John Betancourt - Dawn of Amber 1 - Dawn of Amder

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PROLOG
ONE YEAR AGO
I felt the world around me bend and sway like the branches of a willow in a storm. Strange
colors turned, misshapen geometries that couldn't possibly exist but somehow did, drifting like
snowflakes, patterns within patterns within patterns. My vision brightened then dimmed, repeatedly, and
in no perceptible rhythm.
Come ...
A voice... where? I turned, the world kaleidoscoping.
Come to me ...
The voice pulled me on.
Come to me, sons of Chaos ...
I followed the sound across a land of ever-changing design and color to a tower made of skulls,
some human and some clearly not. I stretched out my hand to touch its walls, but my fingers passed
through the bones as though through fog.
Not real
A vision? A dream?
A nightmare, more like it. The thought came from deep inside.
Come ... the voice called to me.
I gave in to the sound and drifted forward, through the wall of skulls and into the heart of the
tower.
Shadows flickered within. As my eyes began to adjust to the gloom, I could make out a stairway
of arm and leg bones that circled the inside wall, climbing into a deeper darkness, descending into murky,
pulsating redness.
I drifted down, and the redness resolved into a circle of torches and five men. Four of them wore
finely wrought silvered chain mail of a design I had never seen before. They held down the limbs of the
fifth man, who lay spread-eagled on a huge sacrificial altar, a single immense slab of gray marble threaded
with intricate patterns of gold. His chest and stomach had been opened and his entrails spread across the
altar as though some augur had been reading the future from them. When the victim shuddered suddenly,
I realized the men were holding him down because he was still alive.
I reached instinctively for my sword. In any other time or place I would have rushed them,
decency and honor commanding me to try to rescue this poor victim. Only he isn't real, I told myself.
This was some sort of vision, some kind of fever dream or premonition.
I forced myself closer, staring at the dying man, trying to see his face. Was it mine? Did this vision
predicting fate?
No, I saw with some relief, it wasn't me on the altar. His eyes were a muddy brown; mine are
blue as the sea. His hair was lighter than mine, his skin smoother. He was little more than a boy, I
thought, maybe fourteen or fifteen years old.
"Who are you?" I whispered, half to myself.
The suffering victim turned his head in my direction.
"Help me," he mouthed. He seemed to be staring straight at me, as though he could see me.
I reached out for him, but my hand passed through his body and into the stone of the altar. Had I
become some sort of ghost? A powerless creature forced to watch atrocities unfold around me, with no
power to act?
I pulled my hand free. A mild tingling, like the return of blood after circulation had been cut off,
shot through my fingers, but nothing else. I couldn't help him.
The young man turned his head away. He shuddered again, but though tears rolled down his
cheeks, he did not cry out. Brave and strong, I gave him that.
"Have courage," I whispered.
He did not reply, but his body began to shake and his eyes rolled back in his head.
Again that wild, uncontrollable rage surged inside me. Why was I here? Why was I having this
vision? What could it possibly mean?
I looked at the soldiers, searching their faces for an explanation, and suddenly I realized they
were not human. Their slitted eyes glowed a faint red behind their helms. Nasals and cheek guards
concealed most of their features, but could not hide the faintly iridescent pattern of scales around their
mouths and chins. I had never seen their like before. They must have the blood of serpents in their veins,
I thought, to kill one so young in such a horrible manner.
The victim on the slab gave one last convulsive shudder, then lay still. They released him.
"Lord Zon," one of the soldiers croaked.
Something stirred in the darker shadows by the far wall. Slitted eyes, much larger than the
soldiers' and set a foot apart, opened, then blinked twice. As the creature shifted, torchlight glinted off its
metallic-gray scales and the sharp talons of its four spindly limbs.
I felt a sudden chill, a blind panic that made me want to run screaming from this tower. Yet I
steeled myself and held firm in my place, facing it, knowing this to be a true enemy-the enemy of all men.
