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  “Good thing they didn’t kill him,” said Cavin, “else Arkov would have to answer to the Lian.”

  Quietness fell upon the Council, even Raden stood stock-still. Finally Steward Cavin said, “Here’s what I propose we do: in essence, nothing for the nonce—”

  “What!” demanded Raden from the far end of the chamber. “Are you just going to let this usurper—?”

  Cavin thrust out a palm to halt Raden’s tirade. “Hear me out, Lord Raden. Hear me out.”

  Grinding his teeth and fuming, Raden stomped to his downed chair and jerked it upright and resumed his place at the table.

  Cavin turned to Aarnson and asked, “What say your agents about Prince Reyer?”

  Aarnson stroked his dark goatee. “They sent word that the child’s body was in his mother’s arms on the funeral pyre. It was a secondhand report from one of the Garians.”

  “That confirms the announcement the herald made,” said Mayor Hein, his double chins wobbling as he bobbed his head.

  “Even so,” said Cavin, “I wonder just how the boy died. Was there a report of sickness? Did the Garians somehow kill him? Was there a traitor within the castle chambers who smothered him, poisoned him, throttled him, slit his throat? How did he die?”

  Aarnson shrugged.

  Cavin took a deep breath and slowly let it out, after which he said, “Then this I propose: you each return to your monarchs and see if we can reach unity in our actions against Arkov. In the meanwhile, we look for a suitable heir to the High King’s throne.”

  Raden slapped a beefy hand to the table. “Suitable heir? Valen had no other children. Reyer was his one and only.”

  “Agreed,” said Cavin. “Yet, list, for this I know: some hundred or so years agone, Eddin, who was the then High King and naught but a youth, died in the great fire in Luren—”

  “That would be one hundred and nineteen years back,” said Lord Leland. “Eighteen sixty-six of this, the Third Era.”

  When the others looked at him, Leland shrugged and added, “Part of the history of Trellinath. That High King, too, died without an heir.”

  “Just so,” said Lord Cavin. “And that was the last time ere now that a search was conducted for a suitable heir.”

  “What has this to do with aught?” demanded Lord Raden.

  “Just this,” said Cavin. “When King Eddin died in the fire without issue, three families were claimants to the throne: Arkov’s line, Valen’s line, and Ulrik’s line.”

  “Ulrik of Jord?” asked Hein, yet clutching his chain of office.

  “Indeed,” said Cavin.

  The mayor looked about the table. “Well, it seems to me that Ulrik would be the rightful—?”

  “Not necessarily,” said Cavin.

  “Get on with it,” snapped Raden.

  Cavin nodded and said, “Back then, among those three lines, by sworn oath they each agreed that whoever was first to bear a male child, that child would assume the throne. And it so happened that within a year and even as the skies ran red with aethyrial lights in the north, three queens went into childbirth labor: Lessa of Riamon, Keth of Jord, and Trekka of Garia. And they each bore a male who would be in contention for the High King’s throne. The Seers said Trekka went into labor first, and Lessa last. But Lessa had an easier time of it and bore a living child before the other two. Yet there was some dispute, for the Seers’ visions were somewhat distorted by the aethyrial fires blazing in the skies above, especially in Jord, northernmost of the three kingdoms. Still, the Seers generally agreed that Lessa’s child came before Trekka’s and hers before Keth’s, though that last is the most uncertain.

  “Jordian King Haldor and his Queen Keth immediately gave up all claims to the throne. But Riamon’s King Rand and Queen Lessa’s claim to the throne for their son was hotly disputed by Garia’s King Borik and Queen Trekka. Riamon and Garia fought many a skirmish over the right of succession. Finally, Riamon completely defeated Garia—Rand actually killing Borik the Oathbreaker—and the Riamonian boy, Devon, took the throne when he came of age.”

  “Nice history lesson,” growled Raden.

  “At least it might explain Arkov’s reasons for usurping the throne,” said Viscount Axton.

  “By Hèl, it does at that,” declared Baron Fein of Harth, a steel-haired man in his middle years.

  “They say revenge is a dish best served cold,” said Aarnson, a sardonic smile on his face. “And this was a very, very cold dish.”

  “He’s still a bloody usurper,” gritted Raden.

