PROLOGUE

 

Amidst the vast and barren reaches of the mountains south of Zagorbia stood a single chimney of rock so smooth, so cylindrical, and so lofty it might have been carved by the hand of man. Formed in the vent of a long extinct volcano, it had emerged inches at a time over the millennia as softer, surrounding rock was worn away. Now it stood, lofty and alone, like the last remaining column of a once grand and opulent palace. Around it, for as far as the eye could see, spread a vast panorama of jagged peaks with dazzling caps of snow and plunging valleys, blue with afternoon shadow. No men made cities here, none even came to keep sheep or goats. So far as was known in Zagorbia and the other cities of the north, no men had ever even been here, let alone returned. The mountains, all agreed, were impassable. And this pillar was unknown.

Atop it now, however, stood an ancient and seemingly enfeebled mage, his robes whipped by the wind and the twin streams of his hair and beard flapping like pennants. How such a figure could have ascended that height-indeed, how he could even have reached a spot so utterly remote-only the gods might know. Yet there he stood, as stiff and rigid as the very stone.

Overhead, the sun pursued its normal course, but the mage beheld it not. For in his withered hands, cupped before him as if in prayer, he held a large red gem. It was on this, and only this, that he bent his wizard's eye. A deep, fiery red, the gem pulsed and glowed like a thing alive. And like a man in a trance, the mage gazed deep into its heart and marked not the passage of natural time.

Evening came. The wind, which had blown full from the west and the distant sea, dropped, then changed, then dropped again as the sun dipped into a distant haze, and all was still. And still the mage stood, his shadow now lengthening to infinity, the rock rising in the gathering gloom like a beacon, tipped with a ruddy glow. Yet it was not quite night. Still the tip of the sun shone above the world's rim when, of a sudden, the gem seemed to explode in a brilliant red flash. The force of it knocked the mage back. He staggered, stumbled, teetered briefly on the edge, and then, flailing his arms and loosing a long, high pitched wail, he plunged into the abyss below.

Thorngere stopped to draw a ragged breath and wipe the sweat from his brow. It was hot. Overhead, the noon sun stood almost still. Yet here, on the north east slope, snow still clung in the shadows and under the corners of jagged rock. Rivulets of water cascaded down the steep gradient and in spots, formed rushing streams ankle deep. Thorngere kept to the dry rock as much as possible and wound his way upward, ever upward towards a distant mountain pass.

For days now he had been climbing. Why, he did not know. The month before, in his ship's haven far to the south near Dulcai, a dream had come to him, bidding him take ship and sail. Six times it had pulled him from sleep, leaving him with but a fading image of an ancient face and a distant trail, before he had summoned his crew and gone. Ten days he had been at sea and the dream had remained the same. Then, one night as they lay at anchor in a hidden cove south of Zagorbia, it had changed. Leaving his ship and crew, Thorngere had marched inland. Two days through trackless brambles and across tortuous ravines he had marched with naught to guide him but the sun. Then there had been this trail. And the dream, coming on him now like double vision, guided him upwards.

He went. On and on, up and up, following a trail a goat would shun, day after day. He went without rest, almost without sleep until now, his great strength drained and the muscles of his legs-long inured to hard climbing from a youth spent in the mountains-turned to pulsing sap, he was nearing the point of complete and utter exhaustion. But he was also nearing the peak. Loosing a heavy sigh, he started up again.

“Whatever it is,” he muttered, “it had damn well better be good.”

Dusk found him at the pass. Or, to be more precise, inching his way around the edge of the pass on a shelf of rock hardly wider than his foot and with his back tightly pressed against a wall of stone. Following the face as it curved around to the east, the shelf widened at last into a broad plateau. In the center of this and hitherto hidden from view, rose a huge pillar of stone. It was a startling apparition; a smooth white column rising like a tower into the night, and Thorngere was momentarily stunned to find it there. Following its flank upwards with his eye, he was even more startled to see a stiff, angular figure, all bathed in a deep red glow, standing at the top.

It had to be, he thought and let out a wild yell.

But the figure paid him no mind. Frowning, Thorngere approached the base of the column in search of a means of ascent.

