matched to their hands and bodies.

As Keel-Tath stepped through, all four knelt as one and saluted her.

She returned the salute, overcome by a sense of unreality. She was nothing but a genetic aberration, a child-warrior who had only faced a single Challenge. True, she had blooded her sword in battle at Ayan-Dar’s side, but she had no other honors, seen and done nothing yet in her life to distinguish herself.

A sudden wave of anger rose within her, that these warriors, honorless ones or not, made their obeisance to her not because she had earned their respect, but because of what they believed she would someday become.

She said nothing as Dara-Kol led her up a set of curving steps, terribly worn by age, that widened as they rose higher, lined on both sides by torches on the walls.

At the top, they stepped out into a massive domed chamber. In the center was a huge fire pit that provided both warmth and illumination, the smoke wafting up through a fissure in the ceiling high above.

Keel-Tath stopped in her tracks at what she saw in the fire’s glow.

Facing her, in orderly rows every bit as precise as had been the disciples and acolytes of the Desh-Ka temple, knelt hundreds of warriors. They were unkempt, battered, and ill-equipped. Many bore the scars of improperly healed injuries, and some were missing limbs or eyes. It took Keel-Tath a moment to realize that they must be this way because there were no healers to tend them. But she could sense their pride in her blood. And love. It took her a moment to realize that it was directed toward her.

There was another emotion, too, fluttering like the tiniest flame alight in a handful of tinder.

Hope.

“I do not deserve this, Dara-Kol,” Keel-Tath whispered. “I am not worthy!”

Dara-Kol said nothing as she, too, knelt on the ancient stone floor at the side of her mistress. As one, the warriors, heads bowed, saluted Keel-Tath.

Somewhere deep in their ranks, a low voice began to speak:

Long dormant seed shall great fruit bear,

Crimson talons, snow-white hair.

Others quickly joined in, and by the end of the first verse, the words were spoken by hundreds, loud and strong:

In sun’s light, yet dark of heaven,

Not of one blood, but of seven.

Before she was conscious of it, Keel-Tath’s lips were moving as she joined the others in reciting the final verse of the ancient prophecy of Anuir-Ruhal’te, an oracle who had lived and died at the end of the Second Age, who had foretold Keel-Tath’s birth:

Souls of crystal, shall she wield,

From Chaos born, our future’s shield.

She was overwhelmed by the passion that had ignited in the hearts of these warriors as they recited the prophecy. The intensity of their emotions in her blood nearly drove her to her knees.

Yet she forced herself to stand tall, heartened more than she could have imagined by the words and feelings of this band of outcasts. She tried to remember all that Ayan-Dar had taught her, things that she had not understood at the time, that seemed of little value to the simple warrior she had wanted to be. She desperately needed his wisdom and strength now. Her heart ached in that moment as she thought of him, the old priest, the great warrior, who had given her so much, and whom she had, in her own way, betrayed by obeying her conscience.

When the echo of the final words faded away, the only sound in the chamber was the crackling of the flames in the fire pit. Keel-Tath tried to think of words to say, words that might grace a great leader’s lips, but at last decided that the only words that truly mattered were those spoken from the heart.

“You believe that those words, written so long ago, foretold my birth. I stand before you now, with white hair and crimson talons, just as Anuir-Ruhal’te saw in her vision, but I cannot say that I yet believe it myself.” She took a step forward, drawing the sword from the scabbard on her back and holding it high. “What I do believe in is this. It is the sword of my father, the last master of Keel-A’ar, who was outcast and died at the hands of the Dark Queen.”

A low, ugly rumble echoed through the chamber at the mention of Syr-Nagath, and Keel-Tath felt a wave of black hatred and revulsion sweep through her blood from those before her.

“In all our long history have there been honorless ones, outcasts such as you

such as me. Those who have betrayed their honor, or been abandoned by their masters or orphaned by fate. Perhaps in past times those warriors truly were without honor, but not in this age, not in this time. The honorless ones are the Dark Queen and all who would do her bidding, who have fallen from the Way, whose hands are covered in the blood of the robed castes, of defenseless younglings in the creche. Honorless, too, are those who have the power to bring justice to the world, but who turn a blind eye to the darkness that blankets our world, and if left unchecked, will spread across the stars to the Settlements.”

She paused, lowering her father’s sword from above her head to hold it out before her, laying the blade across her open left palm. “Many of you are victims of the Dark Queen’s evil. But if you have done wrong, if you fell from the grace of your master by your own hand, to you I say this: leave your sins behind and stand again upon the path that is the Way. Stand with me, and let us walk the path together. I have nothing to offer you, any of you, but the promise of painful suffering and death. But it will be a death with honor, a death — and life — with meaning. This I swear upon the names of my father and mother. Those who follow me may die, but they will never be forsaken!”

The roar that filled the chamber was deafening, just as their emotions were a tidal wave that washed through her blood. But this time she was more prepared, and she let the power of their feelings carry her higher, making her feel like she was a giant, like she could accomplish anything.

A sudden hush fell over the assembly as a pair of warriors dashed into the chamber, having come from one of the six other corridors that were like spokes from the main chamber. They fell to their knees at Keel-Tath’s feet and saluted.

“My mistress,” one of them gasped, “they are coming!”

Dara-Kol rose to her feet and demanded, “Who? Who is coming?”

“Warriors of the Dark Queen!”

“How many?” By Keel-Tath’s count, there was roughly a cohort of warriors here, about five hundred, perhaps more. She knew they were not as well organized or equipped as the warriors who served Syr-Nagath, but they had something the queen’s warriors did not: a cause truly worth fighting for.

“A full legion approaches, mistress. Their foot warriors are yet distant, but a mounted cohort is nearly upon us!”

“Her warriors approach both the main and mountain entrances,” said the second warrior. “We are trapped.”

The hopes that Keel-Tath had that they might be able to stand and fight vanished. They could easily hold off a cohort and perhaps manage a victory. But they could not stand against the six thousand warriors of a full legion, and it sounded as if the enemy had them boxed in. She looked at Dara-Kol. “How did they find us?”

“They are led by honorless ones,” the first of the two scouts said through gritted teeth. “We have been betrayed.”

CHAPTER TEN

Call Of The Ancients

Keel-Tath felt a rising sense of panic among the warriors as word spread that one of the queen’s legions was approaching.

“Can our warriors escape?” She asked Dara-Kol.

Dara-Kol made a slight motion with her head. No. “Not with this many,” she said quietly, “not if the queen’s warriors are in position to block the two main entrances.”

“There is no chance?” Flames of anger, of rage, roiled in Keel-Tath’s heart. For the first time since they had fallen from grace, the warriors who still knelt before her had been given hope. She had been given hope, not just that she might survive, but that she could do some good for her kind. Now, even before she had a chance to learn any of their names, that hope had been stripped away.

“A small group might escape, but even that is along a perilous route that only I myself have dared.”

Keel-Tath’s eyes burned with defiance. “I will not leave them.” She looked upon the warriors who had declared their honor and their lives to her will. They were the dregs and scum of society, not even worth killing, for there was no honor in hunting honorless ones. They were killed when they attacked the “honorable” members of their society. Now she knew that they did not do so because they were simple barbarians or spiritual deviants, but because they were desperate and had nothing to lose in pursuit of their own survival.

Dara-Kol reached out and touched her lightly on the shoulder. “You must, my mistress. Or all that we have done, the many warriors who sacrificed their lives so that you could escape from Shil-Wular, will have been in vain.”

Keel-Tath turned to face a warrior who had come to kneel directly before her. She could tell from the length of his braids that he was old, possibly even as old as Ayan-Dar. His face had been terribly burned, and three fingers of his left hand were gone. He looked up at her with his disfigured face, and she felt from him

serenity.

He reached out and took her hand, then said, “We would die, mistress, all of us, that you may live.” He smiled in a kindly way, and she gripped his hand harder. He reminded her so much of Ayan-Dar in the way he spoke, in the song of his blood. “Do not mourn or pity us, for you have given us a means to redeem ourselves, to return to the Way that I so long ago departed. I feel you in my blood, as do the others here. All of us are descended from the Desh-Ka, and all of us heard your cries when you emerged from your mother’s womb, and when your father and mother were killed.” He must have read the disbelief in her expression, and he smiled with worn-down, yellowed fangs. “The song of your blood is very different, mistress. All have felt it, but not all understood what it was, or what it meant. Dara-Kol told us your name as she spread the word of the prophecy among the honorless ones, but we knew of you long before then. Yes, we knew of you.”

“Those of us here,” said another, a female warrior, “are only a few who have heard the word of your coming, mistress, who sensed you in our blood. Many more across this land and beyond the seas know of you, and will heed your call and command.” She drew her sword and held it up in both hands. “We will die this day with honor, in your name.”

The other warriors, who had fallen silent as the words of the two warriors echoed through the chamber, drew their swords, as well, holding them up in their hands. “In your name!”

“Go then,” Keel-Tath said, barely able to choke out the words. She was trembling with the power of their emotions surging through her. “Die this day with honor, warriors. And know that you will never be forgotten. Never.”

As one, they saluted, and she returned it. Then, with a few shouted commands, they stood and began to quickly file down two of the tunnels. They held their heads high and their shoulders squared, for this last day the prideful warriors they had once been.

Keel-Tath could feel the joy in their hearts. The fear had been driven out. They had not been afraid to die, for that was the way of a warrior. But they had been afraid to die without their honor. She had given them that much. Were there any gods to pray to, she would have, that their souls would rest in the light and not the darkness. But there were no gods any longer, and so she merely hoped.

In her own heart was a pride so great that she felt she would burst, and sadness that she had not known them better, had never touched their souls save for the whispers of their songs in her blood.

As the warriors cleared the chamber, she saw that seven had remained, including the two who escorted Han-Ukha’i, who also remained. The eight of them drew close to her and Dara-Kol.

“I have suspected for years that certain honorless ones have been suborned in some fashion by Syr-Nagath,” Dara-Kol said as the warriors knelt in a semicircle before Keel-Tath and saluted. “I do not know how, but I have seen and heard tell of some of them being taken to her, and when they returned they were not quite themselves.”

“Such also happened to Shil-Wular,” Han-Ukha’i said. “He mated with the Dark Queen at her bidding, and when he returned to us it was as if his soul had been torn out by the root.”

Dara-Kol nodded. “Yes, I have seen others who have returned, their eyes opening not to their souls, but to darkness. There are not many, but some have come and gone from this place, so I did not know who I could trust, and who I could not.”

“Honorless ones betraying their own kind?” Keel-Tath could not hide her sense of dismay and revulsion. In a way, it was even worse than straying from the Way, for the thought was simply

unthinkable.

“Not in the way you might suspect, mistress. I do not believe those who serve her in such a fashion do so willingly, and perhaps they do not even know what they are doing.” She nodded at the kneeling warriors. “These seven have been with me for a long time, since before I came here. They are the only ones I completely trust, and to whom I would entrust your safety, mistress. The other warriors will hold the queen’s forces at bay to give us time.”

“Rise, warriors,” Keel-Tath said after she had returned their sign of respect. She turned to Dara-Kol. “How, then, are we to make our own escape?”

Dara-Kol pointed. “We shall take the third tunnel.” She flashed her fangs in a dark smile. “Through the caves.”

As they quickly followed Dara-Kol into the mouth of the third tunnel, a hulking warrior, larger than any Keel-Tath had ever seen, said, “But Dara-Kol, there is no way out through the caves!”

“Yes, old friend,” she replied, “there is. But none of you will like it.”

“Why?” Keel-Tath trotted beside her. Like the others, she had taken a torch from the main chamber to help light their way.

“We must cross the underground river.”

Keel-Tath nearly stumbled, and she could sense in her blood that she was not the only one who felt a sudden stab of fear. “There is a river?”

Dara-Kol nodded as she led them down the stairway to the door of the tunnel. Unlike the one she and Keel-Tath had passed when entering the great chamber, this door had long ago fallen from its great hinges. Having petrified over time before then, it broke into pieces when it hit the floor. “Yes. It is not terribly wide or fast, but a river it is. I think it must have been diverted from somewhere on the surface during one of the great wars in ages past, perhaps the same war that destroyed most of the other tunnels and doomed this place, whatever it was.”

It seemed to take forever to reach the far end of the tunnel, which was much longer than the one through which Dara-Kol had brought Keel-Tath into the chamber. Many sections were choked with huge chunks of stone and debris that had fallen from the ceiling, and the closer they got to the end, the more water dripped from above. In some places they had to duck down or crawl on their knees to avoid the stalactites hanging from the ceiling and dodge around the often matching stalagmites that were growing from the floor. In one part of the tunnel, the stalactites and stalagmites had grown together and fused, creating a barrier eerily like a set of clenched teeth that they had to climb through.

As they went farther into the tunnel, Keel-Tath was stricken with an eerie sensation, as if cold hands were caressing her soul. She shivered, but it was not from the musty dampness that permeated the air of the tunnel.

Her attention was diverted by the growing sound that slowly filled the tunnel, a deep roar that she finally recognized. It was the sound of rushing water, and it seemed to be coming from directly above. Trying to restrain her fear, she looked up at the ceiling, which was coated in mineral deposits and dripped water onto their heads.

“There is an underground waterfall in a cavern above us,” Dara-Kol explained as she led them through another stretch of stalagmites. One side of the tunnel here had collapsed outward, exposing the dark maw of a cave beyond. It was clearly a recent event, for the breaks in the stone were fresh, without any evidence of the mineral buildup that characterized the rest of the tunnel. “It was

mistress? Keel-Tath?”

Keel-Tath had come to a halt where the wall had collapsed, rooted to the floor as she stared out into the dark abyss that lay beyond the tunnel. “I feel them,” she whispered to herself. The strange sensation she had been feeling since entering the tunnel had only grown stronger. Here, where the wall was broken, it was strongest of all. Undeniable. Irresistable. “The dead. They are here.”

Before the others could act, she had climbed through the wall into the yawning darkness.

“Mistress, no!” Swords drawn, Dara-Kol and the other warriors clambered through the gap in the wall after her.

***

Keel-Tath climbed and stumbled through a forest of mineral deposits and rock, following the call in her blood. She did not know how she knew they were dead, but there was no doubt in her heart or her mind. Who they were — had been — and how she could possibly hear them, she could not fathom. Ayan-Dar had said that some of those in the priesthood could sense the spirits of the dead, but it seemed to be a vague sense of their existence beyond the barrier that stood between life and what lay on the other side, not a palpable presence in her blood, a song that here was more powerful than the living who followed behind her, shouting their warnings.

A stream blocked her path, but she ignored the potential danger of creatures lurking in the water and waded in without a thought. She heard the shouts of the others behind her, but paid them no heed. If there were deadly creatures in the water, they let her pass.

Beyond the stream was a natural stairway of slick stone, narrow and steep. She tossed her torch to the top, then followed after it, digging her talons into the soft stone for purchase as she pulled herself upward.

At the top was a narrow hole that was just wide enough for her to squeeze through, lying on her belly and wriggling like a fish. Her father’s sword, still strapped to her back, caught on the roof of the tunnel twice, but she managed to free herself and continue on.

She emerged into a vast natural cavern, whose far side was lost to her vision in the light of the guttering torch. Sliding down a long cascade of mineral formations, she stood at the edge of what must have been the tributary of the river that Dara-Kol said they must cross, and that fed the waterfall.

Walking quickly beside the water, she came upon enormous blocks of stone, most of which had been fused over long ages to the softer rock of the cavern. It was part of one of the seven tunnels that had collapsed. She climbed over the stones, her heart beating rapidly. She was close now, very close, to whatever called to her.

“Mistress!” Dara-Kol’s shout was barely audible over the sound of the rushing water. Keel-Tath paid her no heed.

She vaulted to the top of another huge block of stone, expecting it to be level at the top, as had been the others. Instead, it was shorn off at an angle, like a badly worn tooth. With a shout of surprise, she lost her grip on the torch and fell into the darkness.

***

The fall was terrifying, but brief. She slammed into a large chunk of stone, probably the piece that had broken from the block she had climbed, then slid off to fall onto the rubble-strewn floor of the cavern. She felt something warm trickling from her cheek where her face had banged against the stone, but otherwise was no worse for wear, having been saved from more serious injury by her ill-fitting armor.

The torch had fallen into a pool of water and gone out. Now there was nothing but an all-consuming darkness, so black that she may as well have been in deep space, with not a single star lighting the entire universe.

Except that there was light, and not the glow of the torches from her companions who were not far behind her.

A soft blue glow, barely visible, came from the floor just a few strides ahead of her. Had it not been so dark, had her torch not gone out, she never would have seen it. Whatever it was, she knew with the power of some deeply rooted instinct that this was what had called to her, what was even now drawing her closer. It was so powerful that she could not just sense the song in her blood, but could hear voices, whispers upon the wind, but in a tongue she could not understand.

Stepping forward with great care, probing the darkness with her hands and toes for any obstacles or drop-offs, she moved to the edge of the glow. Kneeling down, she could see that the glow was not a single thing, but many, tiny fragments spread across the floor of the cavern. Reaching out, she touched the nearest of the things, and gasped. The whispers became a voice accompanied by a full-throated song in her blood. She saw a vision of one of her kind, robed in white, surrounded by warriors. She was not a healer, for she commanded them. Her hair, as was Keel-Tath’s own, was white, and her talons crimson.

I am a descendant of Anuir-Ruhal’te, Keel-Tath realized, shocked. For all these long ages, the Books of Time had held that Anuir-Ruhal’te was an oracle. Perhaps she had been, but she had also been so much more.

Keel-Tath recognized the setting of the vision: it was the huge central chamber where the honorless ones had gathered. But the chamber was not the dilapidated structure that served as a sanctuary for the forsaken. It was beautiful, even more so than the great hall of Ku’ar-Amir.

The image shifted. It was again set in the main chamber, but the warriors were gone, dead, their bones turned to dust. Where the white robed one had stood in the center was a graceful swirling spire of crystal, upon which sat a shape that Keel-Tath could not immediately credit. After a moment, she saw that it was in the shape of a heart, also fashioned from crystal, she thought. At its center was the same glow that she saw now, although much stronger.

The great chamber, then, had been a crypt.

She cried out as the vision exploded. But no, it was the crypt, shaken by titanic forces that Keel-Tath could not imagine. Debris rained down from the ceiling, and plumes of dust erupted from several of the tunnels. A great torrent of water gushed in, sweeping away the crystal heart into one of the other tunnels

These glowing shards were all that was left of the crystal heart after it had been swept from the main chamber. It must have wound up here, then been crushed or shattered by the stone of the nearby tunnel, perhaps in some subsequent cataclysm.

She also knew something else. While she could not understand the words the thing had spoken to her, she had recognized a name: Anuir-Ruhal’te. These glowing fragments had somehow preserved the ancient oracle’s spirit.

With shaking hands, she gathered up as many of the fragments as she could, but the glow was fading, and with it, the song of the ancient spirit in her blood.

“No,” Keel-Tath whispered as she frantically grabbed up more of the shards, raking them with her hands to gather them more quickly. “Do not leave me!”

Just before the glow died out, she pried back some the edge of the leatherite armor at her wrist. Hoping against hope, she took one of the larger shards and ran the razor sharp edge along her skin. As her blood flowed over the crystal, the glow grew brighter. In the blink of an eye it was so bright that she was blinded, and she heard cries of fright and disbelief from her companions as the vast darkness of the cavern was filled with a light as bright as day.

Keel-Tath felt as if she was flash-burned, her mind incinerated. She slumped back against a rock as the glow faded, then at last went out.

Dara-Kol and the others found her there a few moments later. While Keel-Tath was conscious and could hear them, her body was paralyzed.

“Come, we must get her back to Han-Ukha’i.” Dara-Kol gathered Keel-Tath in her arms and carried her.

Getting her back to the tunnel where Han-Ukha’i and the huge warrior waited took a long time and a great deal of effort on the part of her companions, and Keel-Tath felt guilty for being such a burden. But try as she might, with rising anger, she could not move a single muscle.

At last, they heaved her through the break in the tunnel wall from which they had come, and the hulking warrior gently set her down on the floor. Surrounded by the others who held their torches aloft, Han-Ukha’i checked Keel-Tath’s wounds.

“She is not badly injured,” the healer said softly. Then, placing both hands upon Keel-Tath’s temples, the healer closed her eyes. Keel-Tath felt a warm glow fill her body, then a sharp, stabbing chill.

With a gasp, she sat up. Beside her, Han-Ukha’i fell into a swoon. Keel-Tath took hold of her, pulling her close. “Han-Ukha’i!”

“Can you move, mistress?”

Keel-Tath looked up to see Dara-Kol’s face, the marks of mourning under her eyes quickly receding. “Yes. Yes, I can move. But Han-Ukha’i

”

“I will carry her.” The huge warrior reached down and gently picked up the unconscious healer, who to him seemed no more burden than a strand of hair.

“I am sorry, Dara-Kol,” Keel-Tath said as the older warrior pulled her to her feet. “I did not mean to leave you, but something called to me, and I found—”

Dara-Kol gently put a hand to Keel-Tath’s lips. “We would hear your tale, mistress, but not now. Time is short, and we must move quickly if we are to get you to safety.”

Keel-Tath was about to ask why when she heard shouts and cries echoing down the tunnel, loud enough to be clearly heard above the sound of the waterfall.

The queen’s warriors had broken through.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

To The West

“We are not going to make it, are we?” Just behind Dara-Kol, Keel-Tath could hear the rhythmic footsteps of hundreds of warriors somewhere down the tunnel. It was impossible to judge the distance with the strange echoes in this place, but one thing was clear: they were gaining.

Dara-Kol turned to regard her mistress. Her eyes were determined, but Keel-Tath could sense the fear rising in her blood. “I will not give up hope.” She held out a hand, holding back Keel-Tath. “Stop!”

The tunnel fell away into another dark chasm. In the flickering of the torches, they could see where the stone met a rippling cascade of water. The river. This was much wider than what they had seen near the waterfall, which was merely a tributary. The water stretched off into the darkness. Keel-Tath could feel the mist on her face from the waterfall, somewhere off to her left. It would have been a pleasant sensation had she not had to face the next step in their escape: wading into the river. She had thought nothing of it when she had been called by the shattered crystal heart, but now, with the return of rational thought, she was terrified.

“There is nothing in the water here that will harm you,” Dara-Kol reassured her and the others who had gathered around. “But there are places where it will be more than waist deep. Move with great care, for if you lose your footing, you will surely drown.”

“How do you know nothing will attack us?” The great warrior who carried Han-Ukha’i did not sound at all convinced.

“Because I have made this crossing before and lived to tell the tale.”

They all turned to look back down the tunnel as an angry roar arose. The queen’s warriors were nearly upon them.

Keel-Tath swallowed her terror, knowing that it was time for her to take the lead. She stepped down the slick pile of rubble that was all that remained of the tunnel here and entered the water. As before, it was cool, but not terribly cold. It ran with enough force to burble and push against her calves, but was not a raging torrent. “Dara-Kol,” she said, “take the lead.” She looked at the warrior, carrying Han-Ukha’i, cursing herself that she had not had time to learn his name or that of the others. Gesturing at him, she said, “You will follow her.”

“I will not allow you to be last, mistress,” Dara-Kol told her.

Keel-Tath nodded. “I will follow him,” she nodded to the warrior carrying Han-Ukha’i, “with the others behind me.” She glanced back, and could see the torches held by the approaching warriors growing closer with startling speed. “Go!”

Dara-Kol led them out into the water, her torch held aloft. The big warrior with the healer followed close behind her.

Sucking in her breath, Keel-Tath followed him, and the others fell into line behind her. The river bed was uneven and filled with rocks and chunks of stone, and the water steadily climbed up her legs until it reached just past her waist. The press of the current, which did not seem all that much when she had first entered the water, had become a frighteningly powerful force that threatened to topple her with every step.

The big warrior ahead of her stumbled, and Keel-Tath reached out and took hold of his sword belt. With a desperate heave, she helped him regain his feet.

“Thank you, my mistress!” He gasped, more in fear than in pain, she suspected.

“Keep moving!” Dara-Kol shouted.

Behind Keel-Tath, the others were in the water. One of them shouted something that Keel-Tath could not make out just before she heard the whistle of a shrekka pass close by.

Turning her head, she saw that the enemy warriors had reached the end of the tunnel, and now stood at the river’s edge. They were hurling their shrekkas at their prey, hoping for some easy kills.

One of the warriors behind her let out a cry of pain, followed by some splashes, and the torch at the tail end of their group went out. The whistling of the deadly weapons filled the cavern as the queen’s warriors hurled a barrage into the river after them. A few clearly found their targets, for she heard the wet hiss of metal cleaving flesh not far behind her.

Emboldened by the success of Keel-Tath’s party, or fearing the Dark Queen’s wrath, the enemy warriors stepped into the water and continued their pursuit.

At last, Keel-Tath and the others reached the far side of the river. Dara-Kol helped the big warrior and Han-Ukha’i from the water, then Keel-Tath. The two of them then helped the others. The last warrior, a young female, barely made it. She had been wounded by a shrekka, and was bleeding badly from a wound in her arm, just below her shoulder armor.

The river was aglow with the light of at least a hundred torches, the dark shapes of enemy warriors silhouetted beneath them. As Keel-Tath watched, two of them slipped and were carried away, but the others kept coming. She did not need the wise counsel of Dara-Kol to know that there was no possible way they could lose their pursuers. She had hoped that the other warriors defending the crypt would have been able to hold off their attackers longer, but they clearly had been overwhelmed by sheer numbers, or perhaps the queen’s warriors had brought some hellish weapon to bear upon them.

Dara-Kol watched them, too. “Mistress, we must go. Perhaps

”

“No.” Keel-Tath shook her head. “They will catch us.” She knew that had they not been slowed by Han-Ukha’i, there was at least the slim chance they could outrun their pursuers. But she would not even think of leaving the healer to the tender mercies of the queen’s warriors. Staring at the dark water at her feet, she said, “There is only one way.”

Taking a deep breath, pushing aside her fears of unseen terrors lurking beneath the surface of the river, Keel-Tath threw herself into the water.

***

The river’s current immediately caught her and began to drag her downstream, but she clung to the bottom with her talons, the weight of her armor helping to hold her down.

Squeezing her eyes shut against the stinging water, she fought to focus on the water itself. Back in the city of Ku’ar-Amir, which seemed so long ago now, she had sat alone in her quarters after she had learned she had the power to shape metal and bond with the symbionts of the healers, thinking. It was only a small stretch to think that she could bend water to her will as did the porters of water, and perhaps she even had within her the power of the builders. While she had not tried to build anything, for that was a long study of mental discipline beyond the mere power to transform matter, she had tried to control water. She had sat at the small table in her room, staring at a cup of water. Minutes, then hours, had passed, with no result. Bored, frustrated, and not a little bit frightened by what she was becoming, she had stuck her finger in the water, stirring it around. The water had swirled in the passage of her finger, as one would expect.

Then the tiny swirl deepened, until it looked like a funnel in the water, down to the very bottom of the cup. It had happened so suddenly that Keel-Tath flinched in shock, knocking over the cup and spilling the water, which — heedless of her frantic attempts to control it with her thoughts — ran everywhere.

The water must be touched in some fashion, she thought. She had the power, but she had no idea how to bend it to her will. Porters of water honed their natural talents over a lifetime. Keel-Tath had no skill with their arts or the time to learn them. All she had was desperation.

She concentrated on the water even as Dara-Kol and the others cast about in the dark water, searching for her. Her lungs began to burn as they ran out of air. But she would not come up to breathe until she forced the water to do her bidding. If it did not, she would drown and die.

Nothing happened. Her lungs were burning now, and spots were flashing before her eyes, even though they were closed.

At that moment, on the edge of unconsciousness, a doorway seemed to open in her mind, and she felt something warm brush against her soul, the breath of a whisper that had once belonged to Anuir-Ruhal’te.

She knew now, in the twilight between the conscious and subconscious, even though she did not understand.

As if the water were clay, she shaped it with her hands in her mind. She heard the muffled cries of surprise as the river drew away from the shore near where she clung to the bottom, where her companions were searching for her. Massive columns of it rose from the river, higher and higher, like the fingers of a titanic hand, on whose palm the warriors of the Dark Queen found themselves. There were hundreds of them, most of a cohort choking the tunnel and wading into the river. Crying out in terror, they tried to flee, but there was no time.

With an earsplitting roar, the columns of water smashed down on the warriors caught in Keel-Tath’s imagined grip, crushing them to bloody paste and twisted metal. Then a solid piston of water rammed into the mouth of the tunnel crushing all who sheltered there. As if it were being pumped through a hose at enormous pressure, the water roared through the tunnel, blowing out the ancient stone walls as it went, before exploding into the central chamber. Those who were not swept away or drowned were crushed as the domed ceiling of the chamber gave way.

That was when she felt hands on her, picking her up. She gasped and choked, spewing water that she had inhaled at the last second.

“Quickly!” It was Dara-Kol, shouting. “Get her up!”

Dara-Kol and one of the other warriors wrapped their arms around Keel-Tath’s waist and draped hers over their shoulders, and together they made their way through a wide, steep natural pipe that led up, away from the river, just as the water began to flood back.

“If any of us doubted the prophecy,” one of the other warriors said, his voice filled with awe, “we doubt it no longer.”

***

Over the next hours, Dara-Kol led them through a treacherous labyrinth of caves and tunnels, fissures and bottomless pits. Some of the caverns were at least as large as that where Keel-Tath had killed the queen’s warriors, while stretches were holes only large enough to crawl through on hands and knees.

Keel-Tath and Han-Ukha’i were again able to make their own way, although there were times when Keel-Tath would have preferred to have been unconscious or stricken with delirium. Using only a single torch at a time to prolong the light they might have, she followed her protector through the nightmare underground world, hoping with every step that Dara-Kol’s memory of the path was clear.

Water dripped and glistened from some of the walls, but Keel-Tath shied away from touching it as if it were potent acid. In other places were pools of water where tiny creatures lived. Some of them glowed, and in one cavern filled with ankle deep water, there were so many that they did not need the torch to see.

At last, Dara-Kol called a halt. In a ragged breath, she said, “Torch.”

Keel-Tath was right behind her, and handed up the flickering torch. It was the last one, and its flame was quickly dying.

The narrow tunnel, so low that they were all stooped over, was blocked with stones. Keel-Tath felt panic welling up in her chest.

“Hold this, mistress.” Dara-Kol handed back the torch, then she began to clear away the rocks. In a few moments, a splinter of light shone through, and everyone gasped in relief.

Handing the torch to the warrior behind her, Keel-Tath crept forward and helped Dara-Kol clear away the stones. “You put these here?”

“Yes, my mistress.” With a grunt, she pushed one of the larger stones out, and it rolled away from the opening. “After we put a watch on the trail from the temple, so I knew we would not miss you should you ever come down, I spent much time in these caverns, looking for another way out, one unknown to the others. Those who dwelt here long did not understand that things are no longer as they were, that the Dark Queen, should the notion take her, would not hesitate to come here and root out this haven. All she needed was someone to show her the way and a cause to bother.”

“It seems she found both.” Keel-Tath helped her shove the last and largest stone away, and she breathed deep, the outside air filling her lungs even as the fading sunlight made her eyes water.

With great care, Dara-Kol poked her head out and took a look around. “We are clear,” she said quietly. “Come.”

She and Keel-Tath helped the others from the cave. All of them, Han-Ukha’i most of all, were exhausted. They were wet and covered in mud, the healer’s pristine white robes now brown and tattered.

On the horizon, the sun was just about to set. Above, the Great Moon had risen, framed by the five great stars, the brightest in the heavens.

“Look!” The big warrior who had carried Han-Ukha’i pointed.

It was the main entrance to the crypt. Nothing more than an ugly slash in the base of the mountain, it looked like a mound of y’an-k’ier, tiny but industrious creatures, that had been flooded out of their nest. The water that Keel-Tath had sent raging through the tunnel into the crypt had killed not only the warriors underground, but many of those who had been close to the entrance. Many not killed outright by the water had been crushed by the rockslide that was triggered when the crypt collapsed.

“We cannot know how many of the queen’s warriors were at the other entrance,” Dara-Kol said, “but there cannot be more than half a cohort left alive down there.”

“Let us leave this place.” Keel-Tath had been trained from birth to be a warrior, to wield a sword and face the enemy in battle. But nothing she had ever known had prepared her for mass slaughter by her own hand. She also knew that among the black specks left in the wake of the angry water that were the bodies of her enemies were also the bodies of those who had sworn to serve her. The knowledge made her sick to her stomach.

Dara-Kol nodded. “Come. There is a place not far from here where we can rest and be safe from any prying eyes.”

By the time the sun was gone and only the light of the Great Moon and stars lit the way, they reached the edge of a sheer cliff that faced to the west. Dara-Kol led them along the edge, which was terribly exposed and which any pursuers would find daunting even in full daylight. But once the path had been traversed, they found themselves in a rocky aerie that had an excellent view to the lowlands both east and west, with an escape route along the ridge to the south. They would not be surprised here, and anyone trying to attack them would be at a severe disadvantage.

Those things flashed briefly through Keel-Tath’s mind before she collapsed to her knees, utterly spent from their escape from the crypt and the steep climb to reach this place. Han-Ukha’i and the others gratefully followed suit, settling to the ground in a circle with heavy grunts and relieved sighs.

All but Dara-Kol, who staggered to an unremarkable pile of rocks and began to dig. She returned bearing several skins and leather bags. “Dried meat and some ale,” she said as she set them before Keel-Tath.

“You put this here?” Keel-Tath asked.

“Yes,” she said as she knelt down beside her mistress. “Every month I brought fresh supplies. There are other caches like this.”

“Even I did not know of this.” The big warrior spoke in the darkness, a touch of hurt in his voice.

“We could have helped,” said another.

“You had other duties. This was my burden to bear.”

Slashing open the bindings of one of the skins with her talons, Keel-Tath handed around the slabs of dried meat, her mouth salivating at the smell. She set some aside for herself only after the others had been given theirs. Then she passed around the skins with the ale, but did not drink until the others had first.

They ate in companionable silence. From where they knelt and sat, they could see the lowlands to the west, dotted by the lights of the few cities and villages between this mountain range and the dark red weals on the horizon, the volcanoes marking the edge of the Great Wastelands.

“Thank you,” Keel-Tath said. “All of you.”

“Our lives are yours, mistress,” one of the other warriors, a shadow in the darkness, said.

Keel-Tath shook her head. “How can your lives be mine if I do not even know your names?”

They laughed. It was a welcome sound.

“I am Drakh-Nur,” the huge warrior said.

“You were born of Ka’i-Nur?” Keel-Tath tried to keep the fear and suspicion from her voice, and feared she only partially succeeded. Nur was a rarely used name, and only when the child’s lineage could be traced directly back to the ancient order that had its stronghold in the Great Wastelands.

Drakh-Nur did not seem to take notice of her fear, or did not let on if he did. “My father was a warrior of the Ka’i-Nur, or so said the honorless ones who raised me from a whelp. I was abandoned in the forest by the villagers who killed my father.” He shrugged. “What happened to my mother, I do not know. But I grew to become the leader of those who saved me, and after hearing the words about your coming

” He gestured at Dara-Kol. “

I led them here.”

“Were they

were they among those who died in the caverns?” Keel-Tath dreaded the question, but had to ask.

He nodded. “If any did not die underground, they would have come out to fight the queen’s warriors who survived. They would have dragged themselves out with one arm if need be.”

“I grieve with you.”

Drakh-Nur laughed, a deep, rich sound in the quiet of the mountain top. “I do not grieve, mistress. I rejoice!” He leaned forward. “Every day of living was an agony for those who had fallen from their path along the Way, be it by their own hand or simple fate. Those few of us who never spent a day in a kazha could feel it in our blood. Perhaps we could not appreciate what they were going through, but we knew their suffering was real enough. The burden of life was unimaginably heavy on so many of them, mistress, yet they clung to life. Some were afraid of the long dark, others hoped each day for a miracle, a chance at redemption that they knew would not come, for it is forbidden by the Way. There is no forgiveness, yet you gave them the salvation they needed. They had no reason at all to live, but you gave them a worthy reason to die. Never, in all the long years I hope you live, should you forget that.”

“I will remember,” Keel-Tath said quietly. “Thank you, Drakh-Nur.”

Smiling, he bowed his head.

Keel-Tath turned at the sound of one of the others, snoring. Drakh-Nur huffed and flicked a pebble at the young female warrior who sat across from him. Obviously feigning sleep, she easily deflected what could have been a painful sting with her armored hand. “Forgive my insolence, mistress, but he does tend to prattle on.” Drakh-Nur laughed again, as did the others around the circle. “I am Ri’al-Char’rah, most fearsome of our band with the shrekka.” She flashed her fangs in a wide grin as the others made sounds of agreement.

“It was you at the rear when we were crossing the river,” Keel-Tath said, and Ri’al-Char’rah nodded. “Were you not wounded?”

The young warrior, who was perhaps just old enough to have completed her seventh Challenge, held up her left arm. “Indeed, my mistress, but it was a trifle. Our beloved healer,” she bowed her head to Han-Ukha’i, “cared for the wound on our way out of those accursed caves.” She flexed her arm. “It is now as good as new. I cannot say the same, alas, for four of the queen’s warriors who were following us.”

“Her skills with such weapons are unmatched,” Dara-Kol added.

“As is my wit, mistress.” She bowed her head as the others made derisive snorts. In a more serious tone she added, “That and my life are forever yours.”

“Char’rah,” Keel-Tath mused, remembering back to her studies of the Books of Time. “You hail from the border of the Eastern Sea, then?”

Ri’al-Char’rah nodded. “The line of my parents has its roots there, mistress. I myself was born in Kel-Ulan, a small village far to the south.” Her voice darkened. “It was razed to the ground by the Dark Queen when the mistress of the village refused to send more warriors to serve her, when the village needed them for protection against a large band of honorless ones. I was a small child then, away from the village when the queen’s warriors came, and those same honorless ones took me in. I was the only survivor.”

