2

TAAR

A chill wind blows like a whisper of foreboding across the twilit valley. I watch it ripple through the tall grasses until at last it reaches me where I sit astride my mount, hidden among the trees. Breathing deep, I scent what information that wind brings: the stench of blood, the sharp sting of incense, carried down from the shrinehouse, which stands on its hill across the valley, directly opposite my current position. The temple of the Dark God dominates this stretch of land, and none but a few lonely shepherds dare dwell in its shadow. I cannot say that I blame them.

I study that shrine, built into the high stone outcropping. I’ve never understood the desire to worship a god of darkness and death. There is so much of both in this world already; would we not be better spent devoting our prayers to that which brings light and life?

But humans are strange creatures. There’s little good to be had trying to fathom their ways. I’m more concerned with what defenses may or may not be established on those steep slopes.

My mount stirs beneath me, excited perhaps at the stench of bloody sacrifice. He shakes his head, and moonlight catches on the lancelike horn protruding from his brow. “Steady, Elydark,” I murmur, stroking his massive shoulder beneath a curtain of mane. “We shall have our sport soon enough.”

A rumble sounds deep in his throat, followed by a voice of dancing light and shadow, which appears in my head, meaning without words: Nyathri comes.

I narrow my eyes, peering out across the valley once more. Sure enough, a rider and steed approach. Almost invisible to the naked eye, the licorneir gallops at full tilt, her head outstretched, her mane and tail flowing like ripples of silk. She is a smaller beast than my own, quicker, nimbler. Ashika, her heart-bound rider, rides low, her body molded to her mount’s until they are nearly one. Nyathri is the most sure-footed of her kind, which is why I chose her and Ashika for this reconnaissance mission. At the sight of them, my pulse kicks up a pace. The speed with which they come tells me they bear good news.

A low rattle in my ears heralds the arrival of another rider and beast. Not a licorneir. No, the beast which draws up alongside mine is a long-legged reptant: hoary, bristled, with huge, muscled shoulders and a low-hanging, predatory head. It stands nearly as tall as my powerful steed, but where Elydark is a creature of almost terrifying beauty, this thing is an aberration, repulsive to the senses.

It”s rider, by contrast, projects glamours enough to dazzle even my impervious eye. Though beneath those glamours, Lord Lurodos of Noxaur is no doubt a monster equal to his nightmarish mount, in the light of this pale moon, he is the very picture of the seductive fae lover, one who would lure unsuspecting maidens to their doom. He lashes his beast savagely with a razor-edged flail, drawing ribbons of blood in its flesh, then grins at me as he pulls it to a halt. “Is that your girl returning?” he asks, indicating the approaching rider with his flail.

I don’t like his tone. Lurodos views my kind as a subclass species and holds us all in contempt. The feeling is mutual—I loathe everything about Lurodos, who is a brute without honor. We would not have chosen to conduct this mission together. In fact I argued vehemently with Prince Ruvaen to let me and my Licornyn riders handle this matter ourselves.

“No,”Ruvaen had answered, waving aside my concerns. “If the rumors we’ve heard are true, this is too great an opportunity to miss. I need both of you on this—your brains, Lurodos’s brawn. Between the two of you, I have every confidence you’ll bring back our prize.”

I shift in my saddle, refusing to answer Lurodos. We’ve been on this hunt for days now, but never this close to our quarry. I hate leading my men out into the mortal world like this, exposed to this hideously magic-deprived atmosphere. Worse still, our going leaves the Hidden City all but unprotected. I will not feel at ease until I return and see for myself that my people are safe.

It all comes down to what will happen tonight.

Nyathri draws closer. She moves in shadows and silence, but I can feel even from this distance the burning tension in both her and her rider. My hand tightens around the hilt of my sword. Surely Ashika would not urge her licorneir so desperately if she did not bring the information we need.

I turn in my saddle, looking back at my people, gathered among the trees. “Mount up,” I command. My words are swiftly carried back through the ranks.

Lurodos chuckles darkly. “You’re getting ahead of yourself, Taar, my friend. Maybe you and your Licornyn are more bloodthirsty than I was led to believe.”

I cast him a cold glance. “My people are always keen for a fight.”

The Noxaurian shrugs. “That’s as may be, but never so keen as my own boys.” He sweeps back his cloak then, revealing the small crystal vial he keeps tucked at his belt. My eye seems to go straight to it, pulled by some compulsive force I cannot resist. Lurodos sees the look and laughs outright, slipping the vial free and holding it out to me between finger and thumb. Though the cut crystal reflects moonlight, the dark liquid contained within seems to draw all light to itself and swallow it whole.

“Go on, King,” Lurodos urges, speaking the title like an insult. “You and your men must take a draught tonight before the fighting begins. Bring out the savage and let it play!”