No sooner had he reached it than the mage-for that, thought Thorngere, he must surely be-let out a long piercing wail. Looking up, Thorngere saw a flash of brilliant red, then a body plummeting. Stretching out his arms, he caught it like a child.

The mage was still alive, but he had plainly suffered from the blast. His eyebrows had been burned away, and the uppermost hairs on his cheeks were singed and crinkled. Around his eyes the skin glowed a deep red, like iron heated in a forge and his eyelids fluttered spastically. Gradually, the red glow faded and the man opened his eyes.

“So,” he said as if nothing unusual had occurred, “you've come.”

“Aye,” said Thorngere, “I've come. But if it was only for the saving of your scrawny hide, you'll wish you'd called a closer neighbor.”

“I am Volkmir,” said the mage, once the two were comfortably ensconced before a cozy fire in his nearby cave. “Formerly Chief Advisor to His Majesty, Valerius Everreigning, King of Valeria and all the Inland Sea, and Royal Tutor to His Highness, Prince Valerian, heir to the Throne. Lately I have been merely Keeper of the Eye. My servant here is Chad,” and he indicated a small, dark complected man shuffling about the fire. “But to answer your question, young friend, from what I've just seen-or rather, been forbidden to see-you were not summoned here for an idle exercise in gymnastics.”

“Forbidden?” said Thorngere, coming up reluctantly from the depths of his mulled wine. He was weary. Very weary. The dance of the fire, the heat of the wine, the deep cushions of his chair all seemed to lull him, seduce him into slumber. Looking vaguely about at the rich furnishings, thick tapestries, racks of scrolls and other oddments about the cave, he wondered how on earth-or in spite of it-the mage had managed to get everything here. But that, he reminded himself with a shake, was not the point. “What forbidden?” That was the point.

“Sight, my boy. In case you didn't notice, the Eye has struck me blind.”

“Blind?”

The mage drained his wine and, sighing heavily, settled himself back in the chair. “Yes,” he muttered, “quite blind and quite fast-though perhaps not fast enough.” Then, louder, “But I wouldn't worry, my boy-it usually passes in a day or so.”

“It's happened before, then?”

“Oh, yes. Several times. But never like this. This was like getting hit with a club.”

“Looks it, too. But, what do you make of it?”

“The best, my boy. The very best. I take it to be a most encouraging sign!”

The warrior raised an eyebrow. “Encouraging, you say? I can see how that makes sense. Why don't you have some more wine-it will sober you!”

“Ah, Thorngere,” Volkmir chuckled, “there is much you do not understand about this stone. For it simply to knock me off my perch and dim my eyes is gentle treatment indeed. It could have done much worse. Look at Fantar!”

“He had the stone?”

“Briefly. It was for the Eye he sacked Valeria. But all it got him was a nickname.”

“'One-Eye'!”

“Precisely. And if you ask me, the only reason he got off that lightly was because he was a bastard son of King Valerius. Anyway, after that one little episode, he threw the stone into the sea.”

“So, how did you get it?”

“Oh, we wizards have our ways. But, actually, I think it was more a case of the Eye coming to me than me to it. It was looking for a steward, you see: someone to look after it until such time as it could return to its rightful master. And in return for my services these fifteen years-or perhaps to better enable me to serve-it has allowed me some little use of its powers.

“So, do you see now why I say this blindness is encouraging? That those powers are now withheld can only mean that the time for The Return has come. That too, I believe, is why you were summoned.”

“What 'Return'? And what about me?”

“You have been summoned to undertake a mission of vital importance. A mission only you can perform. It is one which has been in the hands of the gods, lo, these fifteen years, ever since the fall of Valeria. Now the time is ripe and you must summon the king!”

Had he his wits about him, Thorngere would have spat at talk such as this. Now, however, with the urge to sleep swelling in him like a malignant mushroom, he only asked, “What king?”

“The King,” intoned the mage, his voice chanting the phrases: “Valerius Everreigning, High King of Valeria and all the Inland Sea, Valerius Everreigning, Master of The Eye.”

“Thought he was dead.”

“He who Ever Reigns never dies,” said the mage. Men may be mortal but the Eye lives on. Now is the time when it must pass. It is the son you must seek-he who was Valerian but now IS Valerius.”

“Thought he was dead, too,” said Thorngere. He was beginning to wonder just how sane this old windbag was.

