Fred Saberhagen - Lost Swords 02 - Sightblinder's Story

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Arfinn's attention was drawn to one window by the tiny movement of the flame inside

it. The window was not many meters away, and despite the poor light, he at once

recognized the gray-haired lady as one member of the infamous trio who had assaulted him

and taken away the Sword. He was more than a little surprised to see her here. What she

and her companions had said when they took his Sword away had made him think that they

were not connected with the new lords of the lake and the islands.

But, who was she seeing when she looked at him? Obviously not someone she greatly

feared.

Arfinn waved back, a slight, cautious gesture, and then began to work his way

nearer to her apartment. Traveling through corridors that were almost completely dark,

he found his vision somehow enhanced, he thought, by Sightblinder.

He soon found himself standing on a balcony near enough to the lady's window to

allow them to conduct a quiet conversation.

"Who is it?" she whispered out to him.

"What does it matter?" he whispered back. "I must know. Where are the important

prisoners being held?"

He could see her shake her head impatiently and blink. "Prisoners? I know where

the one of the most importance is, at least. If you can get me out of this comfortable

cell, I'll take you to him."

Tor Books by Fred Saberhagen

BERSERKER BASE (with Anderson, Bryant,

Donaldson, Niven, Willis and Zelazny)

BERSERKER: BLUE DEATH

THE BERSERKER THRONE

THE BERSERKER WARS

EARTH DESCENDED

THE FIRST BOOK OF SWORDS

THE SECOND BOOK OF SWORDS

THE THIRD BOOK OF SWORDS

THE FIRST BOOK OF LOST SWORDS:

Woundhealer's Story

THE SECOND BOOK OF LOST SWORDS:

Sightblinder's Story

THE MASK OF THE SUN

AN OLD FRIEND OF THE FAMILY

THE WATER OF THOUGHT

THE SECOND BOOK OF LOST SWORDS

SIGHTBLINDER'S STORY

FRED SABERHAGEN

ATOM DOHERTY ASSOCIATES BOOK

This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book

are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental.

THE SECOND BOOK OF LOST SWORDS: SIGHTBLINDER'S STORY

in any form.

First printing: November 1987

First Mass Market printing: July 1988

A TOR Book

Published by Tom Doherty Associates, Inc. 49 West 24 Street New York, N.Y. 10010

ISBN: 0-812-55296-2 Can. No.: 0-812-55297-0

Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 87-50477 Printed in the United States of

America 0987654321

THE

SECOND BOOK OF

LOST SWORDS

SIGHTBLINDER'S STORY

CHAPTER 1

THE sun was up at last, somewhere beyond the cliffs A that stood above the far end

of the lake. While the bright disk itself remained invisible, it projected a diffuse

radiance through morning mist and lake-born fog, making a pearl-gray world of land and

air and water. It was a world in which no shape or color was able to remain quite what

it ought to be. Small waves of soft pearl nibbled at the slaty rocks of the uneven

shoreline. On the steep slopes rising just inland, pine trees with twisted trunks and

branches grew thickly, their gray-green needles gathering pearls and diamonds of moisture

out of the leaden shadows that surrounded them. Land and lake alike seemed to be giving

birth to the billows of almost colorless vapor that moved softly over earth and water.

Fog and light together worked a brief natural enchantment.

A man was standing alone on the very edge of the lake, leaning out into the mist.

With one of his huge hands he gripped the twisted trunk of a stunted tree, while the

other hand held a black wooden staff in a position that allowed him to brace part of his

weight on its support. He was very nearly motionless, but still the attitude of his

whole body showed the intensity of the effort he was making, trying to see something out

over the water. He had a large, round, ugly, stupid-looking face, his forehead creased

now with the effort of trying to see through the pearl-gray air. His mouth was muttering

oaths, so softly as to leave them totally inaudible. Gray marked his dark hair and

beard, and his age appeared to be closer to forty than to thirty.

Somewhere, only a matter of meters to the man's right as he looked out over the

water, a lake bird called, sounding a single, mocking, raucous note. Despite its

nearness, the impertinent bird was quite invisible in mist. The watcher paid it no

attention.

He was thinking that a clear midnight, even with no moon, would have made for

better seeing than this hazed near-nothingness imbued with sunlight. At least at

midnight you would not expect to be able to see anything. As matters stood now, the man

could only suppose that there were still islands out there in the middle of the chill

lake, the islands he had seen there yesterday, no more than a couple of kilometers away.