  “But given the history of the dispute, why isn’t Ulrik the clear and rightful one to take Arkov’s place?” asked Mayor Hein.

  “Because, Mayor,” said Aarnson, “there’s been a lot of begetting between what happened back when Luren burned to the ground and now.”

  “Oh,” said Hein. “I see. You are saying that if we follow Valen’s line back to then—back a hundred and nineteen years—we might find someone more directly in line for the throne.”

  Aarnson nodded without comment.

  “So, Lord Cavin, what do we do about it?” asked Viscount Axton.

  “Send for a Seer,” said Cavin, “for only a Seer can untangle these interwoven threads of inheritance.”

  “Don’t you think the Seers might be reluctant to interfere with the doings of us lowly Humans?” asked Baron Fein, a tinge of resentment in his voice.

  “Perhaps, yet we need to try,” said Lord Cavin, knowing that in the past Magekind had refused to take a hand in clearing Drearwood of its dreadful inhabitants; the excuse of the spell-casters was that they needed to recover from the spent in the Great War of the Ban. And so, Harth and the Wilderlands were still beset by the creatures of that haunted wood, lying just across their eastern borders in the largely abandoned land of Rhone, and many Harthians and Wilderlanders, Baron Fein among them, bore a grudge against Mages of all stripe.

  “Well and good,” said Axton, “but, Lord Cavin, what do you suggest we do till then?”

  Cavin looked about the table, finally settling his gaze upon the viscount. “What I said before, Lord Axton: each of you must return to your kingdoms and speak with your monarchs and seek unity in this course we take, for we will certainly need to act as one, with mutual defense as well as a combined army, should Arkov decide to attack.

  “Too, not only should we strive for unity among the nations of the Northern Council, we should also seek out nations of like mind. Hence, we should send emissaries to other realms and see if they will join us.” Cavin turned to Aarnson. “My lord, will you send someone to the Isles of Gelen to feel them out?”

  Aarnson nodded, for Gelen was a trading partner with Thol.

  “I’ll make queries of the mad king in Jute,” said Viscount Axton of Wellen, “though whether I can make him see the right of our cause, I cannot say.”

  “And I will deal with Gothon and Basq,” volunteered young Leland. “Trellinath has good relations with both.”

  “What about Jord?” asked Raden. “And for that matter, Fjordland.”

  “And Kath and Naud, too,” said Baron Fein.

  “Vancha as well,” added Leland.

  “Also the Lian,” said Axton.

  “I believe the Elves will not get involved—neither the Lian nor the Dylvana, nor the Dwarves, for that matter,” said Cavin. “But for a few individuals of their Kind, they tend to leave Human matters to Humans.”

  “Bah!” snorted Raden.

  “There is this as well,” said Aarnson. “We will need agents in the court of Arkov, for, once we are formed, should he decide to march upon us we will need warning to muster and resist.”

  Heads nodded in agreement, and Cavin said, “We should all act upon that; insert agents into the court, I mean; ’tis meet that we discover whether these rumors of Arkov making pacts with our enemies of old are true.�
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  “Worshippers of Gyphon,” muttered Raden.

  Baron Fein said, “Likewise we need to recruit commoners in the town and on the docks.”

  “Aye,” said Cavin.

  Long into the night did the Council discuss their plans, but finally fatigue claimed an end to the meeting. At last, just before declaring adjournment, Lord Cavin said, “When we have secured a mutual agreement among the northern nations, and until the right of inheritance is decided, we will declare ourselves a government in exile, our seat here at the northern throne.”

  “Then Mithgar will be split in twain,” said Axton, “most likely leading to civil war.”

  “Not if we settle the right of inheritance and it falls upon someone other than Arkov,” said Baron Fein. “Then all the nations will rise up and overthrow the usurper and his allies.”

  “Hah! You think so?” said Aarnson. “Me, I think most nations will let others do their battles.”

  “Wh-what about Arkov?” asked Mayor Hein, a catch in his voice. “I mean, what if he comes to claim the High King’s summer residence? What if we spurn him? What if he sends an army here, what will we do?”

  “Fight him,” declared Raden, glaring at the mayor. “Unlike at Caer Pendwyr, there are no traitors here.”