“I grieve with you,” Keel-Tath told her, the anguish and rage in the young warrior’s heart echoing her own. “I well know the pain you suffer.”

Ri’al-Char’rah bowed her head, but said nothing more.

“I am Ba’dur-Khan.” A tall, lithe male warrior bowed his head and saluted with his left arm, as was proper. His right arm was missing, taken just below the shoulder. “I am the brother of Anin-Khan, who was once the captain of the guard to your father.”

“I am honored,” Keel-Tath said, bowing her head. “Did the queen’s warriors take your arm?”

He shook his head. “No. That I did to myself. After the burning of Keel-A’ar, I could no longer serve with honor under the queen, and so did I stray from the Way.” He shrugged. “Some years later, the band of honorless ones that took me in was being hunted through the stone culverts of Sher-Kal’an, where the ground sometimes shakes and the rocks fall from the red walls like bloody rain. I was knocked to the ground in such a rock fall, a boulder landing on my arm, trapping me.” His fangs glowed in the light of the Great Moon as he offered an ironic smile. “I was not ready to die and face eternal darkness. So I took my dagger and hacked off my own limb.”

“Not that you need two hands to do your bloody work,” Drakh-Nur rumbled. To Keel-Tath, he said, “His sword is the quickest among us. When we fight, make sure he is by your side.”

Ba’dur-Khan’s gaze was fixed on Keel-Tath. “I would be nowhere else. I did what I did that day because I believed my life must be worth something more, have a purpose other than merely avoiding death. Now I know what it is. My sword is forever yours, mistress.”

Again, Keel-Tath bowed her head, humbled.

“And this,” Dara-Kol nodded to a male warrior, perhaps a bit older than was Dara-Kol herself, “is Lihan-Hagir. He would tell you his story, but he is mute, his tongue cut out by the Dark Queen herself before you were born.”

“Lihan-Hagir.” In the light of the moon and stars, he was unremarkable other than the weapon that occupied the spot on his hip where a sword would normally be found: a grakh’ta whip. Keel-Tath had seen it before, of course, for the senior acolytes were trained in its use. But the grakh’ta, which had several tips covered in razor sharp barbs, was hellishly difficult to use to good effect in combat. Its more typical use was as an instrument of punishment for those taken to the Kal’ai-Il, where it could strip the flesh from the victim’s back, right down to the bone. For Lihan-Hagir to choose it as his primary weapon, he must be very skilled with it, indeed.

“He told me,” Dara-Kol went on, “in writing on parchment that he was born far to the south of T’lar-Gol, and came afoul of the Dark Queen after his city’s master was killed in a duel with her. Of these warriors, he was the first who joined me, and has been at my side ever since.”

Keel-Tath could not mistake the fondness in Dara-Kol’s voice when she spoke of him. She would not be surprised if they had been, or perhaps remained, lovers.

“I am honored, warrior,” she said, and Lihan-Hagir saluted her, bowing his head. Looking at the faces of those around her, she went on, “I mourn the loss of the other three warriors who gave their lives for us, for me, in our escape. But I take heart that there are seven of us now, for that is surely a good omen. Some of you I can feel in my blood; some I cannot. But know that we are now bound in a single purpose: to bring an end to the Dark Queen and her bloody ambitions, the destruction of the Way. And to that I add a vow to you, and all like you who have fallen from grace: you shall be redeemed, your honor restored. If the words written so long ago are true, if I become what destiny says I must, then so will this also come to pass.”

With that, she stood and left the circle. Standing between a pair of rocks at the edge of the aerie, she stared off into the west where the volcanoes glowed and belched dark clouds of ash into the sky far away.

She felt Dara-Kol come up beside her. “That place,” Keel-Tath said, “the underground hideaway. It was a crypt.”

“Indeed? I had always wondered what purpose it might serve. I have never heard tell of the like. But there were no bodies.”

“There were, once, long ago.” Keel-Tath put her hands on the rocks, and winced as something poked one of her palms. Taking a closer look, she saw that a small shard of the crystal heart had cut its way through the leatherite of her gauntlet, lodging itself inside. Carefully prying it out with one of her talons, she held it up, where it shimmered in the moon’s glow. “This is now all that remains of the vessel of Anuir-Ruhal’te.”

“Mistress? I do not understand.”

“It was her final resting place. The crypt was hers. And this,” she turned the shard of crystal in her fingers, “was part of the vessel that contained her spirit.”

“How is that possible?

Keel-Tath shrugged. “How can we know? The powers of the ancients were far beyond our own. All I know is that it was real. She was real. I saw her when I touched the crystal, visions playing in my mind. Her spirit yet lived, and seemed to awaken at my touch. But she was weak after so long, and the vessel, the crystal heart, had been shattered. So weak.” She carefully put the shard into a small pouch fixed to her belt. “There is so much I would have liked to ask her. So much I need to know.”

“We will find those answers, mistress. It may take time, but we will.”

“Perhaps. But first we must survive.”

“Yes,” Dara-Kol said. “And to do that, we must brave to go where only the most foolish or desperate would follow.”

An icy coil of fear lanced through Keel-Tath’s stomach as she realized what Dara-Kol had in mind.

Sensing her emotions, Dara-Kol nodded. “Yes, mistress. We must venture into the Great Wastelands, and from there to the Western Sea.”

CHAPTER TWELVE

A Price To Be Paid

After resting for a few hours, the group had spent the remainder of the night and the early morning hours climbing, sliding, and crawling down the mountain. Once they had reached the foothills, they marched west, ever watchful for any sign of the queen’s warriors.

By nightfall, the day’s uneventful trek brought them to a small village nestled near a freshwater lake that was, thankfully, bereft of any creatures larger than their fingers. Thirsty from the long march, they drank deep and filled their skins with water. They had food enough for some time from the cache in the mountain aerie, but they needed mounts to ride. Dara-Kol and the other five warriors had set about stealing them from the stables, which were only guarded by a young male stable hand, when Keel-Tath stopped them.

“We will not take what is not ours.” Keel-Tath glared at them.

“My mistress,” Dara-Kol said, “I know this is different from all you have ever known, but this is the way of the honorless ones. We must do what we must to survive.”

Keel-Tath shook her head. “If you follow me, truly in your heart, you are no longer without honor.” She looked each of the warriors in the eyes. “We will indeed do what we must to survive, but not as heartless barbarians. If I am to one day rule our people, I will do it according to the Way from the start. I will not build the future upon a foundation of thievery.”

Dara-Kol bowed her head. “Then what would you have us do? We have nothing to offer in exchange but what we have on our backs and our weapons. And we cannot let them know who we are, for that will bring the queen’s warriors.”

“I am sure they will come soon enough, no matter what we do.” Keel-Tath’s eyes lit upon Han-Ukha’i. “From the looks of this place, it must be very poor, and probably stripped bare of the robed castes by the Dark Queen. They may have injured, and we have a healer. That is a great deal to offer in exchange for some mounts, and perhaps a meal.” From the sound and the smell coming from the magthep pens, there should be animals aplenty.

“And if there are more warriors than we can fight?”

“I hope to not fight at all.” Keel-Tath tried to hide her fear. What she was about to do could easily turn into a disaster for them all, but she forced herself to have faith. “Loan me your cloak. Han-Ukha’i, come with me.”

***

The two approached the village gate. The walls were of thin tree trunks, showing the scars of past battles and poorly maintained. They had cleaned Han-Ukha’i’s robes in the lake as best they could. Keel-Tath hoped the tatters and stains they could not remove would go unnoticed in the dark, at least until they were inside the gate. Keel-Tath wore Dara-Kol’s cloak, the hood pulled over her head to conceal her hair and her father’s sword strapped to her back. It was a poor disguise that would not survive more than cursory scrutiny, but, as with Han-Ukha’i’s soiled robes, she hoped it would do. It would have to.

“Who approaches?”

The two stopped. Those who guarded the gate were more alert than Keel-Tath would have given credit.

“I am a disciple of the Desh-Ka,” Keel-Tath called out. It was both truth and a lie. “Our party was set upon by honorless ones, and I call upon you to offer shelter. I am protector of a healer who would offer you her service.”

One of the two guards disappeared, but the gates remained closed. Keel-Tath’s hand tightened around the long-bladed dagger at her side. A gift from Drakh-Nur, it was nearly as long as her old sword. She fought to keep herself from turning around to look for the others, who were hiding somewhere in the darkness beyond the torches at the village gate, ready to come to her aid should things go wrong. Of course, once she and Han-Ukha’i were inside and the gates closed, there would be no one to save her.

So be it. She closed her eyes and forced herself to be calm, trying to fill herself with the sense of power that had flowed into her when she had seen the vision of Anuir-Ruhal’te in the crypt. Be with me now, mistress.

As she opened her eyes, the gates were at last drawn aside. Before her stood a welcoming party of twelve warriors on either side of the gate. Even in the dim light of the torches, she could see they were in little better shape than herself and her companions. Beyond them were gathered the rest of the villagers, members of the robed castes and a gaggle of children who were old enough to be out of the creche, but who had not been sent to the nearest kazha. All of them knelt as she stepped across the threshold of the gate, Han-Ukha’i beside her.

One warrior knelt in the center of the dirt street that served as the village’s main thoroughfare. He was old, older even than Ayan-Dar, and in poor health. “Welcome mistress of the Desh-Ka,” he said before breaking into a coughing fit. “I am Sura’an-Desai, master of this humble village.”

“Greetings, Sura’an-Desai.” She held out her arms and he stood with some difficulty before clasping her forearms in the traditional greeting of warriors. Keel-Tath felt a small pang of guilt, for aside from the carnage she had wrought in the crypt and the bloodletting of the queen’s warriors at Keel-A’ar as she had stood beside Ayan-Dar, she hardly considered herself a warrior. “I thank you for your hospitality.”

“We are always honored to serve those of the priesthoods, mistress.” He smiled as he ushered her and Han-Ukha’i toward the largest building of the village, the main hall. Looking at Han-Ukha’i, he said, “And I would thank you for the offer of your services. As you can no doubt see, we are in great need.”

It was true. Many of those they passed were ill or injured. Keel-Tath had never heard tell of the like in a village whose honor was sworn to a leader. Only honorless ones suffered so.

“You are beholden to Syr-Nagath?”

“Of course, mistress.” The old warrior bobbed his head. “She called away our healers and builders, and all but the eldest warriors, to her service. As is her right.” The tone of his voice told Keel-Tath volumes of what he really thought. Since the priesthoods did not involve themselves in the affairs of common folk, their emissaries often heard words from lips that would otherwise be silent. “Most have fled this life for whatever lies beyond, I fear.”

“That is the Way of the warrior,” Keel-Tath said quietly.

“True, mistress, quite true. But I would have seen them meet their end here, defending their home, than on shores none of us have known in anything other than tales from the Books of Time.” Mounting the steps to the great hall, which was great only in name, he led her through the doors that were held open by younglings.

“Why are these children not at the kazha?”

“The one that served us is no more, mistress. It was never ministered by a priest or priestess, only an acolyte, and she was called away two weeks ago. The other warriors were already gone.” He shrugged. “We brought the children home, lest they starve. We teach them best as we can, but it is not the same.”

The great hall had eight curved tables arranged around a central fire pit, whose coals warmed the hall against the evening chill. Children lit the other torches, which made the hall much more welcoming, but Keel-Tath feared the additional light would call out the color of her hair, and she pulled the hood down just a bit more as she sat down next to her host.

Robed ones brought them food and drink, but Han-Ukha’i demurred. “I would see to those in need, mistress.”

“As you wish. Remember to maintain your strength.” A look passed between them, and Han-Ukha’i nodded. Watching as a child led the healer to one of the tables near the door, where a line of people had already formed, Keel-Tath said to Sura’an-Desai, “We cannot stay overlong, for we have business yet far away. But we will do all we can while we are here.” She paused. “I would also ask a great favor, if I may.”

“Please, mistress. What is ours is yours, as is tradition.”

“I would ask if you might spare us some mounts. As I told your guard, our party was set upon by honorless ones. Those of us who survived were left on foot, and we have yet far to travel.”

The old warrior nodded, then coughed. It was a deep, wet sound in his lungs.

She reached out to put a hand on his arm. “I will have the healer tend you.”

His eyes widened, and it took her a moment to realize why. Her talons. There was no mistaking the crimson color in the torch light. She snatched back her hand, as if from an open flame, and flicked the dagger from its sheath, holding the blade to Sura’an-Desai’s throat.

At that moment, everyone in the great hall was staring at her, sensing the shock radiating from their master.

“It truly is you,” he whispered, ignoring the glittering blade that was resting against the skin of his neck where an artery pulsed. “I had wondered at the fashion of the handle of the sword on your back. I recognized it, you see. The sword of Kunan-Lohr was once well-known in these lands, for our honor was once sworn to the lord and master of Keel-A’ar. To your father.”

“And now?” Keel-Tath peeled back her hood with her free hand, and a gasp ran around the chamber as the others saw her hair.

Sura’an-Desai looked at her for a long time before he spoke. He did not answer directly. “You have much of your mother in you, I think. Your face looks much like hers. A graceful beauty she was. And full of fire, of spirit. I knew her when she was young, not much older than you are now.” His voice was wistful, and Keel-Tath could imagine the memories in his head, peeling back the years to that time gone by. “So long ago, it was.”

“What are your intentions, my lord?” Keel-Tath did not want to hurt this old warrior, and she was consciously trying not to underestimate him. He was old and weak, yes, but that often meant nothing but a fatal trap.

“My intentions are to help the daughter of my master Kunan-Lohr. My honor is yours child, but there will be a price.”

“There is never a price for surrendering one’s honor.” She did not understand his meaning, yet she believed in his sincerity. Pulling back the blade from his neck, she sheathed the dagger. “That is not of the Way.”

He smiled, a sad expression of silent doom, but said only, “It is a small enough matter that we may speak of later. For now, all that is mine is yours. I would also send a message bearer to your companions to join us. They need not wait beyond the walls.” He gestured toward where the gate was. “And as you can see, we have few enough warriors to pose a threat.”

Keel-Tath nodded, and Sura’an-Desai gestured at a child, who immediately took off at a full run toward the gate.

“Sura’an-Desai,” she said, “if the Dark Queen finds out that you harbored us

”

He waved away her concerns. “We shall speak of that later. In the meantime, I would pay back the kindness of your healer with the services of our armorer. She is old, older than myself and unfit for travel, which is why the queen did not take her, but she can do good work. The least we can do is fit you with proper armor. Then, perhaps, you will not be taken as an honorless one on sight.” He smiled at her surprised expression. “I am not a fool, child. Even the most ignorant youngling can see that armor was never meant for you, and who but the honorless ones would offer you shelter? There is no other way you could have reached this far without being taken by the Dark Queen.”

“I was taken, my lord.”

He leaned forward. “Then it is a miracle that you survived.”

“That, I will not argue. And there is my miracle.” She nodded toward the five cloaked figures who entered the hall, looking warily around until their eyes found her.

“Be comfortable and welcome, warriors,” Sura’an-Desai beckoned. He was interrupted by another bout of coughing, and this time droplets of blood came away in his hand.

“Han-Ukha’i!” Keel-Tath gestured for the healer to come. “I know you have many, but tend to him. He bleeds from his lungs.”

“Do not waste your time or energy on me, healer.” Sura’an-Desai gently pushed her away. “Tend those who need it. I am long past the need of your gentle touch.”

Han-Ukha’i looked to Keel-Tath, who nodded, uncertain.

“As you wish, lord.” The healer bowed, then returned to tend to the needs of the others in the village.

In the meantime, Keel-Tath’s five warriors gathered around.

“Mistress?” Dara-Kol said.

“All is well for now. We have our first city.” Keel-Tath smiled, and Sura’an-Desai broke out laughing, which turned into an ugly cough.

For a time, she and her companions were able to relax somewhat and even enjoy themselves. As they ate and drank, Sura’an-Desai told them what little he could of the war, but it was not much. “Few travelers come this way anymore,” he said. “Even the warriors of the legions that garrison these lands no longer come here, for they know we have nothing more to offer.” After that, and between bouts of coughing, he regaled them with tall tales of his younger days, which brought admiring smiles from his guests.

Han-Ukha’i treated the sick and, as best she could, healed the most grievously wounded of the village. Watching her as Sura’an-Desai finished up another one of his tales, Keel-Tath could not fathom how things had fallen so far from where they should be. Sickness, infirmity, and disfiguring injuries were unheard of among her people outside the bands of honorless ones. And even they often had healers or other robed castes, for they, too, could fall from the Way.

“Take the healers away,” Sura’an-Desai noted sadly, as if reading her mind, “and everything changes. The same with the builders, and to a lesser extent the porters of water. We can withstand much, but if you cut out the heart or the liver from our society, the body will surely die. This place,” he gestured around them, “has never been, nor will ever be, a great city. But it was beautiful once, its people strong and proud.” He looked into Keel-Tath’s eyes, and she could sense a deep longing within him. “I hope beyond hope that someday it will be so again.”

“Hope is all I can offer you, Sura’an-Desai. But I am terribly afraid, not for myself, but for those like yourself.” She shook her head. “I cannot protect you, not yet.”

“We do not ask for protection, mistress. Only hope. Your path is long and dangerous, and I only wish that I was young again, that I could offer you my sword.”

“You have done far more than that, master of the city.”

They looked up as Dara-Kol and the others came back into the hall. They had left earlier at Keel-Tath’s behest to see the armorer.

The hall was full now, for everyone had come to pay their respects to the one with the white hair and crimson talons, and the fierce warriors who accompanied her. The five had left the hall dressed in the shabby, beaten armor of honorless ones. They returned, resplendent in shining black that was perfectly tailored to their bodies.

“You could pass for the palace guard at Ku’ar-Amir,” Keel-Tath told them.

“It is your turn now, mistress.” The armorer shuffled forward with the help of a cane. Her black robes were in little better condition than Han-Ukha’i’s white ones. Behind her, two younglings carried bundles of leatherite and black metal plate. “Undress, child.”

Standing before the fire pit for all to see, Keel-Tath did as she was asked. Handing her weapons to Dara-Kol, she took off the gauntlets, then undid the fastenings for her plate armor. More younglings gathered it up as she shrugged out of it before stripping off the leatherite armor beneath. She untied her hand-me-down sandals, which were much too big, then peeled off the gauzy black undergarment to stand nude before the village and her companions. While being on display in such a fashion was unusual, showing the body was a commonplace occurrence in the baths and when being fitted for armor or robes. Having this many eyes on her did not make Keel-Tath uncomfortable, exactly, but it was not a sensation she would happily repeat.

The armorer was old, but her callused hands were quick, just as Sura’an-Desai had said. She ran her hands over Keel-Tath’s body, then took out a terribly frayed cloth tape that had once been white, but was now a sickly gray. She ran it around Keel-Tath’s chest and other parts of her body, then rechecked a few places with her hands.

Turning to the table, where her youngling assistants had carefully laid out the material, she took a wicked knife from her robes and slashed the black material used for undergarments. Her movements were quick and precise, and Keel-Tath imagined her wielding a sword. When the pieces were cut, she matched up the seams and squeezed them with her fingers, kneading the fabric as she moved along the seams. But when she had finished, the seams were gone.

The armorer handed Keel-Tath the finished garment, top and bottom, and Keel-Tath sighed with pleasure as she slipped them on. The fabric formed perfectly to her body, like a second skin, every bit as well as the garments made by the armorers at the temple.

Next came the black leatherite. The armorer had no need of more measurements. She slashed and cut the tough material as easily as she had the undergarment fabric, and joined the seams as she had before. She also worked different parts of the fabric with her palms, massaging it into a shape that would perfectly fit the curves of Keel-Tath’s body. Then she added buckles and straps, made from a tough alloy, where they were needed to hold the leatherite secure.

She handed the pants and tunic to Keel-Tath, who gratefully slipped them on. She was starting to feel complete again. Warriors wore their armor as their daily form of dress, and were only out of it when sleeping (if it was safe to do so, as in the temple) or when bathing.

As Keel-Tath buckled on the leatherite, the armorer produced a pair of sandals. Leaning down, she picked up Keel-Tath’s feet one at a time and probed them with her fingers. With a satisfied huff, she took the sandals and trimmed them, then kneaded the thick soles just as she had the leatherite. When she was satisfied, she attached leather straps and handed the sandals to two younglings, who tied them to Keel-Tath’s feet.

Those gathered around laughed as Keel-Tath let out a loud sigh of pleasure. Of all the parts of their daily dress, the sandals were in some ways the most important. A warrior could be called upon to march for leagues in a day at short notice, or to stand watch for long hours. Keel-Tath had suffered with ill-fitting sandals since Dara-Kol had rescued her, and they had caused a considerable amount of discomfort. Now, her feet had returned to their accustomed paradise.

Last came the armor plate. The armorer had already shaped the metal into rough shape, just from a quick look of Keel-Tath that she had taken earlier. She held up the different plates to Keel-Tath and, muttering quietly to herself, began to finalize the shapes with her hands.

Keel-Tath was surprised, because normally armorers used hammer and anvil to shape the armor plate, for it was not of living metal as were the blades of their weapons.

But this armorer apparently had no need of them. The metal surrendered to her will, bending and curving as she guided it. She fit the plates again, her assistants holding them in place for her inspection.

Satisfied, she had the assistants lay the finished pieces on the table, where she bonded the necessary buckles and fasteners. The assistants then attached the plates, fastening them with small, nimble fingers. They slipped into place like the pieces of a puzzle, and Keel-Tath was gratified — although not surprised — that none of the fasteners or seams of the leatherite conflicted with the plate armor.

Last of all, the armorer set out the making of the gauntlets. She took Keel-Tath’s hands in her own, moving every joint and probing every muscle and bone with her fingers, just as she had with Keel-Tath’s feet. Then she trimmed out the necessary pieces of leatherite, thinner than the armor on her body, to form the gauntlet itself, welded the seams, and then trimmed and bonded the metal to the leatherite.

The assistants slipped them onto Keel-Tath’s hands, and she flexed the supple material, noting with great pleasure how easily her fingers, which were protected by metal all the way to where her talons protruded from the tips, moved. There was no binding, no conflict.

They were perfect.

Kneeling down, Keel-Tath said, “I thank you for this wonderful gift, mistress.”

“It is no gift, child,” the ancient woman said in a soft voice that was laden with pride. “It is your birthright.” As Keel-Tath stood, the armorer looked her in the eye. While the woman was very old, her eyes were still bright and sharp. “I only wish that I could craft a sword worthy of your hand, but I would not presume to best the blade of your father.” She eyed the weapon as Dara-Kol handed it to Keel-Tath. “It was made long ago, by one of the finest who has ever worn the robes of black. It is yet too big for you, but that will soon change.”

With that, she bowed and saluted, then shuffled out of the hall.

“Outside you will find fourteen mounts,” Sura’an-Desai said, “the best of our stables. Half of them are yours to ride, the others carry packs with water, food, and other provisions for a long journey. There are also some extra weapons.”

“I have no words to thank you for your generosity.” Keel-Tath bowed her head to him.

He smiled thinly. “As I told you, mistress, it is not a simple act of generosity. There is a price that must be paid.”

“What price?” Dara-Kol, instantly suspicious, laid her hand on her sword, as did the other warriors of Keel-Tath’s party.

“It is not you or yours who must pay it.” Sura’an-Desai stood up from the table, gathering himself to his full height with some difficulty. He drew his sword. “It is I. The Dark Queen will slaughter my people if I simply let you walk away. But if you best my sword in a Challenge, they will be safe from her wrath.”

Keel-Tath shook her head and stepped back. The others in the hall moved toward the walls, freeing up the area around the fire pit. “No. No! I will not. Not after all you have done for us.”

“You must, mistress.” Dara-Kol faced her with sad eyes. “It is the only way we might avert the Dark Queen’s wrath upon the people here. If we leave without the master paying a debt of blood, she will certainly kill everyone beholden to him. But if he dies in a ritual Challenge, she may let them live.”

“Child,” Sura’an-Desai said softly, “I am old and near death. There is nothing else in this life for me, and to die at your hand to save those who yet live here, in my home, would bring me great honor.” He smiled. “If you consider what we have given you a gift, then consider this a gift to me in return.”

“This is part of the Way, mistress,” Dara-Kol told her. “You must honor his Challenge.”

Slowly, Keel-Tath nodded. She drew the long dagger from its sheath and held it at the ready.

Sura’an-Desai attacked, as Keel-Tath knew he would. He put up a spirited fight, and she knew he must have been a formidable warrior in his younger years. Even now, had she not been the pupil of sword masters such as Ayan-Dar and Ria-Ka’luhr, he very well might have beaten her.

His blade nicked her cheek, which lightened her heart, as she would have a token of his sacrifice to carry with her forever.

He fought well and fiercely, driving her around the fire pit, then against one of the tables before she turned the tables and did the same to him, her swiftness with the dagger making up for the more powerful blows of his sword.

Then it was time. His body was quickly reaching the end of its endurance, and blood was trickling from his mouth as he fought to suppress the coughing that was hemorrhaging his lungs. As he raised his sword to make a two-handed overhand cut, she lunged forward, blocking the blow by forcing her free forearm up against his own before driving her dagger into his stomach, through the gap in the armor below his breast plate.

With a grunt, his body stiffened, and his sword fell from his hands to clatter on the floor. He collapsed into her arms, and she knelt down, cradling his head to her chest.

“Do not mourn for me.” He reached out and put a hand to her cheek, where the black streaks had already begun to appear. “Your honored father and mother would both be very proud of you.” His body tensed, and his face contorted in pain for a moment. “May thy Way be long and glorious, child.”

With a final, rattling breath, his body stilled. She gently closed his eyes with her fingers, then laid him down. She picked up his sword and laid it upon him, the handle on his chest.

When she looked up, the villagers were kneeling, heads bowed. “See that he is given a funeral pyre befitting the warrior he was,” Keel-Tath told them. She got to her feet, her heart still pounding from the exhilaration of combat. Her blood was filled with songs of sadness at his passing, but joy that he had died well, with honor. She wanted more than anything to light the pyre that would mark his passing, but knew she could not. They could stay no longer.

“Come,” she said to the others. “It is time that we leave.”

In silence, her companions followed her out of the great hall into the night beyond.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Death In The Vale

The land echoed Keel-Tath’s dark mood as the group made its way west toward the Great Wastelands. They traveled mainly at night, although Keel-Tath wondered if it was an unnecessary bother. The handful of villages and towns they passed or saw from a distance were abandoned. From the looks of them, it had happened not so long ago, but even the honorless ones had not taken up residence here. Everything was overgrown with twisting vines and other vegetation that had quickly moved in from the surrounding forests, and feral eyes watched the travelers as they passed. Now and again an animal cry or grunt would rip through the night, often followed by the terror-stricken squeal of a prey animal that had met its end. She shivered when she heard those unaccustomed sounds, or saw the glowing eyes follow her as she rode. Having spent her life at the temple, this was like being cast into an alien and decidedly hostile world. To her, the great vale west of the Kui’mar-Gol mountains had become a place of the damned.

At one point the air was torn by a horrendous roar from the direction of a ruined village to their south, followed by an ear-piercing shriek that ended with brutal abruptness.

Her blood turning to ice at the sounds, Keel-Tath turned to Dara-Kol. “What was that?”

“A genoth,” Dara-Kol told her in a muted voice, and Keel-Tath could clearly sense a spike of fear through her and their companions. Their eyes were all fixed on the town, hands on their swords. There was a flash of movement through a broken segment of wall, but no more. Dara-Kol kicked her mount, which was now tense, as well, into a fast trot. “The warriors of these villages kept the creatures of the wastelands, even the genoths, at bay, using them for meat and trade. With the warriors gone, the animals are expanding their territory.”

“What happened to the villages?” Keel-Tath asked.

Dara-Kol shrugged. “Once the warriors, healers, and builders have been drawn away by the Dark Queen, the remaining people can only stay and eventually perish, or leave in hopes of pledging their honor to the lord of a village or city that can harbor them. This is especially true here in the vale, for every manner of creature in the wastelands is dangerous. If it flies, it stings, and if it crawls, it bites. Without warriors to protect them, the robed castes would fall prey, and would be helpless before the likes of a genoth.”

They pressed on, passing from the forested vale to a wide stretch of grassland that extended as far north and south as the eye could see. They found the ruins of other villages and towns, and even what once must have been a great city, but was now only crumbling sun-whitened rubble that showed through the waist-high stalks of grass. Now it was a haven for a colony of what looked like miniature genoths, sleek and deadly looking reptiles as long as a warrior was tall.

“Uran-Kamekh,” Dara-Kol said, steering them clear of the ruins. “They will not attack us as long as we do not enter their territory.”

“How do we know where their territory is?” Keel-Tath asked.

Dara-Kol gave her a humorless smile. “We will know if they attack.”

The grasslands ended abruptly at the edge of the desert that was the boundary to the Great Wastelands, which occupied the entire western portion of the continent all the way to a narrow strip of fertile land that ran along the edge of the sea. There was no transition in vegetation, no gradual fade from grass to sand and sun-blistered rock. With a single step, Keel-Tath’s magthep moved from one to the other.

Dara-Kol led them to a rocky knoll that overlooked the grasslands from which they had just come. Keel-Tath thought it was a natural formation until her tired magthep crested the top, where she found a number of ancient stone slabs laid out in a rough circle. Some of them were intact, others had been shattered and fallen to dust with time.

“Was this not a Kal’ai-Il?”

Nodding, Dara-Kol told her, “Yes. There once was a city here, long ago. This is all that remains. I have seen other such things deeper in the wastelands, traces of habitation, but from very, very long ago.”

Keel-Tath dismounted with infinite relief, and Lihan-Hagir, the mute, took the reins of her mount. Not accustomed to riding, she had suffered the agonizing indignity of saddle sores across her bottom and along her inner thighs, and her legs felt like molten lead. She had refused Han-Ukha’i’s offers of assistance, instead preferring to let her body harden itself against the rigors of riding. She also knew that Han-Ukha’i had been suffering even more. “Tend to your own hurts,” Keel-Tath said, putting a gentle hand on the healer’s shoulder. “Suffering is the path of a warrior, but a healer should not have to endure such things.”

Bowing her head, Han-Ukha’i was grateful. “Thank you, mistress.”

“Go and sit down. Rest and eat some food.”

Han-Ukha’i bowed again, then did as she was told.

Keel-Tath saw that Dara-Kol and the other warriors were staring off to the east. Moving over to join them, she said, “What is it?”

“We are being followed,” Ba’dur-Khan said.

“Where? I do not see

”

She fell silent as Ba’dur-Khan pointed. “There, mistress. You can see them, just barely.”

Keel-Tath squinted in the direction the one-armed warrior indicated. At first she saw nothing but grass. Then she saw that there was a tiny bead of darkness moving within the grassy sea. She looked at the tall warrior, awed by his keen sight.

“Turn the magtheps loose.”

Everyone turned to stare at Dara-Kol as if she had lost her mind.

“You do not take magtheps into the wastelands, not if you wish to live long,” she explained. “Their scent draws predators from a great distance, and they need too much water. Better we free them here as a ruse for those who pursue us. Shil-Wular, no doubt.”

“Do you think he survived?” Keel-Tath had seen that some of Shil-Wular’s warriors had survived death by water in the ancient crypt, but she had assumed he had been inside, leading them.

“He is a cunning and determined warrior.” Han-Ukha’i limped over to join them. “If he survived, he will not give up until he has caught up with us.”

“My question,” Drakh-Nur rumbled, “is how they came to be following us to begin with? They could not possibly have followed us down from the mountain, for we were leagues away by then.”

“For that, I have no answer.” Dara-Kol frowned. “It would not have been difficult to pick up our tracks in the vale, for how many other travelers did we see? None. We were probably spotted by a scout, who would not need terribly keen eyes to see a group of riders threading their way westward through the grasslands.”

Drakh-Nur grunted. “Well, hopefully they will be distracted by our magtheps, assuming the beasts don’t simply sit at the edge of the grassland and eat until they burst.”

“I guarantee they will not.” She moved to where Lihan-Hagir stood silent, holding the reins to the magtheps. He had already unstrapped the bundles of provisions and set them on the ground nearby, leaving only the saddles and reins still on the animals. “Release the reins and stand away,” she warned, and Lihan-Hagir instantly complied.

Reaching into her belt pouch, Dara-Kol extracted a small crystal vial that was stoppered at one end. The instant she opened it, the magtheps brayed in terror and nearly trampled one another in their rush to get away. Some of them tore down the slope they had used to get to the top of the knoll, while others simply leaped from the rock to the grass below. As a herd, they tore across the sand and back into the grass, fleeing to the south at a breakneck gallop.

As Dara-Kol recapped the vial and returned it to her pouch, Keel-Tath, as surprised as the others, asked, “What was that?” She had gotten a slight whiff of it, a stink so vile that it brought tears to her eyes.

“Genoth piss. Every animal is terrified by it, except other genoths, of course.”

Ri’al-Char’rah, still staring wide-eyed after the magtheps, which continued to race through the grass, asked, “And how do other genoths react?”

“To them it is the scent of a challenger.” She shivered. “They will attack instantly, with unbridled ferocity.”

“Perhaps you should walk a bit farther ahead of us, then,” Ri’al-Char’rah quipped. “Just in case any spills.”

“I will not ask how you procured it,” Drakh-Nur added.

The others gave up a nervous laugh that died out all too soon. The sun was going down and darkness was falling rapidly.

Looking back in the direction of their pursuers, Dara-Kol said, “We will stay here until dawn, but light no fires. The beasts of the night here on the edge of the wastelands prefer to hunt in the grass, and this spot is more easily defended. Two of us will remain awake at all times. I will take the first watch.”

“And I with you,” Keel-Tath said.

Dara-Kol bowed her head. “Let us see how our friends and their magtheps fare in the night.”

***

Even though the others were supposed to rest while Dara-Kol and Keel-Tath stood watch, all seven companions, weapons drawn, looked over the tops of the broken stones into the black sea of grass to the east. There was little to see, but there was more than enough to hear. The darker it became, the louder was the chorus of the beasts that prowled beyond the rocky knoll. Growls and chirps, hisses and grunts flowed around them as if they were an island in a river of bestial ghosts that flowed out of the wastelands into the grasslands of the vale. Dara-Kol had carefully spread two drops of the precious genoth piss at strategic points around their perimeter to help ward off the smaller creatures, and all hoped on the lives of their ancestors that no genoths would come.

“How are we to survive a trek to the Western Sea,” Keel-Tath whispered as something large — how large she did not want to know — swept past on their left, “if there are so many things that can kill us?”

“There are so many here because there is much for them to eat. With the people gone from the vale, prey species have multiplied, and so have the predators from the deserts. Once we leave here and head farther into the wastelands, there will be far fewer, although some that we may yet encounter are more dangerous than these.”

Keel-Tath turned to look at her, catching Dara-Kol’s profile in the soft moonlight. “How do you know so much of these things?”

“She has spent more time in the Great Wastelands than anyone who is not of the Ka’i-Nur,” Drakh-Nur said quietly. “Ironic, is it not, that I, whose blood is of that ancient sect, have never set foot in these accursed lands.”

“For a long time after your parents were killed and Keel-A’ar destroyed,” Dara-Kol went on, “the desert wastes were my refuge. The only people of all T’lar-Gol who were not hunting me were the Ka’i-Nur, who care not for the affairs of outsiders. I did not return across the vale for several years.”

“It is a miracle that you survived,” Keel-Tath told her, her voice filled with wonder.

“It was my destiny, mistress. There were many times when I was near death, times when I wanted to die to end my misery and loneliness. But your father’s sword and my promise to him, and your young voice in my blood, always renewed my purpose, my determination. I knew that it could not have all been for naught.”

Just then a cacophony of growls and shrieks erupted in the east. While distant, the screams of warriors could clearly be heard, along with the panicked braying of magtheps. A deeper sound, a low grunt-grunt-grunt that sent shivers down Keel-Tath’s spine, joined in, followed by even more screams and the sounds of a pitched battle being fought.

“The fools did not make camp and set up a perimeter!” Ba’dur-Khan was aghast.

“How can you tell?” Keel-Tath wanted to know.

“From the sounds, mistress. They are much closer than when last we caught sight of the enemy column. They are still perhaps half a league or more away, which makes me think they did not bother to stop when darkness fell.”

“Much to their dismay, it would seem.” Dara-Kol whispered.

Fires sprang to life, pinpricks of light in the distance as the enemy warriors lit torches to fend off their attackers. The light illuminated the humped and spiny backs of the attacking predators like the backs of fish in the nighttime sea as they converged on the queen’s minions. Some warriors must have tried to light the grass on fire, but it was a fruitless effort. The grass was green and lush, and it would take a great deal more flame and a whipping wind to keep any fire alight.

Keel-Tath could only imagine the carnage, for the battle was too far away to make out any details. Then again, from the sounds, it was not a battle, but a feast. At first she had been overjoyed that the beasts were attacking their pursuers. But after a while, her feelings changed. “I pity them,” she whispered.

She felt a hand on her arm and looked over to see Lihan-Hagir staring at her with a tortured gaze. He shook his head slowly.

“Do not spare your pity for them, mistress,” Ba’dur-Khan told her bitterly. “They certainly would not spare any for you, let alone the likes of us.”

“I am not them,” Keel-Tath told him. “The evil is with Syr-Nagath, who commands their honor. The Way as they understand it is clear enough, and what choice have they but to follow? They are like children, younglings who have not yet opened their eyes to the world.” She paused, wondering about her future. “But someday they shall.”

“And on that day you may pity them, mistress,” Dara-Kol told her. “On the day they pledge their honor and their lives to you, pity them. But here, now, never forget they are the enemy. You cannot afford pity, mistress. You must be cold and brutal as the beasts that even now feast on their flesh.”