A hot serpent coils in my gut. Elydark, sensing my tension, shifts nervously on his massive hooves, but I can scarcely hear the warning song of his voice in my head. My pulse throbs too loud. That single vial of dark liquid momentarily takes up the whole of my vision. Behind Lurodos’s urging, I can almost hear another voice, a softer voice from memory, whispering: “Take it, Taar. Take it and save us all . . .”

Elydark snorts and tosses his head, dragging my awareness back to the present. I draw a sharp breath of thin, magic-starved air through my nostrils and wrench my eyes up to meet Lurodos’s mocking gaze. “My people have no need to augment either their courage or their prowess.”

The Noxaurian’s teeth flash in something between a smile and a snarl. “Is that so? In that case, what would you say to a little wager? Whoever takes the most heads tonight wins, and the loser owes him a prize. A new slave, perhaps. Or a warbride.”

“We’re attacking a temple,” I remind him coldly. “The priests are noncombatants and not to be harmed.”

“Human priests. Hardly worth the blood spilled from their worthless hearts.”

“Servants of Lamruil,” I reply. “Am I correct in thinking that you Noxaurians hold the Dark God in special reverence?”

“Not I nor any of mine!” Lurodos hefts his flail, the spikes flashing in the moonlight. “We worship Tanatar, God of War, and don’t give two shakhs for another deity! And Tanatar likes it when we bring him heads—men, women, children, they all are pleasing in his eye. So my people will take their dose, and we will carve through any who happen to stand in our way, priest or otherwise.”

I stare at the man, this maniac over whom I wield no control. While I do not like the idea of unarmed men being cut down like animals, I cannot protect the priests of the shrinehouse from what is coming for them. So I say only: “Just as long as your people remember that our target is to be taken alive.”

Lurodos scoffs. “I’ll leave that to you, my friend. As you’re so hellbent against killing, you can have the fun of trying to capture a death mage. Be my guest.”

A chill lances through my veins. I’ve encountered death mages before and do not relish the prospect of meeting one in battle. But this is the first chance we’ve had of capturing one of Morthiel’s servants in many years. I cannot let this opportunity pass me by.

Ashika draws near now, her shimmering mount carrying her up the rise to where we wait among the trees. Lurodos’s reptant recoils from the delicate Nyathri, bristled skin shivering in dread of her spiraled horn. Lurodos strikes it again with the flail, drawing blood from its haunches. I ignore them and lift a hand to greet my scout. “Ashika,” I say, clasping her forearm as she draws up beside me. “What news do you bring?”

The Licornyn rider’s face splits in a great grin which confirms my every suspicion. “He’s here,” she declares. “Mage Artoris is here at this very temple. I saw him with my own eyes!”

“And what of his company?” I demand, keeping check on my own excitement. “Are there many with him?”

“I counted ten hooded mages. Their cloaks were red.”

My brow tightens. Red cloaks? That means Artoris journeyed from the citadel and left the safety of the waypost roads in the company of mere acolytes, not yet fully-fledged Miphates. That is good news for us, for while acolytes may wield impressive magic, they won’t be anywhere near as deadly as Mage Artoris himself. They won’t command death magic. But something doesn’t seem right here.

“Only ten?” I repeat. “You’re sure of this?”

Ashika nods eagerly even as Lurodos whoops in triumph. “The night is won already!” the Noxaurian declares. “Only a Miphato fool would leave the citadel with so small a force. He’s begging to be hunted down like a cur.”

I shoot him a dark look. “You would be wise not to underestimate our enemy. Even a single death mage can kill a dozen foes with a single spell.”

“Aye, but I’ve got dozens to spare. When his spells have run out, and he’s busy trying to scribble down another, we’ll take him.” Lurodos turns in his saddle then and barks a harsh command in his own evil language. The reptant riders assembled in the forest behind him answer with a series of barks, snarls, and yodels, teeth flashing, weapons ringing.

“Lurodos,” I say, urging Elydark to stand between him and the open valley. “We must plan our strategy.”

“Already done, King!” the warlord bellows. “Charge up that hill, kill anyone who screams at the sight of us, throw a sack over the Miphato’s head, and drag him back to Ruvaen. Meanwhile . . .” He bites off the top of the vial, his teeth crunching against crystal. A cloud of viruli perfume permeates the air, thick and intoxicating. My vision clouds over, and for a moment, my whole attention focuses once more on that little sliver of darkness grasped in Lurodos’s hand. Then he tips back his head and downs the lot in a single gulp. “Meanwhile,” he finishes, dashing the empty vial to the ground, “we have our fun!”

