They sent representatives to the Daroth, urging them to reconsider their methods. In return the Daroth demanded more fertile land. The Oltor refused. And died . . .
Huge and powerful Daroth warriors had sacked the cities of the Oltor, destroying them utterly. Ardlin remembered the chilling line from the Book of Desolation. Invincible and almost invulnerable, the Daroth could not be slain by arrow or sword.
Now he stood on the balcony, wondering how he could escape the holocaust that would follow. Most men who knew him assumed him to be rich and, indeed, he had been. Fortunes had been paid for his skills, enabling him to build this fine house and to keep three mistresses. The fortunes had also funded his other great pleasure: gambling. There was no greater thrill than to wager on the roll of the dice, watching the cubes bounce across the ivory-inlaid walnut table – seeing the twin green eyes of the leopard and the staff of the Master appear as the dice came to rest. The ecstasy of that moment left a taste in the heart that was stronger than any opiate – better than the joys in the arms of his mistresses. It seemed to Ardlin that it was the very taste of life itself.
Unfortunately the eyes and the staff appeared all too infrequently when Ardlin threw. And he had wagered greater and greater sums.
Now he had nothing left to wager, and instead of possessing fortunes he owed them.
On the balcony, he ran his slender hand through his thinning hair and sighed. Fortunes meant nothing now. What he needed was a good horse, some supplies, and enough gold to purchase passage on a ship from Loretheli to one of the larger, settled islands.
Heavy and huge, the Daroth were said to fear crossing water and on an island he might be safe. At least he would be a lot safer than here, in this doomed city.
The problem was that he had no horse, nor money to purchase one. The great house was now empty of all valuables, and all of the friends he had made during his stay in Corduin had been sucked dry. He could think of no-one who would advance him a single copper piece.
How long, he wondered, until the Daroth army reaches the gates of Corduin? Two days? Five? Ten? Panic caused him to tremble once more. In the old days he would have gone to his medicine store and chewed on the Lorassium leaf. That would have calmed him. But there were no leaves now, and no money to buy them.
Leaving the balcony, Ardlin walked down to the kitchen and pumped water into a jug. Then he filled a goblet and drank. The water only highlighted his hunger . . . and there was nothing to eat.
A loud knock came at his front door, causing him to jump. Silently he made his way to the observation panel and slid it open.
There were two men standing outside, one lean and slim, his hair dark and short-cropped to the skull; he was dressed in a black leather jerkin, dark leggings and boots. Beside him was a gangling young man carrying a longbow. They were not creditors . .. but they could be collectors. The dark one looked like a collector – hard and lean. On the other hand they might be in need of his services, which meant money. Ardlin bit his thin lower lip. What to do?
‘There’s no-one here,’ he heard the hulking young man say. ‘Maybe we should come back later? Anyway, I’m not sure I want someone poking around in my eye. Maybe it will get better on its own.’
Ardlin ran to the front door, took a deep breath to compose himself, then smoothed down his silver hair. He opened the door. ‘Good day, my friends,’ he said, his voice deep and resonant. ‘How may I be of service to you?’
The dark-haired young man had eyes of the deepest blue. ‘My friend here has an injury to his eye. We were recommended to you.’
‘Indeed? By whom?’
‘Vint.’
‘A charming fellow. Do come in, my friends. Despite this being my day of rest, I will see you – as a mark of respect to the noble Vint.’