Keel-Tath was thankful for the darkness, that the others could not see the black streaks of mourning on her cheeks as the screams went on, well into the night.

***

As dawn broke over the mountains of Kui’mar-Gol, there was no sign of their pursuers. The grassy sea where the queen’s warriors had been attacked was a trampled, scarlet mess, but the warriors were gone.

“They will not give up so easily,” Drakh-Nur observed.

Ri’al-Char’rah gaped at him. “That was easy? You must tell me then what you think would be hard.”

“He is right,” Dara-Kol said. “More warriors will come, and this time they will bring a scout who knows the ways of these lands. But we will have a good head start, and it will be much more difficult for them to track us as we go farther west.”

With a final look at the scene of carnage from the night before, the group shouldered their packs of provisions and followed Dara-Kol.

Ahead of them the light-colored sand and scrub of the boundary with the vale gave way to rock that was a brooding gray, with spires and spines that rose like the serrated teeth of some of the sea creatures painted in the great hall of Ku’ar-Amir. The landscape was full of them, as far as they could see.

“Beware the edges of the spires,” Dara-Kol warned. “They are sharp as broken glass.”

Keel-Tath could see now why Dara-Kol said it would be hard to track them. They left no footprints, for everything was rock.

“Why is there no sand or dirt?” She asked.

“The rains wash it all away, down to the sea.”

“What rain?” Ri’al-Char’rah looked at the sky. “This is a desert.”

“Most of the time, yes,” Dara-Kol said. “But sometimes great storms sweep in from the sea. When those come, you had best have a high cave in which to hide.”

“What if something already lives in it?” Ri’al-Char’rah asked.

“You kill it, or it kills you.”

Keel-Tath looked at the bleak landscape around her. Other than the sky, it was utterly devoid of color. It was a land of texture, of elevation rising and falling, of deep culverts and steep hills, but no great mountains other than the volcanoes in the far distance. “Is it all like this?”

“Not all,” Dara-Kol told her. She glanced toward the volcanoes. “Some is worse.”

“I thought it was supposed to be hot,” Ba’dur-Khan observed.

Glancing back at the rising sun, Dara-Kol frowned. “It will be.”

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Into The Great Wastelands

Time was measured in careful steps through the perilous forest of sharp-edged rock as they made their way through the inferno that the Great Wastelands had become as the sun neared its zenith. Their black armor absorbed the heat, and would have been unbearable to wear without the thermal qualities of the leatherite and gauzy undergarments. Han-Ukha’i, whose white robes reflected some of the sun’s heat, was more fortunate, but she, too, suffered.

As they reached the crest of another of the endless ridges that made up the landscape, Keel-Tath paused to take a breath and adjust the heavy satchel on her back. She had never been so hot in her life. The air above the rocky ground shimmered with heat, and the soles of her feet, even protected by her sandals, felt like they had been plunged into scalding water.

“We must travel by day,” Dara-Kol had explained when they set off, “because we are less likely to encounter predators. We can survive the heat if we have enough water, but we cannot survive being eaten.”

That brought a round of nervous laughter, but none of them were laughing now. Every step was an effort of will, and every encounter with the rock was painful. The spires and rock shards were like oven-hot knives.

As Dara-Kol led them down the other side of the hill, she stopped. In the side of the next crest, well above the erosion lines of the gully where water reached during the rains, were a series of enormous round bulges, each as large as the great hall in Sura’an-Desai’s village. “It is a hive of churr-kamekh,” she said softly. “They are small, the largest no longer than the palm of your hand, but they have a potent sting. When provoked or disturbed, the entire hive attacks.”

“There must be millions of them in there.” Ri’al-Char’rah’s fear was palpable.

Nodding, Dara-Kol told her, “They are the only creatures of the wasteland that can kill an adult genoth. The only defense against them is fire.”

“Let us steer well clear, then,” Keel-Tath said, trying to swallow her own fear. The hive was much closer than she would have preferred.

“Now, yes. But when our water runs low, we will have to find a hive.”

“What?” The others spoke in unison, turning to gape at her.

“At the base of the hive are chambers the churr-kamekh use to store water from the rains. The hive walls are very strong, but thin enough to puncture with a blade.”

“So, you just march up to one of those things and poke a hole in it to drink and fill your water skin?” Drakh-Nur shook his head in admiration. “You amaze me.”

Dara-Kol grinned, but the expression did not reach her eyes. “It is not quite so easy as that. Approaching and departing from the hive takes a very long time. If they sense the vibration of footfalls that near the hive, they instantly attack.”

Keel-Tath shivered at the thought. “There are no other sources of water?”

“None that you would dare to go after. Come. We will give this nest a wide berth. When we need water, we will try to find a smaller nest.”

The day wore on, until at last the sun settled toward the horizon and the terrible heat began to subside.

Dara-Kol found a spot near the top of one of the ridges that put a sheer wall at their back and would be more easily defensible. “We will camp here for the night.”

With a collective groan, her six companions shrugged off their burdens and collapsed to the still-hot rocky ground.

Ba’dur-Khan passed around a water bag. Keel-Tath took a swig from it and had to force herself to swallow the water, which was piping hot.

“Eat quickly, then pack away the dried meat in your satchels. The predators will not smell it in there, for I cured the hides with the ground-up bodies of churr-kamekh, which will mask the scent. But we must leave nothing out that could attract unwanted attention.”

“What of ourselves?” Ri’al-Char’rah made a show of smelling herself, then wrinkling her nose.

“We are a curiosity to them, not natural prey. Unless it is an animal that has already feasted on our flesh and developed a taste for it, they will not hunt us if we do not violate their ways.”

After they ate, they watched the sun set. It was a show of crimson and orange, as if the magenta-hued sky itself were on fire. And above, the stars came out just before the Great Moon rose over the eastern horizon.

Despite her exhaustion and the alienness of their surroundings, Keel-Tath felt strangely at peace.

“It is beautiful in its own way, is it not?” Dara-Kol said, sitting down beside her.

“Did you know,” Keel-Tath told her, pointing at the moon, “that once, long ago, our people lived there?”

“I have heard tales of such, mistress, but I was not sure if they were anything more than legends.”

“It is true. While in the temple, the disciples are required to learn from the Books of Time, even more than in the kazhas, I am told. I spent many hours with the keepers, listening to them recite histories and things we otherwise would not know. While I loved my time in the arena training, waiting for the day when I could truly blood my sword, I enjoyed learning of things past nearly as much.” She sighed. “One day we shall return there, not to rebuild what once was, but to make something new, something beautiful that will bring glory to all our kind. Someday.”

“Until then,” Dara-Kol told her gently, “you must get some rest. We have a very long way to go.”

***

Two more days passed, and Keel-Tath was not sure which was worse, the blistering heat of the day or the nights filled with the terrifying sounds of beasts of prey. Most of the bone-chilling cries and roars had been far away, carried through the ravines and passes to the ears of the seven weary travelers huddled together.

She tried not to think of how far they had to go. Their plan, such as it was, was to reach the Western Sea and find a ship flying the banner of Ku’ar-Amir, then sail with them home. But the Great Wastelands were some three hundred leagues across, and in some places more. She guessed that they were making between ten and fifteen leagues per day, if that. If fortune smiled upon them, they might make the crossing in a month’s time, assuming any of them survived.

The thought was almost enough to crush her spirit, but then she remembered that Dara-Kol had spent years wandering these lands, and had somehow not only survived, but retained her sanity.

As they gained the top of a particularly tall and steep ridge, Keel-Tath glanced back to the east, marveling at how much the landscape looked like sun-baked scales.

She saw something moving, and not very far away. Dark but instantly recognizable shapes. For a moment, she thought she was seeing things, but they did not go away, even after she had looked away and back three times.

“Warriors!”

The others spun around, and Dara-Kol ran to her side, looking where Keel-Tath pointed.

“It is not possible,” she breathed.

“But you said they would find a guide to lead them through these lands.”

Dara-Kol shook her head. “A guide could lead them and keep them alive, mostly, but not track us through the wastelands. I have been very careful to clear our trail. We have left no trace that another could follow, except perhaps a warrior of Ka’i-Nur.”

“Then how

?”

With a look, Dara-Kol silenced her, and Keel-Tath felt a knot of mingled fear and anger form in her stomach. We have been betrayed.

The lead enemy warriors gestured, and it was clear they had seen their intended prey.

“This could get interesting very quickly,” Ba’dur-Khan said, fingering the handle of his sword.

“Mistress, come with me,” Dara-Kol said. “The rest of you, move ahead to the next rise and wait.”

“What are you

” Drakh-Nur began.

“Do as she commands!” Keel-Tath snapped. The others instantly saluted and obeyed.

Dara-Kol led Keel-Tath through a copse of jagged stone spires that shielded them from the eyes of the enemy warriors.

“What are we doing?” Keel-Tath asked as she loped along behind Dara-Kol, who had wound her way down to a gully that ran parallel to the one that bounded the ridge where they had just been.

“Setting an ambush, mistress.”

As she followed Dara-Kol, Keel-Tath took momentary relief at the startlingly cool shadows at the bottom of the gully. The respite ended all too quickly as Dara-Kol once again led her out into the sun. She slowed, and was now creeping stealthily up toward the ridge near a junction of the two gullies. Keel-Tath heard the footfalls and urgent calls of the warriors who now were chasing after their companions, somewhere up ahead.

Laying on their bellies, they poked their heads over the ridge and saw the column of warriors approaching rapidly. In the gully from which the two had emerged, there were small bulges in the face of the ridge. It was the same one that Dara-Kol had guided the group away from just minutes before.

Dara-Kol took a shrekka from her shoulder, and nodded at Keel-Tath to do the same.

“We should have brought Ri’al-Char’rah with us,” Keel-Tath said. “She is much better with a shrekka. I am not sure I can hit the hive from here.”

“I will trust you with no one until I know who betrayed us.” Dara-Kol’s voice was low and fierce. “Are you ready?”

Holding the shrekka tight, Keel-Tath nodded.

“Now!”

The two of them rose up, took aim, and hurled their weapons at the hive, which was already crawling with churr-kamekh that had been disturbed by the vibrations of the approaching warriors.

Keel-Tath’s shrekka fell slightly short and gouged a hole in the bottom of one of the bulges. Water, precious water, streamed out into the gully.

Dara-Kol’s hit true, slicing through the thin wall to lodge itself deep in the nest.

The side of the hive crumbled away as the churr-kamekh burrowed their way out in a killing frenzy.

“Be still!” Dara-Kol whispered, and Keel-Tath, who was on the verge of running for her life, froze.

The tiny beasts formed a living river as thousands of them flowed down the side of the ridge and into the gully, straight for the queen’s warriors, who were now pounding at a full run to catch up to Keel-Tath’s companions, who had disappeared over the ridge.

The lead warriors stumbled as they ran into the swirling mass of churr-kamekh, then screamed as the creatures engulfed them, stinging with their long barbed tails and biting exposed flesh with their mandibles. The warriors coming along behind, perhaps thinking they had been ambushed, surged forward, swords at the ready.

They, too, were quickly covered by the tiny, enraged creatures.

Keel-Tath shuddered at the sound. It was not only the screams, but the clicking-hissing noises made by the creatures as they attacked.

“Pull back!” It was a voice that Keel-Tath recognized. Shil-Wular. “Withdraw! Now!”

Dara-Kol patted her on the shoulder. “It is time for us to go.”

Instead of heading right to the others, as Keel-Tath expected, Dara-Kol led her down into the gully toward the hive.

“What are you doing?” Keel-Tath could not help but be terrified.

“When the hive attacks, all but the queen and a small group of special warriors, guardians, leave the nest. The water is safe to take for as long as the rest of the hive is occupied.”

Letting her trust in Dara-Kol displace her own fear, Keel-Tath followed until the two of them were right below the breach in the hive made by Keel-Tath’s shrekka.

The two of them uncapped their water bags and held the openings to the water that still streamed from the hive. In short order, the bags were full.

“Come,” Dara-Kol said. The screams in the other gully were fading. “The churr-kamekh will be returning soon.”

With their bounty of water slung over their backs, they ran to rejoin the others.

***

Throughout the rest of the day, there was no sign of the queen’s warriors. Dara-Kol drove her charges mercilessly, taking breaks in the cool shadows of a handy gully only when Han-Ukha’i, who was not conditioned to such hardships, could go no farther.

Much to Keel-Tath’s surprise, Dara-Kol had not brought up the subject of treachery with the others. But there was no mistaking the penetrating gaze she gave each of the companions after they had rejoined the group, and she never let Keel-Tath stray more than a sword’s length from her side.

As evening came and the others looked forward to a much-needed break, Dara-Kol had another surprise for them.

“We will push on through the night,” she said to an incredulous group. Han-Ukha’i visibly sagged, but said nothing. The others, even Lihan-Hagir, groaned.

“May I ask why?” Ba’dur-Khan said, his voice carefully neutral. “You said we were much more likely to be attacked by predators. And from the sounds we have heard in the night since entering the wastelands, I can see why you advocated that caution. What now causes you to set it aside?”

“We need to increase the lead we have on those pursuing us. Traveling at night will also make it much more difficult for them to track us.” She paused. “We will also head northwest for a few days. They know we are heading for the coast, for there is nowhere else to go in the wastelands other than Ka’i-Nur, which lies southwest of us. Hopefully this little diversion will help us elude them.”

The others turned to look at Keel-Tath. “It will be as Dara-Kol says,” she told them firmly. “It will be difficult, but perhaps we will be able to take some rest in the morning.”

Dara-Kol nodded. “We will find a safe gully where it is cool, and I will find another hive where we can all refill our water bags.” While Dara-Kol and Keel-Tath had filled theirs and shared them around, the others were running perilously low.

“Let us go, then,” Keel-Tath said. “It is going to be a long night.”

***

In the darkness, their way lit only by the stars, for the Great Moon had not yet risen, the companions threaded their way through the endless forest of treacherous rock. They moved slowly and with great caution, making as little noise as possible. Around them, through the gullies and canyons, echoed the grunts and squeals of the things that had emerged from their daytime lairs to hunt. These were the most dangerous creatures of their world outside the oceans, for here there were no prey animals, only predators that fed on other predators.

“Dara-Kol,” Drakh-Nur said as the group huddled to partake of some dried meat and water, “why are we heading to the southwest? You said we would be going northwest. I know how to read the stars, and we have been going in the wrong direction.”

The others stopped chewing the tough meat and stared at their guide. Keel-Tath watched their expressions, looking for anything amiss, some clue as to the one who had betrayed them, but she could tell nothing. She could see their faces well enough in the dark, but they all showed equal measures of surprise.

“Yes, I did. But after some thought I decided that heading in the direction of Ka’i-Nur would be best. It is the home of the Dark Queen, and they would not expect us to go any closer to it than we must.”

“Thank you for letting us know.” Ri’al-Char’rah huffed as she took another bite of her meat.

“What difference would it make?” Keel-Tath tore off a strip of meat and stuffed it into her mouth. It was tough as the leatherite armor she wore and salty, but her mouth was awash in saliva, she was so hungry. “None of us know the way, so knowing the direction we take matters little.”

The others bowed to her logic, but they fell silent, unhappy.

When they were finished, Dara-Kol got them up and moving again. She and Keel-Tath had to help Han-Ukha’i to her feet.

“I am sorry, my mistress,” the healer said, and Keel-Tath could feel the echo of her shame in her blood. “I do not wish to be a burden.”

“That is the last thing you are in my eyes,” Keel-Tath told her. “I owe you a debt I can never repay.”

As usual, Dara-Kol took the lead, and they trudged onward. Keel-Tath was behind her, followed by Han-Ukha’i, then the hulking Drakh-Nur, Ba’dur-Khan, Ri’al-Char’rah, with Lihan-Hagir bringing up the rear.

Perhaps an hour had passed when Lihan-Hagir appeared at Dara-Kol’s side, making urgent gestures with his hands. Keel-Tath could see that his head was bleeding from a gash in his temple.

“Stop,” Dara-Kol whispered to the others.

Keel-Tath leaned closer, watching the mute warrior gesture. “What does he say?”

“Ri’al-Char’rah is gone.”

“How can she be gone?” Drakh-Nur rumbled, and Keel-Tath gestured for him to keep his voice down. He lowered his voice to what, for him, qualified as a whisper. “She cannot have simply disappeared!”

Looking back at Lihan-Hagir, Dara-Kol said, “She did not just disappear. Lihan-Hagir says she attacked him, then fled our company to find Shil-Wular and his warriors.” Bitterness clouded her voice and the song of her blood. “She has betrayed us to the Dark Queen.”

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Betrayal

“How

how can this be true?” Ba’dur-Khan looked ill as Han-Ukha’i tended Lihan-Hagir’s wound. “And why? What could compel her to betray us?”

“We may never know,” Keel-Tath said, trying to come to grips with her own disbelief. She had not known Ri’al-Char’rah well, of course, but nothing the young warrior had ever done or said, nothing in the song of her blood, had given the slightest indication that she was anything more or less than what she appeared to be. She turned to Dara-Kol. “What is important is what we do now.”

“I say we turn northwest,” Drakh-Nur suggested. “She will know that we are heading this direction, and will so say to Shil-Wular. Going northwest will throw them off our trail and put the most distance between us.”

“Why not simply go west, directly toward the sea?” Ba’dur-Khan countered. “We are wasting too much time with this diversion. If the queen sends enough warriors into the wastelands, she will eventually find us. Our only hope is to simply outdistance them and reach the coast as quickly as we can.”

“Both of those paths have merit,” Dara-Kol told them. “One thing is for certain: we dare not stay on our present course.” She turned to Keel-Tath. “Which path would you choose, mistress?”

Keel-Tath swallowed, not expecting to be faced with this particular decision. So far on this trek, they had placed their lives entirely in Dara-Kol’s hands. “I think

” She frowned, considering. “I believe we should head west. If the land were not so harsh, I would be more inclined to follow Drakh-Nur’s counsel. But every day we spend here is an agony for us all, with death close at hand even when trying to obtain water. Let us push hard to the west and leave the queen’s warriors behind us, hopefully heading southwest, in the wrong direction.”

“So shall it be done.” With one last look behind them, Dara-Kol turned to the west and resumed the cautious march through the dark wastelands.

With heavy hearts, the others followed behind her.

***

Other than short breaks to eat and take a drink of their precious water, Dara-Kol did not let them rest for another two full days. Han-Ukha’i passed out several times, and Drakh-Nur carried her.

At last, they reached an especially high ridge near dusk. Dara-Kol left them there while she scouted ahead. Keel-Tath, who was so exhausted she could barely stand, marveled at how Dara-Kol was still able to function. Nothing seemed to slow her down. The others were in somewhat better shape than Keel-Tath, but she could tell that even Drakh-Nur was nearing the end of his endurance.

After nearly an hour, judging from the positions of the stars, and just when Keel-Tath was getting worried, Dara-Kol returned.

“Come,” she said, beckoning them to follow. She led them down into an arroyo, then up the other side toward the telltale bulges of a large churr-kamekh hive. This one, however, had been ripped open. “It is empty. Sometimes a genoth, when desperate, will attack a hive for water and to eat the churr-kamekh larvae and the queen.”

“I thought you said the churr-kamekh can kill a genoth,” Keel-Tath breathed as she staggered up the steep slope toward the hive.

Dara-Kol stopped and pointed farther down the arroyo, where a set of huge bones lay, gleaming orange in the fading sunlight. “So they can. But if the genoth takes enough of the water or kills the queen, the hive dies. Other predators will often take over an empty hive for a lair, but in this case there was only a nest of gret-kamekh. We will be eating fresh meat tonight.”

Later, as they sat in the cool, dark cavern of the gutted hive, they feasted on the four gret-kamekh Dara-Kol had killed. The beasts had long, membranous wings that spanned the height of a warrior and could carry the creatures many leagues through the air, and when found in numbers they could be deadly. But these four, resting before taking wing in the night, were no match for Dara-Kol’s sword. The meat was tough and greasy, but Keel-Tath had never tasted anything so good in her life.

None of the companions had the strength to carry on a conversation, nor was there anything to say. Once they sated themselves on the meat and the water from the hive’s cistern, they collapsed, exhausted.

The last thing Keel-Tath saw before she closed her eyes was Dara-Kol, watching her.

***

In Keel-Tath’s dream, the Homeworld was being torn apart. Great cities, fantastic constructs of pyramids, domes, and spires that reached high into the sky, were shattered by titanic explosions. Some of the energy was absorbed by the shields created by the builders, but it was not enough to avert disaster. Not nearly enough. One by one, the cities were reduced to rubble in the glare of fireballs that reached from the ground into near space, and with each one, millions of lives were snuffed out, their songs erased from Keel-Tath’s blood in an instant.

The Great Moon overhead was not the dead artifact Keel-Tath had always known. A billion souls lived there, as they had for thousands of years, in cities every bit as grand as those on the Homeworld itself. But these, too, were being destroyed. Explosions bloomed across the moon’s face, and the bombardment did not stop until every life there had been extinguished, every city destroyed, every structure reduced to dust. The moon glowed orange and red where its crust had been ruptured, leaving wounds that would not close for several thousand years.

In the space around the Homeworld and the Great Moon were thousands of warships in a dance of death, an orgy of slaughter the likes of which her race had never known. And though it was beyond her sight, she knew that similar devastation was occurring on the worlds of the Settlements, far away among the stars.

There was no strategy now, no plan for victory, for any hope of winning this war had long since fled. The warring factions knew that the only thing awaiting them was destruction, and their only hope was that they could destroy their enemies before they themselves fell into the abyss. None of those doing the fighting now, at the end of the Second Age, could even remember how the war, this final annihilation, began. They only knew how it must end.

The people, those who fought and those who were victims of the fighting, had prayed to the old gods for deliverance, but the old gods had betrayed them. The people cursed the gods, and as the end loomed near, the religion of old was destroyed as the people realized their gods were false, nothing more than wishful imagination. False gods could not save them.

The final heaving cataclysms destroyed the wonders of the First and Second Ages, and only a few of the Settlements, which had once numbered in the hundreds, survived as more than glowing lumps of slag drifting in space. The Great Moon was nothing more than an ugly, scarred monument to the dead.

As the heat and glare of the last weapons subsided, the ancient martial orders, which were once little more than curious sanctuaries for the socially challenged, emerged to salvage what was left of civilization. Harnessing the powers of the seven ancient crystals of power, so old that they were legend in the First Age, they set the survivors on the path of what became the Way. And while combat and war, which had always been in the blood of the people, remained a way of life, the bloodshed was held in balance, and the priesthoods would never allow the followers of the Way to totter on the brink of destruction.

All these things Keel-Tath saw in her dream, even as she realized that it was not a dream, but memories from the living and beyond-the-dead eyes of Anuir-Ruhal’te. Keel-Tath could feel a sliver of the ancient oracle’s soul in hers, as surely as she could still feel the scar from where the shard of the crystal heart had sliced her palm. Anuir-Ruhal’te’s followers had spirited her away somehow to the underground crypt before the end of the Final Annihilation to keep her spirit safe until it was time for her to reveal herself once again. Only that time never came, because the vessel of her spirit was destroyed in the final fall of bombs upon the Homeworld.

In Keel-Tath’s mind the flashes of light and the crash of explosions never stopped. Nor did the anguish and fear in her blood, the screaming

“Keel-Tath! Wake up!”

Her eyes snapped open. In the darkness, it took her a moment to remember where she was.

A blinding flash exploded outside the hive, followed by a deafening boom that echoed through the rocky arroyos. Then another, and another. Water cascaded through the top of the hive, where the long-dead churr-kamekh had created channels to take it to the hive’s cistern. And through it all could be heard a deep-throated roar like a thing alive, the sound of water raging somewhere outside.

But the storm itself could not explain the sense of fear she felt in her blood. It took her another glimpse through a strobe of lightning, squinting against the glare, to understand. In that instant she saw Dara-Kol on the floor of the hive, the handle of a dagger protruding from her stomach, just below the breast plate. Alive or dead, Keel-Tath was not sure.

Reacting on instinct, defending against something half-seen in the corner of her eye, Keel-Tath drew the long dagger at her side and brought it up in a blocking motion as she stepped back. The move saved her life as a sword crashed against her smaller blade, but the force was sufficient to break her grip on the dagger. It flew off into the darkness, and sent her stumbling back to land beside Dara-Kol.

Another series of flashes lit the hive, and she saw Ba’dur-Khan grappling in stop-motion with Lihan-Hagir. She had no idea who was friend and who was foe, for she had not seen her attacker clearly.

There was also no sign of Drakh-Nur or Han-Ukha’i.

Drawing her father’s sword, willing herself to be strong enough to wield it, she was stricken with fear as Ba’dur-Khan and Lihan-Hagir continued their battle in the lightning-lit darkness. Which one was the enemy?

The next flash of lightning brought an unpleasant revelation. The dagger sticking from Dara-Kol’s belly belonged to Ba’dur-Khan.

Dashing forward three paces, guided by the flashes of lightning that showed Ba’dur-Khan hammering Lihan-Hagir to his knees, she thrust her father’s blade through Ba’dur-Khan’s back plate, right through his heart.

With his sword poised above Lihan-Hagir, who had lost his own weapon, Ba’dur-Khan crumpled to the floor, dead. His weapon clattered to the floor as she stomped on his back and yanked her father’s sword — her sword, now — from his body.

Another flash of lightning showed Lihan-Hagir looking up at her with wide eyes, a look of utter disbelief on his face.

“Help me with Dara-Kol!” Keel-Tath had to shout to be heard above the howling, booming storm.

Making her way back to her fallen protector, Keel-Tath knelt down. In another flash of light she could see that Dara-Kol’s eyes had opened, and her lips were open, as if she was speaking, but no words could be heard. Keel-Tath leaned down, putting her ear to her lips.

“Lihan-Hagir

”

That was all she could make out. It was more than enough for Keel-Tath to know that she had made a dreadful, horrible mistake. In that moment, she froze in horror.

Something slammed into her back, driving her down on top of Dara-Kol just as something else crushed her sword hand. She screamed in pain and rage, but a brutal blow to the back of her skull silenced her.

Stunned, she was flipped onto her back, and the next cyan explosion of lightning illuminated Lihan-Hagir’s face above hers. She watched, unable to move, as he reached over and pulled Ba’dur-Khan’s dagger from Dara-Kol with a cruel twisting motion. Dara-Kol gasped and weakly grappled for the bloody blade, but Lihan-Hagir, expressionless, batted her hands away.

With one last pause, waiting for another flash of lightning to make sure of his aim, Lihan-Hagir raised the dagger.

In the same pulse of light, Keel-Tath saw something behind him, something that he could not see. In the next flash of light, she saw Drakh-Nur’s sword, frozen in the instant that it sliced through Lihan-Hagir’s neck.

Keel-Tath’s face was sprayed with hot, coppery blood, and the weight of her would-be killer’s body fell on top of her as his head rolled to one side.

With a cry of anguish and despair, she rolled his body away and sat up, just as Drakh-Nur dropped to his knees in front of her. Another flicker of light showed that he was bleeding badly from a stab wound in his side.

She wanted to rage, wanted to fling herself into a blazing pyre, so wracked with guilt was she over having killed Ba’dur-Khan, who was trying to protect her. But her training, her sense of duty, overrode her guilt. For the moment.

“Where is Han-Ukha’i?” She held Drakh-Nur by the shoulders, afraid that he, too, would collapse to the floor, unconscious.

“Lihan-Hagir threw her from the hive.” She did not need to hear the grief in his voice. Touching him seemed to enhance the strength of his song in her blood, and he, too, was torn with guilt. “I tried to find her, but came back when I heard Ba’dur-Khan shouting your name.”

“I must find her!” She made to stand up, but Drakh-Nur held her arms.

“She is lost, mistress! The arroyos are awash in a flash flood from the storm. She has been washed away!”

It might be true, but Keel-Tath knew that Han-Ukha’i was still alive. She could sense her fear. And if they were to have any hope at all of survival, she had to find the healer. Dara-Kol and Drakh-Nur would both die, otherwise, and Keel-Tath had little hope of surviving the rest of the journey to the Western Sea on her own.

“She is alive! Let me search for her!”

Reluctantly, the giant warrior let her go.

Dashing to the opening of the hive, Keel-Tath looked outside. She may as well have been standing on the deck of a ship in the middle of an angry sea. The rain came down so heavily she could barely see past her fingertips, and only a few arm-lengths below the hive the water churned and frothed. An animal of some sort, bloated in death, swept by, and she was astonished at how quickly it disappeared from her sight. She knew that she had power over water, but did not know how to properly control it. In the underground river she had nearly died. Here, she surely would.

“Han-Ukha’i!” Her shout was lost in the howling wind that drove the rain against her in pounding sheets. “Han-Ukha’i!”

She leaned farther out of the opening and set one foot on the rock wall where they had climbed up. It was slick as ice, and she slipped from the hive, nearly plunging into the waters below before she caught herself on the edge of the opening.

But had she not fallen, she would not have seen the hand that still gripped the edge of one of the rocky spires just downstream from where Keel-Tath was hanging.

With a surge of determination, Keel-Tath edged hand-over-hand along the opening to the hive, then dropped down to the slope below. Driving her talons into the rock, she clung there, gasping in fear of the water that rushed past, just below her feet. She made her way, a hand-breadth at a time, toward the spire where the hand still clung. Keel-Tath prayed for lightning as she moved in the darkness, for without it everything was lost in seething darkness.

Keel-Tath took a deep breath and slid down into the water, letting it carry her to the spire. Gripping the rock, she cried out as the sharp edge sliced right through the leatherite of her gauntlets. The pain only fueled her determination.

“Han-Ukha’i!” She could feel the healer’s body next to her own. “Can you move?”

“I

I do not know, mistress.” The healer’s voice was weak. The water was cold, and there was no telling how long she had been down here, holding on for dear life.

“Wrap your arms around my neck!”

“You will drown, mistress!”

“Do as I command!”

With a series of desperate, jerky motions, Han-Ukha’i did as she was told. Keel-Tath gasped at the strain, for the healer was larger than she, and the force of the water against them seemed to double.

With a howl of effort, Keel-Tath pulled them out of the water, using the rocky spire for leverage. The edge lacerated her hands, but she ignored the pain, and instead tried to hook the edges of the metal plates of her armor onto the rock, using them to pull herself up.

Bit by bit, her talons biting just far enough into the face of the rock to hold them, she made her way toward the base of the hive. More than once she slipped and nearly sent both of them plunging to their doom. But each time she held on. She was determined that she would not die with the stain of Ba’dur-Khan’s death on her honor.

At last she reached the hive. It was so close, just the length of an outstretched arm above them, but she had no strength left. Every muscle in her body was spent, burning and shaking. There was no way she could climb up by herself, let alone with Han-Ukha’i on her back.

“Han-Ukha’i,” she gasped. “Can you reach the opening?”

“No, mistress. I have no more strength! I fear that if I let go of you

I will fall.”

“You must try, or we will both perish. I cannot hold for long!”

“No, my mistress. I will not let you die for me.”

Keel-Tath screamed as she felt Han-Ukha’i’s arms go slack and her body slid down and away into the dark maelstrom around them.

“No

” Keel-Tath dropped her face against the water-slick rock. It had all been for nothing. Everything since her birth, all that had been suffered by so many had been for nothing. Anuir-Ruhal’te’s prophecy had been a cruel hoax for them all.

Lost to despair, wishing that she could have said goodbye to Ayan-Dar, she relaxed her hands and let go.

The Dark Queen had won.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Revelation

Just as her feet touched the roiling waters below, something seized Keel-Tath’s hand and pulled so hard her shoulder joint cracked in protest. With a cry of surprise, she looked up into the swirling darkness above her to see Drakh-Nur’s pain-stricken face illuminated in the glare of a nearby lightning strike.

Reaching up with her other hand, she grabbed his forearm as he pulled her up, rolling away from the edge of the hive and pulling her with him. She wound up on top of him. He was gasping in pain, unable to speak.

Beside him was Han-Ukha’i. He had pulled her up, too.

“Drakh-Nur, thank you.” Keel-Tath did something she had never done before to anyone. She pulled herself up his massive chest and kissed him lightly on the lips.

His eyes blinked open in surprise. “For that, mistress,” he rasped, barely audible against the howling wind and rain, “I will take a sword to the belly any day.”

Turning to Han-Ukha’i, Keel-Tath said, “Can you help him? And is Dara-Kol still alive?”

“Yes, mistress.” The healer was still panting, and in the flickering light Keel-Tath could see that she was in little better shape than their two wounded companions. The healer’s hands were bleeding badly, and she was shivering with cold from being in the water.

Keel-Tath moved next to her and wrapped her arms around the healer’s shivering body, trying to give her what little warmth she could. She very badly wanted to know the details of what had taken place this terrible night, but the survival of her companions came first.

“I can stop their bleeding,” Han-Ukha’i said through chattering teeth, “but I cannot heal them completely. I am too weak

”

“Keep them and yourself alive.”

“Help me to Dara-Kol. Drakh-Nur is weak, but he is in no immediate danger.”

Keel-Tath wrapped one of the healer’s arms over her shoulder and helped her to where Dara-Kol lay still.

“Is she still alive?” Keel-Tath took one of her protector’s hands in her own, holding it tight. She thought she could still hear the warrior’s song in her blood, but was not sure.

“Barely.” Han-Ukha’i took the healing gel and forced it into the wound in Dara-Kol’s stomach. Han-Ukha’i put one hand on Dara-Kol’s forehead and the other over her heart and stayed that way, silent, for some time.

Dara-Kol moaned, and her eyes flickered open. “Mistress?”

“I am here.” Keel-Tath squeezed her hand, and was delighted that she squeezed back.

“Lihan-Hagir?”

“Dead. Drakh-Nur killed him. Drakh-Nur is wounded, but will live.”

She nodded. “Ba’dur-Khan?”

Keel-Tath closed her eyes at the mention of his name. “I saw his dagger in your belly and thought

and thought it was he who had betrayed us. He was fighting Lihan-Hagir, had him on his knees, when I ran him through with my father’s sword.”

She let go Dara-Kol’s hand and put both her hands to her face, wanting to claw her eyes out at the memory of the feeling of the sword piercing Ba’dur-Khan’s armor, tearing through his heart. The only thing for which she was thankful was that he had been turned away from her, that she had not had to see the look on his face as he beheld his killer.

“I thought it was him, too,” Dara-Kol said, pulling Keel-Tath’s hands away. “Lihan-Hagir found the perfect time to strike and fooled us all. I awoke to blinding pain in my belly. The two of them were already fighting, and Drakh-Nur and Han-Ukha’i were gone.”

“He dragged me to the edge of the hive and threw me off.” Han-Ukha’i’s voice shook as her hands worked the healing gel into Dara-Kol’s wound. “Drakh-Nur heard my screams and came to my aid.”

“I could see nothing,” the voice of the giant echoed in the darkness. He had dragged himself closer, and lay beside Han-Ukha’i. “I thought she had fallen, or perhaps an animal had taken her. Then I saw Ba’dur-Khan’s dagger in a flash of lightning, just before it was rammed home in my side.”

“At least you were on your feet,” Dara-Kol told him. “He stabbed me while I was still asleep.”

“Now we know the truth of Ri’al-Char’rah’s disappearance,” Drakh-Nur rumbled. “He must have killed her, too.”

“But how could this happen?” Keel-Tath demanded. “He swore his honor and his sword to me. How could he betray me, betray us?”

“It is the Dark Queen, child,” Han-Ukha’i told her as she pressed around Dara-Kol’s abdomen. Satisfied, she summoned the symbiont from the warrior’s body and leaned over Drakh-Nur to tend his wound. “She somehow holds power over certain warriors in a way no one understands. It is the same as Shil-Wular.”

“Do you think she did something to Lihan-Hagir when she took him prisoner, something more than simply cutting out his tongue?”

“That, mistress, I do not know.”

“I would have you look at his body once you are done.”

“As you command, mistress.”

Keel-Tath felt another wave of guilt at asking such a thing of a healer, especially one so utterly spent as was Han-Ukha’i. Very rarely were they ever asked to touch the dead, and it was never a thing taken lightly. The symbionts told them everything about a body, and she could not imagine the story that a dead body, even fresh, might tell.

But in Lihan-Hagir’s case, there must be something. There had to be. While Lihan-Hagir had been an honorless one, he had not in fact been without honor. None of them were, in Keel-Tath’s estimation. They were forsaken, forgotten, but they were not animals. And he had lived and fought with Dara-Kol for years. She had trusted him, and in all that time he had never given her reason to doubt his loyalty until now.

“There,” Han-Ukha’i pronounced as she finished with Drakh-Nur. “Neither of you,” she spoke to him and Dara-Kol, “are fully healed, but you will not bleed if you are careful. When I am rested, I will tend to your wounds in more detail.” She paused. “I am ready, mistress.”

Keel-Tath took Han-Ukha’i’s hands, which had themselves been healed as she handled the symbiont, and led her by the light of the flashes from outside to where Lihan-Hagir’s body lay. The head was off to one side, staring sightless at the ceiling of the hive.

With a shudder, Han-Ukha’i knelt down beside the remains. Kneading the symbiont for a few moments until it was thin to the point of being translucent and broad enough to cover Lihan-Hagir’s body, she draped it over him. The oozing mass found all the gaps in his armor and soaked into his flesh, and Han-Ukha’i moaned as she communed with it.

A few minutes later, it began to ooze out the severed neck through the windpipe, and Han-Ukha’i gathered it up in her hands.

“There is nothing, mistress. All is as I would expect it to be.”

Keel-Tath swallowed the bile that rose in the back of her throat. “The head, Han-Ukha’i.”

On her knees, her tattered robes dragging on the bottom of the hive, the healer turned to face Lihan-Hagir’s severed head. In the strobe of lightning, the braids of his hair spread out across the floor made his head look like some abominable creature. In a way, it was.

Han-Ukha’i gathered up the braids and coiled them around the head. The hair of their race was far more than filaments of protein. The braids bound those born of each bloodline together, the embodiment of the empathic link they shared through their blood.