Yes, it said. The creature did not speak, but I heard the rumble of its words clearly in my head.
"He is dead."
Bring me the other son of Dworkin.
A shock of recognition went through me. Dworkin! I knew that name. But it had been such a
very long time since I had seen him.., .
Calmly, two of the serpent-soldiers turned and left the tower through a doorway set deep in the
shadows. The remaining pair pulled the young man off the slab and dragged him to a small hole in the
floor. They rolled him into it, and he plunged into darkness. I did not hear him hit the bottom.
A moment later the other two returned, half carrying, half dragging another man between then,
this one older than the one who had just died. He wore the tattered remains of a military uniform, but I
did not recognize the design, and his face and hands were bruised and dirty. Still he bucked and fought,
kicking and biting, struggling frantically to free himself. He almost threw off the serpent-soldiers several
times; he was strong and determined not to be taken easily.
Instinctively, my hand sought my sword again. I wished I had the power to help him. But I
remembered how my hand had passed through the body of the last victim and knew I could do nothing
but watch.
The two soldiers who had disposed of the young man's body rushed forward, and together the
four of them managed to heave the newcomer up onto the altar's slab. All four leaned on his limbs
heavily, holding him down despite his valiant efforts to free himself.
The serpent-beast in the shadows stirred, immense scales sliding across the floor's stones. I
heard a laugh that chilled my heart.
Son of Dworkin. You will help me now.
"Never!" the young man yelled. "You'll pay for this!" And he followed with a string of obscenities.
Then he raised his head defiantly, staring at the giant serpent, and the flickering torches revealed
his features for the first time.
My features. For he had my face.
I could only gape. How was it possible? Was this nightmare some premonition of things to
come? Would this Lord Zon capture me, drag me here, too, and read the future from my guts?
Drifting closer, like a phantom, I peered down at the man. I had to get a better look, had to
know more about who he was and how he had gotten into this situation. If this really was some future
vision of myself-
Fortunately neither the soldiers nor their serpent-master seemed aware of me. I might have been
some spectral figure wandering through their nightmare world, unseen and unheard, forced to witness
atrocities beyond all human suffering but unable to stop them.
And yet, I reminded myself, before his death, the first victim had seen me. How? What did it all
mean?
As I continued to study the man with my face, I began to notice small differences between us.
Like the boy before him, he had brown eyes to my blue. But despite our eye colors, there were many
uncanny similarities between us. The high rise of our cheekbones, the shape of our noses and our ears...
we could have been brothers.
Or father and son.
My father is already dead, I told myself. This cannot possibly be him. Could it?
No, my father would have been much, much older.
This man looked about my own age.
Tell me of Dworkin, the voice in my head commanded. Where is he hiding? Where else has
he spread his tainted blood?
I felt my heart leap. Dworkin again. What did my former teacher have to do with all of this?
The man on the slab spat at the creature, then declared, "I have never heard of Dworkin. Kill me
and be done with it!"
Let him go, I thought desperately, dreading what might come next. Whatever you are, you're
looking for me, not him. I'm the one who knows Dworkin!
The serpent-creature didn't hear me. Talons lashed out from the darkness, seized the man, and
ripped his chest and stomach open like cheesecloth. I gasped, stunned. The prisoner screamed and kept
screaming. With a quick motion, the creature pulled his entrails across the altar's slab like an offering to
the dark gods.
Blood sprayed in the air and hung there, forming a cloud, a shifting pattern like the snowflakes of
color outside the tower. But this pattern was different, somehow-I could see holes where it was
incomplete, jagged, and somehow wrong.
Come to me...
The serpent-creature writhed, body undulating before the pattern in the air, working its foul
sorcery. Rings of light burst from the floating droplets of blood, spreading out through the walls of the
tower, disappearing into the greater void outside.
Come to me, sons of Dworkin . . .