He supposed he could take it for granted too that there was still a castle on one of

those islands, the castle he had seen there yesterday. And maybe he could even be sure

that-Nearby sounds, the scramble of feet in heavy gravel, the impact of a blow on flesh,

jolted the watcher away from suppositions. The sources of these sounds were as invisible

as the noisy bird, but he was sure they were no more than a stone's throw away, along the

shoreline to his right. After a momentary pause there followed more energetic scrambling

and another blow, and then a cry for help in a familiar voice.

The watcher had already launched himself in the direction of the sounds, moving

with surprising speed for someone of his great bulk, well past his early youth. And as

he ran along the jagged shoreline, avoiding boulders and trampling bushes, new sounds

came from behind him, those of another pair of running feet. Those pursuing feet sounded

lighter and more agile than his own, but so far they had been unable to overtake him. He

paid them no attention.

The big man's wooden staff, a thick tool of black hardened wood somewhat longer

than he was tall, was raised now in his right hand, balanced and ready to do the service

of either spear or club.

And now, after only a couple of dozen strides, the younger feet behind him had

begun to gain. But still the big man did not turn his head. The sounds of struggle

ahead continued.

Both runners saw that, despite their quickness, they were too late.

Hounding a spur of the rugged shoreline, one after the other in rapid succession,

they came in sight of the noisy struggle, in which three men had surrounded one. The

three men, though wearing soldiers' uniforms in gray trimmed with red, were all unarmed.

The man surrounded had showing at his belt the black hilt of a great Sword, but he was

not trying to draw the weapon. And now, an instant later, even if he had wanted to draw

it, it was too late, because his arms were pinioned. He was a tall and powerful man, and

still conscious, but he had lost the fight.

The huge man roared a challenge and ran on, doing his best to reach the fighters.

But he and the runner who followed him were still too far away to have any influence upon

the outcome. The three who had the one surrounded were now lifting him up between them,

as if they meant to make of him an offering to some strange gods of mist or lake.

And now indeed, coming down out of the low, tree-grazing clouds, a winged shape

appeared. Those descending wings surpassed in span and thickness those of almost any

bird, reptile, or flying dragon that either of the would-be rescuers had ever seen

before. But still those wings appeared inadequate to support this creature's body, which

was as big and solid as a riding-beast's. The head and forelimbs of the quadruped were

those of a giant eagle, covered with white feathers shading into gray. But the body and

the rear legs resembled those of a lion, clad in short, tawny fur and thick with muscle.

The thing appeared too bulky for its wings, despite their size, to get off the ground.

And yet it flew with graceful power.

Whatever the nightmare creature was, it had already fastened the taloned grip of

its forelimbs on the heavy body of the man who was being held up for them. Up he went

again, right out of the hands of his human captors, the undrawn Sword still at his belt.

And now at last the huge man running came within reach of the victorious three, and

sent them scattering with a swing of his black staff. They did not run far. Instead

they were quick to seize up weapons of their own, swords and knives that had been lying

concealed among the low bushes and the rocks.

The big man and his companion, who had arrived right at his heels, met their three

opponents. The length of black wood, held now like a quarterstaff, knocked a long knife

from one man's hand, and then with a straight thrust doubled up the man who'd lost the

blade.

"Ben!"

Thus warned, the big man spun around quite gracefully, in time to catch a hurled

rock on his left arm, which by now he had adroitly shielded in his rolled-up cloak. He

advanced on the thrower. Off to his right he could hear, and see from the corner of his

eye, young Zoltan and the third opponent sparring, a clash of sword blades and then

another clash, with gasping pauses in between.

Mist still flowed in from the lake and purled around the fighters, in billows

sometimes so thick that one pair of them could not see the other. The man who had thrown

the rock now sought to win against the staff by dancing in and out, waving his battle-

hatchet. But he could make no headway against the tough wood of that long shaft, and the

arm that held it. A few hard-breathing moments later, the staff came crashing against

his skull, ending plans and trickery for good, driving out all thoughts and fears alike.

Ben quickly turned again. The third opponent, seeing the fight going against his

side, risked all on a deceptive thrust. Young Zoltan, well-taught, sidestepped as was

necessary, and the enemy impaled himself on Zoltan's blade. He staggered back, uttered a

strange sound, and fell. The fight was over.