She again kneaded the symbiont into a thin mass that was large enough to cover the head and the coiled braids, then lay it down on top of the unsightly mass. She knelt there in silence for a moment, then cried out in fear and revulsion.

“What is it?” Keel-Tath held her as Han-Ukha’i shuddered, then turned to one side and vomited on the floor.

The symbiont flooded out of Lihan-Hagir’s mouth, far faster than Keel-Tath had ever seen healing gel move. It was as if the thing was as repelled by the act as was Han-Ukha’i.

“What

” Keel-Tath began to ask again, but Han-Ukha’i shook her head and held up her hand for silence.

Taking Lihan-Hagir’s head in her hands, she turned it over to show where the braids met the scalp. One of them, the third, was odd. A finger’s length from the scalp, the braid was parting. The hair looked as if it was melted. Han-Ukha’i took hold of it and the braid came away in her hand.

“This is not his hair,” she rasped. “It was bound to him by some dark art, the likes of which I have never seen.”

“Give it to me.”

Han-Ukha’i handed it to her, and as soon as Keel-Tath touched it, a wave of nausea crashed over her. In her blood she could sense the one who hated her, who had hunted her since the day she had been born.

Syr-Nagath. It was her hair, somehow bonded to Lihan-Hagir like a parasite.

***

Syr-Nagath jammed her fists to her temples and screamed in pain. Those gathered around her for the council of war sat back, stunned and afraid as their queen shot to her feet and staggered about the chamber.

“Get out,” she finally rasped. “All of you, out!”

Without a word, her vassals fled, sending fearful glances in her direction. Only her First remained, kneeling by the door.

“Ale,” the Dark Queen croaked. “Then leave me.”

The First quickly poured her a mug of ale, then departed, closing the doors quietly behind her.

Now the white-haired whelp knows, Syr-Nagath thought, her blood boiling in barely controlled rage as she took a long swig of the bitter brew. She may not know the extent of the power I hold on the taken ones, but she knows they exist. She knew that if Keel-Tath revealed that secret to the priesthoods, they would no doubt seek Syr-Nagath’s own head. Assuming, of course, that they believed her.

“No,” she assured herself. “They would not believe her unless they forced it from her.” Had a priest discovered the secret, it would have been different.

But the priesthoods feared the child, and they had been pathetically easy to manipulate. She grinned, her face twisting into a feral expression that would have had her First shivering with terror. For all their proclaimed wisdom and power, the high priests and priestesses were like children who fell prey to nightmares after whispering fearful stories to them in the dark, when they should be truly afraid of the predator that silently stalked them. Keel-Tath was such an obvious threat to their ages-old Way, trumpeted by the prophecy of Anuir-Ruhal’te and that fool of a one-armed Desh-Ka priest, that they were completely blind to her own machinations.

Yes, she thought. The whelp would know that Syr-Nagath had hidden eyes, ears, and claws. And while the child was beyond reach for now, the knowledge, in the end, would not save her from doom.

***

Keel-Tath could sense the Dark Queen’s surprise, and in that instant of vulnerability Keel-Tath focused her rage and anguish through that momentary bridge between them, just as she had sent the underground river smashing through the ancient crypt of Anuir-Ruhal’te. She was rewarded with a sensation of shock and pain from her nemesis.

Then, before Syr-Nagath had recovered, Keel-Tath balled up the hair and threw it out into the roaring water.

“I am sorry, Han-Ukha’i, to ask that of you. But it was necessary. Now we know more about the enemy we face. Go now and rest.”

“Yes, mistress.”

Keel-Tath helped the healer to her feet and led her back to where Dara-Kol and Drakh-Nur lay.

“The Dark Queen somehow bound some of her hair to his third braid,” Keel-Tath told them. “That was how she controlled him, and I suspect that is how she controls those like Shil-Wular.”

“Then there is a way to tell if someone has fallen under her spell?” Dara-Kol asked.

“No,” Han-Ukha’i rasped. “I considered that when I discovered what she had done. But I examined Lihan-Hagir closely when I treated the wound to his head inflicted by Ri’al-Char’rah. All seven braids were as they should have been. Only in death would this deception be revealed.”

“You are certain?”

“Yes, mistress. There is no doubt.”

The four of them were silent for a moment, before Keel-Tath stood and made her way to Ba’dur-Khan’s body. Kneeling beside him, putting her head on his chest, she said softly, “I am sorry, Ba’dur-Khan, so sorry. You saved our lives, and I cannot even give you a warrior’s funeral. But I will not leave your body here as a feast for the animals. I hope that your spirit may forgive me for what I have done, and what I must now do.”

Taking hold of his hand, she dragged him to the hole in the side of the hive. Praying that there was truly an afterlife and that his soul would find its way, she rolled his body into the water and watched as it quickly disappeared, bobbing among the debris that was being carried downstream by the torrent.

She stared after him for a long time, an idea slowly forming in her mind.

***

The rain hammered down until well after dawn, when the light filtering through the dense clouds was just enough to see by.

The arroyo was flush with water, which was running just below the entrance to the hive. It was moving more slowly now, or so it appeared as Keel-Tath watched. More debris had drifted by: a variety of animals, most of which she had never seen; some plants, also which she had never seen before; and even a few large tree branches with enormous leaves. Where they had come from in the wastelands, she could not hazard a guess.

The others were still resting, and she dreaded having to rouse them. She had been unable to sleep, and her mind had been churning the entire time, an infernal calculating machine working on an insoluble problem.

But there is a solution, she told herself. It is simply not a pleasant or elegant one.

As the rain slowed to a light patter, she got to her feet and went to where the others lay. “Rise, my friends,” she said.

Dara-Kol’s eyes blinked open, although it took her a moment to focus on Keel-Tath. Drakh-Nur, too, opened his eyes and groaned. Han-Ukha’i, however, remained sound asleep. Keel-Tath took her shoulder and gently shook her. With a moan, the healer awoke.

“My mistress?” Dara-Kol asked, wincing as she propped herself up on her elbows.

“I have a proposition,” Keel-Tath said. The others waited for her to go on. “We must assume that Lihan-Hagir left a trail, and that Shil-Wular will soon find this place.”

“True, mistress,” Dara-Kol said, “but they must wait until the waters recede. Not even a genoth can travel far at the height of such a flood. But the waters will recede quickly.”

“And who among us thinks we can outdistance Shil-Wular’s warriors once that happens? You and Drakh-Nur are still badly injured, and Han-Ukha’i is terribly weak. Our provisions are gone.” The others exchanged a look, surprised. “Yes, Lihan-Hagir threw our packs out, probably before he tried to kill Han-Ukha’i. That way, even if he failed to kill us in our sleep, we would likely starve.”

“We can probably kill enough animals to keep ourselves alive,” Dara-Kol said, “but hunting the hunters in the wastelands is always a great risk.”

Drakh-Nur sat up, suppressing a groan as he held his hand over his side. “What is it that you propose, mistress?”

“That we use the flood waters to our advantage,” Keel-Tath told them. “That we let the water carry us toward the sea.”

The others stared at her as if churr-kamekh had begun pouring from her mouth.

“Keel-Tath,” Dara-Kol told her, “the waters indeed run toward the west and eventually reach the sea. But in between are rapids and waterfalls, and nearer the coast these canyons empty into one of two great rivers teeming with fish.”

“We would leave the water long before then.” Keel-Tath frowned. “As for the rapids and waterfalls, all I know is that we will likely fare better against them than a cohort led by Shil-Wular. And I would rather die here in the wastelands than at the hand of the Dark Queen.”

“The Way of the warrior is to die,” Drakh-Nur said. “I would prefer in battle, but I will follow you wherever you would go, mistress.”

“And I.” Han-Ukha’i radiated intense fear, and Keel-Tath reached out and held her hands. “Death comes for us in the end, no matter what we do. But I would rather brave the waters outside than have my hair shorn for betraying Syr-Nagath.”

“Your father and mother would be proud of you,” Dara-Kol said, and Keel-Tath bowed her head.

“We only have one difficulty to overcome,” Drakh-Nur said. “How to keep ourselves from drowning.”

“I have an idea,” Keel-Tath said.

Drakh-Nur glanced at Dara-Kol, a wry grin on his face as he bared his fangs. “And I cannot wait to hear it.”

***

“Were there gods to pray to, I would ask them to wake me from this nightmare.” Drakh-Nur stood at the edge of the opening to the hive, staring at the water that was only an arm’s length below his feet. The edge of the rock was still slick, for the rain still fell sporadically, and trickles of water ran down to join the torrent. Above, the clouds still blocked the sun, and a heavy mist had settled upon the ridges surrounding the canyon.

Han-Ukha’i clung to him, and he had one massive arm wrapped around her. She was clearly terrified. No doubt, Keel-Tath thought, from her earlier brush with death.

Keel-Tath, on her other side, leaned close and said, “We can do this!”

The healer nodded, but made no reply. Her eyes were fixed on the roiling dark brown water.

Dara-Kol was on the other side of Keel-Tath, a grim expression on her face as she carefully watched the water.

The three warriors had stripped out of their recently crafted armor and cast it all into the water. Han-Ukha’i had done the same with the rags that were all that was left of her once pristine robes. The four stood clothed only in their black undergarments and sandals. The three warriors carried only their swords, strapped to their backs, and the daggers on the belts around their waists. They had cleaned out the hive, except for a message Keel-Tath had carved into the stone, a message for the Dark Queen: Your soul shall forever rot in endless darkness.

“Remember,” Dara-Kol, who stood on the upstream end, watching for what Keel-Tath had told her to look for, “we have only one chance at this!”

The others nodded. While it had been Keel-Tath’s idea, she had given responsibility of the timing to Dara-Kol, who had done something similarly rash years before.

They only had one chance, of course, because none of them knew how to swim. If they failed in what they were about to attempt, they would drown.

“There!”

Around the corner of the canyon swept a bloated form, a young genoth whose body was already expanding with the work of microbes, tiny things that could not be seen with the naked eye, but that the healers had always assured Keel-Tath were everywhere around them.

Han-Ukha’i whimpered, and both Keel-Tath and Drakh-Nur held her now.

“Ready

” Dara-Kol tensed, and Keel-Tath hoped what they were about to do would not reopen her wound, or the one in Drakh-Nur’s side. “Ready

now!”

The ill-fated beast swept by, faster than Keel-Tath would have credited. But there was no time to think, only act.

Together, the four of them leaped from the hive into the water beside the carcass. They tried to drive their talons into its flesh so they could hang on, but the genoth’s scales were as hard and slick as metal, and their hands slipped from the beast’s armored hide.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

New Friends

As Keel-Tath’s hands slid down the side of the dead monster, all she could think of was that she had led herself and her companions to disaster.

“No!” She bared her fangs in desperation and clawed with her hands against the hard scales of the genoth’s back.

“Dig your talons under the sides of the scales!” Dara-Kol’s shout was barely audible over Han-Ukha’i’s screams.

Keel-Tath scrabbled at the side of the beast, trying to do as Dara-Kol said, but to no avail. Dara-Kol grabbed her by the arm to keep her from slipping away in the current, just as Keel-Tath lost her grip on Han-Ukha’i.

“Your dagger!” Dara-Kol shouted. “Use your dagger!”

Reaching to her belt, Keel-Tath pulled out her dagger and plunged it into the genoth’s side. The armored scales deflected the tip of the blade into the joint where two scales overlapped. There, driven by the force of the blow, the weapon plunged into the skin and muscle below. “Let go of me!”

Dara-Kol released her other arm in time for Keel-Tath to reach out and grab Han-Ukha’i’s hand as she swept past. Drakh-Nur had been holding onto her, but his own grip had slipped and he’d been forced to let the healer go lest they both fall away.

Pulling with all her might, Keel-Tath managed to get the panicked healer close enough to the dagger that Han-Ukha’i could grab hold of it.

After a great deal of effort that left them panting and exhausted, the four of them were finally on top of the carcass with firm holds on the three daggers that now acted as anchors to their macabre raft.

“I would tell you truly,” Drakh-Nur gasped, “that I hate water.”

“You have not seen anything yet, old friend,” Dara-Kol told him. “Wait until we face the Western Sea.”

“Do not speak of it!” Han-Ukha’i was in the center, the other three around her, helping to steady her as she had no dagger of her own to hold. “But I am with Drakh-Nur. If I never see more water than what I may drink from a cup, I would be happy beyond words.”

Dara-Kol looked at Keel-Tath and offered a tired grin. “I question your sanity, mistress, but this will keep us out of reach of our enemies, providing we are not killed by whatever perils await us downstream.”

***

The current was fast, much faster than they could have walked even over level ground. Keel-Tath had no way to be sure, but she guessed they had gone at least ten leagues in the first hour. The ride was a swirling, jostling nightmare, but despite the disturbing nature of their travel, her spirits rose with the passage of time. She did not for a moment think they were going to make it all the way to the sea this way, but every league left Shil-Wular and his warriors that much farther behind. Unless they adopted a similar insane strategy, there was no way they would be able to catch up.

What surprised her was that they seemed to be catching up to the storm. It was raining again, and soon it was pouring so hard she could barely see beyond her outstretched arm. The lightning was not as intense as it had been the night before, but still tore through the sky now and again.

“Is being back in the storm good or bad?” She had to shout to Dara-Kol.

“I do not know. I have never seen a storm as bad as this!”

That was certainly not what Keel-Tath wanted to hear, and she decided not to say anything more. Instead, she turned her head and looked at Han-Ukha’i, who lay beside her, clinging to one of Keel-Tath’s arms. “How do you fare?”

“I am cold, mistress,” Han-Ukha’i said, her voice and the song of her blood echoing intense misery, “so terribly cold.”

“When we reach the coast,” Keel-Tath promised, “we will build a bonfire that will reach the Great Moon to warm ourselves.”

“I would like that, mistress.” Then she closed her eyes against the rain and pressed her face against the gray scales of the genoth.

The hours wore on as they rode westward. The worst parts of the passage were when the genoth’s body slammed against the wall where the canyon made a sharp turn. The rocky spires, too, were a menace. While many of them were snapped off or were far below the level of the water, others were like knives standing on end in the current. Drakh-Nur almost lost a leg to one when it sheared halfway through the genoth’s neck.

The incident made Keel-Tath realize that the rocky spires that were such a feature of the landscape of the Great Wastelands must somehow grow taller, otherwise they would have long ago been worn down to nothing by the wind and rain.

It was an idle thought that occupied a few moments of an otherwise unpleasant and frightening journey. While the ride was rough, the water was so high that they floated over what would otherwise have been rapids and even small waterfalls, any one of which could have brought their escape to a brutal end.

The day passed into night, and still they rode downstream. The water course from the original canyon where they had begun had joined with others, and by what Keel-Tath guessed must be near midnight they were riding on a much more tranquil body of water. She could see nothing at all through the dark and rain, but she no longer felt as if she was going to be thrown off at any moment by the roiling water.

Beside her, she was sure Han-Ukha’i had fallen asleep, and she wrapped an arm over her to hold her steady. Drakh-Nur, she found, had already wrapped a tree-trunk sized arm over the slender healer, and Keel-Tath took comfort from his presence. None of them had spoken for hours. It was enough to hang on and try to breathe through the downpour.

Sometime during the night, Keel-Tath herself must have fallen asleep, for she awoke to find the rain had stopped and the clouds, still gray, thinning above them, letting enough light through that they could see their surroundings.

“Where are we?” She asked.

“In the Nyan-Gol River, I think,” Dara-Kol said. She was sitting up now, and Keel-Tath joined her after making sure that Han-Ukha’i, still asleep, as was Drakh-Nur, would not roll off the dead beast.

Keel-Tath’s stomach growled. “I am so hungry I feel I could eat half this genoth.”

“And so our fates would be sealed, drowning after our mistress ate our raft.”

Keel-Tath laughed. It felt good to laugh. It felt good to be alive. “How far from the coast do you think we are?”

“I am not sure, but we cannot be far. The river here is very wide, nearly a league across, and on the shore are trees like those found along the coast. We have certainly left the Great Wastelands behind.”

“For that, I am eternally relieved.”

“As am I, mistress, but we are faced with another challenge.” Dara-Kol eyed the water around them. “We must get to shore, and sooner rather than later.”

Keel-Tath could see nothing in the brown, muddy water, but a trickle of fear ran down her spine. The closer they came to the sea, the sooner they would encounter deadly fish. And they were riding on a giant corpse that was leaking the scent of blood and death into the water. “Yes,” she said uneasily. “Sooner is much preferred.” She did not want to think what would happen if they had to venture into the water with fish flocking to the dead genoth.

Keel-Tath turned and roused their two companions. Drakh-Nur rose with a grumble, putting his hand to his side. He was bleeding again. Han-Ukha’i came awake quickly enough, and seemed in better spirits when she saw that they were not being thrown about.

“We approach the sea, and need to do what we can to reach the river bank.”

Han-Ukha’i peered at the brush and tree lined shore, perhaps a quarter league distant. “What should we do?”

“We must get in the water and kick our legs,” Dara-Kol told them. Both Drakh-Nur and Han-Ukha’i looked at the water, terror in their eyes. “There are no fish here,” she reassured them. “Not yet. But that is why we must get to shore as soon as we can. For obvious reasons.”

That was enough to convince them. The four clambered down the genoth’s belly, gingerly lowering themselves into the water as they held onto its legs. It happened to be turned with its back facing the nearer shoreline, and they began to kick their legs in the water.

“Do not kick hard,” Dara-Kol counseled. “Do not exhaust yourself. Slow and steady, and we may be able to move it enough to get to water shallow enough to stand.”

“And if we cannot?” Han-Ukha’i’s feet were churning the water, and Keel-Tath wondered how long it would be before she was utterly exhausted.

“Do any of you know how to swim?”

The others shook their heads.

“Then we had best kick harder.”

***

“We are not getting any closer to shore.” Keel-Tath spoke in a whisper, hoping that only Dara-Kol could hear. They had been in the water for what seemed like hours, but she knew it had not been so long. But the river was carrying them to the sea much faster than they were pushing the genoth’s dead weight closer to shore.

“We are, but not fast enough.”

Drakh-Nur, who was not faring so well after the stab wound in his side reopened, gasped. “Something brushed by my leg!”

That set everyone on edge. The big warrior began to claw his way back onto the genoth, and Han-Ukha’i made to follow suit.

“No!” Dara-Kol told them. “We cannot stay here. The corpse will draw the fish. We have to reach shore.”

“But how?” Drakh-Nur was angry and not a little bit afraid.

“We must swim.” Dara-Kol let go of the genoth and drifted free, keeping herself afloat with graceful sweeps of her arms through the water while kicking with her legs. Before the others could protest, she went on, “I know you have not been taught. Be calm. Let me find out where we can make a landing.”

With that, she swam around their makeshift raft toward the shore. Every once in a while she dove under, then resurfaced. Finally, perhaps twenty or thirty arm lengths from the raft, she turned to face them. “You can stand on the bottom here! Then we can wade ashore.”

Keel-Tath saw that there was still quite some distance to cover to reach the trees from where Dara-Kol was standing, but she realized that the shore was actually part of a very gently sloped hill. The river was so high that the normal river bank was probably somewhere farther away from them, out closer to the center of the river.

Dara-Kol swam back.

“When did you learn to swim?” Keel-Tath asked her.

“When I was a child. It was a skill I used to help your father once. Remind me one day and I will tell you about it. But now you must trust me and do as I say.”

Keel-Tath nodded.

“Let go of the genoth, then hold your arms by your side and kick your legs.”

Taking a deep breath, expecting to drown, Keel-Tath did as she was told. Her heart was pounding as she let go the dead beast, surrendering herself to the water.

In a deft movement, Dara-Kol came up behind and wrapped one arm over Keel-Tath’s chest. Leaning her back in the water, she said, “Just relax and kick. I will keep your head above water.”

Keel-Tath clenched her fists, forcing herself to keep them at her sides. She was gasping for air, expecting water to come splashing down her windpipe, and the queer sensation of it in her ears, muffling the outside world, was unsettling.

But after a few minutes, Dara-Kol told her, “Here. Stop kicking and stand.”

Keel-Tath relaxed her legs and forced herself upright as Dara-Kol released her. Much to her surprise, her feet touched bottom, leaving her head above water.

Dara-Kol repeated the process with Han-Ukha’i, who displayed warrior-like courage in obeying Dara-Kol’s commands.

But by the time she returned for Drakh-Nur, the situation had changed. The genoth had floated much farther downstream. Keel-Tath and Han-Ukha’i, having moved to shallower water, were trying to keep up with it while Dara-Kol, who was nearing the point of exhaustion, again swam out.

What was more frightening was that there was clear evidence that, despite the muddy water, fish were coming upstream to gorge themselves on the feast of dead things the storm was washing out to sea. Other bodies, including a few of their own kind, floated not far ahead of the genoth to which Drakh-Nur still clung, and Keel-Tath could see them jerk and spasm as fish tore away chunks of flesh. Around one, something as large as a warrior but in the shape of a lizard, the water began to roil as the fish went into a frenzy, and in mere seconds it had disappeared in a bloody froth.

When Dara-Kol reached him, Drakh-Nur stolidly refused to let go.

Keel-Tath cupped her hands to her mouth. “Drakh-Nur! You must let go and do as Dara-Kol says! This I command of you!”

He looked at her, and with a sick expression on his face released his hold on the dead beast. Dara-Kol wrapped her arm around him, but it was clear she was struggling. Drakh-Nur was so large and she was so tired, Keel-Tath feared they both might drown.

“Can you not control the water, mistress?” Han-Ukha’i asked hopefully. “Part it for them, that they may walk on the bottom?”

“I will try.” Keel-Tath sank deeper into the water, and tried to summon up the power she had used in the crypt what seemed a lifetime ago. She felt a tingling running through her core, a flare of power, and waves broke away from her, as if she was a rock that had been thrown into the river. She visualized her two struggling companions walking on the bottom, the water parted to either side

Nothing else happened.

With a growl of frustration, she opened her eyes. “I can feel the power, but I cannot control it!”

With a gurgling cry, Dara-Kol went under, and Drakh-Nur with her. Their hands splashed and slapped at the water.

Before she realized what she was doing, Keel-Tath was charging toward them. She heard Han-Ukha’i behind her, shouting at her to come back, but she ignored her.

Too many have died on my account, Keel-Tath thought bitterly. I will not let these two die in my name.

With another step, the bottom dropped away, and her head plunged below the water. She flailed her arms and kicked desperately with her legs. Much to her surprise, she stayed afloat. More than that, she was moving toward her two struggling companions. She quickly found that if she kicked her legs to move herself forward, she could keep her body level and head above water by reaching out with her arms, then sweeping downward. It was an awkward stroke, not nearly as graceful or powerful as that used by Dara-Kol, but it worked.

She knew she did not have the strength or skill to pull Drakh-Nur as Dara-Kol had, but she might be able to help him stay above water and breathe.

As she reached them, she held her breath and dropped down to the bottom, which was half an arm’s length over her head. Grabbing Drakh-Nur around his legs, which were barely kicking now, she lifted him enough that his head broke the surface.

That gave Dara-Kol a chance to disengage from Drakh-Nur and recover her own breath.

Just as Keel-Tath’s lungs were about to give out, Dara-Kol tapped her on the shoulder, then fastened her arm around Drakh-Nur again. Keel-Tath gave him a push to help get him started, then she shot to the surface. Gulping in air, she used her ungainly stroke to paddle after them to where Han-Ukha’i waited in waist-deep water.

Behind them, the body of the genoth began to shudder as fish, and then larger things that normally fed on the fish, began to tear into the spoiling flesh.

It took all three females to get Drakh-Nur to the shore. He was unconscious as they finally dragged him up the sandy bank and into the trees. Han-Ukha’i hissed as she pulled away the black fabric from around his wound. It had not only reopened and was bleeding badly, but had become infected, the flesh swollen and discolored. Keel-Tath wrinkled her nose at the smell, a sweet sickly odor that masked the unaccustomed but pleasant smell of the sea.

Drawing the symbiont from her arm, Han-Ukha’i placed the entire mass on the wound. It was much smaller than it had been, a reflection of the healer’s exhaustion and hunger. The yellow and purple gel pulsed and quivered as it sank into the big warrior’s body.

Keel-Tath knelt beside Drakh-Nur and took his hand. Looking at her other two companions, she gave a tired but victorious smile. “We are alive. We have made it through the Great Wastelands to the Western Sea!”

Dara-Kol nodded, but did not smile. “We have far yet to go, mistress. We are alive, yes, but that is the best we can say for now. Anyone who finds us will take us for honorless ones, for we have literally nothing but our undergarments and our weapons. Then we must find a ship and a crew willing to take us to Ku’ar-Amir.”

“And there will be no mistaking who you are with your hair and talons,” Han-Ukha’i added quietly. “Even if we have left Shil-Wular behind us, the lands along the coast are beholden to the queen.”

That was not the reaction Keel-Tath had expected. She knew all those things, but she refused to let them dispirit her. They had eluded Shil-Wular, survived a traitor in their midst, and crossed the Great Wastelands to reach the Western Sea, a feat of which few beyond the Ka’i-Nur could boast. They should be jubilant, rejoicing in the miracle of their survival. “It is better than being dead.”

“And that is exactly what you will be if you are not silent.”

Dara-Kol and Keel-Tath shot to their feet and drew their swords, whirling around to face the two dozen warriors who had emerged from the trees behind them.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

On The Beach

“Sheathe your swords,” the warrior, a female about the same age as Dara-Kol, said. “We have not bared our blades.”

Keel-Tath exchanged a glance with Dara-Kol. It was true. The warriors who now surrounded them had not drawn their weapons.

“Who are you?” Dara-Kol challenged. “And what business do you have with us?”

“I am Wan-Kuta’i, sent by my mistress Li’an-Salir to bear you home to Ku’ar-Amir.”

Keel-Tath stood for a moment, staring at her in stupefied silence before she said, “Li’an-Salir sent you? But how could she know we were here?”

“She did not, young mistress. We were told only that you were heading west, and that every effort must be made to find you. Many ships with warriors were sent to keep watch in the ports that border the Great Wastelands, and the two major rivers that flow from there to the Western Sea.” She frowned. “We were just about to set sail for home when the last of my scouts,” she nodded to a pair of young male warriors standing on either side of her, “spotted you coming down the river.”

Keel-Tath was surprised to see that the two scouts must have been young, close to her own age, but stood with the self-confidence of fully blooded warriors. Both were tall, standing half a head above even Dara-Kol. One was broad in the chest with powerful arms, wearing a sword at his side that was as long as her father’s. His face was made up of planes and angles, as if crafted to be an extension of the armor he wore, and a downturned mouth that seemed set in a perpetual frown. He looked at her with what she took for mild disdain, no doubt at the bedraggled condition in which she found herself.

Annoyed, she turned her attention to the other scout, who was of a much more graceful build, with a sword to match. Without his armor, she would never have taken him for a warrior, but she knew that to judge him so would have been a terrible mistake. She could see in his silver-flecked eyes the look of a predator, and her hand reflexively tightened on the handle of her sword. His face was fair to behold, far more attractive than the other scout, and she felt a curious sense of warmth course through her as she looked at him. He held her gaze steadily, and did not look away.

“Why were you planning to leave?” Dara-Kol asked as she sheathed her sword, and the others followed her lead.

“You have not heard?”

Dara-Kol and Keel-Tath, who reluctantly broke her gaze from the young scout, both shook their heads. “We have been traveling through the wastelands,” Dara-Kol said with more than a hint of irony in her voice. “The only thing we have heard has been the cries of the beasts in the night.”

“Of course,” Wan-Kuta’i bowed her head, “forgive me. We have been ordered to depart because Syr-Nagath has vanquished Uhr-Gol. It is only a matter of time, a very brief time, I suspect, before she launches an invasion of Ural-Murir. All who proclaim their allegiance to any of the kingdoms there are returning home, and I suspect we are among the last to remain on these shores.” She gestured to where Drakh-Nur lay, still tended by Han-Ukha’i, who had barely looked up during the exchange. Four warriors went to him and gently lifted him on their shoulders. “We dare not tarry here any longer. The queen’s warriors are everywhere, searching for you, and I do not doubt they are watching the rivers, as well. Come, let us go.”

“Will we not stand out like this?” Keel-Tath asked as she followed Wan-Kuta’i, with Dara-Kol at her side. The two scouts fell into step behind them. She could sense that Dara-Kol did not entirely trust the strangers, but what choice did they have but to go along with them? “We have no armor…”

“You will not need it where we are going, and there is no time now. If we are seen, it will not protect you.” Wan-Kuta’i glanced at Keel-Tath’s white hair. “Nothing will.” She gestured at the two scouts. “While I have more seasoned warriors, these two are my best swords, with orders to protect you with their lives.”

“I am Ka’i-Lohr,” said the lithe, handsome one, bowing his head. She returned the gesture, unable to restrain a slight smile.

The larger one barely glanced at Keel-Tath as he uttered his name. “Tara-Khan.” He did not bother bowing his head in respect. His attention was fixed on the trees and their surroundings, his eyes looking everywhere but at her.

Forcing down a sudden spike of anger, she said nothing as they made their way along the shore of the river in the direction of the sea. She had many questions to ask, not least among them just where they were going. But Wan-Kuta’i was grim-faced and quiet, her hand on her sword every step of the way, and so Keel-Tath held her silence.

The warriors ahead of them froze, then slowly dropped to a prone position on the ground. The others followed suit, and Keel-Tath and her companions did the same.

Wan-Kuta’i silently moved up the line, disappearing into the brush and trees ahead, beyond which Keel-Tath could hear the surf breaking on the shore.

A few tense moments later she returned to where Keel-Tath and the others waited. “The shore is clear,” Wan-Kuta’i said, “but we must move quickly. The entire coast has been under close observation, and we will almost certainly be seen.”

Nodding, Keel-Tath got to her feet and followed after Wan-Kuta’i, with Ka’i-Lohr and Tara-Khan on either side and Dara-Kol right behind her. Keel-Tath was proud that she moved as quietly as did the older warriors, and noted with some pride that she was quieter than the young warriors escorting her. It was yet another blessing of Ayan-Dar’s teachings. Behind them, the four big warriors carrying the wounded Drakh-Nur stood and lifted his body to their shoulders, an anxious Han-Ukha’i by their side.

With a nod from Wan-Kuta’i, the group stepped from the trees onto sand, pure white, that stretched a quarter league to the lapping water of the ocean. While the caps of the waves were white, the water itself was brown and green, murky from the sediments discharging from the river.

But what caught her attention was the ship that stood just offshore. It was nothing like the gigantic vessels she had seen during her visit to Ku’ar-Amir, but was sleek and rakish, like a sword in the water. While it was much smaller than the hunting ships, she could see that it was still quite large, judging from the comparative size of the warriors lining the rail. The ship was not riding at anchor, but was sailing before the wind on huge triangular sails flying from the ship’s three masts.

Closer, nearly to the roaring surf now, two boats approached, each one powered by a dozen warriors who strained at the oars, sweeping them in a precise rhythm.

“Look!” Tara-Khan was pointing up the beach toward a line of mounted warriors pounding down the beach toward them. It was impossible for Keel-Tath to judge how many they were, but one thing was clear: they greatly outnumbered Wan-Kuta’i’s forces.

She began to draw her sword, but a sharp word from Tara-Khan stopped her. “Keep your weapon sheathed.”

Keel-Tath stared at him in disbelief. “But we will have no choice but to fight!”

He looked at her as if she was a suckling babe. “Not until after words are spoken, words that will buy the boats time to get closer.”

She bared her fangs at him, but left her sword in its sheath.

“Do not let my tresh offend you,” Ka’i-Lohr said. “He has never been one for manners, but he more than makes up for it with the skill of his sword.”

“I will try to remember,” she told him. She wanted to say more, but that would have to wait.

“Form a line,” Wan-Kuta’i bellowed, “but do not draw your weapons!”

Her warriors immediately made a battle line facing the approaching enemy, with Keel-Tath and the others behind them.

When the queen’s warriors drew near, just within shrekka range, they halted. Keel-Tath half expected that Shil-Wular would be at the lead, but he was not.

“We come for the white-haired one,” the leader, an unusually tall and slender male warrior, said in a voice that was at once soft, and yet filled with steel. “So wills Syr-Nagath, ruler of these lands.”

“She is under the protection of my mistress, Li’an-Salir of Ku’ar-Amir,” Wan-Kuta’i said as she stepped forward a pace. “If your queen desires to take the child, she must negotiate with my mistress. I have no power to release her into your hands.”

The warrior gave Wan-Kuta’i a disgusted look. “Then we will take her.”

Before he could say anything more, Wan-Kuta’i shot back, “Is your queen prepared to make war upon Ku’ar-Amir and the rest of Ural-Murir now, this day?”

“She is. But there will be no Messenger to your people. They will know war has come when the swords of our warriors pierce their hearts.”

Keel-Tath gasped. Wars always began with one side first capturing a warrior of their would-be enemy, then returning the warrior bearing tidings of the war that was coming. The Messenger was marked, so that forever he or she would be known to both sides as sacrosanct, untouchable and inviolable. It was a tradition dating back to the time of the First Age, and to be a Messenger was the greatest of honors. To make war without a Messenger was unthinkable.

And yet, it did not surprise Keel-Tath that Syr-Nagath had dispensed with that tradition. What did surprise her was that the warriors who had sworn their honor to the Dark Queen followed her in blind subservience, and did not balk at such a fundamental departure from the Way. In the past, leaders who strayed so far were cast down in dishonor, for the obedience of those who followed was earned in blood and maintained by the ancient code that had sustained their people through the ages. If leaders acted with dishonor, their lives were forfeit.

Looking at the warriors arrayed against her, she saw and sensed in her blood both determination…and fear. Syr-Nagath was destroying the foundation of the Way one soul at a time, replacing honor with terror. Warriors fearing those to whom their honor was pledged was nothing new, for not all warrior leaders were kind or enlightened. But this was on an altogether different level. The warriors here who had come for her did not bear the evil of their queen, but the bone-deep fear of her displeasure. They were afraid of being cast into eternal darkness, or perhaps worse. Keel-Tath wanted to somehow reach out to them, to help them return to the Way and to honor, but there was nothing she could say. Not here, not now. If their leader gave the word, as she knew he would, they would take her.

“When I say,” Dara-Kol whispered beside her, “run for the nearest boat, and do not stop. Do. Not. Stop. Do you understand?”

Keel-Tath gave a jerky nod. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the four warriors carrying Drakh-Nur, with Han-Ukha’i still at his side, moving toward the incoming boats. She realized that the enemy warriors must not have realized Drakh-Nur and Han-Ukha’i were with her, as they were both shielded from view by the warriors carrying him. And Han-Ukha’i certainly blended in better without her healer’s robes. They must have thought the two had belonged to Wan-Kuta’i.

“We will make sure she reaches the boats,” Ka’i-Lohr said, bowing his head. Tara-Khan only gave a sharp nod.

“Is this how wars are to be fought?” Wan-Kuta’i asked the leader of the queen’s warriors, taking another step forward. “Without the honor of a Messenger? This is not the Way.”

“It is as the queen wills it, and that is all that matters.” He brought his magthep forward a few paces and his expression hardened. “Yield now and proclaim your honor to Syr-Nagath and join us, or hand over the white-haired one and depart. Your only other choice is to die, and we will still take her.”

Wan-Kuta’i was silent, a thoughtful expression on her face. On the shore behind them, the first boat grated onto the sand and a pair of warriors leaped out to hold it steady while others reached out to help pull Drakh-Nur and Han-Ukha’i aboard. On either side of her, the warriors were tense, hands on their weapons.

Out of the corner of her eye, Keel-Tath saw the ship turn about, coming perilously close to the shore before again swinging parallel to it, nearing their position. She could hear the big sails flutter for a moment before the booms on the mast swung and the sails again caught the wind. As the ship reached their position on the beach, Wan-Kuta’i bellowed, “May your queen rot in the eternal dark!”

Several things happened at once. There was a ripping sound from the ship, and a volley of flying weapons, the likes of which Keel-Tath had never seen, raked the mounted riders, tearing apart warrior and beast alike.

Wan-Kuta’i’s warriors took advantage of the shock and surprise to hurl their shrekkas at the enemy, inflicting further losses before the queen’s warriors could respond.

Dara-Kol turned and shoved Keel-Tath toward the nearest boat, and Keel-Tath ran as fast as her exhausted body could carry her, with Tara-Khan and Ka’i-Lohr on either side. They were surrounded by more of Wan-Kuta’i’s warriors, who shielded them from the shrekkas thrown by the queen’s warriors as they regained their wits.

As she neared the side of the boat, her left leg was stricken with searing pain as a shrekka sliced through her outer thigh. She stumbled and would have fallen had not Tara-Khan deftly scooped her into his arms, barely breaking his stride. As he dashed up to the boat, he tossed her into the boat before leaping in himself. She landed in a tangle of arms and legs among the warriors who had been manning the oars, but who now lent their throwing arms and shrekkas to the fight. Turning, Tara-Khan then pulled Ka’i-Lohr aboard, then Dara-Kol.

The ship fired again, and more enemy warriors were torn apart by the flashing blades of its weapons. Under the cover of its fire, Wan-Kuta’i and the others made for the boats, holding off the enemy with their swords as they retreated. Keel-Tath could see that most of them would not make it: they were outnumbered at least five to one, even after the ship’s bloody work had been done, and their backs were against the deadly sea.

Wan-Kuta’i and perhaps a quarter of her warriors made it to the boats as the rest turned to stand their ground in a semicircle on the beach before the boats.

Warriors pushed the boats back into the sea, but they did not even try to climb in. Instead, they quickly saluted Wan-Kuta’i, then returned to the hopeless battle. Keel-Tath saluted them, too, knowing that their deeds this day would be recorded in the Books of Time, and they would die with great honor.

