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The Governor nodded once and signalled to one of his junior officers, ‘See that it is so.’

Amirantha and Brandos exchanged glances. Local rulers were usually content with their word. On the other hand, they usually caught a glimpse or two of the monster, and not just heard howls and bellowing from within a dark cave.

A short time later, the young officer returned, his face pale and sweating. Amirantha said, ‘I should have mentioned the peculiar stench—’

‘You should have,’ agreed Brandos.

‘—takes some getting used to.’

‘Well?’ asked the Governor.

Nodding, the officer said, ‘It is so, Your Excellency. Most of the creature was strewn around the tunnel, bits here and there, but one leg was intact, and it was … nothing of this world.’

‘Bring it to me,’ instructed the Governor.

Again, Brandos and Amirantha exchanged questioning looks.

This time the officer motioned to two of his older soldiers and said, ‘You heard the Governor. Go and get the leg.’

Eventually the two soldiers emerged from the cave carrying the huge charred limb between them. The reek caused even the strongest stomach to weaken and the Governor backed his mount off slightly, holding up his hand. ‘Stay,’ he instructed.

From his distant vantage point he could see the top of a thigh covered in burned hair, down to the foot with its three massive toes ending in razor-sharp claws. Whatever it might be, it was not of this world, and at last satisfied, the Governor nodded. ‘We had word from the Maharajah’s Court of charlatans preying on the gullible, promising to rid outlying villages of non-existent demons, dark spirits, and other malefactions. Had you been such, we would have hanged you from that tree,’ he said, pointing to a stout elm a few yards away. ‘As this is without doubt a demonic limb, I am now convinced that your timely arrival so soon after word reached us of this demon, is but a lucky coincidence, and shall convey my opinion to my lords and masters in the city of Maharta.’

Amirantha bowed his most courtly bow, and Brandos followed suit. ‘We thank His Excellency,’ said the Warlock.

As the Governor began to turn his mount,’ Amirantha said, ‘Excellency, as to the matter of payment?’

Over his shoulder, the Governor said, ‘Come to my palace and see my seneschal. He will pay you.’ With that, he rode off, followed closely by his men-at-arms.

‘Well, at least it’s on the way home,’ the Warlock said.

Shrugging, the warrior picked up his companion’s shoulder bag. ‘There are times one must settle for small benefits, my friend. At least this time we get paid.

‘Maybe it was a good thing that new demon showed up. Kreegrom is fairly hideous, but for a demon he’s about as menacing as a puppy. If that Governor had caught on that he was only playing “chase me” and not really trying to kill you … well, I don’t particularly relish ending my days hanging from an elm.’ He glanced at the tree as they walked past it. ‘Though, I must confess it’s a handsome enough tree.’

‘You do always see the good in a situation, don’t you?’

‘Someone must,’ said Brandos, ‘given the usual nature of our trade.’

‘There is that,’ agreed Amirantha as they started down the road that would take them to the Governor’s Palace in Lanada, and then on to their distant home.

The village had been the only home Amirantha had known in the last thirty years. For about five months each year, he resided in a stone tower on top of a tor a mile north of the village. The rest of the time he and Brandos would travel.

His tower was on top of an ancient hill, Gashen Tor, highest of the hills overlooking the village of Talumba, two days’ ride east of the city of Maharta. The small farming community had come to appreciate the presence of such a powerful magic user, even if his area of mastery was considered to border on evil by most people. They believed that the warlock had wandered to Talumba from another land, and had come to his lonely hill to avoid persecution. It had been said that he built the single tower in which he resided using demons for the labour, and that he had placed wards about the tor to prevent intruders from troubling him.

The truth was far more prosaic; Amirantha had used magic, though not his own, to build the simple tower. A pair of magicians, masters of geomancy, had used their arts to manoeuvre rocks in such a design that when they were done, Amirantha had only to employ a local carpenter to install the two wooden floors, hang doors, and build some furniture; including the large table now before the magician and the heavy chair in which he sat.

He examined an old text he had written nearly a century before, letting out a long sigh of regret as he pushed it aside. Looking out of the window of his study, at the village below, now caught in the reddish glow of sunset, he considered how almost idyllic his life had become during the last twenty years – if he didn’t give too much thought to the occasional mishap like the one three days ago, near Lanada.

