Fano had assembled a party of six, including himself. All were veterans of campaigns on various desert worlds around the empire, and the experience would serve them well this turn.
They checked their equipment with more than usual thoroughness, their faces tight with strain. Each man knew there was a possibility that death waited for him out there in the furnace heat. At the very least, he might see death as it affected others—among them a pentarch and the Rianna of Faerwyn-Joss.
The secret was no longer such, yet it mattered little. It did not help that an Adept walked in the company. Not even an Adept could stave off dehydration forever. Nor would it take overlong to find their remains if such were the case. Even now, the drones were once more being set in motion.
Mendiko waited a short distance apart. He had already checked his kit since he would lead them. He could do no less for his kin. Beside him stood Roland, the Lord Warden, perhaps wondering too late if even the wishes of the archduke should have been ignored. There was nothing left to say. Words must now give way to action.
He watched as Fano rechecked his men to avoid any possibility of error. The top blade gave a curt nod and Mendiko issued the command to move out. The short column made their way toward the gate. Yet even as they entered, they heard a sharp cry from the duty lookout.
“My lords! A large party approaches from the West!"
There were no shouts of joy. His men were too disciplined for such emotional outbursts. Yet as Mendiko turned, he could see the relief etched on every face. Without doubt, it mirrored his. “Fano, have the detail stand down. Order the culinars to prepare food, and have plenty of cool refreshment on hand. They will be thirsty…and the medico should remain in case there are injuries.”
He watched as the men broke ranks, yet few moved away. Roland came to join him and they waited. It was not long before the column hove into view—a bedraggled line with weariness stamped into every step of their march. Yet he could also feel an overwhelming emanation of release. The end of a long and difficult journey was in sight.
“They have fared well but I sense great dissatisfaction,” Roland commented.
Mendiko nodded. “A difficult thing for a pentarch to accept…to be four times unlucky.” It had been five cycles since he had last seen Sherlyn Faer-Van, the ancestral home of the Sids, yet he recognized the tall form in the lead. Garth still walked proudly, though he must be even more dissatisfied than the rest. Behind him, supported by two retainers who half-carried his stumbling form, came one who must be Odrim, his uncle. Mendiko suppressed an exclamation of shock at what he saw.
“By the Rim!” Roland muttered beside him. “The rumors are true. He has the Gloaming of which they speak.”
Mendiko could only nod his head in agreement. Even as they watched, the stick figure of the Rigan shrugged off the supporting arms of his retainers. With obvious effort, he moved forward. Pride and stubborn will alone kept him from falling.
In the center strode the Lord Marshal, his black robe appearing untouched by desert dust. And beside him walked a tall, slender figure that could only be his cousin, Ashara. At last he allowed the gladness to suffuse him. His kin had returned safely.
Out of respect, Garth halted so that Odrim might cross the gate’s boundary first. The rigan’s lips had begun to crack and swell since he wore no head covering. Noticing Mendiko, he nodded an abrupt greeting. “Nephew...I shall not be in any hurry to enter this cursed warren again.”
Mendiko saw Roland stiffen at these words, but the Lord Warden had the good grace not to answer the insult.
“My regrets for your disappointment, Uncle.” Mendiko bowed and motioned for one of his culinars to give the rigan some cool water from a large urn.
Odrim drank, spilling a goodly amount over his vest. They waited as the ruler cleared his throat and spat into the dust. His movements and his bearing were that of an old man. In growing horror now that he was near, Mendiko realized this was what his uncle had become. He seemed not to even notice their stares, as though he had become accustomed to such looks.
“This tharfi men speak of,” Odrim began, wiping a dirty sleeve across his mouth, “is it real or the mad wandering of a masochistic mind? It smacks of something Robert the Piper or even Mad Galen might have dreamt up.” His eyes were sullen as he included Roland in his gaze. “Have either of you ever seen one, in truth?”
“But once,” Mendiko replied in haste, not giving the Lord Warden an opportunity to answer. He could see the irritation on the Adept’s face, and it was barely controlled. This in itself amazed him. “It was two cycles ago, a female too near her time to run. A party of four had trapped her in her den. Unlucky for her but lucky for them, her mate was not near. Yet even in her condition, she managed to gut two of them before she succumbed. We came upon the scene shortly thereafter. We had been searching for them since they had overstayed…”
He nearly added ‘as you almost did’ but held back. “Her body was still warm. As I knelt to make certain of her death, I noticed the contractions of her belly. I slit her open and found four pups—three of them stillborn. The fourth was a female near death, even as I cut the cord.”
“What happened to it?” Odrim asked, interested in spite of his weariness.
“It survived and was cared for until it came of age to let loose. Lord Shaka sent it as a gift to the lands of Thorgrim Halfinger, Baron of the Third Wen.”
“But surely it was the property of the hunters?”
Mendiko shook his head. “I decided it was not.”
