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  “This will be a real pleasure,” Profion whispered as he slashed relentlessly at Ridley, driving him back with every thrust.

  Ridley stumbled away, searching for his sword. His strength was draining quickly. Without a weapon, there was little he could do. All the mage had to do was take a step or two and finish him off.

  “Let it be,” Profion said, easily reading his thoughts. “Simply let it be, boy. That’s your fate. You surely know it now.”

  Ridley didn’t answer. Backing against the edge of the battlement, he stumbled over a dead warrior and stepped quickly aside to keep his balance. Something rang out against his boot. Without looking down, he bent quickly and clasped his hand around the hilt of the dead soldiers sword.

  “You must have gotten the wrong message,” Ridley said, grinning at the mage. “It looks as if Fate’s not finished with me, friend.”

  The mage laughed, clenched his metal-clad fists, and spat out a harsh and deadly spell. A stout wooden staff appeared in midair. Profion seized it and shook it in Ridley’s face.

  “I don’t have time for this, thief. This ends now.”

  Ridley came at him, but Profion easily deflected the blow with his staff. Ridley stepped back, slashing desperately at the swiftly moving foe. As if he were fighting a child, the mage swung his staff in a wide arc and lifted the blade from Ridley’s hand.

  Ridley stumbled back. The blows didn’t stop. Profion struck him soundly, again and again. Ridley cried out, held up his arm to ward the blows away, felt his arm crack and hand go numb as he fell to the ground.

  Profion tossed the staff aside. Now, he clutched only the deadly Rod of Savrille. He stalked toward his downed foe, looked up, and laughed at the skies. Directly overhead, two giant red dragons pounced on a smaller, golden beast, tore it to shreds with their talons, and sent it tumbling to the ground. Now, Profion saw, there were few of the Empress’ dragons left, only a pitiful few, and their death shrieks filled the air even as he watched.

  Ridley tried to stand, tried to drag himself to his knees.

  “Don’t bother,” Profion told him. “It’s too late, thief. But don’t think I haven’t enjoyed our little chat. It’s time for you to leave, but I do want you to enjoy a little pain before you die.”

  Profion aimed a gloved finger at his downed foe, and Ridley cried out. Blue sparks danced on his chest. He doubled up and screamed as his skin began to bubble and burn.

  “You should last a while,” Profion said quietly. “Long enough to remember me well.”

  The mage looked away, as if some small and insignificant creature had disturbed his afternoon.

  Ridley could scarcely see. Profion was distant and indistinct. The pain was more than he could bear, like white fire burning inside. He knew, now, what Profion had done. The mage had wrenched him out of time. It didn’t matter now how long his death took, it would go on forever in his mind.

  “I see you understand your punishment, boy. I’m very pleased. The eternal death spell is a favorite of mine. It scarcely lasts forever—but what’s the difference if it feels that way?”

  Profion paused then smiled. “You did a great favor to me, boy, in killing Damodar. What a clever lad you are! If you cared to live, I might let you take his place.” Profion bent down close to Ridley’s face. “There. See what a glorious life you could live.”

  Lightning flashed, and Ridley saw who he was, who he could be… A mage in a glorious robe of red and blue, a garment heavy with precious jewels, a beautiful sword at his side. Everything was his. Nothing would be denied.

  He glanced down then, and saw himself in a pool of clear water. His body was misshapen, hideously deformed. His face was studded with warts and open sores. The image changed again, and his features belonged to a swine, an ugly snouted creature covered with bristles and filth.

  “Choose,” Profion said. “Choose what you wish to be. I’ll even be generous. I’ll give you the girl as your personal toy.” The terrible image vanished. At once, Ridley was back within his true self, the pain so intense he couldn’t scream out. “I take it that’s a no? I’m not awfully surprised. Oh, and I never keep my promises, you know. Now die, and suffer as well. I’m sending you where pain was born!”

  Ridley drew in a breath—knowing, for certain, it was his last.

  Profion began to chant. His hands came together and stabbed at Ridley like a knife. The mage’s shadow seemed to grow, as if he might blot out the sky. He pointed at Ridley, again and again. Each time, the pain arched his back and lifted him off the ground.