  Aarnson leaned back in his chair and cocked a skeptical dark eyebrow at the quivering mayor. The others turned to the Tholian lord as he burst out in cynical laughter.

  5

  Grimwall

  Like a great backbone rearing up from the land, the Grimwall Mountains stretch across the High King’s domain, dividing his realm in half. This forbidding range starts far southwest in the land of Vancha, and it marches northerly to turn northeasterly to continue its lengthy run. Along the way, a spur breaks off and runs southwesterly to Portho, to divide Vancha from Basq. But the Grimwalls continue onward, where another spur known as the Sky Mountains splits off to the west to turn south. Farther along, another spur—the Gûnarring—breaks away to curve around the realm of Gûnar before rejoining the primary chain. Still farther, the Grimwall turns northerly to run for many leagues, and just at the point where it veers again to run northeast once more, two spurs—the Rigga Mountains and the Gronfang Mountains—split off northerly like a great claw yawning wide to clutch the dark land of Gron in its grasp before reaching the frigid waters of the Boreal Sea. But the mighty chain of the Great Grimwall continues on, to finally come to an end at the wide open plain between Far Xian to the south and the Untended Lands to the north. Several passes breach this mighty chain, some known to many, others not: Ralo Pass and Gûnar Gap and the cols known as Crestan and Grûwen and Jallor and Kaagor, to name a few.

  Dwarvenholts are delved under the roots of these peaks: Skyloft in the Sky Mountains; Blackstone in the Riggas; Kraggen-cor and Kachar in the Grimwalls.

  Yet the Grimwall itself is a sinister range, said to be the haunts of Trolls and Rûcks and Hlôks and other spawn of evil. . . .

  . . . And in one of these grim lairs hidden in the remote fastness nigh Jallor Pass . . .

  • • •

  IN A TALL TOWER hidden deep among the crags and crests and massifs of the Grimwalls, that long and ill-omened mountain chain slashing across much of Mithgar, a being of dark Magekind sat in his dire sanctum and read again the words deciphered from the coded scroll, and he chortled in rare glee. Few and far between were his bouts of laughter, for he was filled with rage, and seldom did good humor come his way. His bitterness was seated in dire events two millennia agone, for nearly two thousand years had passed in all since the end of the so-called Great War of the Ban. That was when Modru had gone down in defeat there at Hèl’s Crucible, and had fled to the Barrens far north to await the coming of—what?—Nunde did not know. And Adon had sundered the ways between the Planes and had visited a terrible retribution on all of Dark Magekind and their minions. Adon’s reckoning had fallen hard on Gyphon’s allies, for the Sundering preventing the arcane passage of Foul Folk from Neddra into the High- and Middle-Worlds. And the Ban, the terrible Ban, prevented Foul Folk and Dark Magekind from the light of day, hampering their efforts to control this world. Were they to ever be found by the rays of the sun, they would suffer the Withering Death, crumbling to dust in mere heartbeats. But Gyphon had sworn to return and conquer, and Nunde awaited that glorious day when he would be set free from this banishment from sunlight; then he would take his rightful place among Gyphon’s rulers of all creation. Ordinarily, Nunde would be seething with hatred over the victory of the High King’s Alliance and the downfall of Gyphon’s plans, but even more so over the Ban and the Sundering. Yet none of these things occupied his mind, for this night word had come that Caer Pendwyr was in disarray: the High King had been overthrown, and a new High King occupied the throne. Unquestionably, this would split the realms in twain, and surely Nunde could take advantage of the turmoil. But first he had to verify for himself whether the events he had been informed of had actually taken place.

  “Radok, to me!” he shouted.

  “I hear, Master,” called Radok from a distant chamber. Bearing a lantern, down black hallways he hurried to the side of the Necromancer. A look of anticipation filled the pale, white face of the tall, thin, bald, and beardless apprentice—for he had heard his master’s laughter.

  “We have an opportunity,” declared Nunde, his dark eyes gloating as he ran his long, bony fingers through his waist-length hair, tossing it back and over a shoulder to hang nearly to his hips.

  “An opportunity, Master?”

