Arch Wizard

some whisper. Yes, Lyrose is best… avoided.'

'I care naught for how Ironthorn tears itself apart, and who tries to lord it over the place, once I'm not sitting in the heart of it,' Garfist rumbled. 'What of the last lord-the one who has the gems all the rest of Falconfar cares about?'

Dyune shrugged. 'Lord Irrance Tesmer rules over the valley of Imrush, supported by perhaps the most ruthless and informed Ironthar of all: his wife Telclara. Whose manner is icy, and whose will is stronger than most swords. We suspect another Doom is working through her.'

'Narmarkoun?'

'He's the only one left, if it wasn't Arlaghaun or the Dark Lord-and if there are no other fell wizards of power who are wise enough to act more covertly than the Dooms.'

'Why,' Iskarra asked curiously, 'do the Aumrarr suspect a wizard is behind Telclara? Can't Falconaar be evil or ruthless all by themselves?'

Dyune smiled. 'Well, does this seem, ah, usual to you? Given Telclara's unhesitating cruelties? She no longer admits Tesmer to her bed, but herself selects bedmates for him from beautiful slave-girls she purchases from Stormar slavers, who in turn procure them in raids on the most southerly cities of the Sea of Storms. She slaughters each of them after they bear him a child. Children she deems acceptable are named heirs of the blood Tesmer, and trained to war; they have three daughters, followed by six sons, all by these means.'

Garfist sighed. 'Could ye Aumrarr have chosen a slightly less crowded a snakepit to toss us in? War-torn Galath, for instance? Or are ye determined to hurl us all over Falconfar?'

Dyune smiled again. 'No, that's a fate we reserve for the newest Doom. The Lord Archwizard of Falconfar, Rod Everlar.'

'Oh? And what's he ever done to ye?'

'It's not what he's done, so much as what we fear he will do. Very soon now.'

Chapter Eight

Half a dozen strides after they'd passed under the raised portcullis of Hammerhold and marched straight ahead into the open center of an echoing, bustling entrance hall-that had promptly fallen into a hush, as hurrying courtiers had stopped to stare-Briszyk stepped right in front of Rod, forcing the Archwizard of Falconfar to come to a hasty, unsteady halt. Their noses almost banged together.

'This will go best,' the senior guard said very firmly, keeping his voice low and quiet, 'if you obey calmly and say almost nothing, this next little while. The Lord Leaf will be less than pleased at our bringing any stranger into the presence of Lord Hammerhand, let alone a wizard. To say nothing of someone calling himself the Archwizard. Many bows will be aimed at you, but rest easy, and none of them should be loosed at you. For now, stand right here and move not.'

He and Urlaun scurried off into the depths of the castle, in opposite directions, without waiting for any reply.

Rod was only too happy to obey, even under the deepening, unpleasant feeling of being stared at by curious and fearful Hammerhold cooks and retainers who poked their heads out of various doors and panels to level hasty stares at him ere swiftly vanishing again. None of them looked happy; a sadness seemed to hang over the castle.

As he stood waiting, heavily armed and armored Hammerhand guards came trotting quickly up to him in twos and threes. They were uniformly grim-faced and silent, and avoided meeting his gaze as they hastily readied crossbows. More of their fellows promptly followed.

By the time Urlaun came hurrying back, Rod was ringed by so many ready bows that the Hammerhand defensive strategy was clear. Not even a battle-ready Archwizard could work much harm-they hoped-before he'd be fairly torn apart by war-quarrels speeding in from all directions to pincushion him.

The younger guard had someone with him. Someone older. Tall and impressive in the most ornate armor Rod had ever seen, this white-haired warrior stared down his long nose right through Rod, grounded the great iron-shod staff in his hand loudly on the flagstones, and whirled around, leaving the outlander with a grand view of his back.

Quelling a momentary urge to blow a raspberry in loud imitation of flatulence, to crown the ostentatious insult, Rod watched with interest as the elderly warrior started to stride slowly away, pausing to ground his staff gravely on the stones at each step-and the ring of crossbowmen carefully moved with him, not shifting the shape of the ring around Rod in the slightest. Briszyk came puffing out of a side-passage in bent-over haste and fell into step just behind the man with the staff, matching Urlaun's position on the man's other flank.

Somehow they had become a solemn procession, with somber, silently-staring Hammerhand folk lining the walls of the rooms they passed through. If someone painted this parade, they might well call the result Bringing the Captured Beast Before The Glowering Lord, Rod thought wryly-as doors five times his height were drawn open in front of the Striding Thunderstaff, who swept slowly on into the grandest chamber yet.

About ten paces away on either side of Rod, walls soared up, curving inward well above hanging candle- wheel lanterns, presumably to meet somewhere in the darkness above. The floors were of glossy-smooth black stone-not marble, but looking a lot like it-and there were tiered benches along both walls, all of them crowded with haughty-looking folk in all manner of rich robes.

Rod was entirely unsurprised to see two lines of guards ahead-each of four warriors, in identical black- and-silver armor-flanking a three-broad-steps-up dais that jutted from the far end wall of the room. A high platform that had closed doors behind it and a massive dark stone throne on it. A burly, bearded man in half- armor was standing in front of that throne, legs apart and hands on belt, glaring at the procession as if it was an unwelcome foe. There was a sadness on his face, too.

Lord Burrim Hammerhand, unmistakably. Looking just a bit older than Rod had described him, with tinges of white joining the gray along the edges of his close-trimmed, jaw-fringe beard.

What Rod hadn't expected were the pair of identical high seats two steps below the throne, on either side of the dais, and the two frowning persons standing watching him from in front of them.

One was a tall, slender woman with surprisingly broad shoulders, startlingly dark eyebrows and snapping blue-black eyes to match, framed by a long fall of pale brown hair. She had been weeping, but some time ago, and her face was now a cold mask of strength. She wore half-armor to match Lord Hammerhand's, and had a frown on her face that was the exact echo of his, too. This must be Amteira Hammerhand, despite her leather breeches, swordbelt, and small arsenal of weapons.

So where were all Hammerhand's sons? Jarvel and Glaren had fallen years before, yes, in books Rod had written, but that should still leave the eldest, Dravvan-a taller, broader-shouldered version of his father-and… and… wait, hadn't Holdoncorp done something with the other three? Turned them into horrid monsters in some dungeon for game players to slaughter? Yes…

So who was this other guy standing before a throne? Someone Rod knew he'd never conceived of or written about before, someone entirely unfamiliar; a thin-faced man with hard eyes and flaring nostrils, who wore a green-black cloak and robes of brown so dark as to be almost black.

Who was glaring at Rod right now as if a lone, rather bewildered sf writer was his oldest, most fiercely hated foe in all Falconfar.

Marvelous. Rod let his sarcasm swirl through his mind and fade, as he tried to smile faintly at the man. Leather boots with a hint of mold on them, and on the man's belt, too. A priest, perhaps, of the Forestmother?

The Striding Thunderstaff halted abruptly, about six or seven paces away from the lowest step of the throne-dais, and slammed down the butt of his staff as if trying to shatter it or the black stone beneath it, or both.

'A stranger is come to Ironthorn. Alone, your loyal guards say. He demands audience with you, and has used magic. He calls himself Rod Everlar, Lord Archwizard of Falconfar.'