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  "Sisters," Lorlarra said quickly, "I don't think we dare try to use it."

  Dauntra nodded. "If the Dooms all know about it, we'd be flying to our deaths."

  Juskra nodded. "I'd say they can't not know about it."

  "Then we use it not," Ambrelle decreed. "And we turn north, now, sisters, to reach Taurentar Wood. We can sleep there and go on to Ironthorn on the morrow. Waiting in the Raurklor until dusk, and only then darting straight to Stormcrag."

  "Where we'll hope one of the Dooms hasn't installed a garrison before us," Lorlarra said darkly.

  "What? Are you tired of fighting lurching dead men in armor, or flying toads?" Juskra teased.

  "No," the quietest of the four sisters replied grimly, "but I'm thinking we all soon will be. Very soon."

  As Rod stood and stared at them, both of the Ironthorn guards started moving, striding well out to either side of his boulder before slowly advancing on him. They both had their swords out now.

  Rod glanced at one menacing face, then at the other.

  "This is Ironthorn?" he asked the older guard, trying to make his voice sound calm and casual. He backed off the boulder as he spoke, turned, and started up the steep slope again, fumbling with his gauntlets.

  Earlier, tramping through the forest, he'd taken them off and threaded the spiral rings adorning their cuffs through some of the metal loops his belt was studded with, to leave them hanging at his thighs. Now, of course, unthreading the rings wasn't going smoothly.

  "I gave you an order, outlander!" the older guard said harshly, sounding very close.

  Rod remembered that the closest part of the man would be his sharp swordtip-and then, thank God, he got that left gauntlet unhooked, pulled it on, and wheeled around.

  "So you did," he replied sternly, "and I thought it rather a rude way of greeting someone who has aided the Hammerhands so much, over the years."

  The guard was close to him and climbing the hill, sharp sword first. Rod's words made him frown in puzzlement, but not slow his pursuit.

  The younger guard was farther down the hill, but keeping wide as he climbed, so as to be able to come at Rod almost from behind if Rod dared to stop to talk to the older one.

  Rod started backing up the hill, out of the pincers of their closing trap. He had no idea what sort of fanciful lies he'd try to spin about aiding the Hammerhands, if he was asked.

  Yet it didn't look as if he was going to be asked. Gods, he missed Taeauna. She always handled the meetings and greetings…

  "Stay back!" he ordered, making his voice as stern and heavy as he could-and raised his left hand, gauntlet gleaming, to point at the guard.

  The ring tingled, the gage started to tingle, too-and flames spat forth.

  Well before the bright stream of fire reached him, the guard sprang back with a startled curse.

  And lost his footing, of course, falling heavily and rolling a brief, crashing way back down the hill.

  Rod turned to face the younger guard, who had halted, still far away and well below him.

  "I'll not warn either of you again," Rod told the man, keeping his voice firm and flat, as he watched that angry face slowly go pale.

  He raised his hand again, not sure if he should point at the second guard when the first one was now struggling grimly to his feet and starting to climb again.

  Rod retreated a few more steps toward the trees.

  "Down him, Urlaun," the older guard commanded, climbing right at Rod with dark, hot anger in his eyes. All trace of coldness had gone from the man; he was angry, and wanted blood.

  Rod took one challenging step down the hill to meet him-actually to return to a level spot where he could stand and balance with some confidence-and pointed at the angry guard with his gauntlet-covered hand.

  Fire flared from it again, spitting and snarling… and then faded away, exhausted. The gauntlet, and then the ring beneath, lost their tinglings.

  Shit. Again.

  Rod backed away and spun around, so he could climb the slope back into the trees in real haste.

  The two guards were following him grimly, their drawn swords menacing him.

  Rod turned his back on them and hurried. He was perhaps two minutes away, if not less, from having to face the fact that he hadn't the faintest idea how to use any of the magic he was carrying. At all.

  The price he'd have to pay for that ignorance would be in blood.

  A lot of it, and all his own.

  "I can't believe the Stormar spat out a 'warlord' who lasted more than one battle doing anything but fleeing," Garfist rumbled, "let alone one who managed to win battle after battle, and take hold after hold! He must have help!"

