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  Amir stepped into the circle of light, disappearing and reappearing on the desolate sands of the Barrens. The air in the high mountain desert was chill and growing colder by the moment as the wind sucked the warmth of the day from the sand. In the distance he could see a bonfire, its dull orange glow a beacon in the darkness. Two figures moved around the fire; but it was the third, lying in sleep, that interested him the most. He called out a challenge to the wind and waited.

  Chapter Two

  Competing with the northeasterly wind, a hunter’s call of greeting came, and the Eagle Lord cocked his head a full half circle as only a bird or a birdman could do. In other times he would have returned the call but not this night. The yearning faded quickly; and the blue eyes that were those of a man, not those of a bird, returned their focus to the soft, low fire where the two sat.

  “They are restless,” whispered Ayrian, his beak-like mouth clicking with each word. “They call to calm the air beneath them as well as their own fear for their hunts.”

  Xith turned earnest eyes to the north, wanting to see and hear what the Eagle Lord saw, yet even his eyes—eyes that could see in the dark and were the color of pale moonlight—could see only the darkness. As he stood staring, gusts of wind whipped his cloak to his back, wrapped the black wool around his short stubby legs, then furled it out behind him. He replied, “There is always a trade-off to be made. Why should it be any different at this late hour?”

  Ayrian fixed his gaze into the night sky, craning his neck at an angle no man could achieve. “Father Wind can sense it as well.”

  Xith stretched the stiffness from his legs and wriggled his toes to get his blood circulating. For a moment, he wondered if his wondrous companion could truly sense the will of the wind and an odd smile came to his lips, exaggerated by the thick wrinkles of his timeworn face. He wondered also if Ayrian could sense the tainted will of the Fourth closing in all around them. He could.

  Not much else was said as the night passed slowly. The hours of darkness and solitude gave both the watcher and the great lord time for reflection; for Xith it was a time to contemplate tomorrow, for Ayrian it was a time to reflect on the past.

  The wind, which had blown unsteadily throughout the night, changed directions with the coming of the day, blowing from the north as if to remind the two of what was ahead. They turned in unison to look on Vilmos as he stirred in his sleep.

  Xith asked, “Will you be able to do what I cannot if it is so?”

  “I will do what must needs be done.” Ayrian looked to Vilmos, his face an expressionless mask. “For what other reason would you have wanted me here?”

  Xith reached out, gripped Ayrian’s arm above the elbow. “I did not expect otherwise but I needed to hear it, old friend.”

  The sun was already full in the sky when Vilmos awoke after what seemed to him an endless sleep. In his mind’s eye, he could still see Adrina’s tears, his last image before sleeping. Yet he was not saddened by her betrayal. Instead, he was numb, as if he could no longer feel; and the fire beside him did not warm him.

  He absently brushed his thick black hair away from his brown eyes, thinking of Lillath and what she’d say if she saw him looking such a mess. The thought was fleeting, however, and he began to wonder if he were in another dream, a dream like the others he’d experienced before.

  He heard muddled words yet didn’t understand them. It took an effort to drive the final wisps of sleep from his eyes and rise to a seated position, but he persevered. He worked the kinks out of his neck with gentle twists and craning motions then stretched to ease the pain in his back. He tried to stand. Unsteady limbs would not allow him to get much farther than his knees, and it was from this uncanny half crawl, half stand that he turned bleary eyes toward his companions.

  The sight of Ayrian startled him at first. The Eagle Lord faced the sun with his hands cupped and outstretched in the air in front of him. Ayrian sang, words whose sounds blurred together and seemed to be but a single extended word. Vilmos listened inattentively at first; then, drawn in by the rhythm, he could think of nothing else. His body swayed to the measure of the fleeting echoes of the song. He forgot the pain, forgot that he was on his knees, and forgot the dreams of the night past. He knew only the rhythm of the song as it swept over him, the sounds floating to his ears as if borne upon the air by wings unseen.

  His mind wandered within the melody. A part of him recognized the song though he couldn’t quite grasp its meaning. For a moment it seemed the world was without time, but time did not stop. The sun climbed to its zenith. Clouds came and went; the wind blew; and the song continued.

  Vilmos felt he was living a dream. He watched Ayrian’s shadow step away from his body and turn about. He raised his hands in alarm as if that could ward off the shadow, but Ayrian seemed not to notice the shadow at all.

  The shadow continued, touching his face to the ground, kissing the earth and weeping openly with joy. And it was only as he righted himself that the shadow Ayrian seemed to notice Vilmos at all.

  Vilmos spoke first. “What is happening?” he asked. The shadow Ayrian said not a word. He studied Vilmos as if seeing a thing strange to his eyes. Vilmos whispered, “This place, I know it.”

  The shadow Ayrian reached out and as his fingertips pressed against Vilmos’ cheek, reality folded in on shadow and Vilmos was left staring up at the real Ayrian.

  Ayrian looked down at Vilmos with his hand extended. Vilmos hesitated then accepted the hand, allowing Ayrian to pull him to his feet. Vilmos heard himself ask, “Do we journey now, Ayrian, Lord of the Gray Clan?” But it was not his voice that filled his ears.