Shrekkas whistled overhead and thunked into the boat as more enemy warriors crowded against the surf to get close enough to land a strike against the frantically rowing warriors. Some of the weapons struck home, rending flesh and armor, and warriors fell across their oars, injured or dead.

Tara-Khan shoved her down and covered her body with his own until they were out of the enemy’s range, Ka’i-Lohr kneeling beside them and sending shrekkas he plucked from the steel-hard wood of the boat back at the enemy. Keel-Tath screamed at the arrogant young warrior to let her up, that she had to see, but he ignored her pleas and threats. As she lay there, struggling uselessly against his bulk, the bottom of the boat ran red with blood.

***

Syr-Nagath bolted upright from a deep sleep. Beside her, the warrior she had taken to bed stirred, but remained silent. So much the better for him. Had she wanted him to speak, she would have commanded him to do so.

She smiled in the darkness, barely able to contain her jubilation. Ka’i-Lohr had crossed paths with Keel-Tath. Ka’i-Lohr, the product of the union between herself and Kunan-Lohr, Keel-Tath’s father, was her only offspring. Before and after his birth, she had been cursed with nothing but stillborn children until she had finally had the healers, incompetent fools who could not remedy what ailed her body, render her infertile. Not long after he had been born, she had sent him in company with a wet nurse and two warriors to Ku’ar-Amir, both to remove him from potential harm and put him in a position to aid her plans in later years. When his body came of age, she sailed in secret to Ku’ar-Amir. Her servants had captured him while his ship was in port and brought him to her bed, where she worked the dark magic upon him as she had the Desh-Ka priest Ria-Ka’luhr and so many others. She had improved on the workings of the magic since she had first used it: Ka’i-Lohr would have no recollection of what had transpired, no knowledge that he was being used as an instrument of her will. She returned him that same night, and since then he had been a window upon the workings of the kingdom and the city that bore the same name. She had learned much in the time he had been her eyes and ears there.

But this, this was a boon that she never could have foreseen. To have him in company with her nemesis, in a position to tear out the white-haired child’s throat or pierce her heart with a dagger at a mere thought from her, his mother, was a most intoxicating ecstasy.

With her blood rising, she took her lover by the shoulder and rolled him over toward her. Straddling him, she bent down to kiss him as he wrapped his arms around her, pulling her tight against him. She pulled back enough to stare in his eyes, promising both pleasure and pain. “Please me,” she commanded.

***

Keel-Tath watched from the ship’s side rail as the queen’s warriors unceremoniously dumped the bodies of the dead of both sides into the sea. The water began to churn as the vicious smaller fish came in to feed, and the water turned a dark, ugly color. Larger creatures swam in to join the feast, eating both the flesh of the fallen and the smaller fish that did not get out of the way in time. Even in the murky water, she could see shadowy shapes swim under the ship, speeding toward shore. Most were small, but some were longer than the boat she had ridden to the ship. In short order the water near where the queen’s warriors stood watching the spectacle was roiling with living death.

She was about to turn away, sickened, when something, a creature at least as large as a full-grown genoth, exploded from the water near the beach. It had a long, spiny neck and a head that was mostly tooth-lined jaw. In two rapid undulating movements of its body, which had flippers where a genoth would have had legs, it reached the nearest warriors and their magtheps. Using its head as a club, swinging it side to side, it bowled over three mounts and their riders before gobbling them up, swallowing them whole while the other warriors and magtheps ran screaming in terror.

“A kalakh-hin’da,” Ka’i-Lohr said from beside her. “That one is still young, not full grown. But even the full grown ones are far from the largest beasts to be found in the sea, although they are among the most dangerous. They are cunning and swift, hard to kill, and can leave the water for brief periods of time.”

“We killed one,” Tara-Khan boasted. “It attacked one of the ship’s boats. Ka’i-Lohr and I slew it before it could feast on the boat’s crew.”

Keel-Tath said nothing as the beast attacked another warrior, who had been wounded by a shrekka and was unable to escape. She ran a hand along her thigh where she had been struck in the escape from the beach. Han-Ukha’i had healed the wound and preserved the scar, but in her mind Keel-Tath could still feel the pain as she listened to the warrior’s screams, and imagined the sounds of his bones crunching as the beast ate him. Sated for the moment, the thing turned and slowly wriggled back into the water, snapping at the smaller creatures that continued to feast.

The scene made her shiver, and she felt a comforting hand on her shoulder. She covered Ka’i-Lohr’s hand with her own, a sign of thanks. Knowing she should not neglect Tara-Khan, she turned and offered him a smile. His mouth turned down into a frown, but he acknowledged her expression with a slow nod.

“Tara-Khan,” she said, “I think you smile upside-down.”

He only stared at her as Ka’i-Lohr burst out laughing.

Dara-Kol emerged from the hatch that led below decks and came to join them.

“How is Drakh-Nur?” Keel-Tath wanted to know. Their other two companions were down below, where Han-Ukha’i had been nursing the giant warrior back to health and tending the other warriors who had been wounded, for the ship carried no healers. While the spaces below decks were clean and tidy, Keel-Tath had hated the strange sensation of her body telling her she was moving and rolling while her eyes told her she was not. Here on deck, the sensation and discomfort in the pit of her stomach disappeared.

“He will be well, but the sea does not suit him.”

Keel-Tath cocked her head, unsure of Dara-Kol’s meaning.

Tara-Khan snorted, and this time he did smile. It was a cruel expression that Keel-Tath thought might break the chiseled stone of his face. “Even the greatest of warriors can be felled by seasickness.”

“Let us hope it does not take hold of you, mistress,” Ka’i-Lohr said charitably, shooting Tara-Khan a despairing look.

She looked up at a fluttering sound. More sails were unfurling from the tall masts, and as they snapped full of the wind she could feel the ship pick up speed. She was standing close enough to the bow to feel the spray kicked up as the hull cleaved the waves below. The sun was full overhead, and the Great Moon, a massive silvery crescent, was rising in the east. The coast was a lush green paradise rising from the white beach, while on the other side, toward where the ship was turning, was endless ocean as far as she could see.

At any other time, it would have been a moment of great beauty, a moment to treasure and savor. Now, it only brought her sadness and a sense of foreboding. T’lar-Gol, the land of her birth, of her family and those she loved at the temple of the Desh-Ka, fell away behind her, lost over the horizon as the ship sailed into the Western Sea.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Ocean Passage

Despite the ever-present danger posed by the beasts that cruised below the surface of the water, Keel-Tath found that she enjoyed being aboard the ship. It had no name, but Wan-Kuta’i had told her that ships were spoken of by using the names of their masters or mistresses. Wan-Kuta’i had commanded this ship for over three years, and had been sailing since she left the creche. It came as a shock to Keel-Tath to learn that some of the larger ships had creches and kazhas, a tradition that went back to the early days, even before the formation of the Ima’il-Kush priesthood, one of the three ancient orders that long ago had left to be with the Settlements among the stars.

The weather since they had departed T’lar-Gol had been fair and the winds strong, and Keel-Tath had spent every waking moment above decks, breathing in the sea air and helping the crew where she could. Even though she was still weary from the long trek across the Great Wastelands, working beside the warriors who crewed the ship, especially Ka’i-Lohr and Tara-Khan, pleased her, and she thought it also pleased them. She got to know their names, but could not feel them in her blood, for they were descendants of the Nyur-A’il, a different bloodline than her own.

The sea, as dangerous as it was, was something she could grasp. The rolling motion of the ship, the sound of the water flowing along the sides of the hull, the wind that filled the sails and caressed her face with saltwater spray; these things were a balm to her soul. For the first time in her life, she felt truly free. She knew it was only a passing sensation, a pleasant fantasy, but she embraced this time with her entire being, determined to treasure every moment.

Dara-Kol had adapted to their new environment quickly, and it came as no surprise to Keel-Tath to learn that she had spent some time aboard ships during her long exile. She spent most of her time now with Wan-Kuta’i, although she also lent a hand to help the crew. But always, always, she was in sight of Keel-Tath, and rare was the time when Keel-Tath looked at her that Dara-Kol did not return her gaze. In Keel-Tath’s eyes, Dara-Kol had been everywhere and done everything, and would do anything to protect her, just as Ayan-Dar would have.

Ayan-Dar. Every time she thought of him, she could feel the warmth of the mourning marks start under her eyes, for she missed him terribly. She could sense his song in her blood, but it was low and weak, a flat, toneless melody that once had been powerful and vibrant, a beacon among all the souls that had ever touched hers. She could not bring herself to regret leaving the temple, but she would have given nearly anything to have him with her. He was the father she had never known, and she vowed that somehow, someday, she would repay his kindness and his love.

As for her two other companions, Han-Ukha’i, again resplendent in the white robes of a healer, made from the strong and light sail cloth by the ship’s armorers, was treated like a goddess by the crew. Even though life aboard ship was hazardous and many warriors died of injuries at sea, healers were never placed in harm’s way. They were only permitted aboard huge vessels such as those Keel-Tath had seen in Ku’ar-Amir. Han-Ukha’i was the first healer who had ever been aboard Wan-Kuta’i’s ship, and she found herself busy treating injuries great and small, instantly beloved by the crew.

Drakh-Nur also found a place in the crew’s heart, but for a very different reason: the giant, indomitable warrior, fully healed now, was constantly seasick. Even Han-Ukha’i, as hard as she had tried, had been unable to cure him. He spent day and night hanging over the side rail, and his periodic retching could be heard from bow to stern. The crew howled every time, not in derision, but in good-natured support. They patted him on the back and gave encouraging words as they passed the humbled warrior.

“We have all suffered at one time or another,” Wan-Kuta’i had said. “Even I, as long as I have lived upon the sea, have been seasick, although that was in the worst storm I have ever endured.”

Everyone aboard ship (even Drakh-Nur, sick as he was) was given duties to perform. With her keen eyes, Keel-Tath was given the task of a lookout, assisting Ka’i-Lohr and Tara-Khan, who had become her constant companions. Dara-Kol had taken the role of First to Wan-Kuta’i, for the warrior who had been her First had fallen to the enemy during the battle on the beach. Han-Ukha’i continued to tend to those who needed her aid, including several of the crew who had suffered amputated limbs. Under her care, the arms and legs were being regrown.

The three young warriors spent their time from before dawn until after dusk on a lookout platform high on the mainmast, keeping watch along the horizon for signs of ships or dangerous sea beasts. From her perch far above the deck, she could see forever as she held on tight against the exaggerated sway up there, so high above the ship. It was an exhilarating feeling, as if she was flying without wings over the endless sea, soaring ever higher. The water and sky were glorious hues of blue-green and magenta under a bright sun in the day, and millions of stars and the Great Moon shone overhead at night, reflecting off the water in a kaleidoscope of light. Staring up at them during the time they stood watch before the sun rose and after it set, she wondered about the Settlements and the great ships that could sail between the stars. The great ships were gone now, for the priesthoods had destroyed the last of them nearly a hundred years before, at the end of the most recent great war between the Homeworld and the Settlements. She had seen images and read descriptions of them in the Books of Time, but they were too fantastical for her to fully comprehend. But she knew that they would be built again as they had in times past, once a leader had accumulated enough builders with the skills to make in form the information provided by the keepers of the Books of Time. The thought filled her with dread, for the only one on the Homeworld with enough resources to accomplish the feat was Syr-Nagath.

“You have that look again.”

Ka’i-Lohr was staring at her, the ends of his lips turned up in a grin.

“What look?” She asked.

“The one where you see the vision of your mind, not your eyes.”

She looked away, suddenly uncomfortable. “I have seen much in my mind that I wish I had not.”

“So have we all,” he told her.

Tara-Khan glanced at him, then at her, before rolling his eyes and returning his gaze to the horizon.

“Not like this,” she said, trying to ignore Tara-Khan. “I saw the Final Annihilation of the Second Age through the eyes of Anuir-Ruhal’te, when fire rained from the skies and our kind nearly perished. And I fear the same fate awaits us if the Dark Queen is not stopped.”

Tara-Khan snorted. “How can she be stopped? She will soon rule the Homeworld, and not long after will launch a war against the Settlements.”

“She has not taken Ural-Murir,” Ka’i-Lohr countered.

“But she will. It is inevitable.” He leaned toward his companions. “We and the other kingdoms of Ural-Murir will fight, but she now has the command of all the legions of T’lar-Gol and Uhr-Gol, and all their builders and other robed castes.” He poked a taloned finger at Ka’i-Lohr. “I have studied the Books of Time more than you. Every leader in recorded history who has won those two continents before launching an attack on Ural-Murir has been victorious.”

Ka’i-Lohr refused to give in to the argument of his tresh. “We will bleed her badly.”

“Of course. But she will win in the end.”

“And finally take my head.” Keel-Tath wrapped her arms around her chest as she turned away, stricken with despair. “Is that what you want, Tara-Khan? Why do you not simply take your sword and strike me down?”

Tara-Khan stared at her with hooded eyes, and for a moment she wondered if he were considering doing just that. “I speak of what I believe must come to pass,” he said, his voice held carefully neutral. “I did not say it would fill my heart with joy.”

“We will not let harm come to you.” Ka’i-Lohr touched her arm, drawing her attention away from Tara-Khan’s stare.

She appreciated his kindness, but her voice was bitter nonetheless. “How can you say such a foolish thing? The Dark Queen has millions at her command. Yet the two of you will protect me, when I can likely best either of you in single combat?”

“My respects, mistress,” Tara-Khan told her with a cold smile, “but you will not best my sword.”

“I was taught by the greatest warrior of the Desh-Ka,” she said proudly, her hand tightening around the grip of the sword the ship’s armorer had made for her, which fit her hand far better than her father’s, which she wore strapped across her back.

“And how many Challenges have you faced?”

“Only my first,” she admitted. “I was

I was banished from the temple the day I was to face my second.”

“Tara-Khan has fought all seven,” Ka’i-Lohr told her, pride unmistakable in his voice, “and was never defeated.”

Keel-Tath stared at Tara-Khan, who graced her with a barely perceptible nod of his head. “How is that possible? You can scarcely be older than me!”

“I was raised by the Nyur-A’il,” he told her, “and learned sword craft from their high priest. I had a great gift for it, even at a very early age.”

“Then why did you leave the priesthood?”

Ka’i-Lohr turned away, clearly trying not to laugh.

Tara-Khan shot him a sour look. “Let us say that I did not have the temperament to become a priest of their order.” He shrugged. “I was sent to Ku’ar-Amir as a ward of Li’an-Salir, and served one of the seagoing kazhas where I met him.” He nodded to Ka’i-Lohr.

“And there you were bound as tresh?”

“Yes,” Ka’i-Lohr said. “I have been at sea most of my life. Both of us are orphans. He, at least, knows who his parents were.” He frowned. “I was found by one of Li’an-Salir’s builders, left naked on a pier next to one of the great ships. I was old enough to know the name I was given, but little more.”

Tara-Khan flicked his fingers as if ridding them of something better left unmentioned. “We are born, we live, and we die. The past matters no more than ashes in the wind.”

Keel-Tath looked away toward the horizon, a chill breeze across her soul. “My past mattered a great deal to me.”

***

On the third day of their journey to Ku’ar-Amir, a voyage that Wan-Kuta’i said would normally take seven days if they met with favorable conditions, Keel-Tath was at her accustomed post on the lookout platform. She was practicing tying and untying the knots that Ka’i-Lohr had taught her, except he would not let her look at her hands.

“Keep your eyes on the horizon,” he told her with a sly grin as he had handed her two ropes he had already knotted together, the free ends whipping about in the wind. “You may only use your hands and your fingers to see.”

“Why can I not look?” She asked, bewildered as she accepted the fist-sized knot.

“Were it dark or were a storm upon us, do you think you would be able to see the strands of rope?”

She shook her head, frowning.

Tara-Khan looked at her and grimaced. “I hate that knot,” he muttered.

The devilish binding of the ropes had occupied her hands for over an hour as her eyes watched the horizon. She gave a whoop as she wrestled one end of the rope loose. Unable to help herself, she glanced down at her handiwork.

“No looking!” Ka’i-Lohr chided. He and Tara-Khan both laughed at her.

With a grin, she returned her gaze to the sea. That is when she saw it. A dark smudge, very faint, on the horizon behind them.

Setting the knot aside, she pointed. “What is that?”

The other two looked, then froze.

“What is it?” She asked again, puzzled at their reaction.

“A ship,” Tara-Khan said grimly.

“And not one of ours,” Ka’i-Lohr added. Leaning over the edge of the platform, he cupped his hands to his mouth and bellowed, “Enemy ship, on the horizon dead astern!”

The reaction on the deck far below was instantaneous. A horn blew and the crew boiled from below decks to take up their stations. Wan-Kuta’i and Dara-Kol, tiny figures as seen from the lookout platform, rushed to the stern and stared at the sea. It was some moments before Wan-Kuta’i pointed.

“We can see farther from up here,” Ka’i-Lohr explained as the tip of a mast appeared, framed by the smoke.

“How do you know it is one of the queen’s ships?”

“While it has sails,” he told her, “it is also burning wood to drive paddles in the water. The mechanical engine that drives the paddles is what makes the smoke. Even when the wind is completely calm, such ships can sail onward.”

Keel-Tath did not understand how burning wood could move a ship through the water, but she accepted his words on faith. “Yes, but how do you know it is not a ship from Ural-Murir?”

Tara-Khan snorted. “Only fools use such engines. They are dangerous, difficult to maintain, and the sound and vibrations often draw unwanted attention from the depths.”

“And that is something no ship ever wants,” Ka’i-Lohr added. Both of them were tense, and she realized they were both afraid, not of battle, but of the sea. The crew had already shared many stories with her, and a few had been about some of the battles they had fought. She had no need to hear the song of their spirit in her blood to sense their terror. The sea was far more cruel than the most horrendous battle. Crewmen who fell from their ships had only seconds to live before being torn apart by the deadly fish, and a ship that suffered damage below the waterline could be just as quickly doomed by the things that came in with the water.

She shivered and clutched more tightly at the rope stays supporting the platform as the ship heeled over to a new course, the bow swinging to starboard, to the southwest. Life on land suddenly seemed much more appealing.

“Wan-Kuta’i is turning the ship to give the sails the best advantage of the wind,” Ka’i-Lohr said. “It will lengthen our journey somewhat, but perhaps may keep us out of reach of the enemy until dark.”

“And what then?”

“If they are not too close and there is no moon, we may be able to lose them.”

***

Hours later, Keel-Tath was still scanning the horizon behind them, watching the slow approach of the queen’s warship, when she noticed something else.

More smoke.

She nudged Tara-Khan and Ka’i-Lohr, who had been scanning the other sectors of the horizon. They looked and squinted. After a moment, they nodded.

“It is your honor,” Tara-Khan told her. “Inform Wan-Kuta’i.”

Looking down at the deck far below and the tiny figures standing at their posts, Keel-Tath cupped her hands to her mouth and shouted, “Smoke on the horizon astern!” She looked up quickly at Tara-Khan, who gave her a grudging nod of approval. She was learning the strange language of those who sailed the sea, albeit slowly.

Every face on the deck looked up at her warning, and Wan-Kuta’i gestured for her to come down.

“I saw two more plumes of smoke,” she reported after climbing down the rope ladders and dashing aft to the quarterdeck. “They looked to be much the same as that of the ship that follows us, but I could see nothing else.”

“You did well, Keel-Tath.” Wan-Kuta’i inclined her head, and Keel-Tath felt herself swell with pride. “To have sight keener than your two companions is no mean feat.”

“What shall we do?” Dara-Kol fingered the handle of her sword as she glanced at Keel-Tath, exposing her worry over the safety of her charge.

“The first ship we might have beaten in battle, although it would not have been easy. Against three

” Wan-Kuta’i shook her head. “And we cannot outrun them. Even with full sail they are gaining on us.”

“Blood in the water.” Dara-Kol said it so softly that Keel-Tath thought at first she had misheard.

But several of the crew nearby had not. They stared at Dara-Kol, fear and disbelief plain on their faces. “Mistress,” one of them said, shaken, “we are on the edge of the Great Deep!”

Keel-Tath did not understand. “What does that mean?”

With a thoughtful look at Dara-Kol, Wan-Kuta’i told her, “Just as the a’in-ka tree of which our ship is made repels the creatures of the sea, so does blood attract them. The waters where we sail now, along the Great Deep, are the most dangerous of our world. Only the largest of our ships ever venture this far west for fear of what lives beneath the waves. We come this far only because we must.” She looked back at the enemy warship, which was still distant, but in full view, smoke belching from a stack amidships. The dark smudges of the other two ships were now discernible on the horizon behind it. “The queen’s ships, driven by their noisy mechanical contraptions, are foolish to even try.”

“So, we put blood in the water to attract the beasts below? What difference would that make to the queen’s ships?”

“The kalakh-hin’da, the large creature you saw attacking the queen’s warriors on the beach as we left in the boats, is small prey here.” Wan-Kuta’i’s eyes took on a haunted expression. “The things this far into the Western Sea and beyond are born of nightmares and legends best left unspoken.” She looked at Keel-Tath. “Yet they may now be our only salvation.”

***

As the day wore on, the wind began to slacken. Behind them, the lead ship had slowed its headlong pursuit for a time, allowing its sisters to catch up. Now the three of them, in a wedge formation, steamed full-ahead after their prey.

Wan-Kuta’i’s ship had every bit of canvas out. She had even had the crew haul buckets of water up to douse the sails to catch every last breath of wind, but it was clear that the pursuing warships would catch them well before nightfall.

“The night would not help us,” Wan-Kuta’i said. “The Great Moon shines tonight. They would be able to see as plain as day.”

“Blood in the water, then?” Keel-Tath’s stomach curdled as she spoke the words. The bawdy tales of the crew had also included accounts of the creatures of the Great Deep. She had thought at the time they were only tall tales, exaggerations intended to scare a young warrior fresh from the land. She knew now that the tales were no mere fabrication. While they attended their duties, there was no mistaking the aura of fear among the crew.

Nodding, Wan-Kuta’i said, “When the time is right.”

Keel-Tath was startled by a close-spaced series of booms that echoed from the queen’s ships, accompanied by gouts of flame and puffs of smoke from their bows. A few seconds later, she heard a sound like cloth being ripped, just before enormous geysers erupted in the sea ahead and behind her ship.

“What was that?”

“Cannons.” Wan-Kuta’i spat the word. “They shoot a ball about as large as your head across a great distance, and can cause much damage to a ship.”

“Do we have any?”

“No. Our larger ships carry such weapons, but we do not. This ship was designed as a swift courier, for speed, not battle. The weapons we used against the warriors on the beach are effective against ships, but only at close range, and only in a broadside. We have nothing that can fire directly forward or aft. They will be useless in this fight.” She grimaced as the pursuing ships fired another salvo. The shots landed much closer. She turned her attention to the lookout platform where Tara-Khan and Ka’i-Lohr were. “Clear the lookouts!”

“Why must they come down?” Keel-Tath asked as her two companions quickly abandoned the platform and began to clamber down the rope ladder.

“Anyone on the platform would be killed if the mainmast is hit,” Wan-Kuta’i told her. “And we may have more need of a few extra swords on deck than eyes up above. But now we have other business to attend to.”

She gathered Dara-Kol and several others, including Drakh-Nur, who was still terribly ill, but driven by his duty to protect his young mistress, and led them to the lee side of the ship, opposite the direction from where the wind was blowing. Taking her dagger, she leaned as far as she could over the side rail and extended her left arm, then slashed her wrist. Blood trickled from the wound, the crimson drops scattering across the water.

The others, including Tara-Khan and Ka’i-Lohr when they reached the deck, did the same. Keel-Tath joined them, suppressing a wince as the glittering blade sliced through her flesh and into the veins. She noticed out of the corner of her eye the white robes of Han-Ukha’i as the healer came to stand behind them, ready to heal their wounds.

As their blood rained down upon the water, Keel-Tath expected Wan-Kuta’i to recite some sort of incantation or ceremonial words. But the ship mistress remained silent, her eyes fixed on the water as if she could see into the black depths below.

At last, Wan-Kuta’i said, “Enough.” Keel-Tath and the others clamped a hand over the wounds in their wrists, and Han-Ukha’i went to work, placing a small piece of healing gel over each wound. In but moments, all that remained was a neat scar.

Keel-Tath followed Wan-Kuta’i and Dara-Kol again to the stern rail, where they watched and waited. “Can the things of the sea taste the blood?”

Wan-Kuta’i nodded. “The creatures in these waters can sense a single drop of blood from leagues away, and we have offered them the scent of a great feast. Our blood is even more enticing, because we are from the land, a rare prey for them. That they will come, there is no doubt. The only question is whether they will come in time.”

Dara-Kol added, “And if they do not destroy us, too.”

The queen’s ships fired again, and Keel-Tath flinched as she heard a sharp crack from above, followed by warning cries. She looked up just in time to see the lookout platform explode in a shower of splinters that rained down on the deck. A warrior screamed as the top of the mainmast fell, crushing her.

“They have found our range!” Wan-Kuta’i turned and bellowed orders, and the ship changed course slightly to throw off the enemy gunners’ aim. Warriors swarmed up the rope ladders to repair the damaged rigging below the lookout platform. Pointing at the body of the dead warrior, Wan-Kuta’i said, “Throw her body into the sea!” Under her breath, she added, “We will honor her later. Now the scent of her blood and flesh of her body might help save us.”

The pursuing ships began a steady barrage. Most of the shots missed, but more and more were finding their mark. Keel-Tath was amazed to see that the cannonballs actually bounced off the stout wood of the hull. But above, along the exposed decks and among the masts and rigging, the weapons were wreaking havoc.

Her heart caught in her throat as a ball blasted through the side rail, sending a storm of splinters and shards scything across the main deck, not an arms-length from where Han-Ukha’i was standing, tending to a wounded warrior.

“Drakh-Nur!” She turned to the giant, who stood behind her, and pointed at Han-Ukha’i. “Get her below and keep her safe!”

“I will not leave your side, mistress!”

“Do as I command!”

An agonized expression on his face, above and beyond the discomfort of his seasickness, he saluted and pounded across the deck to scoop up Han-Ukha’i. He tossed her, shouting in protest, over one shoulder and grabbed the wounded warrior she had been tending with his free hand, dragging him toward the hatch.

They had just disappeared below when another ball struck one of the boats stored on the main deck. It disappeared into a cloud of steel-hard splinters that turned three warriors into bloody strips and tore through the space where Han-Ukha’i had just been standing.

“Send the bodies over the side!” Wan-Kuta’i shouted. “Soon,” she prayed, looking at the water astern, then at the enemy ships, which were closing fast. The water in their wake was seething with small fish who, denied the meal that their senses said must be here, began tearing at one another, adding even more blood to the water. Soon the shadows of larger things could be seen cruising just below the surface, pursuing their smaller cousins. The ship’s wake quickly turned into a bath of blood into which the enemy ships sailed. “It must be soon.”

The words had barely left her lips when an ear-shattering crack sounded right behind them as the aft-most of the ship’s three masts exploded at chest height, struck square by a cannonball. There were more shouts and screams as the splinters sliced across the deck. The mast seemed to hang in space for just a moment before it toppled over the port side, the rigging lines parting with loud whip-cracks.

Keel-Tath stared upward as the sky was blanked out by canvas and the boom that secured the bottom of the sail fell directly toward her.

Then she was flying through the air as Tara-Khan crashed into her, knocking her aside just as the boom, which was nearly as big around as Keel-Tath, smashed into the deck, followed by a spiderweb of rigging and heavy wooden tackle blocks.

Wan-Kuta’i, who had deftly sidestepped to the other side of the falling boom and debris, was bellowing orders through the chaos, even as the queen’s ships quickened their rate of fire. The ship had slowed perceptibly with the loss of sail in the wind, and it heeled to port as the great mass of canvas from the fallen mast billowed in the water, acting as a sea anchor and slowing them even more. Warriors were frantically at work, cutting the shrouds to free the ship of the wrecked mast.

“One of the boats remains, mistress,” Dara-Kol shouted to be heard above the pandemonium as Tara-Khan pulled Keel-Tath to her feet. “We must get it into the water and

”

“And do what?” Keel-Tath said, anger driving the blood in her veins to a frothing boil. “We cannot escape, and I will not flee to leave the others behind!”

Dara-Kol looked away, streaks of mourning under her eyes.

Keel-Tath took the older warrior’s face in her hands. She knew that there was little time left for words. “Never think you have failed or disappointed me. I can only hope that your deeds and your honor will someday be recorded in the Books of Time, and that when death takes us you will find yourself in company with my father and mother, and all the great warriors who stand with them.”

Before Dara-Kol could respond, another volley of cannon fire raked the ship, some of the balls this time smashing their way through the hull itself. There were more screams and shouts, but there was something different this time. There were not only cries of pain, but of astonished terror.

Looking back toward the pursuing ships, Keel-Tath’s heart was seized by fear at what she saw emerging from the dark waters of the Great Deep.

CHAPTER TWENTY

The Great Deep

Keel-Tath had read many things in the Books of Time during her studies at the Desh-Ka temple. Some of them were tales of wonder and horror that she could barely credit. She had thought they were little more than exaggerated stories, legends and fables that were used by the keepers to instruct and guide, or truths that had been distorted over the long ages.

Now, staring wide-eyed at the sea, she knew the ancient tales were not exaggerations at all. Her mind had simply been unable to grasp the infinite depth and breadth that was reality.

The blood-red water for as much as a league around them had become a maelstrom of carnage. Driven by the scent of land-blood and the telltale vibrations of wounded fish, ever larger creatures rose from the depths to feed. Things leaped from the water to evade a pursuing predator, only to be snatched from the air by another.

Then the larger creatures began to attack one another, biting with jaws so big they could easily swallow a warrior whole, and filled with curved, razor sharp teeth as long as one’s arm. Those beasts that were wounded were instantly attacked by the cloud of fish and smaller predators that tore them to shreds in seconds.

The queen’s ships had ceased their cannon fire, but continued to close the distance, their bows plowing through the bloody slaughter.

“They plan to board us,” Wan-Kuta’i said. From the tone of her voice, it was clear that she no longer had any doubt it would happen.

Keel-Tath felt a heavy thump through her feet, then heard a deep grinding sound from deep in the hull. More bumps and thumps followed, until the hull echoed with hundreds of hammer blows.

“The scent of the trees from which the hull is made is no longer strong enough to overcome the scent of blood. They will think us prey, now.”

“But the ship is not a living thing, and it is huge compared to them!” Keel-Tath’s protest was punctuated with a blow to the hull that was powerful enough to knock her off balance.

“Anything in the water is prey, child!”

As the queen’s ships drew nearer, perhaps half a league away now, several of Wan-Kuta’i’s crew began to point toward the center of the swirling chaos.

A dome had formed in the water, a titanic upward bulge that expanded to at least half a league in diameter as the water rose upward, higher and higher. The beasts caught in the rising water stopped feeding and turned to flee, swimming as hard and fast as they could.

Near the center of the rising water, the ship rose as if it were taking wing. The queen’s ships charged up the swell, steaming full ahead toward their crippled foe.

Every warrior on the decks of the four ships cried out in terror as an enormous maw erupted from the water right in front of the ship leading the queen’s squadron. Keel-Tath and the others stared at the emerging head as their minds grappled with the impossibility of its existence. The thing was covered in heavy dark green scales, each of which was as large as one of the ship’s boats. Some had been torn away, exposing black hide that bore deep scars. The glittering white teeth that protruded from the pink gums were like curved spikes as long as a mainmast was tall.

The enemy ship tried to turn, but there was no hope of escape. The jaws caught the hapless vessel and lifted it from the water as the gigantic beast continued to rise. With a turn of its head, an enormous eye came into view, bright yellow with a slit black pupil, that seemed to stare right through Keel-Tath’s soul as the head, poised at the end of a long neck that was larger around than the girth of Wan-Kuta’i’s ship, fully emerged from the water.

The enemy ship was now high in the air, only the stern half protruding from the creature’s mouth. Keel-Tath could feel the terror of the crew in her blood even as her ears could hear their muted screams. The enemy they might be, but she would not have wished such a fate upon them.

As the great head reached the peak of its emergence, the jaws closed, and the enemy ship, smoke still spewing into the air through the monster’s teeth, its paddle wheels turning, was crushed with a series of earsplitting cracks. The remains of the stern, covered with the tiny figures of the hapless crew, plunged into the sea. The surface frothed as the crew was feverishly attacked by the smaller creatures that had moments before been fleeing from the titanic beast.

The other two ships of the queen’s squadron, one on either side of the creature, fired broadsides with their cannons at the head and neck. Long tongues of flame and clouds of smoke reached out, and the air was filled with the thunder of cannon fire. The cannon balls, which Keel-Tath was sure were larger than the bow chasers the ships had been firing earlier, glanced off the monster’s armor and ricocheted into the air.

If the creature noticed the attack, it gave no sign. Its jaws ground together, then snapped open and shut as it gulped down the ship, the masts snapping like twigs and the sails catching on some of its teeth. The head lowered into the water, sending out a huge swell that grew even higher as the bulk of its body rose to the surface. The dark outline of the thing’s body was clearly visible now in the water as it came up.

Right under Wan-Kuta’i’s ship.

Turning to her transfixed crew, Wan-Kuta’i screamed. “Turn hard to port! And cut that mast away!”

With those words, Keel-Tath realized that their ship was still wallowing, the fallen mast and sail preventing them from sailing away from this nightmare. She realized that Wan-Kuta’i was turning in the direction of the mast, hoping it would help them turn faster and sail clear of the surfacing monster.

Snapped out of their horrified stupefaction, the crew set to cutting the shroud lines holding the fallen mast to the ship. Keel-Tath ran to help them, unsheathing her sword and slashing at the thick rigging.

She glanced up to see the waves caused by the head returning to the water overtake the two remaining queen’s ships, which were still speeding toward them. Even more smoke was belching from their smoke stacks, and their paddle wheels were turning so fast that water sprayed out behind them while the gun crews continued blasting away at the beast.

A wave hit one of the ships, rolling it perilously far to one side. It would have recovered had not an enormous fin slashed out of the water and smashed it into kindling. The vessel was there one moment and gone the next, nothing left of it but crushed debris in the water and a few crewmen whose screams were quickly cut short by the smaller predators.

Just as the last rope holding the fallen mast to the ship parted, she heard a thunderous boom from below and the ship heeled over on its side. A huge spine, not unlike one of the creature’s teeth, speared the ship and burst through the deck right next to her as the creature’s immense back rose from the sea.

“Keel-Tath!” She looked up at Dara-Kol’s panicked shout. “Look out!”

Out of the corner of her eye, Keel-Tath saw the end of the fallen boom sliding toward her as it fell away, trailing after the mast. She tried to dodge out of its way, but was too late. The thick wood, hard as iron, slammed into her chest and sent her flying over the side.

Keel-Tath bit down a scream as she fell. Instead of slamming into the creature’s back, she found herself bouncing and sliding down the wet sail of the fallen mast, which had been raised out of the water along with the ship. That saved her life, for she never would have survived the fall onto the rock-hard scales.

Catching her breath, Keel-Tath struggled to her knees and was about to get to her feet when the sail slipped from beneath her feet. Whipping her head around, she saw yet another variety of large, toothy beast clawing at it, trying to gain enough purchase to either haul itself from the water to get her, or to drag the sail — and her — into the deadly water. Other things, smaller or less inclined to venture into the air, circled and snapped in the water around the larger predator now intent on having her for a meal.

She ran, trying to keep her footing on the slick sail that was draped over the monster’s armored scales, but the thing that was trying to get at her kept yanking the sail farther into the water. More than once she went tumbling, until with a final leap she cleared the sail to land on the monster’s back.

The predator, which had front fins that doubled as legs and a blunt-snouted head sporting a mouth with rows of serrated teeth, clacked its jaws together and proceeded to waddle its way up the sea monster’s back toward her. She still held her sword, but knew that it would be of little use: the thing was nearly as large as a genoth, and was coated in glittering armored scales. With careful steps to avoid falling on the uneven scales beneath her, she backed away. But she could not go far: the slick wet hull of the ship was right behind her.

The beast was nearly upon her when a silent shadow fell upon it from above. It hissed in agony, swinging its head back to snap at Tara-Khan as he drove a harpoon with a wide spear point through the beast’s armored hide at the base of its neck. He leaped away just as the jaws snapped shut and another shadow fell: Ka’i-Lohr, bearing an axe. He cried out as he swung the weapon, catching the beast just behind the skull. The blade of living metal cut through hide, flesh, and bone, and the head flopped forward, free of the spine. With easy grace, Ka’i-Lohr rolled onto the back of the great monster on which they all rode as the body of the predator they had just killed began to writhe and twitch, rolling back toward the water. As the body reached the sea, smaller beasts and fish exploded from the waves to feast.

Ka’i-Lohr and Tara-Khan came to stand beside her. “Thank you, warriors.”

“It was nothing, mistress,” Ka’i-Lohr said, smiling.

Tara-Khan gave her a sour look. “Next time, step out of the way when something is about to fall on you.”

Before Keel-Tath could offer a retort, she heard Dara-Kol’s voice from above. “Are you all right?”

Keel-Tath raised her hand to shield her eyes from the sun as she looked up. It was a surreal sight, the ship completely out of water, the deck many arm-lengths above. “Yes, I am well! But we will need a line to climb back aboard!”

“There is no need. Stay there.”

As Dara-Kol spoke, coils of heavy rope were tossed over the side to dangle down to the monster’s back. She quickly grasped the nearest one and slid down to join Keel-Tath.

Keel-Tath looked at Dara-Kol as if she had lost her mind. “What are you doing?”

“The ship’s hull is breached.” Dara-Kol pointed to the base of the spine that had come up through the deck near Keel-Tath before she’d gone over the side. It went right through the hull, just next to the keel. “The only builder among the crew was killed. We cannot repair it.”

Keel-Tath bit her lip, and Dara-Kol’s eyes said she was thinking the same thing. “I know I have the powers of the other castes within me, but I have no idea how to summon that of the builders.”