“So thinks the world and so thinks Fantar One-Eye. And so, I believe, it was meant he should think.”

“Look,” said Thorngere, “I've had a rather hard day. Can we just get to the point?”

“You know the tale of the fall of Valeria: how king and heir were counted among the slain...?”

“Yes, their heads were left to rot on pikes before the ruined city. I've seen them there.”

“So you were meant to see. But you interrupt me. How the king was found on the field of battle but how the son, being too young, was found later with the women?”

“Yes, and how, despite his youth, he put up a valiant struggle. I've heard it, I tell you.”

“Well, that young man who wore the prince's armor and died protecting the honor of his city was not the king's son.”

Suddenly, Thorngere no longer felt tired. “What? Who?”

“The real prince disobeyed his father and went to the battle dressed as a common soldier. Early on, he was struck unconscious and did not return to his senses until late that night. Then, seeing that all had been lost, he made good his escape.

“Now,” Volkmir went on, holding up a cautioning hand, “why this should have been I cannot say. I know not all the powers of this stone, and of the powers behind it, or their motives, I know even less. But I believe that time was not ripe then. Fantar's power was ascendant. It could either not be denied or was not meant to be denied: I know not which. But I believe that, had the stone passed then, the boy would have died. Instead, it came to me. And the boy-though I am sure he himself knows not why and probably even wishes at times it were otherwise-the boy, as I say, survived and has been living since under another name. That's where you come in: you must go and fetch him.”

“Why me?” said Thorngere, up and pacing now. “Why don't you just summon him yourself? And why now? I mean, if Fantar's power could not be broken when he was just starting out, how can it now when he is master of the whole Inland Sea?”

“To answer your questions in reverse order,” said the mage, “I know not how the stone, or the powers that rule it, intend to oppose Fantar, or even if that is their intention. It has not been given me to see things as they will be, only as they are. But I do know that in all things there is a certain cycle-a rising up and a falling off, an ebb and flow, if you will-and that while Fantar would certainly appear to be much more powerful now, that may not actually be the case.

“However, that is mere speculation on my part. I only suggest that the wisest course is to trust the visible promptings of destiny.

“As to why I do not summon Valerius myself, three things: first, one does not 'summon' such a king; second, I am a very old man and the promptings of my own destiny in no way suggest I go tramping around the countryside; and third, the stone summoned you for the job.”

“But...”

“As to why that should be,” the mage interrupted, “I can think of several things. The first, of course, is your backstairs relationship to the royal family. Second is the nature of the task. As I shall explain, this is not simply a messenger's job, but one which will require a great deal of tact, subtle diplomacy, quick wittedness and even, if I may use the term loosely, a bit of deceit-all of which traits, my dear Thorngere, you possess in excellent measure.”

“Deceit? Volkmir, you sting me! I've always considered myself as having the very soul of honor.”

“And so you have, my good man, so you have! Fortunately, though, you have not let it taint the rest of you! But seriously, there is one final, overriding consideration which I suspect will come as quite a surprise to you. That is that King Valerius has for many years now been one of your boon companions.”

Thorngere, who had resumed his seat, jumped up again. “A friend of mine? I'll be damned! But then, it would make sense, I suppose. I mean, the true king would never submit to Fantar, and with so few of us left fighting against him, odds are I would know him. But tell me, who is it?”

But the mage held up his hand. “Not so fast, my friend, not so fast. If I tell you now, you won't listen to another word I have to say, and what's left is the most important part. So, just sit you down, lad, and pay attention.”

Thorngere sat.

“Now, as I was saying, this is a ticklish business. You cannot simply dash up and announce the news. Quite the contrary. Just as the Eye has chosen its time, so must the king choose his. Keep in mind that there is more to the forces at work here than meets the eye-at least yours or mine. We are dealing with a man who has had the highest honor and power-indeed, his very identity-stripped from him. And if I know anything of the King's character-and I do for I was his tutor-he will not place the blame for that elsewhere, but will have taken it into his own heart. No matter the facts of the situation, he will have been condemning himself for the very existence of Fantar's empire-and for every act of cruelty and inhumanity committed under it-for lo these fifteen years.