The air over the altar filled with a spinning lacework design, with strange turns and angles. The
hanging drops of blood flattened, rippled like waves of the sea, then grew clear. Each one offered a tiny
window into what must have been hundreds of different worlds. I stared at them, the breath catching in
my throat. Some had red skies; some had the familiar blue one. Oceans raged in one; mountains moved
like sheep in a pasture in another; fires rained down from the sky in a third. In still others I saw towns of
strangely dressed people, or what might have been people. Still more showed virgin forests, others empty
expanses of desert, or grassland, or thundering rivers.
Come to me, princes of Chaos . . .
Like bubbles bursting, the windows began to disappear. The pattern that held them together was
breaking apart. I realized the man on the altar slab was nearing death.
Suddenly the last of the tiny windows vanished and beads of red spattered onto the floor, an
unholy rain. Coughing, spitting blood, the young man on the altar began to jerk and spasm uncontrollably.
Finally, he lay still. It hadn't taken him more than a minute or two to die.
The serpent-creature hissed in anger and disappointment.
Continue searching.
"Yes, Lord Zon," said the soldier who had spoken before.
I moved closer, peering into the shadows, trying to see this Lord Zon more clearly. Somehow, I
knew the creature was my enemy. It wanted me spread on its slab, my blood sprayed into the air and
held up in that strange, flawed pattern that offered glimpses of other worlds.
"Who are you?" I whispered.
Like the first victim, Zon seemed to hear me-or sensed my presence. Eyes glinting like ruby
chips, it turned, peering this way and that.
Who is there? it demanded. Speak!
I remained silent, drifting backward, willing myself invisible. Zon's slitted eyes suddenly focused
on me. It gave a hiss, and a forked tongue flickering from its lipless, scaled mouth.
You. You are the one.
"Who are you?" I demanded, "What do you want of me?"
Death!
Its talons reached for me-
-and suddenly I sat up in my bed, drenched in sweat, heart pounding like a hammer in my chest,
shaking all over but unable to recall what had terrified me so. A dream-a nightmare-some sort of horror .
. .
I sucked in a deep breath, held it, listening beyond the canvas walls of my tent to the nighttime
sounds of a military camp. Boots on gravel, soft whinnies of horses, the scritch-scritch-scritch of
whetstones sharpening steel knives and swords, a distant "All's well!" call from sentries on patrol.
Home.
Safe.
Everything seemed normal.
And yet... and yet, everything had changed, though I did not know how or why.
Reaching out in the darkness, I wrapped my fingers around the cool, smooth hilt of my sword.
Tonight, for no reason I could name, I wanted it close at hand.
ONE
THE PRESENT
A heavy pounding on the door downstairs roused me from sleep.
"Obere!" came a distant shout. Damnable timing. I squinted into near darkness, frowned. The
hour lay somewhere between midnight and dawn, and blades of moonlight slid between the window
shutters, cutting an intricate pattern of light and darkness across the checkered quilt. Off in the night I
heard plodding hooves and creaks from some passing merchant's wagon, and from farther off still the
distant baying of packs of wild dogs as they scavenged the battlefields a mile to the north of Kingstown.
The pounding on the door resumed. Feigning sleep wouldn't work; somehow, King Elnar's
agents-probably that all too efficient Captain Iago-had tracked me down.
I tried to sit up and found a soft arm pinning my chest. Helda hadn't yet heard a thing; her
breathing remained deep and regular. I half chuckled to myself. Too much wine, too much love. She
would sleep through the sacking of Kingstown, given half a chance.
As gently as I could, I slid out from under her, leaving the warm sweet smells of perfume and
sweat and incense that filled her bed. I made a reassuring murmur at her puzzled sound and quickly
gathered up pants, shirt, boots, and sword.
Damnable timing indeed. My first night alone with Helda in nearly two months, and King Elnar
couldn't wait till dawn to summon me back. Price of being one of his right-hand men, I supposed. Still,
Captain Iago-or whoever the king had sent to find me-might have had the sense to let me stay lost at
least a few hours more. It was seldom enough we had time to rest, but since the hell-creatures had been
quiet now for nearly a week, King Elnar had granted me a night's leave. I had tried to make the best of it,
drinking my way through Kingstown's half dozen taverns before joining Helda at her house to continue a
more private celebration into the late hours.
