“What happened?” she forced herself to ask.
“Another weapon of Karkald’s,” Tam explained. “Like the tower battery, only mounted in the bow of a caravel. We burned three Crusader galleys!”
Belynda’s eyes narrowed, and her teeth clenched at the image of suffering and death. “Was he there?”
Tamarwind looked crestfallen. “Sir Christopher… no, of course not. He hasn’t gone out on the lake in years… but tell me, Belynda. Why do you always ask?”
For an instant the fires of hate welled up so strongly within her that she couldn’t speak, afraid the blaze would flash its awful truth from her eyes. But she kept her expression blank, saw that Tam was looking at her with sincere curiosity. And she knew, she had convinced herself, that solid logic lay behind her question.
“You should understand by now: If we can kill him, we will win the war. The Crusaders will fall apart… go home. Nayve will be as it was!”
Tamarwind shook his head, apparently oblivious as Belynda’s temper began to mount. “They still have that arcane Delver, Zystyl. Karkald claims he’s more dangerous than any ten human warriors could be.”
“That’s right-there are still the Delvers,” Nistel declared, his beard bobbing sternly. “I don’t think they would cease the war even if the Crusaders gave up.”
“The Delvers are not going to destroy us by themselves, whereas I fear, sometimes, that the Crusaders might do just that,” Belynda replied. “He keeps them in thrall with the Stone of Command, molds them to his will by ancient magic.” She fixed Tam with a direct stare. “Why can’t you just kill him, take the stone away, and be done with it! Natac had the chance twenty-five years ago, and he failed. Someone has to do it!”
“I-I have tried!” the elf declared, shaking his head in frustration. “We all have-but the knight no longer leads his troops in battle. He doesn’t expose himself to our weapons! But please, my dear lady, have faith and patience! We will find his weakness, and we will bring this war to a victorious end!”
Abruptly she felt monstrously tired, unwilling and unable to face up to Tam’s enthusiasm, or his attention.
“I’m sorry,” she said firmly. “I’ve been hit with a terrible headache… can you come back tomorrow?”
She felt a twinge of guilt as Tam’s shoulders slumped. Naturally, he agreed to see her the next day, and made the appropriate noises of concern before rising to depart.
“I will go, too,” Nistel said, bouncing to his feet. “Please, my lady, try to get some rest… and do not let your hatred sicken your soul.”
She wanted to snap at him-Who was he to tell her what to do? But she let him depart without another word. In her silent apartment she tried to go back to work, and had even made some progress when Darann came to see her an hour later. Belynda admitted the dwarfwoman with no pretense of headache or other discomfort. Moments later the two females were seated at her conversation table.
“Have you thought about my idea?” asked the sage-ambassador.
“Yes,” Darann replied quickly. “I’m thinking about discussing it with Karkald, but I’m not sure he’ll be ready to listen.”
“That’s not surprising,” Belynda said. “It seems counter to the way men think about war.”
“Still, I know you’re right.” The dwarfwoman met the elf’s eyes squarely. “And I’m ready to help you try.”
“Good,” Belynda said. “You know that if we succeed, we might be able to end this war.”
Darann nodded. Both of them knew, though neither of them put it into words, what their fate would be if they failed.
U lfgang loped through the night, following the network of trails around the slopes below Miradel’s villa. He had maintained his post here for many days, ever since Natac had left him following the warrior’s last visit. Familiar by scent, by sight, and by sound with every inch of the ground, the white dog patrolled tirelessly, seeking any sign of something out of the ordinary.
During this time, the elf Fallon had cared for the dog well, providing a spread of meats, bread, cheese, eggs, and milk with each Lighten. During the day Ulf generally rested, finding comfort in one of the shady grottoes or cool, stream-washed ravines that dotted the rough landscape around the great white house. Even then he slept just below the surface of consciousness, every chirping bird or rustle of wind bringing his head up, ears pricked and clear eyes open, searching. But it was at night that the dog went to work, constantly circling the hill, ensuring that nothing approached unnoticed. He moved quickly, endlessly roving around the elevation of rough, isolated ground.