He remembered when he had first come here, with a young Brandos and his wife, and how he had decided, almost on a whim, to take up residence. He looked above the village at the distant sunset and wondered how much of his decision came from his affection for these views. A sunset was, he thought, an odd thing to be drawn to, but then so much of his life had been a series of choices that seemed arbitrary, even capricious, at times; such as giving a home to an uncouth street boy who had tried to rob him more than thirty years ago.

This village was the only home he had known since his childhood, a time so distant he often had to concentrate to remember much about it. The villagers had at first been frightened of the Warlock on the Hill, as they called him, but he had since then protected the village from marauders on more than one occasion, and had even kept the army of the ambitious Maharajah of Muboya from occupying the settlement when the region was annexed into that burgeoning nation. He took pride in having used only ruse and guile with no loss of life. While absent of the everyday concerns of most people, Amirantha did scruple over crossing certain boundaries.

Some of his dilemmas were practical in nature, dabbling in the darker arts brought scrutiny that could lead to persecution. How ever, most of his moral concerns were for his own wellbeing; often he had seen that travelling down a certain dark road to knowledge cost a magician far more than the disapproval of others. Although not a pious man, Amirantha still wished to face Lims-Kragma, certain that he had no major stains on his escutcheon; he could accept having to explain a minor blemish here and there. Some, because of his chosen art, might not consider him a good man, but he had his principles. Besides, he had seen better men fall prey to the lure of the dark arts. It was a drug to most magicians.

He moved slightly in his seat and determined, as he had almost every day for the last two years, that he needed to take a trip to the city and purchase new cushions. He glanced around his study. The fire burned as it always did during the cold weather, casting a warm glow across the room. The sleeping quarters below were often draughty in the winter, and the Warlock often slept up here next to the fire. He was convinced the problem had something to do with the way the chimney was fashioned, but never could find the time to have anyone look at it, so for three months each year he endured blankets on the floor.

Brandos trudged heavily up the circular stone staircase, which hugged the interior of the round building, and entered the room. ‘What did you find?’ he asked without preamble.

‘What I feared,’ said the Warlock, standing up. With a wave of his hand he indicated the old tomes on the table. ‘I think we need to undertake a journey.’

‘Going shopping in Maharta, are we?’

Amirantha regarded his oldest friend. At nearly fifty years old, the warrior was still a powerful looking man, even if his grey hair was now bordering on white. His sun-worn, leathery face spoke of years of campaigning, and he bore an impressive number of scars. ‘Well, yes, for I do need a new seat cushion, but that will have to wait.’ He gazed at his old tomes and said, ‘I think something very bad is happening, and we need to speak to someone about it.’

‘Anyone specific in mind?’

‘Tell me about this Kaspar.’

Brandos smiled and nodded. He sat down on a small stool near the fire and said, ‘Here’s what I know: About a month or so after General Alenburga disappeared, which was ten years ago now, this Kaspar of Olasko arrived at the Maharajah’s Court along with a small army of soldiers from the Tsurani world. The young ruler of Muboya gave Kaspar the title of General of the Army, announced that Alenburga had retired to some distant place, and turned his attention to consolidating his territory and preparing to conquer more.

‘But, this is where it gets interesting. Kaspar seems to have earned the Maharajah’s trust, and has come up with diplomatic solutions for two conflicts, set up a very difficult relationship with some of the clans ruling the City of the Serpent River, and has annexed two city states to the north without bloodshed. After a long war, he’s also achieved an alliance with Okanala through a couple of well-crafted royal marriages, effectively ensuring that his and the King of Okanala’s grandchildren will eventually rule a combined empire. He helped Okanala put down two rebellions, and now Okanala and Muboya will combine to move against those murderous little dwarves who live in the grasslands to the west.’

‘A prodigious list of accomplishments for so short a period of employment.’ Amirantha tapped his chin with his right index finger, a nervous gesture that Brandos had seen since childhood. ‘Now, what else?’