But yet, once more, feet scrambled in the gravel. The man Ben had knocked down at

the beginning of the skirmish had now got his brain working and his legs under him again,

and was rapidly vanishing inland amid the mist and dripping trees.

"After him!" Ben roared. "We need to find out-" He saved his breath for running.

Young Zoltan was well ahead of him, already sprinting in pursuit.

Running uphill as best they could, the two allies separated slightly, chasing the

sound of their quarry's receding footsteps inland. Trees grew thickly on these slopes,

and their branches of soggy needles slapped, as if with a malignant will, at every

rushing movement. Having been through a run and a fight already, Ben's lungs were

laboring. Whenever he paused to listen, his own blood and his own breath were all that

he could hear. The mist rolled round him, blinding him effectively. The chill sun

seemed to make no headway in the sky.

Then there came Zoltan's voice, calling him from somewhere ahead. Ben ran again,

stopped to listen once more, and once more resumed the chase, or tried to.

When he had labored onward forty meters or so he paused again and choked out

breathless curses. The sounds of running feet were fainter now, and they were all behind

him. The surviving enemy must have doubled back toward the lake.

Panting more heavily than ever, Ben caught up with young Zoltan at last, though

only on the very shoreline. Side by side they stood, their sandaled feet in the small

waves, watching as a small boat, its single occupant furiously working the oars, vanished

into the mist, heading directly out from shore.

"What do we do now?" Zoltan gasped at last. "The Prince is gone. Whoever they

are, they have the Prince -and Shieldbreaker with him. What do we do?"

Ben leaned against a tree. "Seek help," he got out at last, and paused for a

wheezing breath. "And pray"-he drew another desperate breath-"we find it."

CHAPTER 2

THE mirror was made of real glass, smooth and A relatively unblemished, so clear

that it almost certainly had a silver backing. Even the wood carving of the frame

fastened so carefully to the wall was not entirely inept. All in all, it was a finer

thing than you would expect to find out here in the hinterlands, in the only inn of a

small town that was very little more than a fishing village. Certainly it was the best

mirror that the lady who now occupied the little room had seen in a long time. And

during the tedious days of waiting for the boat that was to carry her on down the Tungri,

she had been taking full advantage of the opportunity offered by the glass for a new

self-appraisal.

The face that the mirror showed her had never been ethereally beautiful-it had too

much of a nose for that. But a dozen years ago-no, say only ten-it had possessed

considerable attraction. Or at least a number of men had found the lady who wore this

face desirable as recently as that. Even now it was still a good face, its owner

thought, comely in its own earthy way. Or it would be a comely face, and even relatively

youthful, if you thought of it as belonging to a woman of sixty.

The trouble with that qualification was that she was scarcely more than forty, even

now.

The woman who had been waiting for days in the small, cheap, temporary room, she

who had once been Queen Yambu, dropped her grayish gown-it was almost a pilgrim's

garment-from her shoulders, and stood before the mirror unclothed in the light of midday.

She was still trying to give herself a more complete and objective appraisal.

Her silvery hair went well with the gray eyes, but stood in discordance with her

full breasts and her upright bearing. Her body looked much younger than her face, and

now the overall effect was nearer her true age.

Women-and men too-who had the skills of magic, or the resources to hire those

skills, frequently turned to magic to fight back advancing age, or at least its visible

effects. But Lady Yambu had no great aptitude of her own for working spells, and as for

buying the appearance of youth, she had never seriously considered that course of action,

and did not do so now.

Had she been truly dissatisfied with her appearance, a first step, simpler than

magic and less risky, would have been to dye her hair back to its own youthful raven

black. That might have made her look younger-would certainly have done so until the

beholder looked upon her face.

Yes, the problem, if it was a problem, was in her face.

She had one of the Swords to thank for that.

"Hold Soulcutter in your hands throughout a battle," she had once said to a man she

knew almost as well as she knew anyone, "and see what you look like at the end of it."

The good mirror on the rough wall was giving her a harsh truth, but truth was what

she wanted, now more than ever, and she did not find it devastating. Really, the glass

only confirmed what she had been telling herself of late: that youth no longer really

mattered to her, just as for a long time now neither power nor the thrill of competition

had been subjects of concern. More and more, with time's accelerating passage, the only

thing that she found of any importance at all was truth.

Pulling on her gown again, the lady turned from the mirror and took the three steps

necessary to approach the open window of her second-floor room, through which a chill

breeze entered.