“And we upheld his decision,” Roland added in a tone that brooked no further argument.
Odrim’s eyes had a strange gleam as he rubbed his chin. He was about to speak further when a soft voice interrupted them.
“Mendiko…”
The Sword Thane turned and beheld his cousin: dirty, disheveled, her thick hair in tangles, yet wearing a smile that was radiance itself. He embraced her, marveling at how she had become a woman, even more beautiful than he remembered.
She laughed, pushing him away and at the same time nodding to Roland, who was now grinning. The sight of the Rianna of Faerwyn-Joss could make even angry men smile.
“Do not come so close as yet, my cousin. Will you not lend me your quarters for a brief while that I may wash away some of the desert?”
“Assuredly. But only if you promise not to complain yet again of my continued bachelorhood.” He was gifted with another smile.
Argus had joined the Lord Warden and he whispered something in a manner implying great urgency. A deep frown appeared on Roland’s brow as he listened without speaking. His dark eyes returned to the desert.
“My lords!”
Mendiko lifted his head, alerted by the tenseness in the lookout’s voice.
“A man approaches the gate…moving at great speed.”
Both Argus and Roland, and Garth as well, came to stand with him.
“It is the stranger…he whose track we found,” Garth murmured. “It can be no other.”
They watched as he came, eerily it seemed to them, as though rising out of the sun.
“He must have escaped the tharfi,” Argus muttered, as if such luck were regrettable.
“Aye,” Garth added. “Or else he did slay it.”
Mendiko and Roland eyed each other, and the Lord Warden spoke the thought on both their minds. “No one besides your party has been given leave to enter the warren.”
“As I thought,” growled Argus. “An intruder.”
“Yet how did he manage to bypass the barrier?” Mendiko wondered, almost as if he spoke to himself.
“Robert the Piper did it once,” Roland reminded him, “yet he is Chieftain of the Techniks. His skill and knowledge could explain such a feat. But how could this stranger manage such impossibility? Even though the drones were down…”
“This one has the same boldness as Robert,” Mendiko observed. “Look how he approaches straight and true, as if the warren and all within were his domain.”
“Long cycles on the prison planet of Gehenna will teach him humility…” Argus’ voice caught and he swore in astonishment. “By the Rim! He bears the Gundring!”
All stood poised in shock. It was true. The Gundring…the life-taker. The blade that only the Swordkind had the right to bear.
“Yet see how weirdly he carries it,” Roland noted. “And he bears neither Kirlin nor Ryl.”
Mendiko hesitated a moment longer. A strange uneasiness possessed him. At last, he stepped forward for the stranger was nearly at the gate. The others waited. As warden, the duty fell to him.
“Have a care, Mendiko,” Ashara warned, her soft voice almost pleading. She had joined them unnoticed. “There is a feeling about this stranger…a sense that something is not right.”
Yes, thought Mendiko. He troubles me too. He was surprised at the depth of her intuition, yet he was too preoccupied to focus upon it now.
The man was large, almost a giant yet perfectly formed. His features had an otherworldly cast, yet his eyes were startling: green and blazing like a power stone—an Emerald Radian. They were unfocused, staring beyond Mendiko as though he were unseen. Across the rippling muscles of his abdomen lay a dried swatch of blood and a barely visible scar. Tharfi? It could not be…he would now be dead.
“Halt intruder!”
The stranger continued as though he had not heard, his long strides moving him ever closer.
Mendiko stepped in front of him, barring his way. “Intruder…hear me! You are in violation of the Royal Warren of Shaka, Cachique of the Fifth Wen. Unless you bear a valid pass, I must…”
The green eyes tracked onto him and immediately he felt the power of their gaze. There was no warning. The attack was unexpected and brutal, a needle of white-hot agony aimed straight at his mind.
Reflexively, he raised his shield and staggered back, drawing his sword in one fluid motion. Yet he was too late. In amazement, he saw the stranger break through the aura of his shield as though it did not exist and immediately grapple his sword. His strength was incredible.
From the corner of his eye, he saw that both Adepts had crossed the threshold, hands on their swords. They glowed with the awakened power of an Adept of the Swordkind.
“Beware, fool!” Argus shouted. “You resist on pain of death!”
Mendiko summoned every bit of power at his command, striving for mastery. Once more, the mind thrust tore through him. His sword was ripped from his hand and with it his very being.
Never in his life had he been possessed by a feeling of such intense violation. He was helpless, forced to stare with widened eyes as the stranger held the blade on high, his own bright sword of Kirlin. The emerald eyes transformed until they filled with ecstasy.
At that moment, he summoned the Flame of the Adept.
A wailing cry of despair tore from Mendiko’s throat. He was flung back as if he were nothing more than a piece of flotsam on a giant wave. He felt himself dropping further and further…into the abyss.