“Kingship is a mystical, sacred thing, Thorngere, and for the man who bears it, it can be an onerous thing. There is no appeal beyond the king, no higher authority in this world. And when there is failure, there is no more ultimate shame than that borne by a king. His cannot be the petty emotions of the common man. A wave of his hand can raise up a temple or crush a city, a nod of his head can bring riches and fame, his slightest frown can send a man-a whole nation of men!-to the depths of hell. It is awesome to be a king!

“And yet he is mortal, too. His heart is as yours or mine, he laughs and he cries just as we and yet, it is so... so magnified. Can you imagine, then, what such a loss could do to a man?”

“Oh, I'm sure,” said Thorngere, who tired of hyperbole rather quickly.

“I doubt it! I doubt it very much indeed! He must be deeply wounded, deeply scarred. And what effect that might have on his ability to assume the weight and responsibility of this stone, I know not. I do know, however, that he must come to it of his own volition. To have it handed to him or thrust upon him now would only serve to make him a mockery to himself. No, he must take it. It must be an act of will, a conquering!

“Do you see what I am getting at, Thorngere? It is a tricky thing, even to try and explain.”

“King or no, Volkmir, every man must face his demons.”

“Well, I suppose-though that's a very crude way of putting it. But the point is that in fetching the king you must under no circumstances reveal your knowledge of me, of the stone, or even of his true identity.”

“How can I reveal his identity, Volkmir? You've yet to tell me who he is!”

“Nor will I, if you persist in treating the matter with such levity.”

“You're right. And I am sorry. But it just seems so strange to think of one of my friends as, well, not just a king but The King of the Eye! I can't imagine any of them who could possibly measure up... except one, of course. But he's been dead these two years and more.”

“And what if... ,” said the mage, smiling like a cat, “what if I told you he was not dead? But come, you need rest. You've a very hard journey ahead of you.”

 

 

BOOK ONE

A BUTCHER'S BUSINESS

 

CHAPTER ONE

A Butcher's Business

 

Under the hot, forenoon sun, Balazar strode downhill towards the wood line and halted about fifteen yards away. Though it was high summer and the foliage thick, he could still see through the brush and trees the glint of arms and an occasional shape darting. The Kudanim were in there, of that there could be no doubt. And they would attack. Of that there was no doubt either. All Balazar had to do was stand there long enough and they would come. It was a curious thing, this making war on the Kudanim.

The woods stretched along one of the many streams which coursed through the hills and led, eventually, to the cultivated plain around the city. There they joined the river which flowed through Kantar and on out to sea. From the wild country up river, the Kudanim followed these arteries on raiding parties, traveling along them by day, striking at night, and returning the following day. They were marvelous infantry, these Kudanim, although not much as fighters. Rather, they relied on stealth and surprise and avoided open combat. But they also had curious tempers and by making use of them, Balazar had good success in his war making.

Standing in the knee high grass, he waited while the sun passed its zenith; a huge man, thickly muscled and fairly covered with dark hair. A great tangle of black beard sprang from his face, and from under his battle cap equally black and wild hair hung to his shoulders. His dark eyes smoldered as he squinted against the sun. In his mailed hauberk, with his round buckler at rest on his arm, his great curved falchion at his side, and with his massive greaved legs, he was an awesome figure to behold.

Yet, he stood at ease, watching the stealthy movement among the trees much as a farmer would survey a crop nearing harvest. He was a professional, hired by the city and paid by the head. He fought alone, going out for days at a time with his cart, and watching among the hills for raiding parties. It was much like hunting and though quite lucrative, it was also often exceedingly dull.

Curious too. Not like any other war he had ever fought in. In fact, it was hardly like war at all, except that both sides wore armor of sorts and killing was done. The Kudanim were strange. They had a quixotic sense of honor which made the making of war and consequent killing of them a matter of the utmost simplicity. At least, it was so for Balazar.

All he had to do when he located a party of them was march in and wait. At his approach, the Kudanim would freeze and take cover. Though they knew full well that Balazar was more than a match for any number of them, they would not flee. They would just hide. And Balazar would stand there and wait until, finally, they got mad, or got their courage up, or felt heroic, or desperate-or whatever it was they really did-and attacked.