Carrying my belongings, I padded quickly down the steps. First things first. I had to halt that
racket before the whole town was up in arms. The hell-creatures had driven us back steadily over the last
six months, and with the front lines of the war close to Kingstown, King Elnar's troops now policed the
streets-not that they needed much attention, since three-quarters of the inhabitants had fled. No need to
rouse the night watch for a mere summons back to camp. I sighed, half in apprehension. What calamity
had befallen us this time? Something bad must have happened to drag me back in the middle of the night.
Had our scouts spotted new enemy movements? Or perhaps the hell-creatures had mounted another
sneak-attack on our supply lines?
The pounding ceased as I rattled back the bar and flung open the heavy wooden door.
"By the six hells-" I began.
My curse died away unfinished. It wasn't Captain Iago-or any of the other officers under King
Elnar's command. It was a stranger, a thin little man of perhaps forty with long black hair tied behind his
head and a sharp gleam in his eye. He raised his lantern and peered up at me.
"Obere?" he demanded,
I towered a good head and a half over him, but that didn't matter. He had a powerful presence,
much like King Elnar-the sort of man you instinctively looked at whenever he entered a room, or listened
to whenever he spoke. He was clean-shaven, dressed in red-and-gold silks with a strange rampant-lion
crest stitched in gold and silver thread on the blouse, and I caught the scents of dressing-powder and
lavender.
"Maybe," I said cautiously, feeling for my sword's hilt, wondering who he was and what he
wanted. "You are... ?"
"It is you!" he said, grasping my arm. "The years have changed you-but it is good to see you
alive!"
"Who are you," I demanded, shrugging off his hand, "and what in all the hells do you think you're
doing here at this hour?" No matter who he was, I did not appreciate being awakened from my
much-needed and much-deserved rest. It was one thing to receive the king's summons and quite another
to be roused by a stranger.
His voice was quiet. "Has it been so long you no longer know me?"
"I have no idea who-" I began. Then I paused and looked at him. Really looked at him.
"Uncle Dworkin?" I whispered. It had been ten years since I'd last set eyes on him. He had worn
his hair cropped short in those days, and he had seemed much, much taller.
Dworkin smiled and bowed his head. "The very same."
"What-how-"
He waved me to silence. "Later. You must come with me, and quickly. I have sent for a carriage.
I assure you, this cannot wait. You will come with me, Now."
It was a command, not a suggestion.
I gave a bark of a laugh. "Go with you ? Just like that?"
"Yes."
"I can't. I'm due back at camp in the morning. I'm no longer a child, Dworkin-I have duties and
responsibilities you cannot imagine."
"It is a matter of life and death."
"Whose?"
"Yours-and King Elnar's. I cannot say more than that."
That made me pause. "What about King Elnar?" I asked
slowly. My duty was clear: to protect and serve first the king and second all of Ilerium. If
Dworkin knew something of such great importance that it endangered King Elnar's life, I had to report it
at once.
He shook his head, though. "Later. When we are safely away from here."
I took a deep breath. Dworkin wasn't really my uncle- he had been a close friend of my parents.
When my father died at the hands of pirates from Saliir shortly after my birth, Dworkin had practically
adopted my mother and me. Perhaps it was because he had had no children or family of his own, but I
had come to view him as almost a father. It had been Dworkin who played soldier with me, brought me
treats on high holidays, and took me hunting in the fields beyond our house at Piermont as if I were his
own true son. It had been Dworkin who presented me with my first real sword, and Dworkin who began
the training in arms that had ultimately become my livelihood. That is, until he disappeared following my
mother's death from the Scarlet Plague. That had been just after my fourteenth birthday. Those had been
crazy times, mad times, with death in the air and fear in every heart. After the death-cart took my
mother's body away, she and Dworkin were both simply gone, I had always assumed he'd died in the
plague, too.
