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and slitted. Long arms, bulging with muscle, sprouted from the shoulders.
Zhu Chao began to tremble, and felt his courage waning. The creature of smoke threw back its head and a sibilant hissing filled the room.
‘What do you want of me?’ it said.
‘A death,’ answered Zhu Chao.
‘Kesa Khan?’
‘Exactly so.’
A sound issued from the creature of smoke – slow, volcanic hissing that Zhu Chao took to be laughter. ‘He wants your death also,’ said the demon.
‘Can he pay in blood and pain?’ countered Zhu Chao, aware that sweat was trickling down his face and that his hands were trembling.
‘He has served my master well.’
‘As have I.’
‘Indeed. But I will not grant your request.’
‘Why?’
‘Look to the lines of your life, Zhu Chao.’
The smoke dispersed, as if a clean wind had swept through the room. The chalice was empty, the heart vanished without trace. Zhu Chao turned to where, moments before, the body of the young slave had hung in chains. It too was gone.
The sorceror stumbled from the circle, uncaring now about the lines of chalk which his sandalled feet smeared and scattered. Taking up the Third Grimoire he carried it to a leather-topped desk and searched through the pages. The spell he needed was a small one, needing no blood. He spoke the words then traced a pattern in the air. Where his finger passed a shining line appeared, a spider’s web forming. At last satisfied he pointed to various intersections. Small spheres sprang into being at each spot, some blue, others green, one gold, two black. Zhu Chao drew in a deep breath, focusing his concentration. The web began to shift and move, the spheres spinning, circling the golden globe at the centre. The sorceror took up a quill pen, dipping it into a small well of ink. He found a large
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sheet of papyrus and began to write, occasionally glancing up at the swirling pattern in the air.
After an hour he had filled the page with symbols. Tired, he rubbed his eyes and stretched his back. The swirling web disappeared. Taking the sheet he walked back to the chalice, said the Six Words of Power and dropped the papyrus into the golden bowl.
It burst into flames, which reared up forming a burning sphere, a great globe which rose from the chalice, hanging in the air before his face. The sphere stretched and flattened, the flames dying down, and Zhu Chao saw a man dressed in black moving along the high walls of his palace. In the man’s hand was a small crossbow.
The scene flickered and changed. There was an ancient fortress, with high twisted walls and tilted turrets. An army was gathered there, scaling-ladders and ropes at the ready. Upon the wall, on the highest turret, stood Kesa Khan. Beside him was a woman, also dressed in black.
The vision shimmered and Zhu Chao saw a dragon high in the sky, circling above the fortress. But then it turned and flew straight towards Gulgothir, passing over the quiet homes and flying like an arrow towards Zhu Chao’s own palace. Its shadow swept over the land, like a black demon, flowing over the palace walls and into the courtyard. There the shadow froze on the flagstones, blacker than night, rising up and becoming a man.
The same man, carrying the crossbow.
Faint now, the image swirled once more and Zhu Chao found himself gazing at a cabin in the mountains. The man was there again – as were the bodies of the nine knights. The sorceror was shocked. How had Waylander overcome his knights? He knew no spells. Fear flickered in Zhu Chao’s heart. The dragon in the dream had flown to his palace, promising death and despair.
Not mine, thought Zhu Chao, fighting down the beginnings of panic. No, not mine.
His weariness was forgotten as he moved up the winding stair to the upper rooms. Bodalen was there, lounging on a couch, his booted feet upon a silver-topped table.
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‘What is there that you have not told me about Waylander?’ demanded the sorceror.
Bodalen rolled to his feet. He was a tall man, wide-shouldered, lantern-jawed, his eyes blue beneath thick brows, his mouth large and full-lipped. He was the image of the younger Karnak and his voice had the same resonant power. ‘Nothing, my lord. He is an assassin – that is all.’