Like the mirror, the single window presented a vision that seemed worthy of a finer

setting than this poor room in a rude settlement. The sun, now approaching noon, had

long since burned away the morning's mystery of mists from the glassy surface of Lake

Alk-maar. Much of the twisting, irregular length of that body of water was visible from

the lady's window.

Fifteen or twenty kilometers from where she stood, beyond the distant eastern end

of the lake, rose the high scarp of land walling off the eastern tip of the continent.

Above and beyond those cliffs lay Yambu's former life, her former kingdom, the other

lands she had once fought to conquer-and much else.

But the truth she wanted did not lie there. Not her truth, the truth that still

mattered to her. Not any longer. Where it was she did not know exactly, but certain

clues had pointed her downriver, far to the south and west.

Halfway between her window and the far end of the long, comparatively narrow lake,

a couple of dozen small islands were clustered irregularly near the center of the

kilometers of water. Even at this distance, in the clear sunshine, Yambu could descry

the gray bulk of a castle upon the largest of those bits of land.

If she had ever suspected that any portion of the truth she sought might lie out

there upon those islands, the events of the last few days and the stories spreading among

the townsfolk and the travelers at the inn had effectively changed her mind. The good

wizard Honan-Fu had been conquered, overthrown. That was not his castle any longer.

She raised her eyes yet once more to that even more remote scarp of land, blue with

distance, that represented her past. Then she turned from the window. She was not going

to retrace the steps of the journey she had begun. There was nothing for her back there

now.

Approaching the most shadowy corner of her little room, the lady was greeted by a

peculiar noise, a kind of heavy chirp. It came from her toy dragon, which was perching

with great patience upon her washstand. This dragon was a peculiar, winged beast, no

bigger than a barnyard fowl but of a quite different shape-the joint product of the

breeder's and the magician's art.

Going to stand beside the creature, whispering into its gray curling ear with soft

strange words, Lady Yambu fed it the living morsel of a mouse, which she took with firm

fingers from a cage beside the stand. Delicacies were almost gone now, for the lady and

her pet alike. She still had a substantial sum of money left, and a few jewels, but she

meant to save her modest wealth against some future need; her journey downriver might be

very long. Tonight, she thought, the dragon might have to be released from the window of

this room to forage for itself. She hoped that the creature would come back to her from

such a foray, and she thought it would; she trusted the one who had given her the pet

almost as much as she had ever trusted anyone.

Restlessly Lady Yambu moved back to the window again. Down at the shabby docks,

some of which were visible from this vantage point, there was still no sign of the long-

awaited riverboat that was to carry her out of the lake and down the Tungri as far as the

next cataract. The Maid of Lakes and Rivers, she had heard that the riverboat was

called. The Maid was days overdue already, and she supposed more days were likely to

pass before it arrived.

If it ever did. She had heard also that traffic on the lower river was at best far

from safe.

This was her eleventh day of waiting in this inn. It was good that the earlier

years of her life had schooled her thoroughly in patience and self-sufficiency, because-

Making a brisk decision, the lady suddenly scooped up a few small essential items

that she did not want to leave unguarded in the room while she was out of it, and moved

in two strides to the door. Locking the door behind her, she strode along the short and

narrow upstairs hall of the inn, and down a narrow stair. This stair, like most of the

rest of the building, was constructed in rustic style, of logs with much of the bark

still on them.

As the lady descended, the common dining room, now empty, was to her left, and the

small lobby, with three or four pilgrims and locals in it, was to her right.

She had almost reached the foot of the stairs when she saw, through the open front

door of the inn, to her right, the figure of a man who moved along the middle of the

unpaved street outside, advancing toward the waterfront with a steady, implacable-looking

tread. No doubt it was the size of the man, which was remarkable, that first attracted

her attention-his form was mountainous, not very tall but very bulky, and not so much fat

as shapeless. Lady Yambu could see little of this man but his broad back, but still his

appearance jogged her memory. It was not even a memory of someone she had seen before,

but of someone she ought to know, ought to be able to recognize....

Moving quickly through the lobby and out the front door, she stood on the log steps

of the inn above the muddy and moderately busy street, gazing after him. A second man,

much younger and much smaller, was walking with the one who had caught her attention, and

already both of them were well past the inn, heading down the sloping street in the

direction of the docks. The big man carried a staff, and the smaller wore a sword, which

was common enough here as in most towns. Both were dressed in rough, plain clothing.