‘Speculation and rumour. Kaspar is an outlander, from far across the sea to the northwest, a nation called Olasko, so I have been told. He was a ruler there, before being deposed, and has been absent for some years. Somehow he became close to General Alenburga, but little is known of that. It is also rumoured that he often vanishes from Muboya’s new capital city of Maharta for a week or so, simply to show up again as if he had always been there.’

‘Magic,’ said Amirantha. ‘He goes somewhere, but no one sees him leave or return.’

‘Or he enjoys very long naps in the privacy of his quarters,’ quipped the old fighter. ‘Perhaps with friends; he’s reputed to have quite an eye for the ladies.’

Tapping his chin as he weighed his options, Amirantha was silent for a long time. Brandos knew his foster father preferred silence when he was reflecting, so the old fighter got up and left the study, trudging down the stairs.

The tower was a simple cylindrical keep with three levels, the middle held two large rooms, one for the Warlock and one for Brandos and his wife, Samantha. Brandos crossed the tiny hallway separating the two sleeping rooms and moved down the stairs to the bottom floor, where the kitchen, storage room, and guarderobe were housed. The kitchen smelled of freshly baked bread and something bubbling in a cauldron above the fire, Samantha’s well-regarded chicken stew if Brandos guessed correctly.

Brandos paused for a moment to observe his wife. A stout woman, she could still spark a fire in her husband with just a whisper in his ear, though the years had taken their toll on the former tavern girl from the Eastlands. She wore a simple green dress with a blue cloth head covering, arranged in her native style. Brandos had met her in the huge tavern at Shingazi’s Landing, on the Serpent River where it bends near the Eastern Coast, less than a mile west of the Great Cliffs, overlooking the Blue Sea. With the aid of a lot of flirtation, and a lot of good wine, she had eventually agreed to come to his bed.

But rather than forget her, as he had so many before her, his mind kept returning to the pleasant-looking, plump young woman from the Eastlands. After months of incessant mooning over her, Amirantha had given his foster son leave to visit her.

He had returned a month later with his new wife. Despite Amirantha’s original reservations, he had come to understand that Brandos had found something very rare with his tavern wench from the Eastlands. Brandos knew the Warlock envied them, even though he had never spoken a word.

Brandos knew his foster father better than any man alive, and knew that only once in his life had the old magic user succumbed to a woman’s guiles. Remembering the encounter still made him smile; if it weren’t for Amirantha’s genuine pain over how that liaison had ended, it would have been worthy of a bard’s most ribald tale.

Samantha looked up at her husband and smiled. ‘Ready to eat?’

‘Yes,’ he said returning the smile.

As he sat at the table, her smile turned to a frown. ‘Very well, when are you two leaving?’

Brandos shook his head and smiled ruefully. She could read him like a proclamation posted on a wall in the city square. ‘Soon, I think. Amirantha is very troubled by what happened up in Lanada.’

She only nodded. One of her talents was ignoring how her husband and his foster father made their living, by summoning demons in distant lands, then banishing them for a fee. They did occasionally do real work, dangerous work, for those willing to pay, but those were rare callings, the rest of the time the pair behaved little better than a pair of confidence tricksters.

Still, there were some matters that she and Brandos were willing to argue about, and some things best left unspoken; it was why their marriage had lasted for twenty-three years.

‘Is there any point to me asking why?’ she said coolly. ‘It’s not like it was when the children lived here.’ She stopped and looked at her husband accusingly. ‘Bethan is at sea, sailing who knows where. Meg lives with her husband up in Khaipur.’

‘Donal is down in the village with the grandchildren. You can walk down to visit them any time you wish,’ he quickly countered. He knew where this was heading.

‘And his wife just loves having me around,’ she said.

‘What is it about two women under the same roof?’ asked Brandos rhetorically.

‘She’ll come around when the new baby is born and she needs another pair of hands, but until then, she sees me as an intruder.’ He was about to speak, but she cut him off, her vivid blue eyes fixed on him as she absently pushed back a strand of grey hair trying to escape from under her head covering. ‘It’s lonely here, Brandos, with you gone for weeks, even months at a time …’ She let out a theatrical sigh. ‘When you returned early, I can’t tell you how happy that made me.