  Vilmos continued to stare, confused. Ayrian steadied him so that he did not fall. He tried to speak again but no words came.

  “It will pass,” Ayrian said, “give yourself a moment. The strength will return and the voices will fade.”

  “Xith, where’s Xith?”

  “You are in the company of friends. Do not worry.”

  “Am I?” Vilmos asked. Ayrian touched the medallion that was suspended from Vilmos’ neck by a thick gold chain, and Vilmos seemed to feel its weight for the first time.

  “The Magicks no longer have dominion over you. You are free.”

  Memories of priests, a warrior, and fighting came flooding behind his eyes. Vilmos saw blood everywhere. He heard screams. He staggered and went to his knees but Ayrian kept him from completely collapsing under his own weight. “Am I truly free?”

  “You are confused. Trust your instincts. Your mind will clear.”

  Vilmos, beyond confusion, found himself at a total loss for words though he tried to respond. He stammered, paused. His eyes went wide. “The door has been opened! Beware that the Darkess return!”

  “Old friend, do not fight it. These are but memories. Dnyarr and Alexia are no more. The bastards Riven and Aven are gone with them and the dark past. Accept that the memories are your own. You have only to unite the old with the new.”

  A barrier seemed to break in the back of Vilmos’ mind; another’s thoughts came flooding inward, overwhelming him. He once again spoke with the other’s voice. “Shall we then find my beloved? Is it yet time?”

  “The day has not come; she rests and longs for the day you will join her.”

  A distant flash of lightning followed by a clap of thunder caught Vilmos by surprise. Ayrian turned and smelled the air as if sensing something. Vilmos wondered if perhaps the Eagle Lord could smell the storm and the rain that was surely coming their way, but he wasn’t able to dwell on the thought for long before his mind succumbed to the turmoil of the voice within.

  As the voice grew, so did his hunger, a hunger beyond the normal complaints of his empty stomach. It grew from the deepest reaches within, extending through to his very soul. It ate at the edges of the blackness that were the corners of his will; and as he struggled, time passed.

  Night seemed to arrive suddenly, dark and overcast. The wind picked up as the storm raged nearby, and then
came the rain, seemingly gentle at first, perhaps soothing, but not for long. The earth beneath his feet soon turned to mud as waters swelled all around him, nearly washing away the camp, and it was all he could do to hold his own against the wind and the rain.

  The air grew cold as if warmth were being sucked out by an unseen force. Brilliant flashes of white lightning danced all around him. “Ayrian? Xith?” he called out.

  No one answered. Vilmos huddled down, hugging his knees to stay warm. Dark thoughts came. The voice of his dreams, his nightmares, found him. Fatigue swept over him and when he could no longer hold his eyes open, he fell into a deep sleep and it was then that the struggle for self began.

  Ayrian and Xith stepped from the shadows. It was Xith who knelt beside Vilmos to check his breathing, and Xith who cast an enchantment to ensure the boy’s sleep would not be disturbed.

  “Is it come to pass?” Ayrian asked.

  “I have seen the point at which the paths split but only the passing of the hour will decide it, as ever.”

  Sensing something unseen, Ayrian twisted his head around to look behind them. He sensed the others then and started to cry out, “It begins,” but it was too late. The dark kin were already sweeping in from all sides, bringing with them a true darkness that fell upon them unlike any other. And in this darkness, death walked with the shades of the night, striking blows that could not be dodged or seen.

  Xith slumped to the ground as a raking blow struck cleanly and harshly. Pain and surprise made him scream out and curse the darkness, but he cast a pledge along with his curse as he regained his feet. He vowed that he would not submit to their touch this night or any other. Death by touch of the kin was not a clean death, for it meant damnation. His soul would not journey to the Father and would instead serve the powers of darkness until they had drunk of its goodness and turned it into the very thing that had delivered its destruction.

  The Eagle Lord looked on, vying for his own freedom, struggling to break past the horde of attackers. He backed away, great wings raised, revealing his razor sharp claws, and for a brief moment the dark kin were hesitant to descend upon him; also in that same brief moment the strengths of the two defenders were revealed.

  Ayrian took flight, using his powerful wings to cut into the air. Xith called balls of lightning to his hands as a swarm of shadowy shapes surrounded him. The disorientation from the swift attacks eased from their minds, yet little by little they were corralled into a close-knit circle formed by the black beasts. In the air, Ayrian contended with dark kin that rode on the backs of shadow dragons. On the ground, Xith defended against those who marshaled shadow hounds before them and some who rode upon winged chargers wrapped in shadow.

  Xith stepped protectively over Vilmos, yelling, “Beware the touch!” His strong constitution enabled him to recover readily from the life-draining touch but he feared for Ayrian. There was evident weakness in the Eagle Lord’s movements and the creatures knew this. It excited them—a new soul, a powerful soul, would bring great reward.

