ishar had suggested and to give himself time to heal. There was
nothing he could do to change what had happened, he had told
himself; he must get on with his life. He had lived for years
without the use of the sword’s magic-without even knowing it
existed. He was no worse off now than he had been then. He
was the same man.
And yet the pain lingered. It was an emptiness that scraped
the bones of his body from within, leaving him fragmented and
in search of the parts that would make him whole again. He
could argue that he was unchanged, but what he had experienced
through wielding of the magic had left its stamp upon him as,
surely as if he had been branded by a hot iron. The memories
remained, the images of his battles, the impressions made b)
the power he had been able to call upon, the strength he had
enjoyed. It was lost to him now. Like the loss of a parent or a
sibling or a child, it could never be completely forgotten.
He looked out across the Parma Key and felt himself shrink-
ing away to nothing.
When they reached the Jut, Chandos was waiting. Padishar’s
one-eyed second-in-command looked larger and blacker than
Morgan remembered, his bearded, disfigured face furrowed and
lined, his body wrapped in a great cloak that seemed to lend his
massive body added size. He seized Padishar’s hand and gripped
it hard. “Good hunting?”
“Dangerous would be a better word for it,” the big man
replied shortly.
Chandos glanced at Morgan. “The others?”
“They’ve fought their last, save for the Valemen. Where’s
Hirehone? Somewhere about or gone back to Varfleet?”
Morgan glanced quickly at him. So Padishar was still looking
to discover who had betrayed them, he thought. There had been
no mention of the master of Kiltan Forge since Morgan had
reported seeing him in Tyrsis.
“Hirehone?” Chandos looked puzzled. “He left after you
did, same day. Went back to Varfieet like you told him, I expect.
He’s not here.” He paused. “You have visitors, though.”
Padishar yawned. “Visitors?”
“Trolls, Padishar.”
The outlaw chief came awake at once. “You don’t say? Trolls?
Well, well. And how do they come to be here?”
They started across the bluff toward the fires, Padishar and
Chandos shoulder to shoulder, Morgan trailing. “They won’t
say,” Chandos said. “Came out of the woods three days back,
easy as you please, as if finding us here wasn’t any trouble at all
for them. Came in without a guide, found us like we were
camped in the middle of a field with our pennants flying.” He
grunted. “Twenty of them, big fellows, down out of the north
country, the Chamals. Kelktic Rock, they call themselves. Just
hung about until I went down to talk to them, then asked to
speak with you. When I said you were gone, they said they’d
wait.”
“No, is that so? Determined, are they?”
“Like falling rock looking to reach level ground. I brought
them up when they agreed to give over their arms. Didn’t seem
right leavmg them sitting down in the Parma Key when they’d
come all that way to find you-and done such a good job of it
in the bargain.” He smirked within his beard. “Besides, I fig-
ured three hundred of us ought to be able to stop a handful of
Trolls.”
Padishar laughed softly. “Doesn’t hurt to be cautious, old
friend. Takes more than a shove to bring down a Troll. Where
are they?”
“Over there, the fire on the left.”
Morgan and Padishar peered through the gloom. A cluster of
faceless shadows were already on their feet, watching their ap-
proach. They looked huge. Unconsciously, Morgan reached
back to finger the handle of his sword, remembering belatedly
that a handle was just about all he had.
“The leader’s name is Axhind,” Chandos finished, his voice
deliberately low now. “He’s the Maturen.”
Padishar strode up to the Trolls, his weariness shed some-
where back, his tall form commanding. One of the Trolls stepped
forward to meet him.
Morgan Leah had never seen a Troll. He had heard stories
about them, of course; everyone told stories about the Trolls.