‘When are you going to stop all this travelling? I know how wealthy we are. You don’t need to do this any more.’

‘That would be true if Amirantha wasn’t always worried about what he might have to spend on one of his … devices, or an old libram of spells, or whatever else takes his fancy,’ countered her husband. ‘Besides, it is his wealth, isn’t it?’

‘Yours, too,’ she shot back. ‘It’s not as if you sat around doing nothing.’

He knew there was no avoiding the subject. ‘Look, most times I would argue with him on your behalf, I would agree with what you’re saying: We just got home, we’ve been gone over a month; but this time, well, we have to go.’

Samantha put her hands on her hips and said, ‘Why?’ Her tone was defiant and bordering on anger, and Brandos knew he must tell her.

‘It’s Amirantha’s brother.’

She looked stunned. She blinked and then asked, ‘Belasco?’

He nodded once.

She said, ‘I’ll prepare a travel bag. Enough food to take you to the city. You can buy the rest as you go.’

Her sudden change in mood and manner were entirely understandable. Over the many years they had been together, she had listened to the same stories as Brandos while Amirantha chatted over supper. She knew that Belasco was a magician of mighty arts, easily Amirantha’s equal, and that he had been trying to kill Amirantha since before Brandos or Samantha had been alive.

• CHAPTER TWO •
Knight-Adamant

SANDREENA SAT MOTIONLESS.

She focused her mind on the seemingly impossible task of thinking of nothing. For seven years she had practised this ritual whenever conditions permitted, yet she never reached the total vacancy of thought that was the goal of the Sha’tar Ritual.

Despite her eyes being closed, she could describe the room around her in precise detail. And that was her problem. Her mind wanted to be active, not floating blankly. She resisted the urge to sigh.

On her best days in the Temple, she found something close to nothingness, or at least when the ritual ended she had no memory of thinking about anything and felt very relaxed. But she was still not entirely convinced that having no memory and possessing no thought were the same. Her concern always caused Father-Bishop Creegan some amusement, and the fact she was moved by the thought was another reminder that today she was far from attaining a floating consciousness.

She was still aware of every single object in the room around her. Without opening her eyes, she could recount every detail; her ability to recall it all without flaw was a natural skill honed and refined since joining the Shield of the Weak. Her vows required her to protect those unable to protect themselves. Often, there was little time to ascertain the justice of a claim, or the right and wrong of a dispute, so she relied upon making quick judgment in deciding where and how to intervene. Attention to detail often gave her an advantage in not making things worse, even if she couldn’t make them better.

The smell of the wooden walls and floor, rich with age, and the faint pungency of oils used daily to replenish them, tantalized her, recalling memories of other visits to this and other temples. She could hear the faint hissing of water on hot rocks as the acolytes moved almost silently through the room, bringing in hot rocks from a furnace outside. They managed to carry a large iron basket full of glowing basalt and place it quietly on the floor, then they ladled water over its surface, a sprinkling that caused a silent steam to rise. She remembered her days as an acolyte spent concentrating on moving through a room much like this one without disturbing the monks, priests, and occasionally a knight like herself. It had been her first step on the path towards serving the Goddess. As many as a dozen men and women would sit silently, their clothing folded neatly on benches along the rear wall, and it had been her job to ensure the tranquillity of the room. At the time she had wondered whether a more difficult task existed; now she knew that the acolytes had the simpler role, and those seeking a floating consciousness the more rigorous challenge.

She felt perspiration drip down her naked back, almost but not quite enough of an itch to make her wish to scratch. She willed her mind away from the sensations of her flesh. Sitting with crossed legs, eyes closed, and her hands resting palms up on her knees, nothing was supposed to distract her; yet that drip of perspiration felt almost as if she were being touched. Her annoyance at being distracted by it began a cycle she knew well. Soon she would be as far removed from a floating consciousness as she would be during combat or enjoying a lover. She found a spark of irony in that thought, since in both those cases, she was probably closer. Other parts of her mind seemed to predominate when fighting or loving, and the ever-questioning, ever-critical part that made her difficult for most people to be with, detached.