They always attacked. If there were many, the waiting was short. If a few, long. But they always came, and always in the same ragged manner. Once, when he was new to the business, Balazar had waited most of a day and all through a night only to be attacked by a scrawny pair of warriors in the morning. He had, of course, learned to make more profitable use of his time, but he had yet to fathom the reason for their behavior.

They also had no tactical sense or were simply fanatical about revenge, for they never attacked en masse but in driblets of twos and threes, and once one attacked, or three or four, they all seemed bound to it. It was as if the deaths of the first necessitated the attempts of the rest. Or, perhaps it was the honor thing again: no one individual could show any less courage than another, even if that courage was suicidal.

Curious. However, it made the business quite profitable and Balazar nearly always returned from an outing with his cart overflowing.

The party he had this time appeared fairly large for already they were making signs of attack. He could hear them scurrying about in there now and see the glint of shaken spears and raised swords. Then came the murmur of voices, rising like a gust through autumn leaves. The tongue was foreign, of course, but it was plain they were cursing him and daring each other.

Suddenly, there was a loud screech followed by a tumult of yelling. Then three warriors broke from the underbrush in quick succession.

They were small and frail, these Kudanim, not half the size of Balazar. Dark-complexioned and with little body hair, they were armed only in crude leather jerkins and battle caps and carried small swords or spears and flimsy shields of twigs and hide. When Balazar struck the first of these, his sword cleft the shield like brushwood and hewed the Kudanim in two from shoulder to hip.

The second attempted a spear thrust on the run but Balazar parried it easily on his buckler and spitted him in return with a quick thrust of his falchion. The third lost his head and crumpled spastically under a geyser of blood, but by now others were rushing from the wood in increasing numbers. Balazar met them steadily, moving with extraordinary grace for such a large man, leaping, parrying, slicing, stabbing, and hacking. He slaughtered them as fast as they came. It was no contest, really, and soon the hillside was strewn with bodies, whole and in parts, and the tall green grass was dappled with red.

In half an hour, it was done. Not a scratch did Balazar sustain. Their blows, the few that had reached him, had not even been sufficient to pierce his armor. Balazar waited until he was sure there were no more, then wiped his great sword on the nearest torso, brought his cart and horse around from beyond the hill and began loading. Then he walked to the stream in the woods, and washed from himself the blood and gore of battle.

Balazar was not a native of the city, nor was his war making on the Kudanim a work of choice. Both, rather, were the result of accident and necessity.

He had come only two years before, the sole survivor of a shipwreck. And though this land was part of the continent, was in fact, separated from the known world by only a few hundred miles, two things kept him as effectively marooned here as if he had fetched up on some deserted isle in the midst of the sea. The first was that those few hundred miles consisted of a range of impassable mountains which completely encircled this land. The second was that the Kantaran, the people of the city, knew absolutely nothing of ships and held no commerce with the world outside. Indeed, as far as Balazar could discern, they did not even know there was an outside world. Nor did the outside world know of Kantar. It was as cut off and isolated as the end of the earth and, unless one knew the way, about as hard to get to.

The coast along here was merely a narrow ledge backed by sheer cliffs rising thousands of feet. Though ships from Zagorbia to the north and Dulcai to the south passed often, all aboard-and their countrymen as well-believed the cliffs were part and parcel of the great barrier range which separated their two lands. None had any idea that between the northern and southern ranges, and just behind those cliffs, there lay a huge basin of habitable-and inhabited-land.

There was, in fact, only one means of access: through some freak of nature, the great river which was formed by all these mountain streams-and along one of which Balazar now guided his laden cart-had forged a channel for itself beneath the cliffs; a huge, cavernous channel leading to the sea.

Chance alone had guided Balazar to it. Half unconscious from exhaustion, and clinging to a length of spar after his ship had broken up in a gale, he had been adrift for two days and was in imminent danger of being dashed to death on the rocks when, suddenly, a tidal current swept him into a cave. Astonished at finding what appeared to be a river flowing out of the mountain, he was even more surprised to discover that along its edge, a roadway had been carved into the over-arching rock.

For miles he had stumbled along it in utter darkness, sliding his hand along the slimy wall to keep from tumbling off into the river, all the while wondering if he really had been dashed to death and was now on the road to hell. Finally, however, he had spied a tiny glimmer of light in the distance which had grown brighter and brighter until, suddenly, he found himself at the edge of a vast cultivated plain, staring up at the walls of a city.