  “Yes,” hissed Nunde, a wide grin flashing across his narrow face with its hooklike aquiline nose. “The High King is dead at the hands of a usurper. Ha! Long live the new High King. But I must verify the events my agent has reported.”

  “How will you do so, Master?”

  “Bones, you fool. Bones. Fetch me the bones of the deposed High King and I will raise him and ask.”

  “And I will assist you?” A hint of expectancy quivered across the ascetic features of Radok.

  “Yes—yes, you will assist me. But first we need the bones. And if not the entire corpse, then at least his skull.”

  Tamping down his exultation, Radok asked, “And then what, Lord Nunde?”

  “After which I will raise him”—the Necromancer negligently gestured with a black-nailed hand as if conveying a foregone conclusion—“and I will use whatever I discover to sow dissent among those fools . . . and if not actually bring them to war, then at least lead them to the brink, where I can tip them over.”

  With his apprentice bearing the lantern and bustling at his side, Nunde strode out from the chamber and down a dark-granite hallway to a corpse-littered laboratory. Neither Nunde nor Radok paused to admire the flayed bodies on the many tables in various stages of decomposition and dismemberment. Those were merely the leftovers of their dark and arcane arts. Nunde stepped past these mutilations to a large desk made of an esoteric grey wood. He sat, pulled a small slip of thin parchment out from a drawer, and began to write tiny letters with a razor-sharp quill, his words in code, while Radok hovered nearby. Ah, thought Radok, orders.

  Finally, Nunde spoke a as he sketched a minuscule rune at the end, and the mark faintly glowed and then faded. Nunde then rolled the tissue and slid it into a small tube. He passed the cylinder across to Radok and hissed, “Send this to our agent in Caer Pendwyr.”

  As Radok headed toward the tower, he opened the tube and pulled out the delicate slip and read the contents, and then he rolled it and put it back. Up the spiral stairs to the tower he went, hurrying, for dawn would soon come, and Radok would not have the light fall upon him. At the top he reached the rookery, and called a black bird unto him. Quickly he slipped the tube into the leg-holster and made certain that it was secure. Then he whispered a word to the dark fowl, and set it free into the air as even then dawn began paling the east.

  Sissing in fear, Radok spun o
n his heel and fled into the blackness below. Yet in spite of his dread, Radok eagerly looked forward to the arrival of the former High King’s bones.

  He and Nunde would then raise the dead, to the detriment of those they despised.

  6

  Kell

  Islands dot the seas of Mithgar, as well as its rivers and lakes, some in clusters, some alone, some no longer alive. South of the High King’s realms lies the Avagon Sea: in its waters far to the east the Islands of Stone abide, the channels within forming a veritable labyrinth providing refuge for smugglers and freebooters and fugitives; nearly all the way across to the Avagon’s southern shore sits the Isle of Gjeen, whose penny—a small and plain dull gray disk with a hole in it—is said to be the most worthless coin in all the realms, yet this base-metal specie bears a significance too worthy to ignore; along the northern shore lies Arbalin Isle, the abode of a banking empire and a central trading port, transshipping cargo from all over the world; and at the western extent of the Avagon lurks the Isle of Kistan, large and overgrown and the base of rovers terrorizing the shipping lanes.

  Far to the northern extent of the King’s domain lies the Boreal Sea, containing the island of Leut at its western extent, a cold and forbidding place, inhabited by fishermen only in the chill of summer. Also in the Boreal lie the uninhabited Seabane Isles, made up of crests of the Gronfangs, where they run on into the frigid sea and under to drown; between the Seabanes and the Realm of Gron lies the Great Maelstrom, a dreadful vortex.

  In the Weston Ocean there once were islands known as Rwn and Atala. When Rwn disappeared beneath the waves, it marked the end of the First Era. On that isle sat the College of Mages in Kairn, the City of Bells; it is said that on the waters above where it once resided, when the ocean is glassy calm, one can hear bells ringing far below from deep in the sea. The island of Atala drowned during the Great War of the Ban, when its fire mountain, Karak, exploded, set off, say some, by Gyphon Himself, or by his agent, Modru. Atala held the great weapon-shops of Duellin, the weapon-shops of Elvenkind; these marvelous arms are made there no more, for all is sunk below the waves.