And now he stood before me, smug as you please, expecting me to drop everything and go off
with him for reasons he wouldn't share beyond claiming it was a matter of life or death to both the king
and me. It was impossible.
Instead of filial love and devotion, I felt a sudden towering rage at having been abandoned.
"I'm not going anywhere," I growled at him, "unless you explain exactly what you mean. See my
orderly in the morning, if you like, and I'll breakfast with you in my tent. We can catch up with each other
then. And you'd better have a damned good explanation-for everything!"
I started to shut the door.
"You will not be alive in the morning if you remain here," he said softly.
I hesitated, looked into his face, searching-for what, I didn't know. Truth, perhaps. Or maybe
some sign that he still cared for me. After all, my mother was gone now. Perhaps he had only befriended
me to get to her.
"Explain," I said.
"There is no time!" He glanced up the street as if expecting to see someone or something, but the
street remained deserted. "My carriage will be here soon. Dress yourself, and be quick about it. We must
be ready."
"What does this have to do with the king? You said it involved him."
"Yes, though he does not yet know it himself. But if you come with me now, I promise that the
invasion of your world will be over within the week. I can say no more."
The invasion of your world. I did not like the sound of that, but I held back a flood of questions
demanding to be asked. Somehow, though I didn't understand why, I found I wanted to trust Dworkin.
And if he really knew something that could end our
war with the hell-creatures, I owed it to King Elnar to listen. I had never known Dworkin to lie.
For the sake of my oath to the king and Ilerium, for my childhood and all the kindness Dworkin had
showered on my mother and me, I decided I would take him at his word ... for now.
"Very well." I handed him my sword and hurriedly began pulling on my pants.
He remained nervous and apprehensive, glancing up the street every few seconds. He had
volunteered little information, I realized, but perhaps I could extract more with an indirect line of
questioning.
"Where have you been all these years?" I asked. "I thought you were dead."
"Traveling," he said absently. "My... business took me far from here."
"You could have sent messages."
"You didn't need them. I would have been a distraction for you. Had you known I was alive, you
would have given up your commission and come looking for me."
I pulled on my shirt and began lacing the front. "You don't know that!"
"Of course I do. I know you, Obere, better than you know yourself,"
He shifted slightly, glancing again in the direction of the battlefield outside town. I paused,
straining to hear, but even the distant scavenging dogs had grown silent. That seemed an ominous sign.
More slowly, Dworkin went on. "Friends have been sending me reports now and again of you
and your career.
From raw soldier to lieutenant in ten years is quite a remarkable feat. You have done your
parents proud."
"King Elnar rewards deeds more than accidents of birth." I shrugged and began to link my
shirt-cuffs. "Less than half his officers have noble bloodlines."
"So I have heard."
"And I owe much to your training."
He nodded slightly. "You were an apt student. But don't discount your own talents-you were
born to greatness."
As I buckled on my swordbelt, I found I began to share his apprehension. A strange, almost
expectant hush had fallen over the street. .. over all of Kingstown. Not an insect chirped, not a bat
winged overhead, not a single dog howled in the distance. An unpleasant tension hung over everything
around us, like the calm before a storm.
"They are near, I think," Dworkin said softly. "Even the animals sense it..."
"Who?"
"The enemy. Those you call hell-creatures."
"You say it like they have some other name."
"They do." He looked at me and smiled. "But in this place, they are merely soldiers, like you or
I."
"Not like me! And when have you ever been a soldier?"
He chuckled, a strange gleam in his eye. "You have more in common with them than you realize.
We both do."