  “That’s the beginning!” Profion shouted. “That’s the start, boy! That’s—!”

  “Huh?” Profion blinked, staggered back, as pain struck the side of his head. The Rod of Savrille dropped from his hand and rattled across the stone floor. The mage turned, staring in disbelief. A young girl stood in his path, clutching the staff he had cast aside. Profion shook his head in disgust and shoved Marina roughly to the floor.

  An unearthly howl shook the air. Elwood came at Profion, leaping over Marina, his great axe whirling in a deadly arc overhead.

  Profion laughed, flicked his wrist, and froze the dwarf in his tracks. Elwood’s eyes went wide. Profion circled two fingers in the air, and the dwarf went tumbling across the floor.

  “It is not finished, mage. You have much to pay for, in the this world and the next.”

  Profion turned, surprised for an instant at the sight of the elven archer standing before him with an arrow nocked in her bow.

  “Ah, well, my little elven tracker. And what would you be up to now? Wait, let me guess—”

  The arrow left Norda’s bow, streaking in a blur toward the mage’s chest. A bare inch away it stopped, quivered an instant, then clattered to the ground. Profion merely nodded at Norda. The elf gasped and fell to her knees.

  “Enough then, all of you? Is everyone finished with their pitiful efforts to steal destiny from my hands?”

  “I don’t think so,” Ridley said. “Not yet, Profion.”

  Profion turned. For an instant, he stared at Ridley, standing before him with the Rod of Savrille in his hand. He threw back his head and loosed a great burst of laughter.

  “Oh, come now! Do you really think you could use that, my little burglar?”

  “Its in my hand, mage. Have you noticed?”

  “Ridley—”

  “The girl wants to tell you that thing is useless to you. It wasn’t meant for your sort.”

  “And it was made for yours? I can’t believe that, mage. I don’t believe that at all.”

  Ridley turned his gaze to the skies. He felt the power, felt the crackling webs of energy, the great span of blood-red stars that spread across the dark universe. The confident smile melted from Profion’s face.

  “No,” Profion muttered. “Put it down. It doesn’t belong to you!”

  Far overhead, the great red dragons began to come together, circling low and bending to the rod’s indomitable will. Lower they came, and lower still, their shadows now dark against the roof of the magic school.

  “Impossible,” Profion said. “It can’t be!”

  Ridley smiled, feeling the power of the great rod coursing through his body, the awesome strength and knowledge that awaited him there.

  “Ridley,” Norda said gently, “believe in yourself, no one else. Be what you must be.”

  “I can… I can have it all—anything, everything, for the power dwells in me.”

  The red dragons waited, hovering above, listening for his command.

  “Ridley,” Marina said. “Ridley, look at me. Look at me now.”

  Ridley blinked. Whatever cold and alien thing had huddled there and whispered in his head was gone, gone and left him as he’d been, as he’d ever wanted to be.

  “You don’t even know, do you?” he said, looking straight into the mage’s eyes. “You don’t control this damnable thing; that’s not it’s nature. It controls you. A wraith and a dead magician tried to tell me that. I guess I listened b
etter than I imagined at the time.” Ridley shook his head. “I don’t think I’d care to be a slave to this thing, and I’m double-damned if I want to be like you.”

  Ridley retrieved his elven sword and gripped the Rod of Savrille firmly in his hand. He tossed the staff to the floor.

  “No! You can’t!”

  “You can’t, mage. I can.”

  Ridley loosed a great and joyous cry from the depth of lungs, picked up the elven sword, and smashed the rod lying at his feet.

  Profion came at him in a rage. Ridley swung his blade and forced him back. Profion moaned, clawing at his face as if a sudden madness had possessed his dark soul.

  “One thing more,” Ridley said, “and it’s done.” Reaching into his tattered jacket he drew out the Dragon’s Eye. Hefting it in his palm, he gave the gem one last look and hurled it into the rubble at his feet. Now, both the great instruments of power were no more than scattered shards.

  “Lad, look there.” Elwood pointed a stubby finger at the sky.

