Arch Wizard

he's blasting us down, I want every man to try to put an arrow through his head or his hands. Bury him in shafts!'

'Will do, lord.'

Lord Hammerhand checked his own dagger, hefted his sword, and stamped down some thistles with his boots. He bore no shield. The smithy wall shook, and his eyes narrowed. He knew just where the wizard had to be, to unleash his wand through the smithy door. Which meant he just might live through this charge.

He waved his sword at Darlok in a silent but clear query, saw his warcaptain's nod, and beckoned.

The men of Hammerhold charged in a thunder of boots, no one yelling anything. Good; Darlok had given them the right orders.

Lord Burrim Hammerhand snapped, 'Stay here, priest, unless you've got a blasting spell that can take care of yon mage.' Without waiting for a reply, he trotted forward-and then burst around the corner at a run.

The wand-blast was fierce in its brightness. It slammed him off his feet and back around the corner in a hurtling instant, to crash to the street and roll to a stop, gasping in agony.

Then the other wand spat-right through the smithy wall at about head-height. Shedding a spray of its shattered stone, Malraun's magic raced across the street to hurl Hammerhold spearmen in all directions.

Cowering against the smithy wall, the priest of the Forestmother reached out a hand toward the man lying crumpled in the dirt a bare few strides away.

Smoke was rising from the lord of Hammerhold, and most of his right shoulder was missing, armor and all; what was left was blackened and torn, the arm below it dangling and useless.

Growling out his pain in a stream of half-formed oaths, Lord Burrim crawled back to the smithy wall, where the uninjured Lord Leaf was waiting, arms spread wide to receive him, face sharp with concern.

'Healing?' the lord grunted, as he reached the thistles again.

'What Hammerhand needs,' Cauldreth Jaklar said soothingly, reaching out-to bring a knife up out of his sleeve and into Burrim Hammerhand's throat, hilt deep, before dragging it sideways.

Blood spattered the priest, and the lord of Hammerhold heaved himself up with a great, gurgling roar-only to slump down dead.

Jaklar kicked out desperately to keep his legs from being pinned under the brawny corpse's armored weight, then staggered to his feet.

'What Hammerhand needs, indeed,' the Lord Leaf panted triumphantly at the lord who could no longer hear him, 'so I can begin to bring the rightful rule of the Forestmother to Ironthorn.'

He looked up, to see if anyone had seen the manner of Hammerhand's death-and beheld the warcaptain Darlok, helmless and scorched, staring at him from the far end of the smithy wall.

'I gave Lord Hammerhand peace,' the priest snapped quickly, 'as he commanded me to. The magic of the wand was turning him into something foul and evil.' Spreading his hands, he added in his grandest, most pious voice, 'By his blood, shed for all Ironthorn, may the Forestmother take him into Her arms and give him all pleasure, as a great stag in the forest.'

Hammerhand's blood had drenched Jaklar's lap, and was now coursing down his legs, but he could see Darlok's face going from astonished hatred to awe and grief. Good. In a moment, if he cast the simple little spell that would make his hands glow, and proclaimed it as a sign from the goddess, he could-

Then, as the wands flashed and boomed again farther away, Cauldreth Jaklar saw someone else, far beyond Darlok's shoulder but approaching fast.

Helmless, her hair streaming out behind her and her eyes two dark and snapping flames of anger, Amteira Hammerhand was racing toward them.

Her sword was in her hand, and the look on her face proclaimed clearly to all Falconfar that she'd seen her father's slaying-and was now seething for the Lord Leaf's blood.

Cauldreth Jaklar swallowed, knowing he hadn't the right spells ready to blast her down like yon cursed wizard was felling everyone.

Hurriedly he spat out the words of his own feeble little spell, knowing the warcaptain wouldn't know what they were. He tried to make them sound sorrowful, so they'd be taken for some sort of prayer to guard Hammerhand's soul.

'Darlok,' he snapped, the moment he was done, 'I need you! Ironthorn needs you!'

'Command me, lord,' the warcaptain said slowly, watching the conjured radiance rise up Jaklar's hands and arms, heading for the priest's face.

'The Holy Forestmother is with me,' the Lord Leaf cried, letting excitement rise into his voice. 'I can see now what I must do! Darlok, I need you to obey me, and rid us of the Hammerhands! If Ironthorn is ever to know peace, it can only be through the Holy Forestmother, and not this endless struggle of lord with rival lord, that can only and ever mean more butchery! With the Hammerhands gone, we'll have only two families to deal with-and House Lyrose weakened, at that! Darlok, I need you!'

The priest spread his glowing hands, his face now alight with radiance. 'Will you obey me, and win holy glory? Or stand against me, and very swiftly be damned by the Forestmother to a horrible fate?'

Darlok stood uncertainly, bafflement clear on his face. Ridding Ironthorn of the Hammerhands? But that could only mean-

He heard the crashing footfalls of Amteira's boots, then, and turned his head.

The lady heir of the Hammerhands was enraged, her sword was out, and, panting in her haste, coming fast.

'Murderous priest!' she snarled, as she sped along the smithy wall.

Darlok swung to face her, sword rising, purely out of the habit of long years as a warrior in a valley at war.

Her face changed, and she swung at him, spitting, 'You too, Dar?'

Darlok parried, but she struck twice and thrice, in an utter frenzy, and the third time burst through his guard.

The warcaptain lacked even time to protest before her steel slid into his shoulder, slicing in through the gap where his breastplate met his shoulder-plates.

Crying out, Darlok clutched desperately at his arm, trying not to lose his sword-and Amteira's blade burst into his mouth.

'Traitor!' she hissed, wrenching it free and running on, so the warcaptain was wrenched around, to stagger with blood spurting from his ruined face, dying on his feet.

The Lord Leaf had tarried to watch none of this. He was sprinting away, ascending a back street of Irontarl just as fast as he could, heading for the trees.

The Raurklor was a large cloak to hide in, and just now he needed to escape anywhere.

Amteira Hammerhand raced after him. 'Murderer,' she gasped, just once, then saved her breath for running.

Once in the forest, the priest could call on the Forestmother for aid. Yet even if he eluded her this day, she would follow Cauldreth Jaklar to the very roost of the Falcon, if that's what it took to slay him.

Her father deserved that, and far more. Once she'd torn this priest's life from him with her bare hands, and returned to conquer Ironthorn, it would be time to start in on the altars of the Forestmother.

By the blood of Burrim Hammerhand, shed by an unholy traitor, she would see this done.

Chapter Twenty-One

It blazed brightly, an arch of cold white fire flickering silently in this otherwise dark chamber of Yintaerghast. Darknesses coiled like smoke in the room's farthest corners, but he already knew they were echoes of the gate's magic, not lurking menaces. Unless, of course, he chose to make them so. Narmarkoun folded his scaly blue arms across his chest and smiled. This was going to be sheer glee. Plundering one world-perhaps even conquering it-to master another.