  "He must have a Doom's hand in his head or up his backside, you mean," Iskarra agreed calmly, returning to her seat atop the table and lounging back against the wall. "How else could he take the field with monsters fighting for him, as well as hireswords?"

  "But they say he butchers wizards whenever he can catch them," the onetime pirate and former panderer rumbled.

  "Well, who would want wizards slain more than a Doom desiring all rivals swept away?"

  "Oh. Huh." Garfist's wits had been far swifter in his younger days, but years of seeing unsubtle menace defeat deft cleverness had taken their toll. Swindlers shrieked and died just as quickly as fools when you took a sword and slit them open from chin to shivaroons. "So who's back of him, d'ye think? Malraun or Narmarkoun?"

  "Or Arlaghaun standing up in his grave, or the new Lord Arch wizard-"

  "Huh. That idiot. Not likely."

  "— or Lorontar the Undying?"

  Garfist sighed, regarded his nigh-skeletal lover unhappily, and rumbled slowly and bitterly, "As the years pass, I find I like anything to do with magic and wizards less and less. Give me a good sharp knife handy to a foe's throat any day. Or better, night."

  "I believe, Old Ox, that many a king, knight, and dung-covered drover has expressed those same sentiments before you," Iskarra said wryly. "Some of them quite forcefully, and more than one of them screaming it as his last words."

  "Huh," Garfist said again. "Trying to scare me?"

  The woman once infamous as the Viper raised a withering eyebrow. "Why should I try that? 'Tisn't as if it's going to work, after all these years."

  The large and shaggy former pirate grinned and nodded. "Heh. That's true." Then he lost his smile in an instant, and asked in a lower, warier voice, "Viper mine, d'ye think the Aumrarr as brought us here might be working for a Doom? Or living all enspelled by one, and not know they were doing his bidding?"

  Iskarra frowned. "It's possible, I suppose," she said slowly, "but I… no, I can't believe it. All these years they've fought the Dooms; if one was behind them, he'd have used them on his rival Dooms long since, when he saw a good chance to destroy one."

  "But the Lord Archwizard, he's new," Garfist said darkly. "And all that time, none of us knew Lorontar was anything more than a nightscare legend, too. If he was drifting about like a ghost, from one Aumrarr mind to another, all those years…"

  Iskarra shuddered. "Do I want to hear this?"

  "And another thing," Garfist told her, drawing himself up in grim triumph. "All the tavern-talk we heard in Galath, about who the Aumrarr really are. Those flying lasses have been keeping secrets from us all for years!"

  But his longtime lover shook her head, grinned mirthlessly, and waved a scornfully dismissive hand. "Someone's been spreading stories to try and make us mistrust them, more like. Now there I think I see a Doom at work, yes!"

  She leaned forward to wag a reproving finger. "Gar, spew it all back out of your head right now, all this about the Aumrarr once ruling us all, starting as the great lords and ladies of some bygone age who shapeshifted themselves all into winged women long, long ago. Did you ever hear talk of it before King Devaer and Arlaghaun were thrown down? Aye? And wouldn't they have hurled such dung into every passing ear, and spread it from end to end of Falconfar, if they'd heard aught of it?"

&n
bsp; "Well, aye, uh-"

  "You know they would have. Think, my Ox. If the Aumrarr really were seeking to become one with Falconfar, as the tavern-tales said, by finding the right physical form, why'd they end up as women with wings? What's so 'right' about that? Wouldn't they've done better to become men taller and brawnier than all the rest, with manhoods a foot long?"

  Garfist snorted, but Iskarra's finger stabbed at him.

  "Aye, 'tis funny enough, Ox, but I'm serious. Wouldn't that have been a better shape, to conquer Falconfar? And what better way to 'become one' with the world, than rule it all?"

  Garfist started to frown thoughtfully. Then, very slowly, he nodded.

  The Viper leaned forward still more. "And have you ever heard of an Aumrarr 'seeking to become one with Falconfar,' now?"