Had he his wits about him then, he would have been more circumspect in his approach; have lain in hiding for some time and observed what manner of men the inhabitants were or, better yet, have grabbed one and questioned him. But after his long ordeal, all he had seen was refuge and, trusting to the God of Wayfarers, made for it.

At the gate he was immediately assaulted by six raggedly dressed guards. They were small men-the largest did not top his shoulder-and filthy, but weak and unarmed as he was, Balazar was quickly overcome and carried a prisoner into the city, bound to a pole like a stag.

He was brought before the Law Giver, an emaciated, snake-eyed devil named Chubar who at first blithely consigned him to the flames. But then, as they were dragging him off, this Chubar had changed his mind.

“Tell me first,” he had hissed, “how you came here and why it is you have been spying on my people.”

“Spying?” Balazar spat. “Do spies usually approach your gate openly, in the middle of the day? Are they usually half dead from exhaustion and caked with salt from the sea? And are your enemies-whoever they are-such fools as to send a man of my size to spy upon your people? If so, then I think you need fear neither your enemy nor his spies.”

Chubar stroked his greasy beard and cocked an eyebrow. “You certainly are a large one, I'll give you that. Tell me, then, who are you and how do you come here?”

“I am called Balazar, Lord-Balazar the Butcher by those who have fought with me-and I am a warrior, lately mate aboard a galley cruising this coast. My ship broke up in a gale. I come to your land as a wayfarer and claim the protection of that God.”

“We honor no such God, Outlander,” Chubar sneered. “But you say you are a warrior-whose warrior?”

“A free warrior, Lord. I fight for him who can pay my wage.”

And so it was done. Balazar-the “Butcher” part had been a spur of the moment boast which had since proven prophetic-was hired by the city to make war on the Kudanim, and in two short years, had raised himself from absolute penury to a position of considerable prominence.

But he had found the residents of Kantar to be an ignorant, primitive lot, a people sunk deep in sloth and indolence. The men were crude and stupid, cutthroats seemingly by nature, and their city was a heap of decay. Of the finer arts-poetry, music, philosophy-there was no evidence and even the written language had fallen into disuse except among certain merchants and palace scribes. The women were squat and ugly, the wine very often sour and the food, well, the food spoke for itself. So, even though the work was easy and the rewards munificent, Balazar longed to escape.

Guiding his cart and its grisly cargo along a gently sloping valley, Balazar shook himself free of the creaking, hypnotic monotony and looked about through the ambience of late afternoon light. The trees, the grassy hills, the very air were as still as an image on a tapestry. Only could he hear, above the cart's creak and the horse's snort, the swishing gurgle of the stream as it danced along towards the river and the sea. It would be an hour yet, he noted, before this stream joined the river and his own path met with the cart track that stretched across the plain to the city. That would be a smoother ride for him, but being level instead of downhill, a harder pull for the horse. As this was a heavy load and he would have to rest the horse often, he doubted he would reach the gates of Kantar before the beginning of the mid-watch.

But the people of Kantar were not the only reason Balazar yearned for escape. There was also Fantar and the futile but obsessive war Balazar and an ever shrinking number of his comrades had been waging against him all his adult life. For fifteen years this power mad regicide had been ravaging city after city all around the Inland Sea to the north and reigning terror over an ever widening empire. And for all of those fifteen years, beginning with the hopeless defense of Valeria, his native city, Balazar had been fighting against him.

He fought for revenge. On Fantar's hands, long ago encrusted and flaked away but staining still, was the blood of Balazar's family and that of his entire city: the blood of all he knew and loved.

That first battle before the towered, crenelated walls of Valeria had been merciless. It was Fantar, then, who sought revenge. The bastard son of King Valerius, and a megalomaniac with sadistic tastes, he had been denied by Valerius and, ten years earlier, had run off into the mountains where he had gathered about him a motley horde of brigands and scoundrels. In the summer of the year in which young Balazar, then fifteen, was to reach his majority, Fantar swept down on the city. Scorning the safety of his walls in the face of such an enemy, Valerius marched out against him only to be routed and utterly crushed.