The swell of virulium comes over him. An abyss opens in each of his eyes, and black blood tears roll down his cheeks. Utter savagery takes hold of his soul. He throws back his head, issuing a bloodcurdling scream that must echo for miles. Then, beating his own steed with that vicious flail, he charges forth from the trees, his men falling in behind him. They’ve all taken their own doses of virulium and been overcome with madness. Their cries mingle with that of their reptants, fifty monsters mounted on nightmares, sweeping into the valley below the shrine.

“Luinar.”My second, Kildorath, urges his licorneir up beside me at the edge of the trees, watching the Noxaurians go. “Are we to follow?” Flames shimmer along the flanks of his beast, and the light gleams in the depths of his eyes. Kildorath also wishes to take the virulium and give into the madness of bloodlust. But my men are strictly forbidden from partaking of that foul brew.

I grind my teeth. “We will circle round behind the shrine. Artoris is no fool. He will try to escape the moment he gets word of the attack—which will be sooner rather than later now, thanks to our friend Lurodos. We must try to head him off.” I turn then, gazing back across my eager company of twenty brave souls. “Ride like shadows, my friends. Swift and silent.”

They obey without question, following me as I lead them through the forest, around the valley. Our licorneir move like dreams incarnate, navigating the dense foliage as easily as a dancing breeze. Though here and there one flames with eagerness for battle, for the most part, they remain invisible to the naked eye, and their riders blend into them like phantoms, only caught in chance glimpses. We are faster by far than the Noxaurians and reach our destination first. The temple above is still quiet; Lurodos’s assault has not yet reached them. Soon enough, however, the night will erupt in fire and terror.

“Fan out,” I bark, swinging an arm to indicate my will. “We cannot let this mage slip through our fingers. Form a perimeter, and—”

My voice breaks off in the combined sound of Nyathri’s trilling cry and Ashika’s excited, “Look, Luinar.”

I face forward. There, just reaching the base of the road winding down from the temple hill, is a party of eleven riders. No, twelve—Ashika’s initial count was off by one. But they are, as she said, clad in crimson cloaks with the hoods pulled low; my vision, augmented by Elydark’s innate power, can discern the color even by moonlight. I pick out the foremost rider as well, swathed in black robes elaborate with red embroidery. The robes of a death mage. Our prey is here and even now approaching our position.

“Quick!” I growl. “Prepare for battle, but keep your mounts subdued until the last. Surprise is our best weapon.”

Without word or sound, my Licornyn spread out to form a semi-circle. On the slopes above, the rooftop of a lower temple building goes up in flames, and the first cries echo down from the hillside. Lurodos and his men attack with wild abandon, unaware their prey has already fled. No matter—I’m just as happy for them to drive our quarry straight into our trap.

“Steady,” I whisper, more to myself than to Elydark. My licorneir’s gaze is fixed upon the approaching mage, as eager as I to take him down. But we both must remember our mission: capture, not kill. Though there are few men whose blood I should like more to spill, too many lives depend on the information I must draw from Mage Artoris’s lips. I adjust my grip on my sword, heart thudding, blood pounding, awaiting the right moment.

One of the riders pulls up sharply. It’s a woman—her lithe shape is unmistakable even beneath the folds of her cloak. Unlike the others, she wears blue, not red, and her face is unhooded. She does not look like a Miphates acolyte. Her horse prances uneasily under her, turning in circles, but she masters it well. Her face tilts up, angling in my direction. The silver glow of the moon bathes her features, revealing a much younger woman than I would have expected. Young and—I notice even through the driving urge for battle in my blood—lovely.

Her gaze fixes on the strand of trees where I even now hide. Of course she cannot see us; licorneir are invisible to human eyes save when enflamed. And yet, if I didn’t know any better, I would say that she was looking straight at me.

“Luinar?”Kildorath’s voice reaches me as though through the misty haze of a trance. “My king, they are close. Do we attack now?”

I don’t speak. I’m caught, somehow. Transfixed by those eyes set beneath that stern, moonlit brow. Suddenly the distance between me and the young woman seems almost nothing. I feel as though I could reach out and touch her, try to smooth that puckered line from her forehead with the pad of my finger. What’s more, I want to. The impulse is strong, almost irresistible.

What is this? Some enchantment? Some Miphates sorcery?

Elydark growls, a vicious rumble in his chest. It’s enough to snap me back into myself, to break whatever spell had come over me. I grit my teeth and lift my sword arm high. I’m not about to let some Miphata mage catch me in her magic. I have a mission to accomplish. I will see it through.

“Licornyn,” I bellow, “forward!”

Elydark’s muscles bunch and surge beneath me. He bursts from the sheltering trees, and as he leaves behind shadows and leaps into moonlight, his body erupts in flames. Those flames sweep over me, burning both my body and soul, an inferno of raw magic. My Licornyn riders take up the battle cry, pouring out from the trees on either side of me, and we sweep down upon our enemies in a crescent arc of doom.