“Nor do we have time,” Dara-Kol said. The monster on which they rode made an earsplitting roar as it snapped at something in the water, sending a huge plume of spray. “The beast will not stay on the surface for long, and other creatures will come for us soon, just as that one did.” She nodded to the huge blood stain left by the beast slain by Ka’i-Lohr and Tara-Khan.

“Then what are we to do? Without a ship, how can we survive?”

“I did not say we did not have a ship,” Dara-Kol said with a fierce grin. “Only that we cannot use this one.” She pointed.

Keel-Tath looked and saw that the last of the queen’s ships lay only a few hundred arm-lengths distant, aground on the sea monster’s back but otherwise undamaged.

***

As the surviving crew abandoned ship, Keel-Tath watched the warriors of the enemy vessel begin slithering down ropes, just as they themselves had. She glanced up at Dara-Kol. “They outnumber us.”

“Yes, by at least three to one.”

“No matter.” Drakh-Nur rumbled from behind them, Han-Ukha’i by his side. “I will kill them all by myself if you would promise that I would never have to ride in a ship again.”

Keel-Tath and the others, even Tara-Khan, laughed. “Then how would I get you to Ural-Murir?”

“Become a priestess and whisk me away with your magic!”

The others chuckled, but the humor died away as the enemy warriors formed into a line abreast, three warriors deep, and began to run toward them, led by what Keel-Tath assumed was the ship’s mistress or master.

“Form a line!” The warriors instantly obeyed Wan-Kuta’i’s shouted order as they prepared for battle.

“Han-Ukha’i,” Keel-Tath said, “stand to the side, out of harm’s way. But beware the sea beasts! Some have no fear of climbing upon our host’s back in search of prey.” This would be a battle of honor between warriors, and none would harm a healer, at least assuming that none of the approaching warriors had been turned by Syr-Nagath’s dark magic as had Lihan-Hagir.

The healer knelt and saluted. “May Thy Way be long and glorious, mistress.” She smiled as she spoke the words, then turned and made her way past the end of the terribly short battle line.

“I was hoping you would allow me to stay,” Drakh-Nur said from where he stood beside Keel-Tath. “I greatly enjoy Han-Ukha’i’s company, but in battle my place is by your side.”

“And I am glad for it. I will not let you come to harm, warrior.”

Drakh-Nur roared at her humor, and the laugh became a war cry that was echoed and amplified by the others, along with Keel-Tath herself.

The sound gave pause to the approaching warriors, for they suddenly slowed, then stopped, just beyond shrekka range. One of them continued to approach, moving at a brisk walk across the great scales.

Wan-Kuta’i’s warriors fell silent at his approach. The warrior’s sword was sheathed, and Wan-Kuta’i sheathed her own; the others followed suit.

To everyone’s surprise, the warrior came straight to Keel-Tath and knelt before her. Even more surprising was that the entire enemy crew knelt, as well.

“I am Sher-Ai’an,” he said, bowing his head and saluting. “My honor was pledged to our squadron master, and with his passing I may choose the right of Challenge or submission to a greater warrior.” He looked up at her, fear and pleading plain in his eyes. “All have heard the prophecy of your coming, mistress, and some, as I, believe it to be true.” He lowered his eyes. “I would pledge my honor, and that of those beholden to me, to you.”

“I accept.” Keel-Tath held out her hands. Not so long ago she had felt ridiculous accepting the fealty of warriors far greater than was she. She was becoming more comfortable with the ritual, but hoped she would never take it for granted. Nearly all those who had pledged their lives to her had already paid in blood for the honor. “Rise, Sher-Ai’an.”

He stood, then grasped her forearms in the greeting of warriors. “My life and my sword are yours.”

“We would join forces with your crew on your ship,” Keel-Tath told him.

A stricken look crossed Sher-Ai’an’s face. “Our ship is a hulk, mistress,” he said quietly. “The drive shaft broke when we crashed upon the back of this unbelievable beast and destroyed much of the engine’s drive machinery. Our builder is young, his powers weak. He might be able to patch the hull, but cannot repair the damage to the moving metal parts.” He paused, looking at her curiously. “I know your ship was damaged by our guns, but is it no longer seaworthy?”

Keel-Tath pointed to where the ship rested behind them. Sher-Ai’an would not have seen the spine piercing the hull from where his own ship lay.

“The hull, perhaps, he could patch, if we could only remove the spine.”

That, Keel-Tath realized, was a formidable problem. Their swords would have difficulty hacking through the spine, and it would take precious time to accomplish.

She was about to order her warriors to begin that arduous task when the motion of their host changed, and the sea on one side rose higher as the beast began a sweeping turn and the head began to disappear under the water.

“No,” Keel-Tath breathed as the water rolled closer. Time, it seemed, was quickly running out. But she had not come so far to let the beasts of the sea eat her flesh. To Wan-Kuta’i she said, “Get everyone aboard, quickly!”

The ship mistress looked at her, then at the approaching water. She was not beholden to Keel-Tath, but must have decided there was nothing to lose. “You heard her! Get back aboard!” With a slight pause, she nodded to Sher-Ai’an. “Your warriors, too.”

“And bring me your builder,” Keel-Tath added.

The warriors dashed to the lines still dangling from Wan-Kuta’i’s crippled ship. They allowed Drakh-Nur, with Han-Ukha’i clinging to his neck, to pull himself up first along the nearest line, while other warriors swarmed up the others. Then they began to help their remaining comrades up.

As always, Tara-Khan and Ka’i-Lohr stayed with her.

A young builder, his dark blue robes whipping in the wind as the great monster picked up speed, ran to where Keel-Tath stood. He knelt and saluted.

“Come! We must hurry!”

With the builder trailing after her, Keel-Tath ran to take a closer look at the damage to the hull. The creature’s spine had pierced the thick timbers and copper sheathing cleanly, without staving in much of the hull around the hole. Upon quick inspection, nothing else seemed amiss.

They ran to the side where warriors were still pulling themselves up the lines. Those nearest stood aside to let Keel-Tath and the young builder take hold.

“Drakh-Nur!”

The giant warrior’s head peered over the side.

“Pull us up!”

A moment later the rope went taut, then the two of them were flying upward toward the railing overhead. Just when she thought her head would slam into it, Drakh-Nur reached over and grabbed her by the forearm, heaving her to the deck. He repeated the feat with the builder, then dropped the rope back for Ka’i-Lohr and Tara-Khan.

“Wan-Kuta’i,” Keel-Tath called. “Do you have spare timbers?”

“Of course.” With Dara-Kol and Drakh-Nur following right behind, the ship mistress led them to the rear hatch, then down a series of ladders to the hold. She went forward to where the spine pierced the hull. “Here.” She pointed to a bundle of dark gray timbers, some small and others large, that were secured by thick strands of rope to massive iron eye screws set into the frame of the hull.

“We will need to move the wood next to the hole.” The builder said in a tremulous voice. “I have never created over any distance, even one so small as this.”

They all looked down as seawater cascaded past the opening below as the creature dove into the water.

“This will be your first time,” Keel-Tath told him. To Wan-Kuta’i, she said, “Go above and do what you must. We will heal the ship.”

With an uncertain nod, the ship mistress left them.

To Dara-Kol, Drakh-Nur, and her two young companions, she said, “You must protect us from anything that comes through until we can seal the breach.”

They all nodded, drawing their swords and stepping close to the hole.

“But mistress

” The builder was shaking his head, his eyes wide with fear.

“Hush,” Keel-Tath told him. “Do you believe the prophecy of my birth?”

Lowering his eyes, he shook his head.

“You soon will, child,” Drakh-Nur said, his face lost in the shadow of the oil lanterns that lit the otherwise dim hold.

“Take my hand.” Keel-Tath reached out to the young builder, who clung to her. He was shaking with fright. “You may not believe in me, but you must believe in yourself. Do you understand?”

“Yes, mistress.”

His tone did not match his words, but Keel-Tath did not blame him. She, too, was terrified. “Then close your eyes and focus on the damage. Do as you have been trained.”

With a gulp of air, the builder did as she asked. He closed his eyes and spread his arms wide, and she with him as they continued to hold hands.

The hull reverberated with a loud boom and water shot through the hole around the gigantic spine as the sea reached the ship’s bottom, drenching them all with spray. With an ear-piercing screech, the spine began to pull out as the ship again began to float. Even more water poured through.

“Focus!” Keel-Tath shouted above the din of the inrushing water. Their four protectors were already stabbing and hacking at the fish that made their way in, then at the head of something much larger that poked through.

She could sense the builder’s spirit in her blood, and focused on it, willing him to be calm. After a moment, the painfully tight grip of his hand eased. “You have the skills,” she whispered. “I shall give you the power.”

As his doubt fell away, she gasped as a surge of energy burned across the bridge of their hands. In her mind she saw the builder envision the hole gradually filling, the great timbers repairing themselves with tiny flecks taken from the spare wood nearby. It was a wondrous sensation, the power of creation, and it filled her with a warm ecstasy as the energy she poured through their union grew.

As if in a distant dream, she heard shouts and screams and sensed water rising up above her knees. She opened her eyes partway, as if she was barely awake, and saw the head of the creature that had blocked most of the hole loll to the side, severed by the fish that had eaten away at its body beyond the hull. The fish were now swarming in, overwhelming the desperate efforts of the four swords protecting them. Other warriors had joined the fray to keep her and the builder from being eaten.

With a gentle wave of her free hand, the rush of water into the hull was stilled. She watched as a thick smoke made up of millions of particles from the spare a’in-ka timbers poured into the water to bind to the edges of the hole in the hull, making it smaller with every passing second.

As she willed it so, the sea began to rush out even faster than it had come in. The warriors standing in the water cried out in alarm as they were nearly caught in the rush, and the confused fish were forced out through the hole.

By the time the water was gone, the hole had closed completely and the hull was sealed. The ship was again seaworthy.

Breathing in deep, her body tingling all over, she let go the builder’s hand and turned to face him. He stared at her with wide eyes before dropping to his knee and saluting her, head bowed.

He was not the only one. The other members of the crew did, as well.

All but Tara-Khan, who stood in silence, watching her with a thoughtful expression.

“I told you, child,” Drakh-Nur said to the builder as he shook the water from his sword and sheathed it, his fangs glittering in a self-satisfied smile. “I told you that you would believe.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Coming Of The Storm

The crew became more tense with every passing league as the ship drew near Ku’ar-Amir. With Keel-Tath’s help, the young builder had repaired all the significant damage suffered during the battle, and had even rebuilt the fallen mast. The ship was fully manned with crew left over, thanks to Sher-Ai’an and his warriors who were pledged to Keel-Tath.

While the ship again sailed easy, what lay ahead was unknown, save for the songs of the blood in the veins of those who hailed from Ku’ar-Amir. None of what they sensed was good.

“There is no doubt that battle has been joined,” Wan-Kuta’i said to Keel-Tath nd the other warriors gathered around the great wheel on the quarterdeck that controlled the ship’s rudder. It was morning twilight, and the ship was approaching Ku’ar-Amir from the east. Wan-Kuta’i planned to come over the horizon just as dawn broke, to make it more difficult to see her ship against the rising sun should enemy ships be laying in wait. “It is only a question of where.”

“The Western Sea fleet had already set sail from the southern part of T’lar-Gol before we sailed in pursuit of your ship,” Sher-Ai’an said. “I was not told the details, but I heard tell that it was to land warriors north of the narrow land bridge that links Ku’ar-Amir to the rest of Ural-Murir.”

“Perhaps that is what you sense,” Dara-Kol said. “Most of her forces must come from the Eastern Sea fleet, carrying warriors from both T’lar-Gol and Uhr-Gol.”

Sher-Ai’an shook his head. “I do not know if or when they have sailed. We were told little of what goes on in the greater plan, only the details of our small part in it.”

“Let us hope that a land campaign in the north is what we sense, and that she has not yet mounted a blockade.” Wan-Kuta’i looked up at the newly replaced mast and the sails that bulged forward, full of the wind. “We would not last long against more ships armed with cannons.”

Keel-Tath found herself in the rebuilt lookout platform high on the mainmast, her sharp eyes scanning the sea around them in the waning darkness. The light of the sun’s rays creeping over the sea toward where the port lay revealed the gray forms of ships, so many that she lost count. While many were fat merchantmen, most had the sleek and powerful look of warships. Several of them quickly turned and beat into the wind toward them.

“None fly the banner of the Dark Queen,” Ka’i-Lohr observed.

Tara-Khan nodded. Looking at Keel-Tath, he said, “Inform Wan-Kuta’i.”

While she bristled at his commanding tone, Keel-Tath did his bidding. Flying down the rope ladders, she brought the news to Wan-Kuta’i and the others. “No enemy ships are here.”

“Not yet, at least,” Sher-Ai’an said quietly. “I doubt they are far behind us.”

“Hail the approaching ships,” Wan-Kuta’i ordered. Then, to Keel-Tath, she said, “Once we drop anchor, let us get you to Li’an-Salir with all haste.”

Keel-Tath climbed back to the lookout platform as their ship wove its way through the choked approaches to the harbor, and she marveled at the fleet that had assembled here. From vessels not unlike Wan-Kuta’i’s on up through behemoths even larger than the ships she had seen on her previous visit to the port, the sea was full of ships from horizon to horizon, with more coming in. What staggered her imagination was that while this was the kingdom’s capital city and largest port, it was far from the only one. Similar fleets, all the ships that hailed from Ku’ar-Amir, were forming at the other ports. Every ship had been called home for the coming war. She wondered how even the Dark Queen could challenge such might.

At last, Wan-Kuta’i ordered the ship’s sails furled. The anchors fell away into the water with enormous splashes, and the air was filled with the loud clinking of their great chains streaming out of the hull until the anchors hit bottom. With a few last commands, the ship was secure, and Wan-Kuta’i beckoned the lookouts down from their post.

Keel-Tath suddenly did not want to leave her seaborne aerie. Her hand gripped the low railing of the platform as if it had a mind of its own, unwilling to let go. The port city, beautiful as it was, would only bring death. She could feel it in her soul as surely as she could feel the freshening wind on her face. A vision flashed through her mind, an image of the same city, but ages before. It was much different then, far larger, and in some ways more beautiful, but there was no question it was Ku’ar-Amir. The sky above it flashed white, and a fraction of a second later the buildings blew apart, the stone and glass smashed and shattered, metal boiling away to steam, and everything made of wood bursting into flame. Hundreds of thousands of lives were snuffed out, their bodies burned to ash. She held on tighter to the railing as the shock wave, air compressed so hard by the blast that it was like a solid wall, smashed into her.

“Keel-Tath!”

She heard a voice calling as the fire-hot wall of air slammed into her, setting her aflame as it hurled her body out to sea

“Keel-Tath!”

She opened her eyes to see Ka’i-Lohr peering down at her, an anxious expression on his face.

“Can you hear me? Are you well?”

“Yes,” she rasped as he helped her to a sitting position. Her body was shaking as if she had been stricken with a terrible fever, and her core felt cold as ice. “I am sorry.”

“What happened?” Tara-Khan asked.

“I saw

I saw another vision.”

“What did you see?”

Feeling the heat of the mourning marks below her eyes, she whispered, “You do not wish to know.”

“Visions,” Tara-Khan muttered, shaking his head. “Can you climb down, or need I carry you?”

Shaking free of Ka’i-Lohr, she forced herself to her feet and pushed past Tara-Khan to reach for the rope ladder. “I can make my own way.”

By the time she made her way down the ladder to the deck, she had recovered from the vision, which she knew was another of Anuir-Ruhal’te’s memories that the crystal shard had somehow buried in her mind.

“For what do you mourn, child?” Dara-Kol asked, seeing the black under Keel-Tath’s eyes.

“The past and the future,” Keel-Tath answered as Ka’i-Lohr and Tara-Khan came up behind her. “I would speak no more of it.”

Dara-Kol bowed her head, but there was no concealing her worry. “As you command, mistress.”

Wan-Kuta’i called them to the side rail. “This boat,” she pointed down at a longboat with ten warriors holding oars that stood alongside, “will take you to Li’an-Salir. As soon as I can, I will send Sher-Ai’an and his warriors to shore where they will await your command.” She looked at Keel-Tath for a long moment. “I did not believe the prophecy before, and I am still not sure if I do. Perhaps I am simply not ready to accept as truth what I have seen with my own eyes. Sailors are known to be stubborn.” She smiled. “But know this: should you ever wish to take to sea again, you will always be welcome aboard any ship I command.”

With that, she held out her hands, and Keel-Tath gripped her forearms. “We owe you our lives,” Keel-Tath told her softly. “It is a debt I can never repay.”

“You do not need to, mistress.” She nodded to the rope ladder draped over the side of the ship. “Go now, and seek the counsel of Li’an-Salir.”

Releasing Wan-Kuta’i’s arms, Keel-Tath clambered down the ladder, followed by Dara-Kol, Drakh-Nur, and Han-Ukha’i.

“May we accompany you, mistress?”

Keel-Tath looked up to see Ka’i-Lohr and Tara-Khan leaning out over the side rail. She glanced at Wan-Kuta’i, who nodded.

“I will second them to you, if you would have them,” Wan-Kuta’i said.

That brought a smile to Keel-Tath’s face. “You simply wish to be rid of them, great ship mistress!” She called. “But yes, I will take them.”

Ka’i-Lohr and Tara-Khan wasted no time in climbing down the ladder and jumping into the boat.

“Sher-Ai’an!” Keel-Tath called up.

“Yes, mistress?” He stood beside Wan-Kuta’i.

“Second your two best warriors to Wan-Kuta’i until we can return these two to her care.”

“As you command, mistress! And we shall find you once we reach shore.”

She nodded. “Very well. Until then!”

As the rowers pushed away from the ship and headed toward shore, driving the boat through the water with quick, powerful strokes of the oars, the entire ship’s crew, lining the side rail, bowed their heads and saluted her.

A vague sense of sadness overcame her as she returned the honor. In her heart she knew that she would never see the ship again.

***

The mood in Li’an-Salir’s great hall was one of gloom, if not despair. Keel-Tath and her companions sat at the great mistress’s table and ate as guests, silent while Li’an-Salir conferred with her senior warriors. None of what was said was good news.

“Syr-Nagath’s forces have taken the plains and control the roads north of the Swords of Night,” one of them was saying, using the tip of his sword to point to where the isthmus of Ku’ar-Amir joined with the mainland. Keel-Tath did not recognize the name, but could see on the hand-drawn map tall, rocky spires much like those that were found around the capital, but packed in much closer together. “We can hold the passes, but we are cut off from the northern kingdoms.”

One of the others grunted. “More like they are cut off from us. The Dark Queen will make short work of the kingdoms of the plains, although the ones in the northern mountains will give her more trouble. But she wanted to cut us off first.”

“The question is,” yet another said between mouthfuls of raw meat that he ground between his teeth, “where her main force will attack first. Against the northern kingdoms, or here?”

“She will attack the north first,” the first warrior said, tapping the center of the island continent with his sword. “Once she has their allegiance, even our entire army may not be able to hold the Swords. And then she will have their fleets, as well. We will hammer many of their ships to the bottom, but weight of numbers, especially in the builders at her beck and call, will eventually turn the battle against us.” He shrugged, as if the final outcome was inevitable.

The others nodded, and Li’an-Salir looked as if she had swallowed a mug full of bile.

“No.” Keel-Tath gave a start, as if the word that had slipped from her lips had burned her. Li’an-Salir and the great warriors around the table turned to stare at her. “She will come here first, mistress,” she said to Li’an-Salir, trying to ignore the bemused looks on the faces of the others.

“And why is that?” Li’an-Salir inclined her head for Keel-Tath to continue.

“Because I am here.”

Several of the senior warriors began to murmur and cast disbelieving glances at her, but Li’an-Salir waved them to silence. “Syr-Nagath cannot know you are here, child.”

“My respects, mistress.” Tara-Khan bowed his head before he went on, “Warriors of the queen saw her board our ship on the western shores of T’lar-Gol, so Syr-Nagath knows we offered her sanctuary.”

“But she must think that your ship sank with her own,” the warrior who had been noisily chewing his dinner said. “And by all accounts yours would have, save for the young mistress here.” He nodded at Keel-Tath, not unkindly. “But to build her conquest of our continent around the mere possibility that you survived to come here, child, seems most unlikely.”

“She will know.” She looked at the faces around her, her gaze lingering on Dara-Kol, Drakh-Nur, and Han-Ukha’i, who nodded, as if knowing what she was about to say. Their expressions were dark with memories of the disaster in the Great Wastelands. “Syr-Nagath has learned how to bind others to her will using some sort of dark magic upon the braids of their hair, and it cannot be discovered until the one so bound is dead.” Han-Ukha’i nodded her agreement. “One of our companions was bound to her in this way, and he betrayed us to her warriors and killed two of our number before his treachery was discovered.”

“But he was an honorless one, was he not?” One of the others of the council asked, his eyes on Dara-Kol and Drakh-Nur. “What can be expected of one fallen from the Way?”

Keel-Tath could feel the song in Drakh-Nur’s blood turn cold as ice, and Dara-Kol laid her hand on his arm to stay him from drawing his sword. Dara-Kol’s anger was no less intense, but was far better controlled. “No,” Keel-Tath said. “He was not without honor. He came to me honorless, but pledged himself to me as did many others. His honor was mine when he tried to kill us. He never would have done so were he not under the queen’s control.”

Even Li’an-Salir regarded her with a pained expression. “Keel-Tath,” she said softly, “there is no redemption for one who has fallen from grace.”

“As did I from the Desh-Ka?” Keel-Tath stood, clenching her hands into fists as anger surged through her blood. Drakh-Nur and Dara-Kol rose beside her, hands on their swords. On either side of her, Ka’i-Lohr and Tara-Khan simply gaped as she went on. “I was dishonored, cast out for speaking the truth and sent naked to the Dark Queen’s host to be chained like an animal, yet you would seat me and my companions at your table.” She looked every warrior in the eyes before returning her gaze to Li’an-Salir. “I thank you for your hospitality, mistress, but I would not be mocked. Think what you may, but the hundreds of tortured souls who pledged their honor to me, who died in my name, deserve their honored place in the Afterlife just as much as any who sit around this table.”

She bowed her head and saluted before whirling around and storming out of the great hall. Neither Dara-Kol nor Drakh-Nur bothered to salute before they followed her out.

Han-Ukha’i paused just long enough to say, “She speaks the truth about the Dark Queen’s magic, mistress. Ignore her words at your peril.” With a bow of her head and a salute, she, too, turned and left the hall, her white robes billowing behind her.

***

Keel-Tath looked up from the fire at the knock on the door.

Li’an-Salir had given them quarters in her keep, but after the insult they had suffered in the great hall, they had taken a room in the city, not far from the docks. She had not even bothered returning to the keep, for they had nothing but their weapons, armor, and clothing they wore. Come morning, she intended to try and find a ship to take them away, but to where she had no idea. The only places left for her to go were the great ice caps at the poles of the world, and she doubted any ship flying Ku’ar-Amir’s banner would take her anywhere. All of them were awaiting word on where the Dark Queen would strike so they could sortie to meet her fleet in battle.

They had managed to find Sher-Ai’an among the thousands of warriors preparing for the coming battle, and he had been shocked when she released him from her service.

“I would not have you live in dishonor among the people here,” she had told him, silencing his arguments to remain hers. “Besides, those who defend the city have greater need of your warriors than do I. When the Dark Queen comes, my life is forfeit in any case.”

She had wanted to tear her eyes out as he and his warriors knelt before her and saluted as she turned away.

Drakh-Nur and Dara-Kol drew their swords and moved to either side of the door. Dara-Kol wrenched it open to reveal the forms of Ka’i-Lohr and Tara-Khan, shadows against the dark of night outside.

“Leave before I cut you in half, younglings.” Drakh-Nur rumbled, his tone as threatening as his words.

“Forgive us.” Ka’i-Lohr bowed his head, and even Tara-Khan, an uncomfortable expression on his face, managed a nod of respect. “Mistress,” he called to her, “may we enter?”

Keel-Tath was in a foul, dark mood, but there was no harm in accepting their company. “Let them in.”

Dara-Kol and Drakh-Nur sheathed their swords as they ushered the young warriors inside. Drakh-Nur took a quick look around outside before he closed the door behind them.

Gesturing to some cushions on the floor, Keel-Tath bade them sit. The room had a table and chairs, but Drakh-Nur had piled them all in a corner. They reclined now on cushions and rugs instead of animal hides, as was their custom in T’lar-Gol.

Unaccustomed to such arrangements, Ka’i-Lohr and Tara-Khan seated themselves.

An awkward silence stretched on as Keel-Tath and her fellow outcasts regarded the two young warriors.

“It took us some time to find you,” Ka’i-Lohr finally said.

“We did not care to be easily found,” Dara-Kol told him.

Silence again.

Drawing a deep breath, Tara-Khan looked up at her and spoke. “We came to pledge our honor to you.”

Keel-Tath blinked. “How can you? You are bound to Wan-Kuta’i.”

“We asked to be released from her service,” Ka’i-Lohr told her. “She was greatly upset by what happened in the war council meeting, and gave us leave to pledge ourselves to you as a balm to the insult you suffered.”

“You realize,” she told him, “that there is likely only one ending for me and those bound to me, and it will not be pleasant.”

Ka’i-Lohr shrugged. “We will all die someday. Some are able to choose the manner of their death, some are not. I choose to die in your company.”

She nodded. Ka’i-Lohr’s motivation was simple enough. She was also aware of how he looked at her, and could feel his attraction toward her in the song of his blood. She was of age now, and could not deny a certain attraction toward him, as well. She set the emotions aside. There might be time to explore such feelings later, assuming any of them survived the coming days. “I accept your honor, Ka’i-Lohr.”

Then she turned to Tara-Khan, who looked at her, perplexed.

“Am I unfit for your service, mistress?”

She had to suppress a smile at the bewildered hurt in his voice. “I will accept your honor, if you will explain why you pledge it.” At his blank look, she went on. “From when first we met you have treated me with disdain bordering on contempt. I believe you are a capable warrior, perhaps even better than me.” She smiled, to let him know she meant no insult. But the smile faded as she went on. “But why would I have one such as you serving in my name?”

“Because, mistress,” he told her, “I believe.”

“You believe what?”

He looked at her as if she was a dullard. “In the prophecy of Anuir-Ruhal’te, mistress, and that it is your destiny to fulfill it.”

Keel-Tath stared at him, knowing he was telling the truth, but unable to believe what she was hearing.

“He has believed since he first set eyes on you,” Ka’i-Lohr said. “On the voyage over, when our ships were sent to try and find you after you escaped from the Dark Queen, you were all he thought about, all he would speak of. And when we saw you at the river’s edge

” He shrugged. “You owned his soul.”

Holding her gaze, Tara-Khan nodded. “It is as he says.”

While Tara-Khan had an uncanny ability to irritate her, she was touched by his words. “I accept your honor, warrior.”

He bowed his head, deeply this time, and saluted.

As she returned the honor, horns, deep and melancholy, began blowing somewhere outside. The signal was followed by shouts and footsteps as warriors, thousands of them, burst from their lodgings and raced toward the docks and the ships waiting there.

“What is it?” Keel-Tath asked as Drakh-Nur and Dara-Kol again rose to stand by the door, on guard.

“The horns call the ships to battle,” Ka’i-Lohr told her, his voice grave. “The Dark Queen’s fleet approaches.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Invasion

Keel-Tath stood on the ramparts of the city wall that overlooked the sea, her companions on either side of her. The sun had not yet risen, and the sky was filled with stars. The Great Moon, waxing now, hung nearly overhead.

The harbor was empty, every ship having sailed out to greet the enemy. The huge vessels alongside the piers had to be towed out by longboats crewed by dozens of oarsmen, but once in open water their massive sails billowed forth on the night wind. The behemoths formed into nine single-file battle lines. The other ships formed up around each group before they all sailed to the east to take the battle to the enemy. Li’an-Salir herself was on one of the great ships, having left her First in charge of the kingdom’s land campaign and, should it come to that, final defense. While Keel-Tath was still full of anger at the great mistress’s words the evening before, she wished her no ill will. Without her kindness, Keel-Tath and her companions would be dead, or worse.

Smaller, fleeter ships sailed on ahead, and Keel-Tath saw one that she thought must surely be Wan-Kuta’i’s command. Sher-Ai’an, released from her service, had pledged his honor to Wan-Kuta’i and had sailed with her into battle. She hoped for their good fortune, and wished deep in her heart that she had something, someone, greater to whom she could beg for their welfare. But the old gods were no more, so she could only wish her comrades a silent farewell as the wind bore them onward to their fate. She knew that a warrior’s true destiny was to die in battle, but she would much rather see them live.

A few bright orange and red flashes lit up the horizon, and the sound of thunder rolled across the sea some seconds later.

“The battle has been joined,” Ka’i-Lohr whispered beside her.

There were more flashes, then a long pause before the entire horizon, as far as she could see, lit up. Dozens, hundreds of flashes bloomed where the sky met the sea, followed by low cracks of thunder that did not stop.

“So many,” she breathed, unable to imagine how many ships must be out there, fighting in the darkness.

“This will be the greatest naval battle in the last hundred generations,” Tara-Khan said. “The fleet sailing under Li’an-Salir boasts over a thousand warships, and more protect the western coast.”

Keel-Tath looked at him. “Do you wish you were with her?”

He shook his head slowly. “I have found my place.”

“As have I.” Ka’i-Lohr put his hand on hers for a moment before taking it away. The touch made her shiver in an unexpected but pleasant way.

The horizon to the north was lit by an enormous flash that left her blinking away the afterimage from her vision. A few moments later a deafening boom echoed across the water.

She turned to Tara-Khan. “What was that?”

His face looked grim. “A ship, a big one, blew up.”

“One of ours?”

“I do not know for certain, but very likely,” he told her.

“The great ships of our fleet carry stores of what we call gunpowder for their cannons and other weapons they use to protect against the larger predators of the Great Deep,” Ka’i-Lohr added. “But gunpowder is very dangerous, and if a large amount is set alight

”

“It explodes like that,” she finished for him. “Why do they not just fight with weapons such as we use on the land?”

“They do,” Dara-Kol broke the silence of the two younger warriors as they pondered an answer, “when the ships close to boarding range. Every weapon, so long as a warrior stands behind it, is accepted in war. We crave battle by sword and claw, for that is in our blood. But with each rise out of chaos from the previous fall, the technology used to wage war rises, as well. Ever larger and more powerful weapons are built until the next fall comes, and those weapons are destroyed by the priesthoods as civilization descends back into chaos. You studied the Books of Time, I know. You saw such things.”

Keel-Tath nodded, remembering. None of what she had studied then had any context, any true meaning. But here, watching from afar as hundreds of thousands of warriors fought and died at sea, the truth of the ancient Books of Time was plain. It was then that she realized that the true purpose for the Books of Time was not to learn the mistakes of the past, but to ensure they were repeated. As Ayan-Dar had told her many times, their people should be reaching for the stars, evolving into something greater. Instead, they were doomed by the Way and the priesthoods to endless cycles of savagery, and the Books of Time were the blueprints used by the priesthoods to keep things as they had been

forever.

The fighting went on through the night as they stood watch on the walls with the city’s defenders. More titanic flashes had lit up the night sky, and many smaller ones. The time between the flashes and the thunder had grown shorter as sunrise neared, signaling that the battle was drawing closer to the coast. That could only mean one thing: the Dark Queen’s fleet was stronger, and was driving Li’an-Salir’s ships back.

By morning, smoke was thick on the horizon, carried aloft by the wind from blazing ships and the endless gunfire. Keel-Tath wondered that no damaged ships returned to seek repairs.

“In other times, they would,” Dara-Kol told her, “for those were purely battles of honor where surrender after a battle well fought was acceptable. But this is different. Li’an-Salir said that she would not yield her honor to the Dark Queen. Her warriors will fight to the death until she herself is killed. Then they have a choice of what they would do.”

“Yield and surrender your honor to Syr-Nagath, or die,” Keel-Tath whispered.

As the morning wore on, masts and sails, then entire ships, became visible on the horizon. The number soon became too many to count as the Dark Queen’s fleet forced its way toward Ku’ar-Amir. While the defenders were more skilled in handling their ships, the Dark Queen’s warships were faster and more powerfully armed.

Dara-Kol pointed at a group of enemy ships that had no sails and were shaped differently than the others. “Their hulls are made of iron,” Dara-Kol told her.

“How can that be?” Keel-Tath asked, puzzled. “Iron does not float!”

“Nor does the wood of the a’in-ka tree. But the iron hulls are stronger, and their engines can drive them through the water at great speed. Look.” She pointed to a garishly painted vessel, its hull a glossy black with runes in deep red, as it raced between a pair of sail-bound warships. Cannons mounted on the deck of the iron ship fired, blasting holes through the hulls of the Ku’ar-Amir ships.

While the enemy ship boasted an iron hull, the crews of the stricken sailing ships had iron spirits. As one, they heeled over toward their attacker, pinning it between them as they fired a broadside with their cannons. Even so far away, Keel-Tath heard the deep crunch as the three ships collided before the tiny dark shapes of warriors swarmed across the rigging and fallen masts from the sailing ships to bring their swords to the enemy. The cannons of all three ships continued to fire at point blank range, with the cannonballs of the sailing ship blasting through the iron hull of their enemy.

Then the three ships disappeared in a triple fireball as a stray shot found a powder magazine. One ship exploded, setting off the magazines of the other two. The blast destroyed two more ships sailing close by, and set another half dozen alight. When the smoke began to clear, there was nothing left of the original three but debris in the water.

Keel-Tath shook her head, trying to come to grips with the scale of carnage she was seeing. She was used to individual combat, of course, and what she had seen in the time since she had left the temple had given her a small appreciation for battle. But this, this was something far beyond. This was her first taste of war. Part of her was thrilled by it, and she could feel her heart quickening at the thought of grappling with the enemy. But another part shied away from the prospect of being wiped away in the blink of an eye by an explosion. She had felt the souls of some of the enemy warriors, descended from the line of the Desh-Ka, in her blood, sensed their fury and their bloodlust. Shared their terror as they were swept into the sea. But the worst were the songs in her veins that simply stopped as they died, all too often many at a time. She had known that war could be this way, for she had read in the Books of Time accounts of many wars fought in the past. But, like the sea monsters she had thought were only legends and tall tales, she had been unprepared for the reality of it. And this was only the beginning.

What frightened her was not that she might die in the coming maelstrom, but that she might survive it to face the future as foretold in the prophecy. If Anuir-Ruhal’te had truly foreseen her destiny, Keel-Tath must unite all her people. To do that, she would have to lead them through a war, first against the Dark Queen, and then against the Settlements, such as had not been seen since the Final Annihilation.

I am not ready, she told herself as the horizon burned. I can never be ready for such a burden.

She felt a gentle touch on her shoulder and looked back with frightened eyes to see Dara-Kol, standing close behind her.

“Have faith,” Dara-Kol said, her words barely audible above the booms and cracks of the battle.

Keel-Tath, feeling tiny against the storm sweeping in upon them, nodded and tried to smile her thanks. But inside she felt as brittle as a thin sheet of glass.

That was when she heard something, a deep hum that grew against the background of the battle at sea.

“Look!” Drakh-Nur pointed to the sky.

Keel-Tath looked up and gasped in both fear and awe.

Approaching from the north were enormous ships, easily as big as the largest of the vessels Keel-Tath had seen in the harbor. But these flew in the air. They were powered not by sails, but by some sort of engines driving propellers, in principle the same as those used on the Dark Queen’s ships. These aerial leviathans had streamlined shapes much like giant fish and were painted to match, with gaping maws and leering eyes. Down their flanks were emblazoned the runes of the Dark Queen, leaving little question of their origin or intent. She counted them as they swept over the maze of rocky spires that thrust upward from the thick rainforest toward the sky, and stopped after she reached a hundred. But there were many more, at least twice that number, sailing with regal malevolence in close formation toward the city.

The lead ships slowed and dropped lower as they neared the northern approaches, and the formation blotted out the sun as they passed overhead. Not wasting any time, the city’s defenders opened fire. Harpoons and lances, along with weapons like the one on Wan-Kuta’i’s ship that had cut down the warriors on the beach, arced skyward. Almost every one hit home, but caused no visible damage: they simply disappeared through the skin of their targets.

Then the enterprising crew of one of the catapults arrayed along the walls managed to turn it just enough to bear on the parade of airships. They flung a stone that Keel-Tath judged to be about the size of Drakh-Nur and hit one of the bulbous gondolas that stood out from the bottom of the ships like fat ventral fins. The stone smashed through the gondola and passed through the inside of the ship, emerging on the far side to take out one of the pods, each with a whirling propeller, that protruded from the airship’s sides. The pod exploded in a cloud of fiery debris.

The defenders gave a cheer that turned to a cry of disbelief as the ship caught fire from the destroyed propulsion pod. In seconds, the entire vessel had been transformed into a gigantic torch that collapsed to the ground. Small black objects, warriors, Keel-Tath knew, leapt from the doomed ship in an effort to save themselves. But their escape was short-lived, for the ship settled on top of them, burning them alive.

The handful of other catapults along the wall that could be brought to bear began to fire. Some flung stones, but others hurled clay pots filled with a volatile substance that burned with wild abandon. More airships exploded and crashed to the ground, setting parts of the city on fire. Keel-Tath shied from the thought of how many innocent robed ones must have been caught in the conflagrations, and her mind flashed back to the sight of the tens of thousands who had burned and died in Keel-A’ar. And somewhere in there, she knew, was Han-Ukha’i, and she was in peril. Keel-Tath could feel her fear and pain, but she had to force aside her fears. There was nothing she could do for the healer now.