The lady, on the verge of running after the two, but not choosing to brave the mud

and the loss of dignity involved, cast her eyes about. Then with a quick gesture she

beckoned an alert-looking urchin who was loitering nearby, and gave him a trifling coin

and a short verbal message. In a moment his small figure was speeding after the two men.

"Alas," the lady was saying to the huge man a quarter of an hour later, "I doubt

that there is any messenger, winged or otherwise, to be found in this village who could

reach Tasavalta sooner than you could yourself."

She was back in her room at the inn, sitting on one end of the small couch that

also served as a bed, while the two men she had invited in from the street stood leaning

against the outer wall, one on each side of the window. They had now been in the lady's

company long enough to tell her their story about the kidnapping of Prince Mark at dawn,

only a few hours ago. She had heard them with considerable interest; the Prince of

Tasavalta had been a person of some importance in her old life.

The lady asked her informants now: "And he still had Shieldbreaker with him when he

was taken?"

The smaller, younger man nodded. He was called Zoltan, and had been a total

stranger to Yambu until today. He said: "But my uncle did not draw it. As you must

know, lady, that would have been a mistake in a fight against unarmed attackers-doubtless

they knew he was carrying a Sword, and which one of the Twelve it was. And they knew the

only way to fight against it. Or they would not have attacked him without weapons of

their own in hand, or at least at their belts."

"So Shieldbreaker has presumably gone to the master of those men now, whoever he

may be. And he commands a griffin. That is not good. I have never even seen a

griffin," said the lady, and sighed, reminding herself that the time was long past when

she had to concern herself with such things as the balance of power. "And of course now

you are in a desperate hurry to send word to Tasavalta, and get help from Princess

Kristin and the others, or at least let them know what has happened. But I have no

messenger to lend you."

In response, the huge man, Ben of Purkinje, looked pointedly at the lady's pet

winged dragon, which was still perched on the washstand.

Yambu nodded. "Yes, that creature could serve as a messenger, of sorts. But I

fear my pet could not be made to carry any word back to Tasavalta for you. Still I would

like to do something to help Prince Mark, provided he is not, as you fear, already beyond

help. Though we were enemies, I suppose he is now as close to being my friend as anyone

who walks the face of the earth today." She paused. "And you, Ben of Purkinje, though I

think we have never seen each other before today-you have been much in my mind for the

past several months."

That surprised the big man, distracting him if only briefly from his deep concern

over his Prince. "Me? Why me?"

"Because between us, you and me, there is a connection of a sort-I mean apart from

our having been enemies across the battlefield. You knew my daughter."

"Ah," said Ben, distracted even more, against his will. "Yes. I knew Ariane."

"That is her name. I have no other daughter. And you were with her, eleven years

ago or thereabouts, in the vaults of the Blue Temple."

The impression made by her words on Ben was deepening. Eventually he said in a

dull voice: "She died there, in my arms." And Zoltan, so young he was, perhaps not even

fully grown as yet, looked at the older man with sympathetic wonder.

Yambu said: "And you had been with Ariane for a long time before that."

Ben gazed back at her in silence. His face was grim, but beyond that hard to read.

She who had once been the Silver Queen went on: "As you know, I have been living

for years in a White

Temple, withdrawn from the world. Almost, I have ceased to have either friends or

enemies at all. Now I am only an old woman, making my way out into the world again to

try to wring some answers from it. I am sure you can provide me with some of the answers

that I want-a portion of the truth about my daughter. In return I will be willing to do

whatever I can for you, and for your Prince. Perhaps there will be nothing I can do; but

I am still not entirely without resources."

For a little time Ben prolonged his thoughtful silence. Then he said: "As I

suppose you know, lady, Ariane suffered a head wound when we were fighting down there in

the Blue Temple's vaults. For a time after she received the injury-for many minutes,

perhaps an hour-she was able to speak and move about. Then suddenly she collapsed. I

was standing beside her, and I caught her as she fell. A few minutes later she was

dead."

"The two of you were lovers?"

The huge man turned away to look out of the window momentarily, and then turned

back. His ugly face was full of pain. "We had known each other for a matter of a few

days-no more. From the day that Mark and I and the others broke into a Red Temple and

brought her out, until the day she died in that damned hole."

"I want to know," said Yambu, royally persistent, "whether Ariane was still a

virgin when she died."