***
Ashara stood rooted in shock. The aura the stranger had created was like nothing she had ever seen, not even in the Korda. It was of the purest violet, undiluted by shield-glow, and it rippled like the waves of a great sea.
“Highness…Get down!”
Garth grabbed her shoulders and dragged her to the ground. It was not a moment too soon. With a great shout, both Adepts summoned the Flame.
“Shiul!”
Their power was a mushroom of light expanding in all directions. When it reached the force field, the steady hum warbled for a moment before an explosion set her ears ringing. When she raised her head, she saw the pylons for a hundred paces in either direction lying in smoking ruin.
The Adepts advanced, the aura of their power billowing in front of them. They were a juggernaut, unstoppable, the purple-violet of their sword tips dancing in a shield-cloud of scarlet.
The stranger stood awaiting them, with Mendiko’s sword raised high, his hair flowing like a cowl around his head. All the while the power rippled, flickering about him as if it were a living, dancing entity. He appeared like a giant holo suddenly come to life.
She could only watch, mesmerized, the emerald green of his eyes glowing like twin alien suns. For a moment, he gazed straight at her. She felt the briefest touch of his mind like a gentle caress. There was a sudden and overwhelming feeling of recognition, as if she had met a kindred spirit.
A speck of eternity, broken by a thunderous clap that at once sucked away all light and sound. The stranger wilted before her eyes, finally toppling forward to lie unconscious upon the sand.
For a second longer, the terrible power of the Adepts crackled in the desert stillness then abruptly grew quiet. They sheathed their swords.
“Are you all right, Highness?”
Garth’s voice echoed through the ringing in her ears. She nodded, her mind still dizzy. With his help, she rose to her feet and surveyed the damage.
Her father had escaped the full effect of the blast, though there was a slight cut on his forehead that bled. The medico had already reached him, so she went to her cousin, Mendiko.
Roland was kneeling at his side and had laid his hand gently upon the Sword Thane’s chest. The Adept remained unmoving and with his eyes closed for precious seconds before he looked up.
“I sense no mortal injury, Highness…though what damage to his mind there may be, I cannot say.”
Ashara nodded in understanding. The Second Rood of the Code forbade such contact be they Swordkind or not, unless that person gave their express consent. Such a condition had rarely been known to occur. Even such dire necessity as now confronted them would not allow a forsaking of the Code.
She looked across to where the stranger lay, only a short distance from Mendiko. An unbidden thought came to her as she saw the look of utter peace upon his features. How strange that the two who had fought only moments before should now lay stricken together, comrades of silence.
Roland stood and picked up the fallen sword of Mendiko. As she raised her head, Ashara could see the giant shadow of a transport Flitter descending toward them.
“Mendiko must be taken to Brigantia…and the stranger as well,” Roland said.
“Most assuredly him,” Argus growled. “He is Code-breaker. As such, he must suffer the supreme penalty.”
Roland frowned. “That is for the council to decide, Lord Marshal. I sense there is much more to this than we have seen this turn.”
For a moment, it seemed as if the leader of the Gardai would argue further, but he remained silent. His lips were compressed into a thin line, and his jaw muscles remained clenched in anger as he strode away.
Stretchers were brought and the bodies of the two men were swiftly carried aboard the transport. Argus boarded, as did her father and all his retainers, yet Roland made no move to join them.
“Will you not go to Brigantia, Lord Warden?” Ashara asked.
Roland nodded his head absentmindedly, but he was frowning. “Indeed, I will follow close behind for I wish to speak to this stranger. Then I must seek out my brother and tell him what has transpired. The Pat’Riark as well.”
For a moment, she wondered why he would look for Fortunatus. Then the answer became obvious: the Pat’Riark of Swords would most assuredly be concerned with a matter as grave as Code-breaker. She waited, sensing he had not finished telling her all that he would.
“I have a favor to ask of you, Highness.”
She nodded, her interest piqued.
“You must go to Kronus. Explain the happenings of this turn and describe the stranger in detail. Tell him he must act not as Chief Chronicler, nor as Lord Warden of the Great Seal, but instead as Sentinel of the Scrolls. He will know how to proceed.”
She nodded and her hand moved to rest over the small sachet beneath her blouse. “I will do as you ask, yet I do not understand why.”’
Roland smiled as he regarded her, but there was now a shrewd look in his dark eyes. “Did you sense evil in this stranger?”
She was taken by surprise. Then she realized she had again done what Argus had warned her against. Roland too was an Adept of the First Rank. She decided to be candid.
“No…I did not.”
Roland nodded as though he had expected her answer. “Nor did I. As to understanding what has taken place here…?” He shrugged. “If anyone can unravel this mystery, it will be Kronus.”
He escorted her to the transport. She was the last to board and she gave him a final wave. Moments later, they were airborne and heading for Brigantia, capital of the Pentarchy of Solarian—home-hearth of the ruling House of Mondragon.