I gave a derisive snort, not enjoying the idea. That hell-creatures should be here in Kingstown,
behind our lines,
seemed unlikely. And yet Dworkin certainly appeared to know more about them than King
Elnar's own agents. Nobody on our side knew where they came from originally, or how many they
numbered-they had swept down from the north a year ago in a vast horde, destroying villages, murdering
men, women, and children alike by the thousands. King Elnar had marched his army against them at once
and fought them to a standstill. But slowly, over the months, their numbers swelled and they advanced on
us again and again, driving us ever back, until presently they controlled half of Ilerium.
How did Dworkin know so much, when our own agents knew so little? I found it disconcerting
to say the least. And it raised more than a few danger flags in my mind,
I tried to take a mental step backward. It was a trick I had taught myself, to try to see more than
what was readily apparent. Who was Dworkin, really? What business could possibly have taken him
away in the midst of the Scarlet Plague, when every country in the world had shut its ports to our ships?
I suddenly realized then how little I actually knew about my "uncle." When you are a child, you
take adults for granted. Dworkin had been a part of my life for so long, I had never thought to question
his origins or his business or even his phenomenal skill with a sword, for he had certainly been on par
with any master I had trained with in the last decade.
As I leaned against Helda's house and pulled on my boots, I studied him. His strange clothing, his
long absence, his swordsmanship, and his ability to keep track of me ... I could only reach one
conclusion: he had to be a spy. But for whom?
At least he seemed to fear the hell-creatures. No man who has looked into their slitted red eyes,
or fought against their wickedly barbed swords and fire-breathing horses, can come away unchanged.
I finally decided that he had to be working for one of the neighboring kingdoms. And they had
good cause to fear-if the hell-creatures continued their advance, they would control all of Ilerium within
the year, and then they would be free to attack Tyre or Alacia or any of the other Fifteen Kingdoms.
"Where is your carriage?" I asked, taking back my sword.
He looked to the right, down the street. "I hear it coming now."
I loosened my blade in its scabbard and stood straighten Clearly Dworkin had gone to a lot of
trouble to track me down-I had made doubly sure nobody knew where I would be sleeping tonight, from
King Elnar to my orderly. And clearly, from his unceremonious pounding on the door, Dworkin truly did
fear for my life.
But why should my life be in danger? I frowned. I was but one of a dozen lieutenants under King
Elnar ... a well decorated hero, true enough, but hardly a pivotal figure in the war. It didn't make sense.
The clatter of iron-shod wheels on cobblestones slowly
grew louder. Dworkin exhaled heavily and seemed to relax as an odd little carriage sped around
the corner half a block away.
I gaped at it. It was shaped almost like a pumpkin, with smooth curved sides that might have
been made of milky glass, and it glowed with an eerie phosphoric light, illuminating the whole street.
Strangest of all, it had neither horses to pull it nor a driver to steer it, though it had an empty bench on
top.
Magic.
I'd seen a few itinerant sorcerers visit King Elnar's court over the years, but such were few and
far between in this part of the world, and usually their magics were more flash and fancy: parlor tricks and
elegant illusions to delight ladies after dinner. For Dworkin to have a sorcerer of considerable power at
his disposal showed how important his mission here must be.
I'd had some little acquaintance with magic myself over the years. As a boy, I'd discovered I had
the ability to change the features of my face when I concentrated on it, and I'd practiced secretly until I
could make myself look like almost anyone I'd ever met. When they found out, both Dworkin and my
mother had strongly discouraged this talent. And since such tricks are little use in combat, I'd barely even
thought of it for years.
As the carriage neared, white lace curtains at the side windows fluttered briefly. I thought I
glimpsed a woman's pale face peering out at us, lips blood red and eyes dark. Could she be steering it
from inside?
"Hurry," Dworkin said urgently, taking my elbow and propelling me toward the carriage. I
quickened my pace to keep up. "We must-"
At that second, the building behind us exploded. The force of it knocked me flat to the ground,
and I scrambled awkwardly to my feet, palms and elbows and knees all stinging from scrapes on
cobblestones.