  Ridley followed his glance. The red dragons had vanished, gone as quickly as they’d come, leaving a rumble of earth-shaking thunder in their wake. Then, out of a suddenly cloudless sky, great heads held high, scales shining like a thousand tiny suns, five gold dragons shrieked down upon the roof of the magic school. Riding the lead dragon was the Empress Savina, her battle-dress as brilliant as the dragons themselves.

  The golden steed landed gently on the roof of the magic school. As the Empress slid off the beast’s back, enemy warriors and loyal troopers alike bent to their knees.

  Profion stared, trembling as Savina approached.

  “Your Majesty,” he said with a sweeping bow, suddenly adopting the role of the most humble subject in the land. “It is a pleasure to see you looking well. I hope you do not in any way feel the issues between us were personal. I assure you they were not.”

  “It’s over, Profion. Now.” The Empress’ voice was as cold as glacial ice. None who heard her could mistake her meaning in any way.

  “The battle, as you say,” Profion said gently, “is over, Majesty. But not the war!”

  A hundred men surged toward her, but the mage was too swift for them. He raised his iron-gloved hands and loosed an unearthly howl. Power welled within him, and a form born of a thousand nightmares, ghostly and pale, emerged from the mage’s trembling body. Misshapen and skeletal, the spirit lashed about with its tail, striking the young empress full in the chest. Savina cried out and sank to her knees as the tail enveloped her.

  Ridley and all others about him looked on in horror, frozen in the mage’s powerful spell. Profion closed his eyes and raised his head to the skies. A terrible chant left his lips, and those who heard his ancient words remembered them in nightmares the rest of their lives.

  The Empress struggled, all the color drained from her face. Profion’s voice rose to a fever pitch. His words cut like daggers, touching every person there with their unworldly pain.

  Reaching deep within herself, gathering all the strength she could find, the Empress fought the razored spell that cut, sliced, gnawed at the very fiber of her soul. Savina cried out, fighting the horror within. She tried, again and again, clutching her golden scepter till the jeweled hilt cut into her flesh.

  Nothing. Her hand fell useless, rose, fell again, and with a last, hopeless effort, she struggled to bring the heavy instrument to bear, to lift it an inch, and then an inch again….

  Profion paused, frowning. He started his deadly chant again. Something wasn’t right. Something was very wrong—

  He turned swiftly, a cry of pure terror dying in his throat. There was no sky above, nothing but the bright, ruby throat, the curve of ivory teeth, the horrid maw of a gold dragon, the stench of its unearthly breath. In an instant, but surely not quickly enough, those golden jaws snapped shut. The mage’s head disappeared, then his shoulders and his chest.

  Some said they heard a terrible cry from the creature’s gullet, while others claimed they heard nothing at all.

  Dragon wings churned the air, and the beast took flight.

  No one spoke as it vanished over the ruined towers of Sumdall, the charred, crumbling remains of this grand and ancient city.

  Izmer’s great center of wealth and power had seen many a wonder in its day, but none to equal this. Over countless cups of ale, for many years to come, there were none who would pray that such a day might ever come again.

  CHAPTER

  42

  Though little time had passed, a stranger passing through the city gates would never have dreamed this Empire’s great citadel had, not so many weeks ago, been a place of fear and dread, a city caught in the darker side of magic, tangled in a web of evil spells.

  Along the cobbled avenues, doors stood open, and windows let in laughter from the streets. The market square was full of goods and the heady scents of spice and baking bread. Here, people greeted one another as they wandered freely about.

  One saw a soldier now and then, dressed in the Empress’ colors of silver and pristine white. These men wore handsome golden helms with a plume of willow green upon the crest. Gone, and gratefully forgotten, were the red-clad thugs of the Crimson Brigade. No more wolfish muzzles, no more piggish snouts.

  Oldtown, once a grim and shameful blemish beneath the city’s walls, its people poor and foully oppressed, had flourished under the Empress Savina’s gentle rule. Even the Council of Mages—those still left and untainted by Profion’s rule—had come to terms with Savina’s new and shocking belief that the least of her citizens had rights along with all the rest.

  On this spring day, Sumdall City, and in the outlands of the Empire as well, every street was bright with rainbow banners, and the Empire’s proud new flag: a Golden Dragon wreathed in oaken leaves, rampant on bright squares of silver and white.