As the lead ships neared the southern wall, dozens of ropes uncoiled from the gondolas of every ship and warriors, hundreds from each vessel, began slithering down. Some landed on the walls, where they were set upon by the defending warriors, while others landed inside the city proper. The enemy swarmed through the heart of the city, where there were precious few warriors to oppose them, most of the defenders having been concentrated along the fortifications within and atop the walls.

It was Tara-Khan who recognized the danger first. “We must get off the walls!”

The great walls, which had always been the city’s first line of defense behind the fleet itself, had suddenly become a death trap. If the enemy warriors gained control of the entrances to the wall’s fortifications, they could simply bottle up the defenders. It would be nearly impossible to fight their way out, for only a few warriors could fight together in the space of the entrances, and there was no way to scale down the outside of the walls.

“Do as he says!” Dara-Kol bellowed. “Warriors! Abandon the walls! The fight is within the city!”

The warriors around her instantly obeyed, turning toward the nearest entrances to the stairs inside the walls that led down to the city.

Dara-Kol turned to follow them, but she felt a restraining hand on her shoulder.

“Wait,” Tara-Khan told her. “We must not go that way.”

“Why?” She asked.

“Look at them.” He nodded toward the line of warriors pressing their way into the stairway entrance. “If we go with them we will find ourselves trapped in the wall.” Pointing down to the city below, where hundreds of enemy warriors were already approaching the wall near their position, he said, “We must find another way.”

“I know,” Ka’i-Lohr said. “Follow me.”

He turned and ran along the wall as the attackers and defenders began to clash far below them. Reaching one of the catapult platforms, whose warriors still fired on the airships, he led them to the winch and basket assembly that was used to bring up ammunition to the catapult from the magazine at the base of the wall.

“We cannot all ride down that thing!” Drakh-Nur said, seeing that it was barely large enough for him.

“We will not ride,” Ka’i-Lohr said as he climbed onto the winch support struts. With a deft slash of his sword, he parted the heavy rope between the struts and the winch capstan, then tied it off on one of the struts. “We must slither down the rope, as the enemy did.”

Looking down, Keel-Tath saw that there were no enemy warriors down below. Yet.

The others were looking at her, waiting for her decision. “We go,” she said, reaching for the rope.

“No, mistress.” Drakh-Nur gently nudged her aside. “We will go down first to protect you.”

Not waiting for her approval, he quickly sheathed his sword and took hold of the rope with his hands while gripping it between his knees and feet. With a fierce grin, he began to slide down toward the ground below.

Dara-Kol went next, then Tara-Khan.

“I would not be the last,” she said to Ka’i-Lohr, hoping that he would understand. She did not want to command him to go after her, for that could stain his honor.

With a salute, he stepped aside. “After you, mistress.”

When she was halfway down, Ka’i-Lohr just behind her, the first enemy warriors appeared around the nearest buildings, swarming against the defenders who had finally made it down the stairs and were now charging at the enemy. Above, the airships, having discharged their living cargo, gained altitude and moved off over the ocean, where they circled over the battling fleets.

“Hurry!” Ka’i-Lohr urged her and the others who were still on the rope.

Loosening her grip slightly, Keel-Tath began to fly down the rope. Her palms, inner thighs, and ankles began to burn as she tried to keep up with her companions.

Drakh-Nur reached the ground and drew his sword to stand guard for his comrades. In short order, Dara-Kol, Tara-Khan, Keel-Tath, and finally Ka’i-Lohr formed up beside him, weapons in hand.

Tara-Khan turned to her, his eyes reflecting the fire in his blood, the same fire that burned in hers. “Fight or flee, mistress.”

Keel-Tath did not give a thought to her response. Prophecy or no, she was a warrior, and she was tired of running. She would rather face an honorable death in battle than whatever the Dark Queen had in store for her.

“We fight!”

With swords raised and battle cries on their lips, they charged forward into the snarling melee.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

The Dark Queen

Keel-Tath’s world was filled with raging screams and awash in blood. Blood. It was everywhere, covered everything, including her. The air was thick with the smell of it, mixed with the smoke that had spread across much of the city from the burning airships and the smell of gunpowder that drifted in from the battle at sea. Her sword slashed and parried, thrust and blocked with the blinding speed and deadly accuracy born of years of tutelage under Ayan-Dar and Ria-Ka’luhr. In her veins she sensed countless songs of fear and bloodlust, the pain of the injured and the joy of the victorious. It was horrible and terrible, and every one of the warriors in that desperate fight loved it.

She and her companions had formed a circle, the eye of the storm that the battle at the base of the wall had become. Tara-Khan was on her right, Ka’i-Lohr on her left, with Dara-Kol and Drakh-Nur protecting their backs. Amidst the chaos with warriors all armored alike, they could sense friend and foe instinctively. Their swords and claws struck down those whose honor was pledged to the Dark Queen and her minions, and saved many warriors of Ku’ar-Amir who fought beside them. They fought together like a single organism, and nothing could stand before them.

She did not know how long the battle went on. Time was no longer measured in minutes or hours, but in the number of bodies that had piled up around them and the fire in her muscles and lungs from exertion.

As if a storm front had moved on, the fighting died off. The five warriors stood there, panting, staring around them. The surviving warriors of Ku’ar-Amir were on either flank, but the queen’s warriors, who greatly outnumbered them now, pulled away, lowering their swords.

Keel-Tath was seized with a sense of dread as a commotion began at the rear of the ranks of enemy warriors. Then, as if they were a flowing river commanded by a master porter of water, they parted, then knelt, revealing a single warrior striding toward her through their ranks.

“Shil-Wular,” Keel-Tath breathed, tightening the grip on her sword.

He was not alone. Holding his sword in one hand, he pulled along a wretched creature with his free hand. She was badly burned, the skin of her left arm and the same side of her face blackened, and she whimpered in agony. She wore soot-stained rags that only covered her lower body, but revealed feet that, like her arm and face, had been burned nearly to the bone.

Feeling as if she was falling into an endless abyss, Keel-Tath realized who the poor wretch was. “Han-Ukha’i,” she whispered. She made to step forward, but Tara-Khan put a hand on her shoulder, holding her back.

“Mistress, no!”

She shrugged off his hand, but remained where she was as Shil-Wular dragged his captive closer.

When he was a few paces away, just out of sword range, he stopped and let the healer fall to her knees on the blood-soaked cobbles and put the edge of his sword against her neck. Looking at Keel-Tath with cold, emotionless eyes, he said, “Yield, or she dies.” Looking around at the warriors around them, he raised his voice and said, “Li’an-Salir is dead. Syr-Nagath commands your honor now.”

The warriors of Ku’ar-Amir lowered their swords, while those of the Dark Queen looked away from the spectacle unfolding before them as an uncomfortable silence descended.

Enraged, Keel-Tath stepped forward, shrugging off Tara-Khan’s restraining hand. To the queen’s warriors, whose shame echoed in her blood, for they were born of the Desh-Ka bloodline, she said, “Warriors, have you no honor?” None would meet her eyes. “You were taught the Way since the day you were born. You know this is wrong, yet you do nothing.” Pointing to Han-Ukha’i, she shouted, “She is a healer! To touch one such as she, to harm any of the robed castes or children, is the greatest dishonor. But to stand by and do nothing while another commits such a sin is even worse. You were taught to defend such as her, even if she is not beholden to your leader, even if she serves the enemy. And yet you cower in silence and do nothing. Syr-Nagath has defiled everything our Way holds sacred. You need not follow her, for a leader who strays from the Way is not worthy. The Dark Queen is without honor and will someday rot in the long dark, but you do not have to fall with her. Pledge your swords and your honor to me and return to the Way as you were taught!”

Her words were met by utter silence, and none who faced her would meet her eyes. But in her blood she sensed something all too clear from these, her distant kin who had come thousands of leagues to kill her and bring death to this great city: fear. Bone-chilling, unrelenting fear.

“There will come a day of reckoning,” she told them. “And those of you who would allow such as this to happen, who would not raise your swords to protect those who are sacred to the Way, will find no place in the Afterlife. You will find only frigid darkness for all eternity. This, I promise you.”

“Enough.” Shil-Wular leaned down and plunged the talons of his free hand into the cooked flesh of Han-Ukha’i’s left shoulder. She shrieked in pain and tried to pull away, but he held her there, his fingers tightening, cutting through the seared flesh to spear the bone.

“Stop!” Keel-Tath sensed Han-Ukha’i’s agony and could stand it no longer. “If I yield, do you give your word that she will live?”

“I will not kill her,” Shil-Wular said.

His words gave her little comfort, but there was nothing more she could do. For now. “Then you may take me.” She sheathed her sword. “But neither you nor your queen will hold my honor.”

“I do not care.” He pulled his talons from Han-Ukha’i’s shoulder and she fell forward to the crimson-stained ground, gasping.

Dara-Kol said, “Mistress, you cannot

”

She turned to her and the others. “I can, and I must. We cannot hold out here forever, and I cannot bear to see Han-Ukha’i suffer.”

“Take them,” Shil-Wular ordered, and warriors came forward with chains to bind Dara-Kol and the others. A warrior stood beside Shil-Wular with a set of chains, and Shil-Wular said as Keel-Tath came to stand before him, “The last time I saw you, you were in chains. So shall you be again.”

As the warrior put the heavy chains on her wrists and ankles, while another stripped her of her weapons, she looked down at the shivering, burned, bloody body of her healer, the woman who had saved her life and that of so many others. “Han-Ukha’i,” she whispered, her voice hoarse. “I am so sorry.”

The healer gave no answer, nor any sign of recognition.

“I would carry her.” It was Drakh-Nur, who trembled with barely suppressed rage.

Shil-Wular eyed him, then looked at Keel-Tath. “You will carry her,” he said. “And if you drop her or fall, I will kill her and your companions. The queen has no use for them.”

Sparing him a hate-filled glance, she knelt down beside Han-Ukha’i. She noticed that there was no sign of the healing gel. Shil-Wular must have left it behind, assuming it had not been killed by the fire. Her heart sank, for without it, Han-Ukha’i would die. A healer may somehow be able to save her, a tiny voice in the back of her mind whispered. Do not abandon hope. And even if Han-Ukha’i was doomed, she would not abandon her here to die in a sea of blood. “I must lift you up,” she whispered. “Prepare yourself.”

Han-Ukha’i said nothing.

Keel-Tath took her in her arms as gently as she could, cursing the awkwardness of the chains. Han-Ukha’i moaned as Keel-Tath pulled her up in what passed for a seated position, then lifted the healer over her shoulder. Keel-Tath winced as her hands touched the burned flesh, and the healer’s skin sloughed away to reveal raw flesh and bone beneath.

Beside her, Drakh-Nur growled deep in his throat, an ugly feral sound that echoed across the quiet square. Shil-Wular drew the grakh’ta whip from his belt and lashed the giant warrior across the face. One of the seven tails of the whip caught him square across the cheek, the barbs tearing his flesh when Shil-Wular snapped the whip back. Clenching his giant fists, Drakh-Nur leaned forward, intent on killing their captor.

Before he could take a step, Keel-Tath whispered, “Stay with me. I command you.” She looked up at him with pain filled eyes as she cradled their friend, who was also the woman she knew to be Drakh-Nur’s love.

Looking down at her, his face under his eyes black with the mourning marks and blood from the wounds Shil-Wular had given him, Drakh-Nur quivered in helpless rage and pain. Then, as quickly as his anger had overwhelmed him, he forced it back. He had pledged her his honor, and would not break his vow. And a misstep now would mean Han-Ukha’i’s life. “Yes, mistress.”

Keel-Tath nodded. Pulling Han-Ukha’i up over her shoulder, Keel-Tath struggled to her feet. Her muscles quivered from the exertion of battle, but her fury gave her strength.

Without a word, Shil-Wular coiled up his whip before he turned and headed toward the city center, his captives shuffling along behind him, chains clinking, as their escort of a hundred and more warriors, shame filling their hearts, marched beside them.

***

By the time they reached the great hall, Keel-Tath’s breathing was ragged and every muscle in her body was burning like the fire that had ravaged Han-Ukha’i. She had stumbled twice and nearly fallen, but Drakh-Nur and Dara-Kol, who had come to walk beside her, held her up. Shil-Wular had cast a glance over his shoulder, but otherwise had not seemed to care. Tara-Khan and Ka’i-Lohr shuffled behind them, wretched expressions chiseled on their faces.

The hall had survived the invasion untouched, but it held none of the fascination and wonder for her that it had upon her first visit. She staggered across the floor, witnessed by thousands of warriors and robed ones who served the Dark Queen, who herself sat upon the great chair that had once belonged to the now-dead Li’an-Salir.

As she approached, Keel-Tath studied the warrior leader who now ruled most of the Homeworld, who had forced her mother to flee for Keel-Tath’s life into the arms of honorless ones who had killed her, and who had murdered her father and burned the city of her birth and all its inhabitants to ash. To look upon her, one would think she was a warrior like any other, but young for a great leader who held the world now in her talons, perhaps in her early thirties. Her face was unscarred, and she would have been beautiful to behold had her soul and deeds not been so cruel and twisted. Most of those who stood silently in the great hall shared the blood of the Desh-Ka, and Keel-Tath could sense in them the same numbing fear that claimed the hearts of the Dark Queen’s warriors outside. But the Dark Queen herself, even so close now, was nothing more than a vast silence among the numberless melodies that played in Keel-Tath’s blood. She was half Ka’i-Nur, Keel-Tath knew, although none were certain of the other bloodline she might have shared. The only empathic touch Keel-Tath had shared with her had been through the severed braid of Lihan-Hagir, but that was enough for Keel-Tath to know that the Dark Queen’s soul was a cold and empty pit.

Shil-Wular knelt before his queen, and Keel-Tath stopped behind him. The escorting warriors drove her companions to their knees.

“Keel-Tath, daughter of Kunan-Lohr and Ulana-Tath, the one foretold by Anuir-Ruhal’te to unite our people, we meet at last.” The Dark Queen stood, lithe and graceful, and came down the seven steps to the floor as Shil-Wular stood and stepped aside. “You may free yourself of your burden, child.”

Swaying under Han-Ukha’i’s weight, Keel-Tath was tempted to ignore Syr-Nagath’s invitation out of spite, but if she did not set down Han-Ukha’i now, she would fall. With a groan of effort, she tried to bend down, but her legs gave way and she collapsed to her knees. Han-Ukha’i, barely alive, fell from her shoulder, and it was all Keel-Tath could do to keep the healer’s head from slamming against the cold stone floor.

“It is said that you have the power of healing,” Syr-Nagath murmured as she stepped close to Keel-Tath, running the back of her fingers across her blood-matted hair. Keel-Tath shivered at her touch. “Why do you not heal her now?” As if by magic, a handful of healing gel appeared in her hand, and she held it out to Keel-Tath. “Here is her symbiont. Take it and heal her wounds.”

Keel-Tath stared at the writhing, ugly mass, tempted to wrest it from the Dark Queen’s grasp to let it fall, untouched by her own hands, onto Han-Ukha’i. If the symbiont touched her, it would know to heal her.

“Take it,” Syr-Nagath whispered, holding it out closer to Keel-Tath, tempting her with it. “Take it in your hands and heal her!”

But Keel-Tath would not rise to the bait. She knew it was not a test, but a trap. If the gel was Han-Ukha’i’s, the healer would die.

With a sigh of disappointment, Syr-Nagath handed the gel to Shil-Wular who strode toward the center of the hall where the great fire pit blazed.

“No,” Keel-Tath gasped when she realized what he was going to do. “No! Stop!”

“Take it and heal her, or let it burn,” Syr-Nagath said. “It is your choice.”

Casting a look at the senior healer who had served Li’an-Salir and who had told Keel-Tath about the fate of the healer she had visited when she first came to the city, she pleaded, “You know I cannot take it! Please, have mercy on her. She is a healer!”

“I will show her mercy if you or your companions pledge your honor to me.” Syr-Nagath turned to her other captives. “Just one of you can spare this healer her suffering if you will yield to me.” She moved to stand in front of Drakh-Nur, who knelt on the floor, his eyes cast downward. “You are of my kin, born of the Ka’i-Nur,” she cooed as she knelt down, putting her face only a finger’s breadth from his. “I can feel your agony and your rage. With a few words you can spare the healer her suffering. Would that not be better than to see her this way?”

He looked up at her, his face twisted in grief, marks of mourning cascading down his face.

“Drakh-Nur,” Keel-Tath whispered, shaking her head. “No! Do not trust

”

A whip-crack echoed through the hall, and Keel-Tath gasped as Shil-Wular’s whip hit her back. Her armor protected her torso, but two of the barbs landed in her scalp, and she hissed with pain as he yanked them out, tearing at her flesh.

“I would see the world turned to ash and dust before I would pledge my honor to one such as you,” Drakh-Nur grated before he spat in her face.

With a smile, Syr-Nagath stood, wiping the spittle away with one hand. “You should have been an oracle,” she told him. “For the world as you know now will be little more than ash and dust before I am through. But for your honesty, I will show the healer my mercy.” Her sword sang from its sheath as she whirled, blindingly fast, and plunged the blade into Han-Ukha’i’s throat.

Ayan-Dar had once taught Keel-Tath a defense against a thrusting blade. It required great strength and skill, and was little more than a last resort when on the cusp of defeat if one had somehow been disarmed. Keel-Tath stared at Syr-Nagath’s blade, now clamped between her own gauntleted palms. The tip was just touching Han-Ukha’i’s throat, where it drew a small bead of blood. The muscles of Keel-Tath’s chest and arms quivered with the effort of holding the blade as Syr-Nagath put her weight into it, pressing it down against Han-Ukha’i’s flesh.

The healer’s eyes fluttered open, and her gaze found the Dark Queen, standing above her, a cruel smile on her face. Then her eyes looked up to Keel-Tath, and she reached up to touch her mistress’s face with a quivering hand. “May thy way be long and

”

The last of the words were lost as the Dark Queen made a savage thrust, driving the sword home before yanking it free. Blood burbled from the wound for a moment before Han-Ukha’i’s heart finally stopped.

Drakh-Nur roared. Leaping to his feet, he charged forward, but the queen’s warriors surrounded him and beat him with whips and clubs before he could take more than a single step. He collapsed to the floor, unconscious, in a bloody heap.

Keel-Tath knelt there, Han-Ukha’i’s head cradled in her lap. With her manacled hands, she smoothed back the healer’s hair and gently closed her unseeing eyes. “May your spirit find peace in the Afterlife, Han-Ukha’i,” she said in a dead, wooden voice. “I will avenge you.”

Syr-Nagath laughed, mocking her words as she came to stand behind Keel-Tath. “Oh, I think not, child. I would be much more concerned about who shall avenge you.” Reaching out with her free hand, she took hold of the third braid of Keel-Tath’s hair, the one that represented the Blood Bond, and stretched it out as she raised her sword, intent on severing it.

Keel-Tath heard her companions screaming at the Dark Queen, filling the hall with pleas and threats, and watched them rise to their feet, only to be clubbed back to the floor by the queen’s guards. Tara-Khan’s face, in particular, was twisted with agony and grief as he battled with the guards to try and reach her, to protect her. She understood then that he could never protect her. He was not supposed to. It had always been she who should have protected him, who should have protected them all. And she had failed.

His gaze met hers for just an instant. Keel-Tath smiled at him, an expression of infinite sadness.

She closed her eyes as the Dark Queen’s blade fell.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Inquisition

Keel-Tath was prepared to accept the endless agony and solitude that awaited her when the braid that was the covenant of the Blood Bond, the embodiment of the empathic link to the others of her bloodline, was severed.

But it never came. As Syr-Nagath’s sword slashed downward, a chill wind swept over Keel-Tath. She thought it was nothing more than a chill of fear until her ears rang with the clash of steel and those filling the great hall let out a great uproar.

Opening her eyes, she looked up to see T’ier-Kunai standing over her, the blade of her sword blocking Syr-Nagath’s. T’ier-Kunai flicked Syr-Nagath’s sword clear and prodded her away from Keel-Tath with the tip of the weapon. Syr-Nagath let go the braid and stepped back, lowering her sword.

That was when Keel-Tath noticed the others. Five more priests and priestesses stood behind T’ier-Kunai, resplendent in brightly polished ceremonial armor and long black capes with silver trim. At first Keel-Tath thought they were others from the Desh-Ka priesthood, but each one bore a different rune on their breast armor, and she realized they were the most high of the six surviving orders. Before her stood a conclave of the priesthoods: the Desh-Ka, Nyur-A’il, and Ana’il-Rukh of the Homeworld; and the Ima’il-Kush, Kura-Hagil, and T’lan-Il from the Settlements. Such a conclave had not gathered for many, many years.

“By what right do you come here,” Syr-Nagath demanded. “This matter does not concern the ancient orders.”

The high priest of the Nyur-A’il, a tall cadaverous warrior who seemed to radiate cold as the sun does heat, turned his eyes upon her, and the Dark Queen took an involuntary step back. “You came to each of us,” he said, “pleading for the priesthoods to intercede on your behalf to prevent the fulfillment of the prophecy of Anuir-Ruhal’te. You cannot now withdraw that invitation.”

“That was before.” She spat the words. “You could have helped me find her. That is what I wanted! I have done that. You did nothing, and are bound by the Way not to interfere in the world beyond—”

The priest held out his hand toward her, palm out, and Syr-Nagath spasmed. Her sword clattered to the floor as she clutched at her chest. Mouth gaping open as if she was gulping for air, she collapsed to her knees.

“Do not speak to me of the Way.” He favored her with a frigid glare. “Have you more to say?”

Gasping, her talons scraping at her breast plate as if she was trying to reach her own heart, Syr-Nagath managed to shake her head.

“Then be silent. We do not answer to the likes of you.”

Whatever hold the priest had on the Dark Queen was gone, and she drew in a deep, gasping breath. She forced herself to her feet, still glaring at the priest. But she said no more.

Keel-Tath turned away from the vile creature to stare at the members of the conclave. Her eyes found T’ier-Kunai, and a great sadness filled her heart. She now knew that T’ier-Kunai must have met with Syr-Nagath, and had withheld the knowledge from Ayan-Dar. “The others, I can understand,” she said softly, shaking her head at the depth of the betrayal she felt, “for they are strangers. But not you. I looked upon you as the mother I never knew. And you have betrayed me.”

The words cut deep, she could see, and she could sense T’ier-Kunai’s shame in her blood. Yet the high priestess did not deny it.

“As I have told Ayan-Dar many times,” T’ier-Kunai said, “I cannot always do what I wish. My task is to preserve the Way, and the Desh-Ka’s place within it. There are times when that requires sacrifice.”

Keel-Tath gently released Han-Ukha’i’s body, easing it to the floor. Getting to her feet, she looked T’ier-Kunai in the eye. “Then do what you must, and all of you be damned to the Eternal Dark.”

The members of the conclave formed a circle around her, and when they closed their eyes, the agony began.

***

Keel-Tath felt as if the flesh of her body was being stripped away, layer by thin layer, as the most high of the priesthoods began to tear her apart, body and soul, to understand the secrets of her existence. In her young life she had known much pain, but nothing could have prepared her for this. She could feel them inside her, burrowing and cutting, tearing and shearing through everything that she was, everything she had ever known or done. Every cell of her body burned, and she writhed on the floor, her mouth open in an endless scream. She was laid bare before them, the violation of her body and soul complete. The only thing she wanted now was to die, even if she was cast into the infinite cold and dark, for that was the only escape from the universe of pain that filled her.

Death would not come, refused to claim her. Her heart stopped beating in her chest. She could feel its frantic hammering suddenly stilled. But an ethereal hand reached inside her, shoving organs and viscera aside to grasp and squeeze it, pulsing the blood through her tortured veins before the muscular organ began again to function on its own. Her blood was ice then fire, fire then ice, at one moment filled with the song of her blood, roaring as it had never done before, and the next was still and silent, as if the rest of her bloodline, her species, had vanished from the cosmos. That, more than anything else, tortured her, for she had never, since the day her heart began to beat in her mother’s womb, truly been alone.

Time lost all meaning as her vivisection went on. Her mind teetered on the brink of madness, the only alternative now that death had been denied her.

That was when she heard a voice, not from the lips of one who had spoken, but from the heart great and true that she had known for so well and so long. The voice that was the song in her blood of the one who had taken her from her dying mother’s arms, who had put a sword in her hand and taught her to be a warrior, who had tried to make her wise. She could feel his song in her blood rising like an angry wave, could feel him through space and time that was at once nothing, yet infinite.

Ayan-Dar.

***

In the days after Keel-Tath had departed, Ayan-Dar had slipped toward oblivion. For a time, he had made a show of attending his duties. But the face of every young female disciple became that of Keel-Tath, and after sensing her pain and fear for days, then weeks, he could finally no longer bear to pretend that he cared about the goings-on in the temple, the empty sham that the Way had become. He retired to his quarters, cloistering himself in his room. He barely ate, barely drank, and likely would have starved himself to death had it not been for Ria-Ka’luhr’s dogged perseverance in bringing him food and ale and insisting that he eat. He knew he should feel guilty, that he was acting a fool and shaming himself in the eyes of the others, but he could not help it. He simply no longer cared. His child, his daughter, had been torn from him by her own sense of honor, and he followed her by her song in his blood. His only consolation, the only reason he continued to make a pretense of living, was that she continued to live. He could not watch her more closely, for T’ier-Kunai had forbidden him to follow Keel-Tath with his second sight, and so he lived with her, and for her, through her emotions.

And so it went until the day they came to him. He was deep in meditation as he was most times, when he sensed their approach. “Come,” he growled.

Ria-Ka’luhr opened the door and entered, followed by four others who filed into the room.

Ayan-Dar made no attempt to disguise his annoyance. “What is the meaning of this, Ria-Ka’luhr?”

“Do not hold him in an ill light,” Anakh-Lehr, the priestess, said. She was one of those chosen to guard the creche, and was among the most fearsome of the priesthood. “We asked him to bring us to you, as representatives of those who believe.”

“Believe in what?” Ayan-Dar stared at her with his good eye.

“In the prophecy, of course.”

Ayan-Dar took a mug from where it sat on the floor beside him and took a drink of ale, long gone flat and stale. “So you believe. And what of it?”

Anakh-Lehr glanced at Ria-Ka’luhr, who frowned. “While you have been wallowing in your grief, Ayan-Dar,” she said, “the Desh-Ka are becoming divided in thought, if not yet in deed. You have not been the only one following the child of prophecy.”

“I say again, what of it?” He was becoming angry now. “It does not matter if you believe or not.” He lowered his voice. “Believe strongly enough and you will end up as I have.”

Taking a step closer, he could sense her frustration turning to anger. In a perverted way, it pleased him. “While we have been forbidden to follow her with our second sight, that has not kept us from listening to the tales told by those who have seen her, or claimed to have. The tales of her escape from the queen’s warriors and her disappearance into the Great Wastelands have not gone unremarked. All have known of the prophecy for years, but now ears are hearing that the child foretold has come among us, that the promised time is at hand.”

Ayan-Dar laughed. “The promised time?” He scoffed. “And what time is that? A child alone, or even guarded by honorless ones — a few or a great host, it matters not — as Ria-Ka’luhr has told me, cannot stand against the might of the Dark Queen.” He looked down, anguish clutching at his heart. “She walks upon the earth, but Death, or worse, will soon find her by Syr-Nagath’s hand.”

“Not if we protect her when that hour comes.”

Looking up at Anakh-Lehr, his eye wide with shock, Ayan-Dar said, “Thoughts are one thing. To speak such words is quite another. Do you realize what you are saying?”

She and the others nodded. “You are a great warrior and your courage and honor are revered among us, Ayan-Dar,” she answered. “As you yourself have said, the doorway to the future is opening, but if we do not ourselves change, we can never step across the threshold. How many times have you argued against blindly following the Way as it has always been, of remaining isolated from the world, when we have the power to help shape it, to become something more than we are?”

“I will not raise a hand against the high priestess or those of her council without cause,” he told her.

“Then you are a victim of your own hypocrisy.” Without another word, she whirled, her cape fluttering, and left the room. The others, with quick bows of their heads, followed her.

“You cannot say one thing and yet do another,” Ria-Ka’luhr told him. “The day will come when you must choose.” Then he, too, turned to leave.

“Fools,” he cursed after them. But deep in his heart, he knew they were right. At that moment, more than any other, did he feel the weight of years upon him.

More time passed, days when he lost more faith just as his body wasted away. He listened to Keel-Tath’s song day and night. He had, in fact, become so attuned to it that he sensed little else.

Then, one day, something changed. She was engaged in battle, he could tell easily enough. But the fear and bloodlust gave way to fear and a hopelessness so profound that he was jarred out of his meditative state.

Then the pain began, an agony both spiritual and physical that caused him to cry out as the song of her blood carried it through his veins. It was worse than the fire of the Crystal Of Souls.

He forced himself back to full consciousness, a dark rage rapidly rising, filling him with a cold fire. He knew there was only one thing that could cause such tearing of the body and soul.

Ignoring the pain and stiffness in his joints as he forced himself to his feet, he stormed out of his room and made his way to T’ier-Kunai’s quarters.

“She is not here.” It was Anakh-Lehr, and he could tell by her horrified expression that she knew of Keel-Tath’s agony, and also knew the only possible cause.

Ria-Ka’luhr and two other priests came running in, with more right behind them.

“The conclave is conducting an inquisition,” Ayan-Dar told them. Most of those who now stood before him had never heard of such a thing, unless they had unearthed the knowledge in the Books of Time, for inquisitions had only rarely happened over the ages. And it could only take place with the participation of the most high of all six orders, and that meant that T’ier-Kunai was involved. “Ria-Ka’luhr, Anakh-Lehr, and the two of you,” he nodded to the two other priests who had come with Ria-Ka’luhr to his room that day, “will come with me. The rest,” he looked at the others who were quickly gathering behind and raised his voice that he could be heard, “prepare for the coming storm, and prepare well, for it will be like no other we have ever faced.”

“How will we find her?” Ria-Ka’luhr asked. “It could take us days with our second sight to locate her.”

Ayan-Dar shook his head. As he looked at the young priest, he saw himself as he was many years ago, and for now, even if it were just for this moment, he felt young again, renewed. He was going to do what he should have done from the very beginning and take back his daughter. “I believe I know exactly where she is.” He clenched his hand about the handle of his sword. “Follow me.”

The four of them nodded, and together they vanished as the others carried word through the temple of what was happening.

***

Keel-Tath’s eyes flickered open as a blast of frigid air washed over her. Ayan-Dar stood beside her, and he was not alone. Behind him were Ria-Ka’luhr, along with two other priests and a priestess of the Desh-Ka, the cyan runes on their breast plates glowing in the torch light, the sigils on their collars gleaming.

Ayan-Dar looked upon her with his good eye. Though he was gaunt, as if he had eaten nothing since the day she left his side, she saw in his gaze the warrior he had once been, the hero who had once saved the Homeworld. “I am here, my child,” he said softly into the stunned silence that filled the great hall. With a wave of his hands, the shackles that bound her fell away. Then he turned to the guards who held her companions captive. “Release them or die where you stand.”

The guards looked at Syr-Nagath, who glared with fiery rage at Ayan-Dar and his entourage, but they feared the Desh-Ka priest more than her, and wisely so. Fumbling with the keys, they released the shackles that bound the others and stepped back, melting into the gaping onlookers.

Dara-Kol was the first to reach Keel-Tath’s side, followed by Tara-Khan and Ka’i-Lohr. Drakh-Nur, his head covered with matted blood, stood over them, glaring at the members of the conclave and the Dark Queen like an angry mountain. The four others of the priesthood who had come with Ayan-Dar formed a protective circle around them.

“You go too far,” said the high priest of the Nyur-A’il, whose hooded eyes narrowed. He raised his hand, palm out toward Ayan-Dar as he had with Syr-Nagath.

“Do not try your feeble tricks on me,” Ayan-Dar hissed, “or I will turn you to ash.”

The priest bared his fangs at the old warrior and clenched his open hand into an impotent fist.

Ignoring him, Ayan-Dar stepped closer to T’ier-Kunai, his face a mask of cold rage. “What madness is this? I do not hold it against you that you did not convene a conclave when I called for one, but to give in to the manipulations of this honorless creature?” He pointed at Syr-Nagath. “It is insanity!”

“We must know what she is,” T’ier-Kunai said quietly, nodding toward Keel-Tath, “and the threat she poses to the Way.”

“Threat?” Ayan-Dar laughed. “Fools, all of you! She is the Way’s salvation! Do none of you understand that when our race is united before her, as prophecy demands, there will be nothing we cannot achieve? And the priesthoods, you who fear such change, will remain a vital part of the Way that must come, only in a different fashion. We will no longer suppress the destiny of our race as we have for countless centuries, but become part of its future. Do you not see?” He turned to look at the other members of the conclave, who stared at him with guarded expressions. “Do not any of you see?”

“Perhaps we should all gouge out an eye that we may see the world as you do, Ayan-Dar,” said the high priestess of the Kura-Hagil. “But it is you who do not understand. Never before, in all the ages past, have the powers to heal, to control water, to forge metal, been embodied in a single individual, let alone a warrior. And even from what we have seen in the inquisition so far, that may not be all she can do. Not all, by far.”

“We would know the secrets of her soul and her flesh,” said the high priest of the T’lan-Il. “When we are finished here, we will know all.”

“I beg to inform you, high priest,” Ayan-Dar told him, his voice dripping with contempt, “but your inquisition is over. Discuss in your precious conclave what you would. Confer with Syr-Nagath at length if it is your wish, letting her tongue fill your ears with more lies and deceit. Soil your hands and your honor by ignoring the good you may do in the world. But no more harm will come to Keel-Tath or her companions. I forbid it.”

“Have a care at your words.” Keel-Tath could hear the edge in T’ier-Kunai’s voice, and could sense her rising anger. Her words echoed the expressions of the others of the most high, for Ayan-Dar was treading perilously close to casting a challenge against all of them.

“I do have a care, my priestess.” He looked at Keel-Tath, and she could feel the love he felt toward her, and a bottomless well of guilt and shame. “She lies there, where you, her own priestess, cast her into unimaginable suffering.”

“I am no longer her priestess. Do not place the blame at my feet.”

“She is blood of my blood!” Ayan-Dar’s shout echoed through the hall. “She is bound to you just as she is to me, even in her exile.” His voice softened. “Turn away from this insanity, T’ier-Kunai. I beg of you.”

She stared at him for a moment, then shifted her gaze to his four co-conspirators. “Leave this place now and return to your duties at the temple, and we will speak no more of this.”

All of them lowered their eyes, but they said nothing.

“They would not have come if they were to be so easily cowed,” Ayan-Dar told her. “They believe in the words of Anuir-Ruhal’te, as I do. And there are others who would believe, if they could see what Keel-Tath has become.”

“She will become nothing, priest of the Desh-Ka.” These words were spoken by Syr-Nagath, who had regained her courage, or fallen further into insanity. “When the conclave finishes with her I would—”

“Draw your sword and claim your challenge,” Ayan-Dar told her in a voice as cold as the glaciers at the top of the world. “Otherwise, hold your tongue, or I will cut it out.” He was sorely tempted in that moment to simply kill her and be done with it. He was already beyond redemption in the eyes of the conclave. What more harm could be done?

“Syr-Nagath is under our protection here,” T’ier-Kunai said, as if reading his mind. “Ayan-Dar, I will only ask this once more: depart now, that the conclave may finish the task set before it. We will have words when we return, but in the end you will be forgiven.”

“I do not ask your forgiveness,” he replied, shaking his head. “Not this time.”

“Enough of this.” The high priestess of the Ima’il-Kush drew her sword, as did the others of the conclave.

After a moment, T’ier-Kunai drew hers as well, the black streaks of mourning coursing down her face. “You leave me no choice,” she said in a heartbroken voice.

“So be it.” Ayan-Dar and the others with him drew their swords, and the great hall erupted in pandemonium as the thousands inside turned to flee. While it was not unheard of for priests to honor challenges in the arena with swords, this was not a battle for honor. For the conclave, it was to punish, to destroy. For Ayan-Dar and the others, it was to protect Keel-Tath and the future she represented. Some would die by the sword, but in battle, the main weapons of the priesthoods were far more deadly than their blades.

Keel-Tath could feel the rising energy in the hall, as if the air itself were electrified. Ria-Ka’luhr and the others with him gathered closer in a protective ring around her and her companions. In the great hall, dust motes began to swirl, and the stone beneath their feet became hot to the touch.

Then, in the blink of an eye, battle was joined. The hall was filled with deafening thunder as T’ier-Kunai threw a massive bolt of cyan lightning at Ayan-Dar, who in the same instant erected a wall of kindred energy to deflect it back. The priests and priestess who had come with him formed a protective shell of energy around her and her companions, and the last she saw of Ayan-Dar was a shadow through a wall of lightning, whirling in a dance of death with the members of the conclave. She screamed at him to get away, but knew he could not hear her.

The sides of the shell began to deform, pressing inward, as if being crushed by a titanic hand, and the air grew too hot to breath. Then she felt Ria-Ka’luhr’s hand on her shoulder, and the world became black and cold.

***

Old then young, young then old. Keel-Tath witnessed the birth of the Universe and its death as she traveled through space and time that did not exist.

When she blinked her eyes, she was home again, at the temple of the Desh-Ka high on its plateau. Dara-Kol and the others were with her, having been brought here by the other priests and priestess.

But the temple did not look now as when she had left it. For a moment, she thought the chaos was a figment of her imagination, a dream left over from traveling through the darkness to get here. But the shouts and screams, the bolts of lightning, did not stop. The temple was at war. Acolytes and disciples fought one another with bloodthirsty abandon amidst priests and priestesses who dueled with snarling bolts of cyan energy and swords that slashed and thrust at blinding speed.

“What has happened?” She shouted over the din at Ria-Ka’luhr, who appeared as stunned as she felt.

“Civil war!” he shouted back. An enormous cascade of energy flared near the Kal’ai-Il, and two of the enormous pillars were sheared off, crushing half a dozen acolytes who were battling beside them. “It would seem there were more who believed than we realized, and they were not content to wait for our return before deciding the matter.”