  "No," he rumbled. "Kill this ruler or that in Falconfar, yes. Teach yon merchant a lesson, or end a blood-feud by slaying the heads of both warring houses, aye, but dwell with all the rest of us and share in our lives and stand forth in every village and trade-moot, no."

  "Exactly."

  Garfist was still frowning. "But in the taverns they were saying Aumrarr lie with men only to breed enough new Aumrarr that they don't all die off."

  "Yes, and they were also saying in the taverns-you heard it, too; you were right at my elbow, three tankards gone and slowing on your fourth-that these long-ago rulers of all turned their great mastery of magic into shaping, reshaping, purifying, and healing their bodies. Does that sound like the same sort of folk who'd need to fly to men by night to rut, just to bear little ones?"

  "Hmmph. No. But why say all this, if none of it's true?"

  "To spread lies enough to make us see the Aumrarr differently. False lore piled atop false lore, until some of it gets believed. As has been said a time or two before, one lie often needs to stand on another."

  "And sometimes even raise a third as a shield, and make a spear of a fourth," Garfist rumbled slowly, nodding as he completed the old saying.

  "And having swallowed this, we're supposed to believe these great masters of magic lost control over the rest of us when everyone started to learn spells, and we great grunting unwashed, who outnumbered the Aumrarr so greatly, started winning a few battles. Then all the Aumrarr saw we beasts could defeat Aumrarr, and a few of them stood with us to defeat Aumrarr foes and rivals, and… do you believe any of that?"

  "No," Garfist replied flatly. "Even before that Stormar trader claimed Lorontar was one of these rebel Aumrarr. Nor do I think it glorking matters who did what to whom, centuries upon centuries ago. Too many old tales get used as excuses for what ambitious brutes do to others now."

  He started to prowl again, restlessly. "I may swindle a man out of a keg here and some coins yonder, but the real villains sit in castles and cry vengeance and rob knights and armsmen and poor steaders just trying to grow enough tharuk to eat of their lives."

  Iskarra nodded. "Well," she said briskly, "it's good to know we, at least, can see all Falconfar's troubles so clearly. Now, if someone else would see clearly enough to put us on some thrones-in Galath, say-everything could get-"

  "No," Garfist growled. "Oh, no. Everything wouldn't get fixed. Problems are like dirt, or rocks: dig one away, and there's always another underneath. And for us, it's getting our backsides out of this glorking castle-or keeping our necks intact through whatever those four Aumrarr have planned for us. Just so long as whatever it is happens soon. I'm fair going witless, waiting here just talking talking talking, when-"

  The pleasant, placid view out that high window of Stormcrag Castle was suddenly blotted out by something large and dark, looming up fast with wings spread.

  Wings that flapped hard, to slow a racing flight, exertion that came with a sob of pain. As Garfist swore and grabbed for his dagger and the sword he no longer had, and Iskarra sprang from the table like a restless bolt of lightning, the wings snapped back and their sobbing, gasping owner dived headlong into the room.

  Landing heavily, running hard and stumbling, to a hard-breathing halt that became a frantic drawing of weapons.

  An angry-looking Aumrarr they'd never seen before stood glaring and panting at Iskarra and Garfist, who stared back at her.

  The winged woman was bleeding all down her left front, where her leather tunic had been slashed open by what looked to be several sword-blades, to hang down in gory, dripping folds.

  "I know not who you are or how you came to be here," she hissed, stalking forward a little unsteadily, "but I know what's going to happen to you now!"

  "We're going to die?" Iskarra yawned. "Again?"

  Chapter Six

  My, but the Gold Duke loved guards. Guards, guards, and more glittering guards, all of them tall and gleaming in their armor… and all of them bored enough to be really dangerous.

  They strolled to and fro, sighing and preening, whirling often to send hawk-like glares down this or that dark passage. They were spoiling for something-anything-to happen, so they could draw their swords to shout and run and hack.

  Sweating so hard that it dripped off his nose almost in a steady stream, Alander Thaetult drew back from the cellar-passage corner he'd been peering round to watch the latest selection of ducal guards, and whispered another shadowcloak spell incantation. The air around him dimmed still more, his magic's dark tendrils drifting and swirling.

