Arch Wizard

shadows in his wake.

Amteira Hammerhand stopped at the door, setting her shoulders against it, but her father and the Lord Leaf strode forward, trading brief, silent glances ere they stopped across the map table from the warcaptains.

Then Lord Hammerhand looked at Syregorn. 'Take a few trusted knights, and get this Lord Archwizard into Lyraunt Castle. He seeks his Aumrarr and the fell wizard Malraun, who may well be lurking there. Once inside, concern yourself before all else with slaying those of the blood Lyrose. Killing wizards is work for other wizards.'

The priest drew forth some small, slender metal vials from his belt and proffered them to Syregorn. 'Leaf powders. Introduce them covertly into the Dark Lord's food-and only his food. They will keep him drowsy and biddable.'

'When,' Syregorn asked carefully, 'will we have time for stopping and eating?'

The Lord Leaf looked for a moment as if he was going to fly into one of his rages, then relaxed and snapped, 'Before heading to Lyraunt Castle, get well away from the Vale, back into the forest-say, to the old fire clearing-and there stop and feed this Archwizard. He looked hungry enough, but make sure he eats something. Tell him eating before battle is our tradition, and we need to keep the favor of the Forestmother.'

He looked to Lord Hammerhand, who nodded again.

The priest smiled the briefest of tight smiles, went to the wall, and undid a loop of chain, lowering the five- candle lantern over the table.

Each of those candles burned in its own wax-filled bowl, all of the bowls thrusting forth on their own metal arms to flank a larger central bowl that served to reflect and magnify the light of their flames. Jaklar reached into the central bowl, supposedly empty of all but dust, and drew forth a small wooden coffer. Opening it, he lifted out a fistful of matching sheathed daggers, and handed three of them to Syregorn.

'Poisoned,' he announced curtly. 'Wear one, and give the others to men you trust.'

'With them,' Lord Hammerhand added grimly, 'you are to kill whichever of the two wizards survives their battle with the other. A Falconfar with two fewer Dooms in it is a much safer Falconfar for us all.'

The four Aumrarr shivered from time to time; no matter what height they chose to fly at, the air was chill and damp. Ironthorn seemed somehow farther away than last time… but then, as they all separately and silently remembered, it always did.

There came a time when Juskra looked up from her constant peering at the land below to ask, 'Time for Orthaunt's skull?'

'More than time,' Ambrelle said severely. 'We must get the mindtrap gem from Stormcrag first, though. Malraun is probably watching us, and I can cloak his spying only for a very short time; I know a few spells, but he's a Doom of Falconfar!'

'And we all tremble accordingly,' Lorlarra commented.

A bare moment later, she was tucking in her wings and banking sharply aside from something blossoming in the air right in front of them.

Something large, dark, and flickering, born out of nothing and growing with astonishing speed.

A rift in the air, its ragged edges as dark as a stormcloud, its heart a brightness out of which flying shapes- lorn! — were streaming.

Magic, of course… and of a size and power that only a Doom could wield. Oh, many a wizard could open a small rift for a moment or two, to thrust through a message, a burning brand, or perhaps something as large as a newborn babe or a sword… but this, in the midst of empty air, a tear in the sky as tall as many a keep…

All four Aumrarr were cursing, and all four had swords out and were swooping and darting their own racing ways through the air, seeking to get past their foes before the lorn-there were two dozen or more, easily, all of them waving swords or spears as they came-could reach them.

'Together!' Ambrelle shrieked, as Dauntra dodged one way and Juskra went another. 'Sisters, stay together!'

Dauntra was already past the foremost lorn seeking to intercept her, and Juskra was growing a savage grin as she ducked aside from a spear-thrust and slashed with her sword across one of the lorn arms wielding that spear. Blood sprayed, and another lorn was blindly trying to thrust a spear through that gore when-

A second rift opened in the air, angled to half-face the first one, with the Aumrarr caught between.

This rift was spewing forth its own rushing horde of armed, Aumrarr-seeking lorn, too. Scores of the cruel winged beasts.

The four sisters cursed in disbelief, for all of three breaths.

Then the sky all around them was crowded with jostling, snarling lorn, and they were too busy frantically hacking just to try to stay alive, to have any breath to spare for curses.

Amteira Hammerhand watched the last of the three warcaptains stalk away down the darkened hall, firmly closed the door, and whirled around.

'Father, this is madness!'

Lord Burrim Hammerhand looked up from the part of the map of Ironthorn he most liked to stare at-the Lyrose lands, that he'd vowed so often would be his, every tuft of grass and fresh-plowed furrow of them-and asked with just a trace of weariness in his voice, 'How so, dearest?'

Amteira had intended to be no more than sternly sorrowful, but she found herself striding forward in as loud a bluster as her father ever trumpeted, anger rising like a warm red tide to choke her, before she could stop herself.

'Poisoned weapons! Lies about the gods! Risking Syregorn on a sneak-thief raid on a castle all our warriors have failed to take, dozens of times! Are not all of these things foolish, dangerous, and dishonorable?'

Her father's face turned stony. 'Daughter mine,' he said curtly, 'hear this, and know it well: to preserve Ironthorn, and free Falconfar of wizards, nothing is dishonorable, or too foolish, or too dangerous. Nothing.'

The Lord Leaf smirked at Amteira. 'Best you should find calm, Lady Hammerhand, and keep silent, and learn. The Forestmother-'

Fury flared. Amteira fought it down enough to keep from snarling or screaming, so her voice came out as something very close to her father's curt snap.

' You be silent. You are no Hammerhand, priest. Concern yourself with what the Forestmother charges you to watch over: warding off wolves and worse forest beasts, guiding those lost in deep woods safely home, and looking after woodcutters. Who rules in a Great Forest hold and how they rule is not your affair.'

Cauldreth Jaklar stiffened, his eyes blazed up like fresh-kindled torches, and he strode toward her, snarling, 'Do you dare to tell me what the Forestmother does or does not say or do? Am I actually hearing such blasphemy from your fair lips, young-and thus far spared all holy wrath-lady heir of the Hammerhands? You dare to speak so?'

'Priest,' she replied, striding forward to meet him, until they almost crashed together chest to chest, 'spare us your staged tantrums. Quite obviously, I do so dare. Nor is it blasphemy or presumption on my part. The Forestmother's teachings have never been about what befalls in castle, town, or market-moot, but rather out in the-'

The priest interrupted her in a tight whisper that managed to stop just short of a shout. ' You hear only what I tell you of what She says to me, child. To spare your very sanity, I keep from you-from all faithful Ironthar-much of the dread secrets she reveals! The truth is that She has whispered to me of cleansing Ironthorn enough to hold a Holy Moot here, that all Ironthar personally know Her love and blessing, and-'

'What will that mean?' Amteira snapped, interrupting Jaklar in turn, emboldened by the cold look of disgust in her father's eyes, as he stood with arms folded glaring at the priest's back. 'We Hammerhands sacrificed on altars, you sitting on my father's throne, and wolves and bears roaming the farms and every last alley of Irontarl, devouring Ironthar at will?'

'Pah! Such wild fancies are always flung by those who-'