"How can that matter now?"

"And I want to know much more than that." The silver-haired woman was still capable

of ignoring questions in the manner of a queen. "I would like you to tell me everything,

any detail you can remember, about those days the two of you spent together. Whether the

truth is harsh or tender, I would know it. Lately the fate of my only child has come to

be of tremendous importance to me."

"I have no objection," Ben replied, "to telling you the whole story. Someday when

I have time. If both of us live long enough. Right now, as I have explained, Zoltan and

I are both extremely busy. We are in danger, and we need help."

"I understand; we have a bargain, then, and I will do what I can to help you. Tell

me, why was the Prince here, so far from home, and with so few attendants?"

Ben hesitated; then he nodded and took the plunge. "The largest of the islands in

this lake is, or was, the home of a friendly wizard of great power, allied to the White

Temple. His public name is Honan-Fu. In his academy a few select apprentices-"

"I know something about Honan-Fu," Yambu rapped out impatiently. "Go on."

"The Prince wanted to learn something about Honan-Fu's establishment. He thought

that by coming here incognito-"

"You need not be so cautious with me, big man. By now everyone knows about Mark's

eldest son. Adrian's still only a child-he'd be nine years old now? No more than ten-

but blessed with great magic. Or would 'cursed' be a better word for his condition?"

"All right, then. Mark wanted to see the place at first hand, before he sent his

nine-year-old heir to be apprenticed."

Yambu was nodding. "That should be interesting -one day to see a true magician-

king upon the throne of Tasavalta."

Ben grunted. "As for the Prince being unattended on this trip, well, you see his

entire escort before you. Zoltan and I came with Mark down the Sanzu, then down the

cliffs beside the Upper Cataract to reach this lake. That part of the route you must

have taken yourself.

"We brought no magician with us-a grievous mistake, perhaps. Still, we thought we

were headed for a friendly reception in the castle of an enchanter stronger than any we

could have brought with us. But from the moment when we arrived on the shore of Lake

Alk-maar two days ago, we could tell that there was something wrong out there on the

magician's islands. We knew that Honan-Fu had been expecting us in a general way at

least, and anyway I suppose a wizard of his stature ought to have known that we were

here. But he did not know. At least no boat came for us, and no messages.

"We were suspicious, and hesitated even to go into any of the villages. At last we

talked to a few of the fisher folk who live in isolated huts along the shore. They were

reluctant to speak to strangers, but certainly something else besides our presence was

bothering them.

"And then this morning, at last, we had our greeting from the island." Ben gestured

savagely toward the lake.

The lady moved to stand beside the huge man at the window, and rested one hand

lightly on his shoulder, as if to seal a bargain. She said: "I have dealt for many years

with magicians-most of whom were far indeed from any alliance with the White Temple. And

so I think I know that other kind, know them well enough to smell them when the air is as

thick as it is here and now with their effluvium. Sometime during the past ten days,

Honan-Fu has been supplanted on his island. How, and by whom, I know not, though the

town is full of rumors, and suddenly invading soldiers in gray and red are everywhere.

They have little to say about the one they serve. But obviously the new ruler is a

wizard of tremendous power, who is no friend of the Prince."

Then with a decisive motion she turned from the window, toward the odd little

dragon that still perched preening itself upon its stand. She said: "It will be best, I

think, if we dispatch a messenger."

"You said that creature was no messenger."

"I said that it would take no word to Tasavalta for you. But as for bringing help

here for the Prince-it may just possibly be able to do that. And the sooner it is

dispatched the better, I think, if Mark is not already beyond help."

Moving beside the washstand, the lady whispered a

few words into the beast's small curving ear.

With this the backbone of the dragon stiffened, and its demeanor changed abruptly.

It drank noisily from a jar of water beside it on the stand, then hopped onto the lady's

wrist. Ben could see semitransparent membranes on its eyes, which he had not realized

were there, slide back to leave the orbs a shiny black. The creature had turned its head

toward the window, and stared out into the sunlight.

Lady Yambu carried it to the sill and sent it out with a sharp tossing motion. The

wings of the small dragon beat rapidly and it rose with surprising speed into the sky.

"What message did you give it?" Zoltan asked. "Where is it going?"

"There is only one message that it will carry. Trust me. I have a reason for not

offering you a better explanation now."

