Arch Wizard

Security. You might want to come with me, all of you who want to stay alive.'

The President sputtered his utter disbelief. 'This-this sounds like a bad movie!'

'Or one of our games,' Rusty couldn't keep himself from replying. However, he muttered those words at the full run, and the metal-shod stiletto heels of dozens of secretaries sprinting frantically after him made quite a din. It was possible, just this once, that the all-knowing, all-hearing President of Holdoncorp hadn't heard.

Rusty couldn't do anything about the 'all-suspecting' part of the President's character. Not without letting the ready arm and sharp sword of a Dark Helm reach the man.

It was a tempting thought, but…

Good security men, he reminded himself more than once before he reached the stairs, rise above temptation.

As FLEET AS any frightened rabbit, Iskarra dwindled into the night, bounding along the dark and deserted lanes of Harlhoh. 'Run!' she called back over her shoulder.

'That's all we ever do, it seems,' Garfist grumbled mournfully in reply, as he turned, lowered his head, and burst into a sprint that started to close the gap between them rapidly.

He doubted that whatever the emerging-from-the-earth beast of Malraun back there was, it would have expected him to able to run this fast.

But then, he doubted that it cared. It might be nigh-mindless, or might be as cunning as a wolf, but the wizard's orders would have its wits in an iron-hard, unbreakable grip. It would probably come after them, never tiring, for as long as it could. Which might well be forever.

'So we're doomed,' he told himself aloud, overtaking Isk steadily. 'Again.'

That last growled word seemed more a wry jest than a comforting reminder of all the times he and Isk had managed to escape grim fates in the past.

Just ahead, Iskarra spat a brief, startled shriek into the night-and was plucked up off her feet into the sky. Garfist stared at her, and found himself gazing into the grinning face of one of the Aumrarr they'd last seen in Ironthorn, heading for the foregate of Lyraunt Castle.

The beautiful one, Dauntra. Then she'd stopped looking at him over her shoulder to turn and hurl herself into flapping hard, now, lifting Isk up into the sky.

'Come back, Falcon take ye!' he roared, shaking and stumbling as his lungs told him that they'd needed that wind to keep running, not to shout at sleeping Harlhoh. 'Come-'

'Would you mind being quiet?' a rapidly-approaching voice snapped in his ear, an instant before two strong hands took him under the armpits and snatched his staggering feet off the ground. 'Some folk hereabouts will have bows and some skill at using them, look you! And you're rather a large target!'

Garfist quelled his shouting in mid-word, and clawed at his wits to try to remember the name of the Aumrarr now beating her wings hard to get him up and over the low and swaybacked roof of a shed.

'Uh… Juskra?'

'The same,' that voice said from above him, sounding pleased. 'At your service. At least until we can get you out of this hold.

Forgive me, but you're too heavy for me to carry all the way back to Ironthorn.'

'I'm not sure I want to go back to Ironthorn,' Garfist growled.

'Good, because we have other plans for you,' the winged woman replied sweetly, as they soared up over the rooftops of Harlhoh.

Gar watched the other Aumrarr gather Iskarra in her arms so they were flying face to face. They were obviously chattering busily, but he couldn't hear more than the occasional murmur of their voices.

'Plans for us, hey? I'm not sure I like the sounds of that!'

'Well,' Juskra said calmly, 'we could abandon them-and just drop you, instead.'

Garfist spat out several very filthy expressions before he grunted, 'Ye win. Again, by the Falcon. How do ye Aumrarr do it?'

'Unlike many overclever thieves and vagabonds who end up having to flee the Stormar ports in a frantic rush just to cling to their lives, we Aumrarr tend to think about what we should do before we rush about doing foolish deeds. Most of the time,' came the tart reply.

Garfist Gulkoun could think of several very cutting replies to that, but the air was cool and the ground looked very far away, now. Silence seemed wiser.

Cold, smooth, and very hard. Yes, undoubtedly. His cheek had never lied to him before.

About then the wizard Narmarkoun realized that he'd been feeling the floor against his face, and vaguely noticing the chill rigidity of its surface, for quite some time.

He'd been drifting slowly back to wakefulness, he supposed. Narmarkoun worked his mouth open and shut- his tongue felt dry and dusty-blinked a few times, then found where his hands were, spread them out on that same floor, and cautiously heaved himself up. A little.

Yes. As before, he was alone, lying on the floor of a vast chamber in Yintaerghast, fortress of the dead archmage Lorontar.

Reassured-and yet not-he let himself sag down to the floor again, and examined how he felt.

Beyond 'terrible,' that was. He was still weak, and sleepy… well, no, not really sleepy so much as mind-weary.

Yes. That was it. He was too weak and mind-weary to cast the mind-controlling spell again anytime soon.

He was also hungry-his stomach promptly growled in loud confirmation, like a competent courtier smoothly anticipating his lord's signal-and appallingly thirsty.

The foremost Doom of Falconfar made a sour face, heaved himself to his feet, and stumbled a little dazedly out of the room, to wander once more through cold and empty Yintaerghast.

He couldn't stay here forever. He'd starve, if thirst didn't kill him first. Nor was the location of Lorontar's great castle a particular secret. Only lack of daring-all right, tell truth and call it 'fear'-kept wizards and many a home-poor warrior away from its halls; he might not be alone here forever. If Malraun learned of his whereabouts, that sly little Doom would be inside Yintaerghast just as swiftly as he dared, to see what Narmarkoun was up to-and stop it.

Narmarkoun passed through an archway he'd stepped through twoscore times before, and came to a sudden stop. What was happening to him?

He stared down at his blue flesh, at the scales that began at his wrists and grew heavier as his gaze moved up his arms. When he sat in Closecandle or any of his other citadels and hideholds, surrounded by his playpretties and their cold caresses, he felt so strong, so confident.

Here, though, among the still and bare bones of the might of the greatest mage Falconfar had ever known, he felt… weak. Soft, vulnerable, foolish; unaware of approaching doom, watched closely yet unable to feel that scrutiny, somehow… as unwitting as a coddled child.

He had reached out to Earth, had done more than Arlaghaun or Malraun had ever managed, and was a step ahead of the latter with the former fallen and gone-and still he felt this way!

It was this place, it must be. The cold weight of dead Lorontar's enchantments, riding him…

He had to get out.

Yet he'd failed to break through the shielding-spells before. Not so very long ago. When he'd been much less tired, and had still had some magic left.

Which meant he had to search this place once more. Old tales told of Lorontar's fabulous wealth, hidden everywhere behind the stones of Yintaerghast. The walls of the black castle, the legends insisted, hid chambers of luxury, magical doorways to far places, and tunnels that led far out into the forest around the castle.

So far, he'd seen none of these things. The tales were old, and most of them were rooted in things said by wizards who'd worked with Lorontar. They almost certainly held embellishments, yes, but they couldn't all be lies.

There was one tale he'd deliberately been ignoring all along, pushing to the back of his mind since he'd arrived here. The old, old story that insisted once you were inside Yintaerghast, you never got out. Unless you