He padded through a shallow stream and shook himself quickly on the far bank, then raised his nose and sniffed at the air. The wind was behind him, unfortunately, pushing his own scent into the stretch of hill he had yet to explore-and at the same time, carrying the spoor of any possible intruder away from him.
But this was inevitable, on every windy night-when he searched through a circular path, there was always going to be one part of the patrol where the breeze worked against him. Ulf didn’t hesitate. Springing up the rocks flanking the stream’s narrow ravine, he emerged on the brush-covered hillside and trotted along a low trail he had worn here over the last tenday. The cloaking branches formed a roof over his head, allowing the dog to move through a tunnel of vegetation. Even if he couldn’t smell what lay in front of him, at least he knew he was invisible to observers who might be looking at the hillside from overhead.
Ulfgang moved steadily along the trail, panting slightly as he quickly covered a long uphill stretch. He broke from the brush near the top of a ridge and stopped on a shoulder of rock. From here he could look down to the lakeshore, follow the course of two adjacent ravines, and look all the way up the slope to where Miradel’s torchlit house beckoned so brightly in the night.
He heard a sudden sound that immediately caused him to stop panting, to lift up his ears and listen intently. Something scuffled across smooth stone, and then he heard a thud, as of a heavy body falling. The sounds came from above, from a source either at or very near the villa. He sniffed, mentally cursing the wind that still continued to blow from behind him, and then leaped upward. Ulfgang ran as fast as he could, streaking toward the top of the hill, racing along the crest of the ridge in long, bounding strides. The white body was a ghostly shape in the night, slashing quickly toward the grand stairway below the villa.
At last he could smell the wrong smells, proof that danger was abroad in this dark night. His nose brought to him traces of metal and sweat, the acrid smell of unwashed dwarves. Shapes moved on that stairway, and Ulf wondered if he should shout a warning. But he was so close now-instead, he opted to charge in silence, to maximize the confusion his sudden arrival would have on the intruders.
Racing up the stairs, he smelled the ferrous stench of fresh blood, a great deal of blood to judge from the intensity of the odor. Atop the steps he almost groaned audibly at the sight of a crumpled form lying motionless on the flagstones, pouring lifeblood in a crimson-black flowage down the smooth white stairs.
“Fallon!” he whispered, gently nudging the faithful servant with his nose. The elf’s eyes were open wide, but they saw nothing, and no faint breath rasped through a throat that had been cruelly sliced.
Ulfgang heard a heavy blow, a splintering of wood in the villa, and he raced across the plaza toward the shadowy alcove leading into the house. He saw an eyeless dwarf there, suppressed the instinctive growl that tried to rumble from his chest. Racing toward the enemy, he leapt.
But he did not see the second dwarf, the Delver crouching against the wall of the house. Nor did Ulfgang see the blunt-ended club of metal that whistled toward the sound of his approach.
His skull met the weapon with full force, and the white dog smashed into the ground. Once again metal struck downward, and Ulfgang knew nothing more.
T hey came from the darkness, moving in almost perfect silence. Still, the aged druid continued to listen to their approach. She had been admiring the sprouting plants in her small spice garden when she heard Fallon’s gasp of alarm, and then the shocking, gurgling sound of air bubbling through his slashed throat. Instantly knowing her faithful assistant was dead, Miradel had forced herself to put off her grieving, to think, to make a plan so that she might not meet the same fate.
But she was so old. It was work just to lift her arms, to weave her fingers through remembered patterns of magic. She heard the splintering of her door, a violent sound of crude power and arrogant destruction. The intruders were in the garden, pounding at the front entrance. How could she resist?
She moved toward the garden, following the connecting corridor behind the kitchen. Some remembered sense of power drove her motions, guided her crooked digits through the incantation. Hoping to conceal her location until the last minute, she whispered the words of power under her breath, virtually silent.