Ben, squinting up into the bright sky, presently rumbled an oath. There were a few

patchy low clouds above the lake, and out of one of them a set of leathery wings far

larger than those of the small dragon had appeared. This creature was not nearly as big

as the griffin that a few hours ago had carried off the Prince, but still large enough to

be a formidable hunter of game no bigger than the messenger.

Now Zoltan muttered too; a second and then a third of the predatory flyers had come

into sight out of the cloud. Their grotesque shapes sped in pursuit of the small dragon.

The issue of the chase was lost in yet another cloud.

CHAPTER 3

A LITTLE before sunset of that same day, all three of the predatory flying

creatures Ben had watched returned, gliding, to their new base on the island that had so

lately been the domain of Honan-Fu. On their return to the magician's castle all three

flyers selected flight paths that would tend to shelter them from observation, and each

came down as softly and as unobtrusively as possible upon a different high place. For

their final descent they chose a moment when almost all the human eyes within the castle

walls were focused elsewhere.

And, having landed, they avoided reporting to the Master of the Beasts, or any of

their other human masters, who were the recent conquerors of this island and the domain

around the lake. Instead of delivering information on potential enemies, on resources

discovered, or perhaps news of some prey that had escaped them-and thereby risking

punishment-the creatures brooded on their perches, waiting silently to be fed, and

dropping dung down the once-spotless walls of the stolen castle.

Very few of the humans inside the castle walls were at all aware of the flyers'

return. None of the people who might have seen them were paying the hybrid creatures any

real attention at the moment.

Perhaps the human breeders of the hybrid flyers had made them a touch too

intelligent for their intended purposes.

The beasts looked down upon a crowd of several hundred people, mostly soldiers in

gray and red, who were gathered in the castle's largest open courtyard. Only days ago

this court had been a fair place, bright with flower gardens and musical with fountains.

The flowers had all been trampled into mud since the castle's new master had taken

charge, and half of the fountains had ceased to run. The pipes were broken in several of

the fountains, including the largest, in the center of the court, which had been smashed,

the sculpture on its top destroyed. In place of the statue of some otherwise forgotten

woodland god, erected there by Honan-Fu because he liked the art and craft that had gone

into it, a flat-topped altar had been hastily and crudely constructed, out of beams and

slabs of wood laid horizontally on piles of rock and broken statuary.

The slabs that formed the center of the high table were now already dark with

drying blood, the human blood of Honan-Fu's apprentices and servants, required for

sacrifice to the powers of dark magic.

Upon a balcony overlooking this altar, an improvised throne had been set up. The

occupant of the throne sat with his back close to a wall of the keep, and it would have

been hard for anyone to approach or even see him from that direction. Nor was it easy

for the people in the courtyard below the balcony to right or left to see him because of

the tall screens that had been placed at each side of his chair.

Only from directly in front of the man on the throne, where the high altar stood,

was anyone able to view him at all clearly. From there it could be seen that the shape

of his body was only partially that of a man.

The right hand of the one who sat upon the throne was more plainly visible than the

rest of his figure. That hand was extended at shoulder height, and clutched the black

hilt of a Sword. The gleaming blade of this weapon, a full meter long, was dug lightly,

point-first, into the floor of the balcony at the base of the makeshift throne.

Anyone standing close enough to get a good look at the fist that held the Sword

could see that it was gray and taloned, almost as much like a bird's or a dragon's claw

as it was like a human hand. Its owner's survival over the millennia had not been easily

accomplished, and it had involved him in several compromises, of which the one involving

alterations in his physical shape had been only the most noticeable.

The courtyard was nearly quiet now, a deepening pool of shadow as daylight began

fading from the sky. Torches were being lighted, and once a long flame snapped like a

banner in a gust of wind. But here, inside the castle's outer walls, the wind did not

persist.

Only recently, within the past hour, had this quiet been achieved. Some of Honan-

Fu's apprentices had fought back against their conquerors even as they were being dragged

to the altar, or even after reaching it; and some of those apprentices had been, by any

ordinary standard, magicians of considerable strength. But against the powers that had

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Arfinn'sattentionwasdrawntoonewindowbythetinymovementoftheflameinsideit.Thewindowwasnotmanymetersaway,anddespitethepoorlight,heatoncerecognizedthegray-hairedladyasonememberoftheinfamoustriowhohadassaultedhimandtakenawaytheSword.Hewasmorethanalittlesurprisedtoseeherhere.Whatsheandhercompanionshadsaid...

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