Like all members of her order, Sandreena was always welcome at any temple of Dala, the Patron Goddess of the Order of the Shield of the Weak. Being a member of an errant order, she wandered where the Goddess directed her, often providing the only authority or protection for small villages, tiny caravans, or isolated abbeys. She adjudicated disputes and dispensed equity by reason, but she was well equipped to do so by force of arms if necessary.

The drop of perspiration had now reached the top of her tailbone, and as it pooled there for a moment, she focused her mind and dived into it, seeking to float within it. She took slow, deep breaths, enjoying the sybaritic pleasure she took from the hot steam, the silence, and the total absence of threat. She found her quiet place within that drop of moisture on her spine. A light breeze made the brass wind chimes outside ring softly, heightening the calming experience. Then Sandreena caught a hint of something unwelcome, a musky male odour so slight it was almost unnoticeable.

She knew the ritual was over. This was not the first time her presence in the sanctuary had brought unwelcome results. There were only two other women partaking in the ritual, neither young nor attractive by any common measure. Such considerations should have been of little consequence in the service of the Goddess, but human beings were imperfect by nature and those considerations often became relevant. Sandreena shifted her weight, tensing and relaxing each muscle in turn as she ended her meditation. Now she was very aware of her nakedness, the perspiration running down her back and between her breasts, and her matted hair. One young acolyte waited near the door to the bathing room, holding out a coarsely woven towel for her use.

She stood in one fluid motion, like the dancer she had been in another life. She knew that one of the young brothers watched her depart, examining her every movement as she quietly left the room. She also knew what he saw, a young woman of exceptional beauty, with sun-coloured, shoulder-length hair, and a pair of heroic battle scars, but no other obvious flaw. She knew that she possessed many flaws, but carried them within; her own beauty was a curse.

With long legs, strong buttocks, trim hips and waist, and some breadth in the shoulders, she was at the height of her physical power. But nothing could change her face, her straight, perfect nose, the set of her slightly slanted pale blue eyes, and her full mouth and delicate chin. She was even more stunning when she smiled, though that happened rarely. Even in her armour, men still turned to watch her pass.

She resisted the temptation to turn and see which of the young brothers had been aroused by her presence; that was his burden to bear and if he was wise in the teachings of the Goddess, he would know it was his weakness to overcome, a lesson put before him to instruct and make him stronger.

She hated the idea of being someone else’s lesson.

Sandreena took the towel and entered the bathing room, sitting on a bench before a bucket of cold water. She picked up the bucket and tipped its contents over her head, embracing the sudden shock of cold and the clarity of thought it brought. As she dried herself off she revelled in the quiet privacy of the bathing room. She had experienced very little solitude during her lifetime. Above anything else, her calling had brought her time alone on the road, when all she could hear was the wind in the branches, birdcalls, and animal sounds; she prized those moments.

After her travels, she had come here, to the Temple in Krondor. It was the only real home she had known. Sandreena had been raised in the streets by a mother addicted to every known drug, but she favoured Dream, the white powder that when smoked induced intoxicating images and experiences, more vivid than life itself. Her mother had protected her, as much as her weaknesses permitted, until she had become a woman. The body that Sandreena considered a curse, that stole the breath of foolish men, developed early in her eleventh year. By her thirteenth Banapis celebration she had become a beauty. Her mother had taught her some tricks, staying dirty, cutting her hair short, binding her breasts to look boyish, that had kept her safe until the age of fourteen, until one of the bashers had seen through the disguise.

The Mockers of Krondor were a criminal organization under the control of the Upright Man, but not so tightly controlled for the wellbeing of one street girl to be of any consequence. The basher took her while her mother was in the throes of delirium induced by a gifted vial of Bliss. After that he had come for her on a regular basis. He always brought Bliss, or Dream, or one of the other narcotics sold by the Brotherhood of Thieves.

Sandreena finished drying herself and went in to the dressing room. The monks detailed to care for visiting Sisters and Brothers of the Shield were tending her travel-worn armour. She quickly donned her preferred raiment: baggy trousers, a loose-fitting tunic, both made of unbleached linen cloth, heavy boots, and her sword belt. As she dressed, she remembered that her first man actually hadn’t been such a bad fellow. He had eventually professed his love for her, and she recalled him being almost gentle when taking her, in a clumsy, fumbling way. It was the men who she experienced after him who had taught her what it was to be truly cruel.