Unbelieving, I stared at what remained of Helda's house. Emerald flames shot a hundred feet in
the air. The whole building, from stoop to attic, blazed with an unholy green fire. I had seen its like before
on the battlefield- sometimes hell-creatures hurled fiery missiles at us, and they burned with those same
green flames.
The heat was incredible. From somewhere inside I heard a woman screaming. Helda-I had to
save her!
I started for the door, but Dworkin caught my arm and yanked me to a halt. His grip had iron in
it, and I could not wrench away despite my own great strength.
"Obere, no!" He had a crazed, almost desperate look in his eye.
"I love her!" I screamed. "I love her-"
"She is dead!" He had to shout to be heard over the roar of the flames.
Above the conflagration, the roof suddenly fell in with a grinding crash. Green sparks streamed
up toward the night sky. The whole building began to sag, threatening to collapse inward as the support
beams burned through.
I staggered back, imagining her soul flying up to the heavens. Ash and embers began a gentle, hot
rain on our heads.
Dworkin. He had known, somehow, that this attack was going to happen. How?
Whirling, I grabbed him by his silk shirt and with one hand raised him a foot off the ground. It's
an impressive trick at any time, and over the years I'd taken the fight out of a dozen barroom brawlers by
one -handing them into the air, then tossing them out the nearest door or window as though they weighed
nothing. "Do you know who is responsible for this?" I demanded, shaking him. "How did you know the
hell-creatures would attack here tonight? Who are you spying for? Is the king in danger?"
He broke my grip with a sudden toe to the stomach that sent me reeling back, gasping for breath.
I hadn't been hit that hard since the time a horse kicked me during the battle at Sadler's Mill. Dworkin's
blow would have stunned or perhaps even killed most men, but I shook it off and came up growling,
ready for a fight. My blade hissed from its scabbard as I drew it and pointed the tip at his face.
"I knew an attack would come against you tonight," Dworkin said warily, staying beyond my
reach. "But I did not know what form it would take,"
"And the king. How is he involved in this?"
"He is not... yet. The hell-creatures are searching for something. King Elnar is just in the way.
Now, do not be a fool, my boy. You are alive because of me. Had I wanted you dead, I could have left
you in the house to burn."
I hesitated, looking at the house, unable to deny the truth. She was dead, my Helda, my sweet
little Helda-she was dead, and there was nothing I could do about it now, except make an offering to the
gods who guard the underworld.
Then Dworkin's head jerked to the side and he stared, tense all over, like a rabbit about to bolt.
In that second, I heard the horses too. There were perhaps a dozen, perhaps more, approaching fast. I
pivoted, sword ready.
They rounded the corner and came into sight. The moon lay to their backs, but I could see the
riders' glowing red eyes and the fiery red breaths of their black steeds. They pounded toward us, swords
raised, and let loose wild, gibbering war-cries.
TWO
We must get our backs to a wall!" Dworkin cried, "Don't let them surround us or we won't last
long!" "Come-over here!" I sprinted to the house opposite Helda's, a two-story stone building whose
owners, like most of the townsfolk, had fled the coming war weeks ago. With the windows shuttered and
the doors nailed shut, we couldn't get inside even if we wanted to. Nor could the hell-creatures circle
around behind us by going through the back of the house. It was a good place to make our stand.
I tensed, raising my sword, as the riders slowed. How had a band of hell-creatures gotten so far
behind our lines? As soon as I returned to camp, I intended to find out, even if it meant stringing up every
sentry by his thumbs for sleeping on duty.
Then, remembering Dworkin's carriage and the
摘要：

PROLOGONEYEARAGOIfelttheworldaroundmebendandswaylikethebranchesofawillowinastorm.Strangecolorsturned,misshapengeometriesthatcouldn'tpossiblyexistbutsomehowdid,driftinglikesnowflakes,patternswithinpatternswithinpatterns.Myvisionbrightenedthendimmed,repeatedly,andinnoperceptiblerhythm.Come...Avoice......

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