joined with the Hawk Clan of the Ice Peaks, and Gorath had emerged the leader of the Ardanien, the flying hunters in the ancient tongue. And he was but a stripling of thirty-seven summers, yet he commanded more than a hundred warriors.
Twice more he had come to council called by chieftains who had claimed rights beyond their reach, and he had watched as battles had bled his people. He had been clever and kept his people outside such conflicts, and he had become a man to be sought out, to give counsel, because he had no ambitions of his own. Many trusted Gorath. He was approaching his prime and numbered a hundred and six years of age. A thousand swords did his bidding.
Time was a river, and he swam in it. Wives – two women who had borne him children – he had seen the first dead from a human arrow: the other had left him. He had sons and a daughter, though none alive now. For even Gorath, he who was trusted for his wise counsel and cautious ways, even he had been swept up in the madness that had been Murmandamus.
The one called Murmandamus had returned, as spoken of in the prophecies. He wore the mark of the dragon and possessed great powers. He was served by a priest of a far people, a creature who hid in heavy robes, and first among his followers was Murad, Chieftain of Clan Badger of the Teeth of the World. Gorath had seen Murad break a warrior’s back over his knee and knew that only the most powerful leader could command Murad’s allegiance. As a sign of Murmandamus’s potency, Murad had cut his own tongue, proof he would never betray his master.
For the only time in his life, Gorath was caught up in madness. The blood pounded in his ears in harmony with the thunder of war drums in the mountain. He had led his army to the edge of the great Edder, and had fought the mad ones, Old King Redtree’s barbarians, and had held the flank while Murmandamus assaulted the human city of Sar-Isbandia, what the humans called Armengar.
Thousands had died at Armengar, but his clan was whole. A few had fallen holding the flank against the forest and on the march through the pass the humans called Highcastle. There, at Highcastle, he had lost Melos, his blood kin, son to his mother’s sister. There at Highcastle, a third of the Ardanien had perished.
Then had come Sethanon. The fighting had been brutal, but the city had been theirs. Yet at the moment of triumph, victory had been taken from them. Murmandamus had vanished. According to some of the warriors one moment he had stood in the barbican of the castle at Sethanon, and the next he was gone. Then the Keshians had arrived, and the Tsurani, and the battle had turned. The giants recruited from their high villages had been the first to flee, then the goblins, courageous when victorious, but quick to panic, had left the battle. It had been Gorath, the only surviving chieftain at the castle who had been the first to call the withdrawal. He had come looking for the master, because fighting had erupted between two rival clans over spoils, and only Murmandamus could settle the dispute. Humans had escaped because of the fighting. No one could find the master, and Gorath had cursed all omens, prophecies and heralds of destruction, and had returned to gather the Ardanien and lead them northward.
Most of his warriors had survived, but many chieftains labelled Gorath and his followers as betrayers. For nine summers, the Ardanien lived in their valley, high up in the northern mountains, keeping their own counsel. Then had come the call.
The banners were again raised and it was Delekhan, sworn enemy – son of the man who had slain Gorath’s father, and who had died at Gorath’s hands in turn – blood enemy from birth, who rallied the clans. Delekhan who had eaten with Murad and the snake priest, and who had been the last surviving member of Murmandamus’s council. And it was Delekhan who vowed that Murmandamus still lived within a prison in the heart of Sethanon and only by freeing him could the Nations of the North take back the land seized by the hated humans.
And any who spoke against Delekhan was struck down. Dark magics were fashioned by the Six, and one by one the opponents of Delekhan’s plan vanished. Gorath knew his day was coming, and knew that he must carry word to his enemies to the south, for they were his people’s only hope.
Night, and he fled through ice and pain. Men who were once as brothers to him sought to hunt him down and end his life. Haseth, whom Gorath had taught to hold a sword, last among his blood kin, had led them. It had been by Gorath’s own hands that his last surviving kinsman had died.
Then again, he heard the thundering drums. Again he saw the fires on the hill, but now he felt his mind returning to the present, memories of his life fading away slowly …
The girl was young, not quite seventeen years of age, yet her hair was nearly white with only the faintest hint of gold in it. Pale eyes of blue regarded Gorath as she let go of his hands. Behind her stood the Prince of Krondor, the black-robed Tsurani, and another spell-caster, one who, while short of stature, was almost exuding power. Others were nearby, but those Gorath had travelled with, Owyn and Locklear, were in another room.
‘What did you see?’ asked the Prince.
‘I cannot find any falsehoods, Highness,’ said the girl in a weary tone. ‘But I cannot find the truth, either. His mind is … alien, chaotic.’
Prince Arutha’s brown eyes narrowed as he regarded Gorath. ‘He hides his thoughts?’
The bearded magician said, ‘Highness, Gorath is moredhel, and even with Gamina’s exceptional talents for reading thoughts, his mind may have many innate psychic defences. We have never had the privilege of studying a moredhel. From what I learned in my time with the eldar—’
At mention of the ancient elven lore keepers, Gorath’s eyes narrowed. ‘You are Pug,’ he said.
Pug nodded. ‘I am.’
‘We have heard of you, who studied with the eldar,’ said Gorath.
Arutha said, ‘The point?’
‘I think he’s telling the truth,’ said Pug.
‘As do I,’ said Makala. ‘Forgive me,’ said the Tsurani magician to Prince Arutha, ‘but I presumed to use my own arts to watch as the Lady Gamina examined the moredhel. It is as she has stated; there is confusion and an alien mind there, but no guile. Despite his differences from us, he is as honest a creature as you will meet.’
‘For what cause did you presume to use your arts without leave?’ asked Arutha. His tone was one of pointed curiosity, rather than anger.
‘War in the Kingdom would have many wide-ranging consequences, not the least of which would be a disruption of trade between our two worlds, Your Highness. The Light of Heaven would be most displeased if such occurred, let alone the risk if such as these—’ he indicated Gorath ‘—gleaned the secrets of the rift.’
Arutha nodded, his expression thoughtful. Gorath spoke. ‘Trading agreements notwithstanding, war benefits no one, Prince. Despite that, you must prepare your army for war.’
Arutha’s words were pointed, but his tone was even. ‘What I must or must not do will be my burden, renegade. And my decisions will be based upon more than simply the word of one dissident chieftain. If not for Locklear’s faith in you, you’d be in our dungeon making the acquaintance of our torturer, not holding hands with Lady Gamina.’
Gorath glared at the Prince of Krondor. ‘I would tell you no different under hot iron, the lash, or the blade, human!’
Pug asked, ‘Then why do you betray your own, Gorath? Why come to Krondor with a warning when your nations have sought to dislodge humankind from this world as long as either race can remember? Why betray Delekhan to the Kingdom of the Isles? Are you seeking to have our army do what you cannot do by your own might, and destroy