She was fifteen years old when her mother died. Too many narcotics, or one bad drug, or perhaps it was a man who took out his anger on her; no one knew the cause, save that she was found floating in the bay near Fisher’s Dock at the south end of the harbour. It was strange that she was found that far from her usual haunts, but not strange enough for the Upright Man or any of his lieutenants to look into the matter; what concern had they over the death of another addicted whore? Besides, she had given the Mockers a daughter who was worth far more than the mother had been.

Sandreena had then been removed from a particular bruiser’s crib, and installed in one of the city’s finer brothels, where she began to earn gold. For a while, she had known how it felt to wear silks and gems, have her hair cleaned every day, and to be given good food regularly. She had become an expert in the use of unguents, oils, scents, and all manner of makeup. She could appear as innocent as a child or as wicked as a Keshian courtesan, depending on the client’s need. She was schooled in deportment and how to speak the languages of Kesh and Queg, but more importantly, she learnt how to speak like a well-born lady.

Because her captors had taught her languages, to read and write, and even simply how to learn, she had forgiven them enough to resist hunting them down and delivering a harsh punishment. The Goddess taught forgiveness. But Sandreena vowed never to forget.

What she could forgive them for was awakening an appetite for things better avoided: too much wine, many of the drugs her mother had craved, fine clothing and jewellery, and most of all, the company of men. Sandreena had left that profession with a profound ambivalence: she only craved the touch of men whom she also despised, and hated herself for that perverse desire. Only the discipline of the Order kept that conflict from destroying her otherwise strong mind.

Sandreena left the dressing room to find a young acolyte waiting for her. ‘Father-Bishop would like a world with you, Sister.’

‘At once,’ she responded. ‘I know the way.’

Dismissed, the boy hurried along on another errand, and Sandreena let out a barely audible sigh. The Father-Bishop had managed to grant her only two full days of rest before finding her something to do. As she started towards his office, she amended that thought: finding her something dangerous that only a lunatic would agree to.

She reached a corner of the temple and looked out of a vaulted window. To her left she could see the Prince’s palace by the royal docks, dominating the city. To the right, close at hand, lay Temple Square, where the Order of Sung and the Temple of Kahooli were housed. Other major temples were also nearby, but those two were especially close. She wondered, not for the first time, how her life would be had Brother Mathias been of a different order.

He had been the first holy man she had encountered, and the first of the two men in her life for whom her feelings were not dark; she had loved Brother Mathias as a daughter loved a father. After three years in the elegant brothel, one of them lost to the very drugs that had claimed her mother, the Mockers had sold her to a very wealthy Keshian trader; he had become so enamoured with Sandreena that he had insisted on buying her and taking her back to his home in the Keshian city of Shamata. Because he was as proficient in illegal trading as he was in honest business, the Mockers considered him a valuable associate and while not in the habit of selling their girls – slavery was not permitted in the Kingdom – they gladly vended her services for an unspecified duration in exchange for a prodigious sum of gold.

It had been Brother Mathias who had saved her life and changed it. She could not recall their first encounter without becoming distressed, and now was not the time to show such feelings, not before seeing the Father-Bishop. She turned her mind from the memory back to the matter at hand.

She reached the modest office wherein worked the single most powerful man of the Order of the Shield of the Weak. Only the Grand Master in Rillanon ranked higher. But although he retained his ceremonial responsibilities, age had robbed the Grand Master of the ability to perform his real duties and the seven Father-Bishops directed most of the Order’s business. There was a persistent rumour that Father-Bishop Creegan was the prelate most likely to succeed when the Grand Master’s health finally failed him.

To the surprise of almost everyone who visited the Father-Bishop, his office had no anteroom, no clerk or monk waited to attend him outside, and the door was always open. Those who resided in the Temple of Krondor knew the reason: the Father-Bishop’s door was open to anyone who needed him, but for the sake of the Goddess’s mercy, their reasons for disturbing his work had better be good.