The leader of the King’s Own gave an ear-piercing whistle. The battle dragon flew down until the ropes dangling from its back were within the soldiers’ reach. Swiftly they climbed back up and took their places on the dragon’s large flat back. The dragon lifted its wings, and within moments the shadow was lifted, the sky was empty, night’s gray gloom returned.
In the courtyard below, men glanced at each other in silence, their faces grim. Women, eyeing their husbands and sensing the tense atmosphere, hurriedly rounded up children, sharply reprimanding or slapping those who whined.
Magicka, his face livid, stalked into the keep.
Gareth waited until the wizard had departed, then ordered his men to set fire to the bier. The flames crackled as the men and women gathered around and began to sing their lord’s soul to his ancestors. The captain of the knights sang a song for the lord he had loved and loyally served for thirty years. When he finished, he watched the leaping, roaring flames consume the body.
“So you never killed a wizard? Hugh, my friend, you might yet get your chance. If I ever see you again . . . King’s business!” Gareth grunted. “If you don’t show up, well, I’m an old man with nothing left to live for.” His eyes went to the wizard’s quarters, where a robed silhouette could be seen looking out the window. Having his duties to attend to, the captain walked to the gate to make certain all was secure for the night.
Forgotten, an artist bereft of his art, Three-Chop Nick sat disconsolately upon the block.
CHAPTER 4
SOMEWHERE, VOLKARAN ISLES, MID REALM
THE COURIER KEPT HIS DRAGON UNDER TIGHT REIN. GIVEN ITS HEAD, THE SMALL
riding dragon could swiftly outfly the larger battle dragon. But the courier did not dare fly unescorted. Elven corsairs often lurked in the clouds, waiting to snap up lone human dragonriders. And so the going was slow. But at length the torches of Ke’lith vanished behind them. The craggy peaks of Witheril soon obscured the smoke rising from the bier of the province’s fallen lord.
The courier kept his dragon flying near the tail of the nightrae- the battle dragon. It was a sleek black wedge, cutting through night’s gray gloom. The King’s Own, strapped into their harnesses, were so many black lumps upon the nightrae’s back.
The dragons flew over the small village of Hynox, visible only because its squat, square dwellings showed up plainly. Then they passed over Dandrak’s shore and headed out into deepsky. The courier glanced up and down, this way and that, like a man who has not flown much before-an odd thing in a supposed king’s messenger. He could see two of the three Wayward Isles, he thought. Hanastai and Bindistai showed up clearly. Even in deepsky, it was not truly dark-as dark as legend held night had been in the ancient world before the Sundering.
Elven astronomers wrote that there were three Lords of Night. And though the superstitious believed that these were giant men who conveniently spread their flowing cloaks over Arianus to give the people rest, the educated knew that the Lords of Night were really islands of coralite floating far above them, moving in an orbit that took them, every twelve hours, between Arianus and the sun.
Beneath these isles were the High Realm, purportedly where lived the mysteriarchs, powerful human wizards who had traveled there in voluntary exile. Beneath the High Realm was the firmament or day’s stars. No one knew precisely what the firmament was. Many-and not just the superstitious-believed it to be a band of diamonds and other precious jewels floating in the sky. Thus, legends of the fabulous wealth of the mysteriarchs, who had supposedly passed through the firmament, evolved. There had been many attempts made by both elves and humans to fly up to the firmament and discover its secrets, but those who tried it never returned. The air was said to be so cold it would freeze blood.
Several times during the flight, the courier turned his head and glanced back at his companion, curious to note the reactions of a man who had been snatched from beneath the falling ax. The courier was doomed to disappointment if he thought he would see any sign of relief or elation or triumph. Grim, impassive, the assassin’s face gave away nothing of the thoughts behind its mask. Here was a face that could watch a man die as coolly as another might watch a man eat and drink. The face was, at the moment, turned away from the courier. Hugh was intently studying the route of their flight, a fact that the courier noticed with some uneasiness. Perhaps sensing his thoughts, Hugh raised his head and fixed his eyes upon the courier.