Brought down by a blow to the head before he even had a chance to bloody his sword, Balazar awoke to find the battle done and Fantar's troops looting and razing the city. Dragging himself out from beneath a pile of bodies-to which he owed his very life-he was sickened to see the extent of the defeat. Mangled bodies lay everywhere, singly and in grotesque heaps. No quarter had been asked or given and vast mounds of dead lay piled against the city walls where the last remnants of the army had made its stand.

Even as he watched, Fantar's madmen danced and cavorted atop the walls, putting children and ancients to the sword and flinging them down onto the piles below. Flames and smoke towered heavenward from the depths of the city, illuminating the ghastly work like a scene from hell, and everywhere the air was filled with screams of anguish and terror. Losing his nerve, Balazar had turned and fled toward the dark bulk of the eastern mountains.

But horror had not quite done with him yet. Scurrying across the littered plain in the quickly lowering dark, he had tripped, and sprawling onto his belly, skidded to a stop, face to gory face with his own father's severed head. Its glassy eyes stared accusingly and its mouth seemed to utter a silent curse.

Even now, after years of battle had hardened him to such sights and after reason had asserted time and time again that it could not have been his father's head; that the odds against it were tremendous; that the light was bad; that the thing itself was so gory as to be virtually unrecognizable; that, in short, it was much more likely to have been his horrified imagination that saw his father and not his eyes... even now he could not recall that moment without a shudder. The shock of it had ripped him open and scarred him more than all the other horrors of that day combined.

He was only a boy, after all, had not the first down upon his cheeks. Yet, at that moment, staring into those vacant, sea-stone eyes, his youth had been consumed in rage and shame: rage at Fantar and what he had brought upon the city, and shame at the fate such a great and proud city had suffered, at the pitiful role he had played in defending it, and most of all, at the fact that he alone had survived it. In the face of inexorable death, his own youth had passed away and when he arose from the pool of his own vomit and tears, it was with dry eyes and a grim, determined chin. And as he stalked away, no longer heeding the gore or the flames or even the screams, he vowed never to rest, never to lay down his sword until either it had tasted Fantar's blood or he himself had joined the ghostly host of his people.

Nor had he lacked opportunity for using that sword, for it soon became apparent that Fantar's appetite for blood would not be satiated by one city alone. Palmania was next along the coast and when Fantar came, Balazar was there; then at Palmeria, Bangorum, and Durumkae; at Telos, and before the fabled walls of Dunskol; at each of the numberless cities and towns which filled the years since, Balazar had fought in the vanguard, had placed himself directly in the path of Fantar's oncoming tide. Yet in each, in town after town, city after city, year after year, while other men died in their thousands, he was simply swept aside, utterly crushed, but miraculously unscathed, and left to march on and begin the struggle anew. In the last great battle, before the walls of Zagorbia, some four summers ago, Fantar had completed his circuit of the Inland Sea and Balazar, along with a few diehard companions, had been swept completely off the continent and into the Outer Ocean. Even there they had carried on, preying as pirates on Fantar's ships and making futile plans for an overland assault. But then came the gale and Balazar's descent into Kantar.

Even here, however, he had not given up. The fact that this hidden valley would make an ideal base for operations was not lost on him and he had no sooner concluded arrangements with Chubar than he had turned his thoughts to escape. Could he but reach his friends, he reasoned, and return with a few seasoned troops, the place would be theirs to do with as they would.

But he never got the chance. Ever wily, the evil-eyed Chubar had played him like a cat with a mouse. Three times Balazar had constructed rafts up river, in forested areas well hidden from the city, only to have a laughing Chubar and his minions swoop down on him just as he was making his final preparations. Twice more he had sought a path over the mountains, once to the north and once to the south, only to be dragged back by Chubar after fruitless days of search and exposure. How that viper had laughed then, when an exhausted and emaciated Balazar had been tossed at his feet, how he had laughed and offered again the choice between immediate death and “continued labors at a munificent wage.”

Turning his cart onto the westward track, Balazar squinted into the setting sun which crowned the distant cliffs and set the river ablaze like a path of glowing coals. Turning his face away, he shook his head ruefully. 'Maybe I really did smash up on those rocks,' he thought. 'Maybe that cavern really was the road to hell.'