  Ayrian poured his reserve strength into his powerful wings, trying to rise above the attackers, yet he was beaten back again and again. Seeing this, Xith dodged the razor claws about him, gradually drawing energy inside him. He knew these creatures well; dark kin were to be feared greatly by mortal men, yet he was not a mere mortal, and he would not be intimidated by sheer numbers alone. He called to the earth and the earth rumbled and shook at his call. Then, raising his arms, he brought forth the stone of the earth, sending earth and rock flying outward and upward into the dark land and sky.

  Ayrian shot up into the heavens, then whirled about to face the enemies about him. Many of the kin were taken by surprise, and he used the temporary advantage to dispatch several before they came at him again with renewed hate. As he was dodging in and out of their reaching blows, he noticed the creature about to lunge upon Xith from behind. With no hesitation and no second thoughts, he tucked his wings to his side and plunged from the skies to Xith’s aid, striking the kin, knocking it to the ground, as well as himself. He lay there motionless as the dark kin faced him, his demeanor silently telling Xith he was playing decoy and that Xith should go about his own retaliations.

  Ayrian’s eyes glowed as wild magic surged through him, and it was in the instant when the dark kin set upon him that he unleashed his shadow self. The shadow Ayrian caught the unsuspecting kin off guard, his blows causing a searing white light to issue forth wherever he scored a hit as the creature’s soul sought release from its capture. In the end, the dying kin could only cry out into the storm-swept sky, a plea to its dark master that most certainly went unanswered.

  Xith whipped around to face a beast at his left just as it struck him. He was still reeling under the weight of the heavy blow when Ayrian, who had defeated the only creature that lay between him and the shaman, drummed the dark kin with a deadly blow. In a flash of light, the dark kin disappeared.

  Wearily, Xith stood, steadying himself as the momentary confusion waned. Ayrian hovered to his immediate left, using steady strokes of his great wings to shoulder his bulk while he waited for the next wave.

  Finally the energy within Xith reached its crescendo and shortly after it peaked he released it, unleashing it in a wide arc before him as waves of rose-pink light. The dark kin, struck by the arcing waves, were engulfed and enshrouded in shimmering silver silhouettes from which they could not escape, and one by one they vanished in a bright white blink of light.

  Hesitant, the last few dark kin regrouped and came in for another attack. Blood ran from where Xith was gouged and raked; still he would not give in. Again he drank in the energies of the land, devouring its forces and reshaping them to his own desires, trusting Ayrian would be able to delay the onslaught while he was vulnerable to their attack. Ayrian, for his part, slashed and hacked, wildly directing every ounce of his remaining strength, as the dark kin swept in.

  Xith waited to the last, feinted to the right, then rolled to the ground. He spun around with awe-inspiring swiftness, his face aglow, his hands, raised high, enveloped in wild, uncontained magic; but the arc of lightning shot wide, missed its mark, and faded away useless. Without pause, he lashed out again—a release less powerful than he had hoped for but effective all the same. A slow tracing of energy encircled two dark kin and the winged shadow-dragons they rode upon. Death reclaimed the beasts. Death to such creatures was defeat, measured in torment, and delivered by their dark masters.

  With the odds more in their favor, Ayrian sprang headlong into the remaining group while Xith charged fearlessly. These powerful two against the remaining six was little contest, yet the dark kin did not see things through the eyes of their enemies. Ayrian parried several attempts to force him back, striking one of the dark kin with a clean blow that should have ended its pitiful, tormented existence, yet did not. And it was as he was struggling under the beasts’ counterattacks that Ayrian sensed a force in these remaining creatures that he had not perceived in the others. His next blow, a well-placed strike to the midsection, did end the wounded beast’s life, but only a moment before it would have struck him with a potentially lethal blow.

  Xith, preoccupied with maintaining the magic within him and shaping his next attack, did not notice what Ayrian had discovered. He was near exhaustion, and he had no doubt that Ayrian was near exhaustion as well. His aim was to deliver a blow that would end the fray before it was too late for one or all of them, and so he called upon the powers of life and death, forces in opposition with each other and the natural order, allowing magic, chaste and powerful, to come to him, yearning to be released. To create the positive force of life, Xith had to balance the negative force of death—the very power from which the dark kin were created—as well, and it was a very fine balance indeed. One misstep would mean his own life, and possibly that of Vilmos whom he stood over. But he preferred a quick death to what the dark kin would bring to him—and to Vilmos—if he failed.

  For a moment, his resolve faded as fat
igue swept over him. “Please forgive me, Great Father,” he shouted as sparks of intertwined rose-pink and blue-white light illuminated the dark sky, arcing from his outstretched hands to sweep over the five remaining dark kin. The powers in opposition were so overwhelming as they clashed that the backlash knocked Xith to the ground and swept Ayrian away into the darkness of the night.

  Xith struggled to stand, hoping for the end but finding instead that one of the dark kin remained. In that moment, it would have been so easy to give in to fatigue. He had only to pause, to let his knees buckle, to drop where he stood and succumb. It is what a little voice in the back of his mind urged him to do; it is what he wanted to do. But he couldn’t ignore the other little voice in the back of his mind asking him about Vilmos and Ayrian and their fate should he give in. It was that voice that kept him on his feet when he would otherwise have succumbed to his wounds and to exhaustion.