  He shrugged. So what if he looked like a traveling cloud of smoke? He had no intention of ending up as the "interesting anything" these murderous sword-swingers were seeking.

  Malraun's orders had been clear. Reach the Tauren end of the spell-gate as stealthily as possible-no matter how things went, Malraun wanted the Gold Duke to think a lone and perhaps deranged person had passed through his gate, not an invading army or any other sort of threat he had to muster a stronger standing guard to prepare for-traverse it to Burnt Bones if possible, and use the new farspeaking spell Malraun had given him to report everything that happened to the listening Doom.

  Gnawing pestilence take him.

  Alander didn't want to serve a Doom.

  Alander didn't want to skulk through guard-infested cellars.

  Heaving himself up out of his chair to answer the bell-pull of "Thaetult's Useful Magics" was adventure enough for him. He had no dreams of greatness, or even of lording it over an apprentice or two. He was a hedge-wizard, and proud of it. A cowardly and placid master of a paltry handful of spells, quite content to make a modest living casting this and mending that mold-banishing for a coin or two, and occasionally-very, very occasionally-spying on this wayward husband or seeking that stolen heirloom for larger handfuls of coins. No "adventures," no travels to far places and skulkings anywhere that had lots of armored men eager to use their swords…

  Yes, there'd been shadows drifting through his contentedness. Alander had known his own boredom, vague dissatisfaction with his lot-but when the sleek, darkly handsome little man had appeared so suddenly in the cluttered forechamber that served him as office, spellcasting sanctum, and untidy storage room, and uttered that softly-spoken, calm ultimatum, Alander had discovered that he wanted very much to cling to his comfortable little life.

  Which was why he was here in a dank, dark passage deep in the cellars of the Gold Duke's fortress-mansion in Tauren, half a dozen clumsy, spell-hushed murders in his wake, trying to get to the Gold Duke's most closely-guarded secret.

  The Yuskel family crypt held not just stone coffins, moldering bones, dust, and forgetfulness… it held the many gold coins and gems popular lore whispered so excitedly of, and guards to watch over them.

  It also held the real reason so many armed men were wasting their lives away yawning and sighing down here: the spell-gate.

  It was here, all right. He could feel its silent, patient pulse in his blood now, a slow and rhythmic thudding that rolled through him steadily, ever stronger… it was very near.

  He fancied he could see its flickering, past this latest group of bored sentinels, a ribbon of gold that split the
darkness for an instant here, and an instant there, in time with the deep throbbing that was singing inside him.

  Keeping him excited with its song, thrilled despite himself. Alander hated stealth and deceit almost as much as he loathed violence and doing murder. Yet six guards were dead this day by his hand-soon to be discovered and a hue and cry raised at his back, making retreat nigh-impossible. There were eight more guards around that corner, and unless some miracle or other took them away or at a stroke dropped them into blindness or slumber, he was going to have to kill them to get to the spell-gate, and have any hope of escaping the fate Malraun had so calmly promised him.

  An especially large droplet of sweat plummeted from his nose and found splattered oblivion on the stones in front of his boots with a "splat" loud enough to echo.

  "What's that?" a guard snarled from around the corner, and Alander drew in a shudderingly deep breath, and-suddenly found himself very calm. This was it.

  Killing time.

  He whispered the brief incantation as if it was a prayer, swept his hand up, and let go of the knife.

  Then he stepped smoothly back along the wall, retreating from the corner. He'd managed two steps when the first guard sprang around the corner, sword up-and the little silver fang of his knife, that had been hanging motionless in the air just where he'd released it, sprang forward every bit as energetically as the guard, leaping at the man's face in a gleaming blur.

  The guards all wore open-faced helms, with gorget-plates dangling from the outthrust chinguards of those helms rather than strapped to the throats they were intended to guard. That fashion choice would earn them swift doom.

  The first guard was gargling out his life already, staggering and clutching a throat sliced too deeply for him to utter any warning cry. The knife had flown on, darting around the corner.

  Silver no longer, but dark with wet blood, it sought more.

  Alander drew his second knife, uttered the same incantation, reached around the corner, and let go of the weapon. It almost bruised his fingertips in its eagerness to leap away.