you.”
“Ah. Well.” Eliathanis flushed, embarrassed by his own kindness. “I... didn’t want you rousing anything undead against us.”
“I wouldn’t willingly.” Then Naitachal added, very softly, “But it was a near thing.”
Alatan, sorcerer, necromancer, paced impatiently back and forth on the ramparts of his small, square keep, glancing now and then out over the smooth, treeless expanse of meadow without really seeing it. He was alone up there, the only living being in all the keep, alone save for a few silent, soulless aides.
“Damn her!” he hissed.
And damn him for a fool for ever letting himself be forced to be responsible to her! So much time had passed without a word from her. He’d almost let himself believe the rumors that the sorceress was dead, or so far from here that she’d forgotten all about him and the debt he owed her: the debt of his life.
Oh no. She hadn’t forgotten. All at once there had come that summons, and with it the infuriating knowledge that he still wasn’t free, any more than he’d been free so many years ago ... when the peasants had caught him weak from the aftereffects of a failed spell, had caught him and condemned him to death by fire——.
The sorcerer stopped short, black cloak swirling about him. Unbidden, his mind conjured up the hardwood stake as clearly as though it were with him now instead of far in the past, the stake and the chains pressing him cruelly back against it, his hands bound so he couldn’t gesture, his mouth sealed with a wooden gag so he couldn’t call out the slightest spell, and the flames crackling at the wood beneath him, the heat already starting to eat at his feet, his legs ...
Alatan spat out a savage curse, forcing his mind back to the present. It was done, he was safe, and he should have banished such ridiculous memories long ago!
The sorcerer resumed his angry pacing. What nonsense this was! He had seen and done and summoned horrors enough during his career, horrors that would have sent any other man screaming—aye, and he’d seen many of those horrors do him homage, too. He would not act like some raw boy haunted by his own mind!
Ah, no. Fear wasn’t the problem. What truly rankled, what stayed in his mind after all this rime was having to admit chat for all his Power, he hadn’t been able to do a thing to save himself. Oh no, if Carlotta hadn’t chanced to see what was happening, chose stupid, fearful peasants would have won and he would be ashes in the wind, spirit lost in the Outer Dark. If she hadn’t seen, and thought, and realized what a fine tool was about to be lost—
“Damn her,” Alatan repeated aloud, but by now most of the anger was gone from his voice. A tool he was, and a tool he would remain till the debt of his life was repaid. No successful sorcerer survived by denying What Must Be. And he dare not fail.
Grimly resigned, Alatan went down from the ramparts to his private chambers, to a dark room crowded with sorcerous implements. A few careful Words of Power sparked a silver-rimmed scrying mirror into life.
Alatan focused his will, bringing into sharp focus an image of the boy, the bardling, and those with whom he rode—A woman ... a warrior by the lithe look other ... and quite human. He smiled coldly. No threat there. The others ... The sorcerer’s mouth tightened. A White Elf, that one, but again, a warrior, not a mage. And again, no threat to him. But that other Figure, draped all in black ... Alatan frowned and leaned forward, staring. Whoever, whatever was shrouded under that cloak knew at least enough to block anything more than this casual scan.
You may yet be trouble, my mysterious friend.
And then again, there might not be any trouble at all. For look at the direction in which they rode! Tensing in sudden predatory delight, hardly believing his good fortune, the sorcerer urged them. Further, ride just a little further ....
With a sharp crack! the mirror shattered. Alatan sprang back in shock, dodging shards of glass. No doubt about it: that black-dad figure was another sorcerer! No, no, more than that: the stranger could only be a necromancer. No one else could have forced his spell back on itself so powerfully.
Alatan’s laugh was sharp as the glass. So, now! It had been long and long rill he’d found an enemy worthy of combat! Burning with eagerness, the sorcerer sprang to his feet. calling for his undead servants, and hurried down to the meadow below, to the field of battle-once-was and battle-yet-to-be.
Naitachal straightened as sharply in the saddle as though he’d been slapped. Eyes blazing with sudden sorcerous force, he gestured imperiously, shouting out savage, alien Words that tore at Kevin’s ears and sent the mules shying wildly.
“Naitachal!” Lydia yelped, struggling to keep her seat. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
Reining in his own panicky, curvetting mule, the Dark Elf said shortly, “Someone was spying on us. Through sorcery. I turned his spell back upon him.”
Eliathanis tensed. “Then it wasn’t my imagination just now. I really did sense ... something.” His hand tightened on the hilt of his sword. “Do you know who the sorcerer is, or where?”