Half the buildings were on fire, and Keel-Tath could see the wardresses of the creche, holding the precious younglings, streaming toward the path that led down to the valley, along with the other robed ones. She was relieved to see that the guardians attended them. Not only would they not be in the fight, but the children and the robed ones would be protected, come what may.

The other priests and the priestess with them fended off the few nearby challengers, but they could not stay here, near the center of the maelstrom. The entire plateau was alive with cyan discharges.

“Where can we go?” Keel-Tath cringed as a bolt came perilously close, but was blocked at the last instant by Ria-Ka’luhr.

“To the coliseum!” It was Ayan-Dar, who appeared beside them. His left side was badly burned, and a chunk of his breast plate had been blasted away, the edges still red hot. “Quickly!”

With Anakh-Lehr in the lead, they fought their way through the temple complex. Ka’i-Lohr and Tara-Khan helped her along, for her body was still weak and wracked with pain from the torture inflicted by the conclave. Drakh-Nur and Dara-Kol had picked up weapons from fallen acolytes, and added their toll to the butcher’s bill, while Ayan-Dar and the other rebels of the priesthood blasted away at the loyalists who stood in their way.

Keel-Tath and her companions followed Ayan-Dar toward the great dome that now rose above her. She gasped for air, not from the pain that still had hold of her body, or even the fear and exertion of fleeing across the temple compound, but the empathic shock of the deaths of those around her. On both sides were priests who had taught and nurtured her, acolytes and disciples who had been her companions since the days of the creche, and every one of them who died tore at her heart. They were her family, her beloved, and all of them were dying over her. Some died to protect her, others to kill her.

As they approached the door to the coliseum, T’ier-Kunai appeared before them, her fangs bared in rage, her bloodied sword held out to one side. She opened her mouth and bellowed a challenge. “Ayan-Dar!”

Without hesitation, the old warrior swept forward, sword held high. They fought in a whirlwind of slashing steel and cyan lightning. Tara-Khan drove Keel-Tath down to the ground, covering her with his body as a huge release of energy swept over them, knocking the others, save those of the priesthood, off their feet. She was deafened by a cascade of explosions, and had to keep her eyes squeezed shut to avoid going blind. The air over the center of the battle between the two most powerful members of the priesthood grew so hot that dark, ugly clouds began to form and swirl overhead.

At one point the lightning stopped and they both vanished together, then reappeared moments later, covered in snow as they grappled with claw and sword. T’ier-Kunai finally gained the upper hand, driving Ayan-Dar back against the door of the coliseum with blazing fast overhand strikes from her sword. With one final slash, she knocked Ayan-Dar’s sword away, leaving a clear path to his chest. She lunged forward, plunging her blade through his breastplate, just below his empty left shoulder. Keel-Tath saw the tip of the blade emerge out her mentor’s back, red with blood.

But the killing blow was the dagger that Ayan-Dar had drawn from his belt. Shoving himself forward, driving T’ier-Kunai’s blade even deeper, he rammed the dagger up beneath her breastplate, the tip piercing her heart.

She stared at him in shock, her mouth open wide. As her body went limp and the two of them collapsed to the ground, he cradled her in his arms, the marks of mourning streaming down his cheeks. “I am so sorry,” he rasped. He turned to Ria-Ka’luhr. “Pull out her sword.”

The younger priest took hold of the sword’s handle and yanked it free, Ayan-Dar grunting with pain.

“Keel-Tath and Ria-Ka’luhr, with me,” the old priest gasped as he reluctantly let go T’ier-Kunai’s body and struggled to his feet with Ria-Ka’luhr’s help. “The rest of you, find what refuge you can and await our return.”

“We would guard the door!” Tara-Khan said.

“This door needs no guard,” Ayan-Dar explained. “Where we go, none may follow.”

With a touch of his hand, the massive door opened, and the three of them rushed inside.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Crystal Of Souls

Keel-Tath stumbled blindly into inky darkness as the massive door closed behind them. As it slammed home, the terrible sounds of battle outside ceased. Other than her breathing and the sound of her feet shuffling through what must have been sand as she groped blindly forward, the inside of the coliseum was quiet as a tomb.

“Ayan-Dar?” She waved her arms around, trying to find him, but her hands found only empty air. In a rising voice, fear taking hold of her, she called out. “Ria-Ka’luhr?”

Just before she was about to shout out to them, the darkness was displaced by a soft glow that swiftly grew brighter, fully illuminating the chamber. She could not see the source of the light, for there were no torches or fires. It simply was.

“Here, child.” Ayan-Dar beckoned to her from the central dais of what she instantly recognized as a massive arena that took up the entire area under the dome. Her eyes flicked upward, taking in the detail of the carvings on the curved walls and ceiling. She would have liked to study them, for they were among the most beautiful she had ever seen, but there was no time, not now.

Forcing aside her own lingering pain from the conclave’s inquisition, she rushed to his side. The old warrior priest knelt on the stone dais, his face a sickly cyan. Blood dripped in a steady flow from the wound above his heart where T’ier-Kunai’s blade had found its mark, and a crimson pool had formed on the stone beneath him.

Kneeling by his side, she held him as he blinked and began to fall over. “Where is Ria-Ka’luhr?”

“He

” He paused, then gasped, “There is

no time.”

The dais began to tremble, the very earth beneath them shaking before the stone at the center, not a hands breadth from where she knelt, fell away into utter blackness. She tried to drag Ayan-Dar clear of the terrifying abyss, but he held her tight.

“No,” he said, blood running from his lips. “Here.”

Not understanding what was happening, she was frightened, but did what he asked.

The ground continued to shake, but above the low rumble she heard something grinding, stone against stone.

A pillar emerged from the abyss, rising as if forced upward by the earth itself, driven by the pressures deep in the planet. It kept rising, slowly rising, until the top of it, which was barren except for the concave surface of the stone itself, was nearly as high as she stood tall.

As the rumbling below her feet stopped, a brilliant light shone from above. She looked up, but had to raise a hand to protect her eyes as something, a tiny point of cyan fire, fell toward them from high above the dome.

She cried out in fear, but Ayan-Dar held her tight.

“Courage, daughter,” he whispered as the thing fell, impossibly fast, toward them. With it came heat so intense she felt as if her face was burning, and a deafening roar that made the battle outside seem like it had been nothing more than the sound of gentle ocean waves. She closed her eyes and held onto Ayan-Dar, awaiting the death that she knew must be upon them.

But it never came. She blinked, and the heat, the sound, was gone. Upon the stone pillar sat an enormous crystal in the shape of a tear drop. It shimmered and blazed with cyan, as if it contained the lightning from a thousand storms, and she could feel her skin prickling from its ethereal energy.

It was one of the seven Crystals of Souls, she realized. Each of the six ancient orders had such a crystal, which was the source of the powers wielded by the priesthoods. The Ka’i-Nur had once had such a crystal, but it had been lost long ago, near the end of the Second Age.

Above her, the sun shone through the circular opening through which the crystal had come. She wondered how that could be, because the sun had nearly set when she and the others had been whisked here to the temple. But there was no mistaking it for what it was, and it made her wonder even more about the mysteries of this place. The sun’s rays formed a bright circle upon the sand that steadily moved, even as she watched, toward the pillar and the crystal.

“You remember

the prophecy?”

She turned to look at Ayan-Dar. “Of course,” she said softly. “How could I not?”

“Say it.”

The words came to her as naturally as breathing, so many times had she repeated them in her mind. For a long time she had hated them, had hated Anuir-Ruhal’te for ever uttering them. They had condemned her to a fate she had never wanted, and had led to the ruin of her world. But in the end, here as she huddled inside this strange place with the man who had raised her to become a warrior and more, she knew that Anuir-Ruhal’te was her distant mother, and the words she had spoken so long ago may as well have been Keel-Tath’s name.

Long dormant seed shall great fruit bear,

Crimson talons, snow-white hair.

In sun’s light, yet dark of heaven,

Not of one blood, but of seven.

Souls of crystal, shall she wield,

From Chaos born, our future’s shield.

The rays of the sun touched the crystal and it sparked, flared cyan. She could feel heat again, but this time it was even stronger, and grew more intense as the sun moved to shine full upon the crystal.

“You have my blood,” Ayan-Dar wheezed. “The crystal will

know you. When it shines on you

you will burn.” He took in a ragged breath. “Be not afraid

as the pain takes you. You must

lay your hands upon it.”

She did not know all the details of the ceremony by which an acolyte became a priest, but she knew that what he asked could not be done. “It is forbidden to touch the Crystal of Souls!”

“Not for you, child of Anuir-Ruhal’te.” With those words, his life began to slip away. His body went limp, and she lowered him to the dais. “You must

touch it, or all is lost.”

“No,” she cried, holding tight to his hand. “Ayan-Dar, stay with me! Do not leave me!”

His eye blinked open to look up at her. He had a tortured expression on his face. “Ria-Ka’luhr

he will

”

And then he was gone.

She stared down at him, feeling as if her world had been destroyed. She gently closed his eye and kissed him on the forehead, her heart a cold, dead stone in her chest.

Above her, the sun rose to its peak, shining down full upon the ancient Crystal of Souls of the Desh-Ka, which flared and sparked. For just a moment, the shimmering orb seemed to absorb the sun’s light, sucking it into an infinite depth, before exploding in blazing rays of cyan.

Struggling to her feet, she looked into the blue fire, wondering if she was already blind. But no, she could see the crystal still, a bright teardrop at the center of the universe. Her skin smoldered, then burned as she moved closer to the light, and she bit down on her tongue to keep from screaming from the agony wrought by the cyan fire. She had been born out of the flame of her father’s dying city, and in flames would she die. Ayan-Dar had promised that it would not be so, but her faith faltered as the lightning glare of the crystal consumed her. She raised her hands, groping forward as her flesh melted away from her fingers, her hands, then her arms, leaving nothing but charred bone.

Then she was blind as her face and eyes were burned away, and with one final lunge before she died, Keel-Tath did what none had ever done in all the ages past: with the charred remains of her talons she touched the Crystal of Souls.

***

She was standing in the center of Anuir-Ruhal’te’s great burial chamber. But it was not the time-worn ruin she had seen after Dara-Kol had taken her from the clutches of Shil-Wular. It was as it had been when new, near the end of the Second Age. Instead of her armor, she wore a simple white robe. At a distance, it might have been mistaken for the robe of a healer, but it was cut in a different fashion, fitting more closely to her body, and she wore no black undergarment. The fabric was cool and comfortable against her skin, but she could not help but feel naked without leatherite and metal.

Looking down at her hands, she saw that they were unmarred, save for the scar on her palm where Ayan-Dar had shared blood with her. The thought brought a great sadness upon her, for she remembered then that he had died in her arms. It seemed now so very long ago.

“Grieve that he is parted from you,” a disembodied voice said with great gentleness, “but rejoice that he has joined the ranks of the Ancient Ones, the warriors of the spirit.”

Turning around she saw Anuir-Ruhal’te standing behind her. Looking at her was like gazing into a mirror, seeing herself as she would look when fully mature. Keel-Tath gestured with her hands, looking down at her body. “I

I do not understand. I am

” She forced out the words. “I died.”

The ancient oracle, her far distant mother, nodded. “All who are touched by the light of any of the seven Crystals of Souls die. Those who survive are changed by it, born again and given the powers passed down through the ages from when the crystals were forged at the height of the First Age.” She smiled and stepped closer, putting a hand to Keel-Tath’s cheek. “A small few have been foolish enough to touch the crystals, and for them it was the touch of Death from which there was no awakening. But for you, it was as it must be. And this is only the beginning.”

Keel-Tath did not care for the sound of that. “What does that mean?”

“Your birth was no accident, child. The seeds of your coming were sown by my own hand, and you would have been born far earlier — in my lifetime — had not those who lived in fear, those who nearly destroyed our kind, tried to put an end to it. They would have succeeded, save that I spread the seed far and wide, carefully concealing it in the bloodlines so that none, not even the healers, would recognize it until it bore fruit. To create that seed was my life’s purpose, and the result greatly pleases me.”

Keel-Tath stared at her. “So the war, the Final Annihilation of the Second Age, was fought because of you?”

“No,” Anuir-Ruhal’te said, “it was fought because of you. Or, rather, the seed that would someday become you. You see, beloved, you are the only one who can touch the crystals and survive. And by touching them, their essence infuses your body and spirit. The priests and priestesses who are touched by their light are only endowed with gifts such as the crystals see fit to bestow. But you will have all they have to give.” She paused, gazing deep into Keel-Tath’s eyes to make sure she understood. “This frightened the great powers of my time. What began the war was the knowledge that the child I sought to bring into the world would be able to harness the power of all seven Crystals of Souls. They could not bear the thought that a single individual could wield so much power.”

“Perhaps they were right,” Keel-Tath whispered, mentally reeling from what Anuir-Ruhal’te, or her ghost, was telling her. “If one such as the Dark Queen held such terrible power, how long could it be before the light from the very stars went out?”

“She will never have it,” Anuir-Ruhal’te assured her. “This is a power only you may wield. It is part of you, in your very blood. The crystals will recognize you, and no other, for what you are.”

“But why? What need was there to do such a thing?”

“I did it because our race was dying, child. Fewer children were born with each generation, and after all our achievements we were falling into ruin, into chaos. Some did not believe the final ending was upon us. Others did, and were content, or even joyful, that it was so. While lust for battle is in our very blood and bone, battle without honor is for the feral creatures of the land and sea, not our kind. Yet that is what they would have had. But some, like me, sought salvation for our kind.” She lowered her head. “While we had hopes for the distant future, that you would someday be born, we had failed the people of our own time, and the weapons of those who opposed us rained fire down upon the worlds.”

“You and the others like you were the old gods,” Keel-Tath whispered. “Those who fell, who were claimed false in the eyes of the people.”

Looking up, the marks of mourning running down her face, Anuir-Ruhal’te nodded. “We took upon ourselves the power of gods that we might save our people. We succeeded in part, for our species lived on, after a fashion. But we failed to take our people higher, to a greater state of being in the Universe. That, child, will be your task. You know us through the Books of Time as the old gods, the fallen, yes. You shall be the new god, the one god who will see our people through to their ultimate redemption.”

“And how am I to do this?” Keel-Tath was afraid she knew what the answer must be.

“Those few of us who survived the fires of that last great war formed the priesthoods to safeguard the crystals. Alas, the message of their true purpose was lost over the ages, for they have long since forgotten that they were to preserve them for you. The priesthoods took a path that was not foreseen, and the only way you can accomplish what you must will be with fire, by force.” She looked at Keel-Tath, her eyes wells of sorrow. “Each of the other six crystals must you touch, and then

then you will have power such as even we Ancient Ones could never have conceived.”

“But mistress, there are only five other crystals. The one for the Ka’i-Nur no longer exists.”

At that, Anuir-Ruhal’te smiled. “It exists, my child. But it was hidden, for among all the Crystals of Souls, it is in some ways the most powerful, the most terrible, for it will reopen the gateway between the spirits of the living and the dead. When it is time, you will find it, I have no doubt.” She stepped closer, taking Keel-Tath’s hand. “There is an afterlife, child. There is a paradise, and there is endless darkness. Once you have the power of all seven crystals within you, you will not be bound by life or death, just as you will not be bound by space and time. And when you are ready, you will be able to take our people where we could not.”

With one last squeeze of Keel-Tath’s hand, Anuir-Ruhal’te turned and began to walk away, and the light in the ancient crypt began to dim. “I must go to them now,” she said. “It is time.”

“Wait!” Keel-Tath called after her distant ancestor, and began to follow after her. She had so many questions that needed to be answered. “Mistress, please wait!”

But the oracle, her distant mother, was fading quickly as darkness claimed the crypt. Looking at her hand, Keel-Tath saw that she was holding the shard of the crystal heart that she had taken from the crypt before she had destroyed it. The blue glow was fading. With a final bright pulse, the light went out, and the world was cast into darkness.

***

She awoke upon the cold stone of the dais in the coliseum. Blinking her eyes clear, she turned her head and saw Ayan-Dar laying beside her. Biting back a cry of grief, she reached over to touch him and found his body still warm. He was gone from this life, but she remembered Anuir-Ruhal’te’s words about the Crystal of Souls held by the Ka’i-Nur: it will reopen the gateway between the spirits of the living and the dead. Perhaps she would see her mentor again one day, along with her mother and father, and all the others whom she had lost.

It was a heartening thought until she realized that it must have been nothing more than a dream. It must have been.

Propping herself up on her elbows, her body still tingling and sluggish, something fell from her hand to clatter onto the stone.

It was the crystal shard.

She had no recollection of removing it from her pouch, but then she realized that her pouch and everything else she wore that was not metal had been turned to powdery ash, and even the metal plate of her armor was charred and melted along the edges. The only things that had been left untouched were her weapons.

Carefully picking up the crystal, she looked at it, hoping to see some trace of the blue glow, but there was none.

With it still held in her hand, she knelt beside Ayan-Dar, wishing she could speak to him again, wishing that he could give her words of wisdom to help illuminate the path she must follow. She glanced at the door through which they had come, one of seven that ringed the great arena, terrified of what lay beyond. She was not afraid of the war among the priesthood, or even the Dark Queen. She was terrified of what she herself must become, and even what she might be now.

She did not feel any different, except that the pain she had felt from the inquisition was gone. Her body seemed the same, so far as she could tell.

The only difference she could sense with any certainty was the song of her kin in her blood. It was there, to be sure, but was not the chaotic maelstrom it had been when she entered the coliseum with Ayan-Dar. It was steady and measured, a harmony of millions of voices at peace. She did not know if that was some strange effect of this place, or if what had transpired here had wrought some greater change upon the world outside.

She also wondered where Ria-Ka’luhr had disappeared to. He had been with her when they passed through the doorway, but only Ayan-Dar had appeared on the other side.

Steeling herself for what must be done, she kissed Ayan-Dar’s forehead, then picked up her father’s sword and stood. Brushing the ash from her body, she strode toward the doorway, forcing herself to be strong. Whatever powers the Crystal of Souls might have given her, courage was not among them. For that, she had to look to herself.

Pausing just a moment at the door, she wondered if it would even open, for it could only do so for one of the priesthood. But if what Anuir-Ruhal’te had said to her in the dream were true

Reaching out with her hand, she touched the door, and it swung open wide. Beyond lay nothing but darkness.

Taking a deep breath, her father’s sword in hand, she stepped through into the unknown.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

Darkness Falls

The temple lay in smoldering ruin. Save for the massive domed coliseum, the buildings of the temple had been razed by fire or blasted into rubble by the massive energies unleashed by the priests and priestesses as they fought. Even the great Kal’ai-Il had been damaged, two of the massive pillars shorn off. Bodies and parts of bodies were strewn everywhere, although for some of the fallen, all that remained was a sword or a piece of burned and twisted armor. Billowing clouds of smoke drifted away from the plateau to smother the sunset. What the great ships that sailed between the stars had been unable to do in the final battle of the last great war, the priests and priestesses had managed to do themselves.

Keel-Tath, gazing with unbelieving eyes at what had once been her home, was sickened by the slaughter. The song of her kin in her blood, so peaceful and placid within the confines of the coliseum, was filled with anger and rage, bloodlust and pain. And so many were silent, the echoes of their melodies gone forever unto death.

She stood there, trying to come to grips with what had happened in the time she had been in the coliseum, as the door behind her slid silently closed. One thing was painfully clear, however: the battle was over, and there was no question who emerged victorious.

“Yield, Keel-Tath, in the name of the conclave of the priesthoods.” It was T’ier-Kunai’s First, Alena-Khan. Her armor was charred and still smoking in several places, and her left arm hung limp at her side, dripping blood. In a wide semicircle around the doorway stood what was left of the Desh-Ka, swords still drawn. So few, Keel-Tath thought, her heart aching. Those who had stood with Ayan-Dar were gone, dead. “There need be no more bloodshed. Enough have died on your account.”

Kneeling before them were Dara-Kol and Drakh-Nur, beaten and bloodied. Tara-Khan lay on the ground, bleeding badly from a sword wound in his chest below his heart. Ka’i-Lohr sat next to him, dazed, a deep gash across his forehead.

“I yielded to them, mistress,” Dara-Kol said in a rasping voice as Keel-Tath rushed to kneel beside Tara-Khan. “We could not hold against them, and I did not want to die without knowing you would return to us.”

Drakh-Nur looked up at her with tortured eyes, and bobbed his head. “As did I.” He glanced at the young warrior beside him who lay dying. “Tara-Khan would not,” he rumbled. “I am shamed, mistress.”

“The only shame is what the Dark Queen has wrought upon us all,” Keel-Tath told him bitterly. “Tara-Khan,” she whispered, putting a hand to his face. His eyes flickered open. He managed to raise a hand, and she took it. His grip was so weak, and she could feel his life slipping away as he bled out upon the ground. Looking up at Alena-Khan, she said, “Summon a healer!”

“He raised his sword to defend you,” the priestess said. “Let him die with honor.”

“No,” Keel-Tath whispered, turning back to Tara-Khan. “I have seen enough death this day.” Letting go his hand, she tore at the fastenings of his armor to reveal the wound, which was as long as the width of her hand, the blood foaming from air seeping from the ruptured lung. From the blood seeping out beneath him, she knew the sword had thrust all the way through his body. “Please,” she whispered desperately, putting her hands over the bleeding flesh. “Please let this work.” She had no healing gel, no skills in the healing art, nothing but desperate hope that the powers the Crystal of Souls had given her could be used for something other than destruction. Squeezing her eyes shut, she concentrated on his body, the flutter of his heart, the shallow gasping of his lungs, the warmth of the blood that covered her hands.

Then his heart stopped beating. She could feel it stop, could feel the flow of blood over her hands cease. But she would not give up. “Tara-Khan,” she whispered again, willing his spirit to not take flight, to stay.

“Mistress.” She felt Dara-Kol’s hand on her shoulder. “Mistress, let him go.”

“Help me,” Keel-Tath whispered, not daring to open her eyes. “Believe in me. Believe that he will live.”

She felt another hand touch her back. From the huge size she knew it was Drakh-Nur. And then Ka’i-Lohr put his hands over hers.

Time passed, how much, she could not tell. Gradually her sense of the world around her faded, everything but the hands of her companions where they touched her and the warmth of Tara-Khan’s blood faded to darkness.

Then, just as when she had first seen the faint glow of the shattered crystal heart in the dark cavern beyond Anuir-Ruhal’te’s crypt, the darkness of her mind was cast aside by a brightening glow that suffused her body with a tingling warmth. The glow continued to brighten and the warmth became a heat so intense that she felt as if she was kneeling upon the surface of a star. She opened herself to it, was overcome by it. She was no longer a being of flesh and blood, bone and sinew, but of light and energy, boundless, limitless. It was an ecstasy she had never known, could never have conceived, as if the power of the entire Universe was hers to command.

The energy flowed through her across the bridge made by her hands to Tara-Khan’s body, and as it did she could see him in her mind, a dark emptiness that began to glow with tiny stars. At first there were only a few, right where she touched him. But they quickly began to spread, and in only moments his body glittered with them, millions of stars, more than in the sky from all the nights of a thousand years.

She gasped as his heart gave a stuttering beat, then another. And another, before it made a steady, comforting rhythm. The torn flesh and bone mended, and blood begat blood, refilling his arteries and veins. With a gasp, his lungs took a deep breath, and after a few more she heard a sound that brought her great joy.

“Keel-Tath,” he whispered, putting a hand to her cheek.

With a deep sigh of release, the light and heat dissipated as quickly as it had come. She opened her eyes, feeling at once spent and invigorated, elation filling her heart. A day that had brought so much death had, for this once, also brought life.

“You shall live to fight another day,” she told him, squeezing his hand tight and smiling at Ka’i-Lohr, who stared at her with utter disbelief.

Letting go of Tara-Khan, she picked up her father’s sword and got to her feet, swaying for a moment at a sensation of light headedness that quickly passed. Dara-Kol and Drakh-Nur, still on their knees, helped to steady her, then bowed their heads low as she turned to face Alena-Khan. She took a step toward the priestess, tightening her grip on her father’s sword, still sheathed. The fear she had felt when she had first seen the priesthood arrayed against her was gone. Death held no fear for her after what she had just done. “I do not answer to the conclave or to you, priestess of the Desh-Ka,” she said. “I am the daughter of Anuir-Ruhal’te, by her design if not by her womb, and in her name and my own do I demand your honor.”

Alena-Khan and the others of the priesthood stared at her as if she had gone mad. A few made sounds of utter disgust in the back of their throats.

“We do not answer to dishonored younglings, standing naked before us.” Without another word, Alena-Khan’s hand shot out, and a blazing cyan bolt exploded toward Keel-Tath with a deafening thunderclap. Dara-Kol tried to throw herself into its path, but she was far too late.

The bolt struck Keel-Tath square between her breasts. She expected in that instant to die, but all she felt was a momentary prickling, tingling sensation. Looking down at her chest, she saw no burn marks, no wound of any kind.

The members of the priesthood gasped in surprise and shock.

She pointed to Tara-Khan. “I was given the power to heal, even to give life back to those who died. You were witness!” She took a step toward Alena-Khan. “I was also given the power of death. I could kill you, all of you, where you stand. I would not give you challenge, for it would be without honor; you would stand no chance against me.” Clenching a fist to her breast, she said, “I can feel the power within me, coiled and writhing, a power great as the sun.” She again took a step forward. “I touched the Crystal of Souls with my very hands, Alena-Khan. I touched it and lived. While I was not bestowed a collar of honor as were you, you must be able to sense its power within me, and you cannot disbelieve what you have just witnessed. Tara-Khan should be dead, yet he breathes still. I should be dead by your hand, nothing but ash fluttering to the ground, yet I still stand before you, untouched.” She took another step, and a few of the priests and priestesses stepped back. Alena-Khan stood her ground, but there was no mistaking the sense of fear radiating through the song of her blood. More softly, Keel-Tath went on. “T’ier-Kunai is dead, slain by Ayan-Dar, who himself now lies dead upon the dais where I was reborn. Ria-Ka’luhr is missing, I know not where. I can feel him, but the song of his blood is no more than a faint breath upon the wind.” With one more step, she was standing within a pace of she who was now high priestess of the Desh-Ka, by default, if not by acclamation. “I hold within me all the powers of the crystal, but I do not know how to use them. I am young, yes, but I am not without honor, and I am not without purpose. I ask you and the others of the Desh-Ka, those who have survived this dreadful day, to be my teachers. To do what I must do, to fulfill the prophecy set before me, I need you. All of you. Your wisdom, your knowledge, your swords, your powers. For right now, we few are all that stands against the gathering darkness that will destroy the Way forever.”

Alena-Khan stared into her eyes for a long moment before she finally nodded. “As you say, I cannot deny what I feel, what I have seen.” Her gaze flicked to Tara-Khan, who had risen to his feet, his bared chest devoid of any sign that her sword had pierced him, then back to Keel-Tath. “My heart would claim the right of challenge, but it is also heavy with grief for those we have lost this grievous day.” Then she turned to speak to the other priests and priestesses. “No order, perhaps save the Ka’i-Nur long ago, has ever endured a heart-rending day such as this. Even in the greatest battles we have ever fought, we have always fought together, as one, and never warred among ourselves. I see now the wisdom of Ayan-Dar, whom I honored for his deeds, but condemned for his beliefs. Such, I know now, is to my everlasting shame. You have heard her words and seen with your own eyes her deeds, brothers and sisters. None among the priesthood has ever pledged their honor to one who does not wear the Collar of Honor and the sigil of one of the ancient orders. But perhaps it is time, for the sake of all the days to come, for that to change.” Turning back to Keel-Tath, she went down on one knee and, with her good arm, offered her sword. “My honor and my sword are yours, mistress.”

In ones and twos, the other priests and priestesses went to their knees and raised their swords in their hands, offering them to Keel-Tath. In the end, there were no dissenters, none who chose to leave. They had nowhere to go, for their home and their hearts were here.

“I accept your honor and your swords, great priests and priestesses of the Desh-Ka,” Keel-Tath told them as she rendered a salute, her left hand to her right breast. “Rise, and let us tend to the dead and wounded. We have no time to waste, for the world now stands against us.”

***

Syr-Nagath stood on the end of the breakwater that protected the harbor of Ku’ar-Amir from the occasional ravages of the sea. Fortunately, the sea had stayed calm and the weather clear, making it easier for the battered ships that fought the titanic sea battle to make their way to their moorings. Most of them were damaged, some so badly that they had to be towed to the harbor’s edge where they settled to the sandy bottom, the crews clearing the lower decks to escape the ravenous fish. Despite the breeze, a heavy haze of smoke laden with the stink of gunpowder still hung over the sea out to the horizon, made blood red in the afternoon sun. Parts of the city itself still burned where some of her airships had been shot down, but she was not concerned. The builders would put things to rights, and those who had died were only flesh and blood. They were more easily replaced than the stone and mortar of the city.

Looking to the east, toward far away T’lar-Gol, her lips curved upward in a cruel smile. While she still bristled at her treatment at the hands of the conclave, she could not have been happier at the outcome. Ku’ar-Amir was in her hands, and with it the cream of the kingdom’s warriors and its fleet. The conquest of the other parts of Ural-Murir would be inconsequential, little more than mopping up spilled dregs of ale from the floor. Ku’ar-Amir had always been the heart and soul of the continent, the head that ruled the body, and she had lopped it off in one sure stroke. Once the other kingdoms were taken, the entire Homeworld would be pledged to her.

The thought filled her with a deep, almost sexual, sense of excitement, and her very skin tingled with anticipation. Looking heavenward, she imagined her next step, the leap into space made by so few who had come before. Already her builders and the keepers of the Books of Time were at work upon the designs of the great ships that would carry forth her legions to the Settlements, where she would continue a conquest that would be like no other in the Books of Time.

As for the priesthoods, she could not restrain herself: she laughed aloud at their ridiculous folly. While things had not unfolded quite as she intended, the end result was better than she could possibly have engineered herself. She had hoped to sow discord among the priesthoods, but had resigned herself to waiting until they were ripe for the plucking. Instead, that fool Ayan-Dar and his followers had instigated an open rebellion within the Desh-Ka. From what she had learned through Ria-Ka’luhr and Ka’i-Lohr’s eyes, the order had been torn apart, gutted, and she knew from the conclave before they departed that they were preparing to declare the Desh-Ka as honorless. Were the Desh-Ka mere warriors, they simply would have been exiled. But the priests and priestesses were held to a much higher standard, and the other leaders of the conclave were not inclined to let Ayan-Dar’s heresy spread beyond the plateau where the Desh-Ka temple stood smoldering.

The child, Keel-Tath, had survived, she knew, but what hope had she, once the conclave visited its wrath upon the Desh-Ka? And should Syr-Nagath wish her dead, a mere thought, an effort of will, was all that would be required for Ka’i-Lohr to drive a blade through the white haired one’s heart. She had been sorely tempted to have Ka’i-Lohr kill the child when he had appeared at Ayan-Dar’s side during the conclave. But that would have tipped her hand to the priesthoods, and her own life would have been measured in fractions of a breath before they cut her down.

Syr-Nagath’s smile faded slightly as she thought of the one thing that had not gone according to plan, that she had not anticipated at all. Ria-Ka’luhr had disappeared. He was gone from her sight, from her control. He was not dead, for she would have felt it through the link they shared. She was not so concerned now about his loss as a puppet, a tool for her cause, but because she did not understand how it had happened. He was there one instant, and the next he was gone, vanished. The magic she had worked upon him could not be undone, but there had been nothing in the Books of Time to say it could not be tampered with. It was a vexing unknown.

Still, her plans were progressing nicely, and once the Desh-Ka were expunged from the cosmos, she would be a great leap closer to her goal of being the ruler of all. Then she could bring back the Way as it should be, as it was before the fall of the old gods.

The Way of fire.

***

Keel-Tath stood on the Kal’ai-Il, which was still covered in chunks and shards of stone from the two pillars and the stone top piece that had been destroyed. She looked to the west, where the setting sun was painting every hue of gold and red fire across the magenta sky. Smoke billowed into the air above the plateau from the funeral pyres for those who had died. Priests and priestesses were given their last rites first, and were followed by the acolytes, then the disciples. She had paid her respects to each one as their pyre was lit, all the while mourning that Ayan-Dar’s was not among them. Alena-Khan and others of the priesthood had returned to the coliseum, but the old priest’s body could not be found in the infinite space and time that lay beyond the doorway.

The same was true of Ria-Ka’luhr. She was sure he still lived, but that was all she knew. The priests and priestesses had searched for him, as well, but to no avail. She had finally told the priesthood to set aside the search, for there was too much to be done. Ayan-Dar’s body would wait, and Ria-Ka’luhr was skilled and tenacious. Wherever he was, she knew he would survive. He must.

She glanced down at the debris that crunched underfoot as she slowly walked across the ancient stone dais. The Kal’ai-Il itself would never be repaired. When the builders and warriors had the luxury of time they would clear away the rubble, but it would be left as it was in memory of those who had died this day.

The robed castes had returned and were doing all they could to prepare the temple for the coming storm. The builders, with the keepers of the Books of Time to guide them, would be especially busy, preparing defenses against whatever the Dark Queen might bring to bear. Except for the honorless ones, the warriors of the entire world beyond the temple were now sworn to Syr-Nagath. While Alena-Khan was unsure how the other priesthoods would react to the heresy the Desh-Ka had committed by pledging their honor as they did, she doubted they would look upon it with approval. Keel-Tath’s greatest fear was that one or more of the orders would follow this heretical precedent and pledge themselves to the Dark Queen.

Her eye caught the shimmer of cyan on her new breastplate. It was the rune of the Desh-Ka. She smiled, remembering Alena-Khan’s insistent pleas that she honor them by wearing it. Keel-Tath was not sure why the crystal had not bestowed the sigil of the Desh-Ka upon her, but she suspected the reason. While the Desh-Ka would be the first of the ancient orders to serve her, it would not be the only one. The others would, in the end, pledge their honor to her. They must, if she was to fulfill the prophecy. It would be a long, bloody road, for they would not accept her on word alone, but eventually she would bring them to the Way, the Way as it was meant to be. And while the rune on her breastplate could be replaced or removed easily enough, the Collar of Honor, especially on those who wore the sigil of their order at their throat, was for life. In the end, she could show preference to none, for they all were her people.

“The rune of the Desh-Ka becomes you, mistress,” a voice said from behind her. Dara-Kol. “I did not know him, of course, but I suspect Ayan-Dar would have been most proud.”

“I believe you are right.” Keel-Tath said, nodding, as Dara-Kol saluted, then came to stand beside her. “I miss him so. And Ria-Ka’luhr, and so many others.” She looked up at the Great Moon and the stars that were beginning to emerge in the sky as day gave way to night. “Even knowing of the power that dwells within me now, I feel so small without them. Here am I, a warrior, barely more than a child, who never even completed all the challenges of the kazha, trying to do what even the old gods of the Second Age could not.” She took a deep breath, feeling a shiver run down her spine. “Is it wrong for me to feel afraid?”

“No, mistress,” Dara-Kol said. “It is not wrong at all, as long as you do not let fear rule your mind and heart. In the long years I waited to find you, I knew much fear, but always in my heart I never doubted that the day would come when I would kneel before you and place your father’s sword in your hands. That was the power of my faith.”

“I wish I had such faith,” Keel-Tath whispered as they came to stand at the railing surrounding the dais. She could see far into the lowlands where night had already fallen. Thousands of pinpricks of light flickered in the distance, many of them torches and campfires of legions bound to the Dark Queen that had been ordered to lay siege to the temple. They posed no immediate threat, but against the millions of warriors at Syr-Nagath’s command, let alone the other priesthoods, even the Desh-Ka could not prevail.

“Let the darkness fall,” Dara-Kol told her. “For you shall rise, brighter than the sun, to destroy it forever.”

DON’T MISS

THE NEXT EXCITING CHAPTER

OF THE FIRST EMPRESS SAGA:

MISTRESS OF THE AGES

The next book of the First Empress series, Mistress Of The Ages, is slated for release in Winter of 2013. For details, click here

DISCOVER OTHER BOOKS BY MICHAEL R. HICKS

In Her Name: The Last War Trilogy

First Contact

Legend Of The Sword

Dead Soul

In Her Name: Redemption Trilogy

Empire

Confederation

Final Battle

In Her Name: The First Empress Trilogy

From Chaos Born

Forged In Flame

Mistress Of The Ages (Coming Winter 2013)

In Her Name Trilogy Collections

In Her Name: Redemption

In Her Name: The Last War

Harvest Trilogy

Season Of The Harvest

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ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

I’d like to give a huge thanks for the folks who have so graciously given of their time and talent to help me continue to improve my writing and to give you, dear reader, a more enjoyable reading experience. Big hugs to my editorial team of Mindy Black, Stephanie Hanson, Marianne Marianne Sřiland, and Frode Hauge for picking this book to pieces and then helping me put it back together again.

I’d also like to thank the team of beta readers who provided some great feedback as part of the final review the book underwent before launch. For Robert Hill, Jay Lamborn, Tonietta Walters, fellow RVer Steve Dawson, and fellow author Steve Umstead (I highly recommend that you check out his work, by the way!), many thanks for the great feedback you gave on this book.

As always, I want to thank my wife, Jan, without whose love and support none of this would ever have been possible.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Born in 1963, Michael Hicks grew up in the age of the Apollo program and spent his youth glued to the television watching the original Star Trek series and other science fiction movies, which continues to be a source of entertainment and inspiration. Having spent the majority of his life as a voracious reader, he has been heavily influenced by writers ranging from Robert Heinlein to Jerry Pournelle and Larry Niven, and David Weber to S.M. Stirling. Living in Florida with his beautiful wife, two wonderful stepsons and two mischievous Siberian cats, he’s now living his dream of writing novels full-time and spending as much time at the beach as possible.