  In a tower high above the city, the sun slanted through high windows, brightened the Royal Hall, and shone upon the people gathered there. Cheers resounded as the Empress greeted her loyal subjects, counselors, officers, and ladies of the court. For the first time in Izmer’s history, men and women were present from every guild and trade—merchants, warriors, common seamen, people of every sort, and dwarves and elves as well.

  “I’m not real sure about this,” Elwood said. “Dwarves don’t like to be around a lot of other folk.”

  “A lot of people don’t like to be around dwarves,” Ridley said, “so it works out even, I’d say.”

  Elwood muttered under his breath. “See, that’s what I’m talkin’ about. You got to watch your back all the time, make sure no one’s shovin’ a frog-sticker in.”

  “Hush, both of you.” Marina frowned, then stifled a smile. “If you two embarrass me when we meet the Empress…”

  “What?” Ridley looked pained. “I’m surprised at you. How could you even think such a thing?”

  “Yeah, that really hurts,” the dwarf said.

  “If they do get out of line,” Norda said, “please turn them into snakes, or better still, mice. I shall look the other way.”

  “She’s not that good,” Ridley said. “She’s just a student mage. She doesn’t even have a robe yet.”

  “That’s true, isn’t it?” Elwood blinked in alarm. “You’re not, are you? I mean, if you were, I’d like to say I’ve been an admirer of yours from the start—”

  The dwarf nearly jumped out of his skin as a hundred golden trumpets blared at once, announcing the royal presence in the hall.

  “Well, that’s a couple of dozen dwarf years down the drain,” Elwood said, pulling himself together again, “not that anyone cares.”

  “Mice,” Norda said under her breath, “definitely mice.”

  The Empress was breathtaking in golden dress armor and golden helm. Her royal officers, ladies, and counselors stood slightly behind her and apart. Mixed among them were commoners and nobles of the realm, all in dazzling attire.

  The high, clear notes of royal trumpets had scarcely died away before the High Speaker
stepped forward and tapped his staff loudly, a sound that echoed off the marble floors and walls.

  “Marina of Pretensa, daughter of the Ninth Level Mage, Farnoff, and Nalrid of the House of Staverid! Norda, Master Archer and Tracker to the Royal House, Eminent Maiden of the Ancient and Royal Clan of Trepidantes, The Tree of Life! Ridley Freeborn, son of Maskalades, Renowned Inventor of Mechanical Devices That Fly, and Estalena, his ever-patient and most resourceful wife! Elwood Gutworthy, Warrior First Class and Master of Arms of the Ancient and Revered Oakenshield Clan! These four will step forward and present themselves to Her Royal Highness, Savina, Empress of Izmer!”

  Marina, concerned the moment before about Ridley and the dwarf, was suddenly somewhat worried about herself.

  “What’ll I do, what’ll I say? What if she looks right at me?”

  “Look right back,” Ridley whispered. “She seems like a decent sort to me.”

  Marina felt the color rise to her face, for she hadn’t imagined shed spoken aloud.

  The crowd that packed the Great Hall studied the small group as they approached the Empress’ throne. “What a peculiar bunch,” some murmured to themselves. All were finely dressed, yet somewhat simply, certainly not as grand as some.

  Marina Pretensa, quite lovely in a sea-blue gown with gold piping, her brown tresses cascading about her bare shoulders, approached her Empress with a demure yet dignified smile.

  The freeman, Ridley, dashing in tight-fitting black trousers, black jacket with buttons of gold, black boots, and jaunty black cap to match was straight-lipped, but his eyes glowed with a wonder and joy most often seen in children at play.

  Norda, the elf, was elegant and slim in quiet shades of green that mirrored every leaf, every blade of grass, every shadow of her forest homeland. She walked with a quiet grace that spoke of something altogether otherworldly.

  The dwarf, now—the dwarf was something else to see. His trousers, boots, jacket and wide leather belt were of every possible color and hue, and some that very few had seen before. His horned, fluted, ivory and gem-encrusted helmet of gold was an awesome, even frightening thing to behold.