Chapter 1


[3488 Novembreo 4 10:53 Midweek]

Chris made it a point never to ignore his intuition discipline.

He felt that small cringe in his mind warn of danger, imminent death ahead, as he and Darnak rode down the desert road. So he reined in his horse. Hard.

The horse reared, then emitted a strange, weak snort and crashed to the ground. Chris leaped clear and tumbled to the cobbled road, his cloak flapping out around him like a large, two-toned bird, sandy hued on top, dark blue-gray underneath. As he fell, he saw the fletching of an arrow that had pierced his horse's chest, not too far from where his own vulnerable midsection would have been. The zentek awareness he had honed for years paid off as his intuition saved his life. Again.

He heard a loud crash and felt the thump as his enormous friend and bodyguard whirled off of his own horse to avoid a similar fate. Then quiet reigned as the dust clouds dispersed. Just the one arrow? Chris wondered what that meant.

For a moment he had to adjust to the smothering heat that radiated up from the blistering road bed. His arms felt scorched, though his sleeveless vest shielded the rest of his torso somewhat from the same baking. His still new beard and mustache felt grimier than ever, pressed down to the oven-like cobbles.

Then he slowed his breath to normal, maybe a touch slower, as he settled his mind into autodyne, that most fundamental of all the zentek disciplines, of total self-control. He needed to know his situation. Closing his piercing, dark blue-violet eyes, he focused his dynavision on the life signs he could now 'see' for two hundred paces in all directions. This inner sight revealed with crystal clarity a single anomaly.

Off the road to Chris's right, a little over a hundred paces away, a lone man crouched behind one of the many large rocks that studded the brambled cactus sand. Chris 'watched' as he and the man remained motionless, waiting. He could not 'see' the bow in the man's hand but it was obvious from the situation and the way the man held his fist clenched around something, a short ways out from his body. Other desert life signs scuttled around or hunkered down in the minimal shade of the late morning sun.

"Well?" growled Darnak from not too close beside him, impatient to be moving again. The giant knight didn't really care where they moved as long as it would get them off the scorching ground and headed out of the desert again. His horse had been smart, or dumb, enough to wander off to their left, off the blistering cobbles onto the slightly cooler sand.

"A bowman, south, a hundred paces off the road, my friend," Chris said, his voice low. "No others."

Darnak began to snake-crawl along the ground away from him toward a better vantage point. Chris knew there was no point in trying to stop him. The huge knight knew his job and had shown it great dedication over their years together. Chris 'saw' Darnak crawl along the stone and sand toward another boulder a score or so paces to the side. Even the second arrow that buzzed over them both did not alter his course. He had to protect his friend, as well as himself.

"Stand and disarm!" Chris called out to the bowman.

He heard a snort and some muttering. Then he 'saw' the bowman stand, drawing the invisible bowstring as he did. Chris 'saw' his back hand's fingers straighten, then the man crouched down again. Another arrow zipped in. This one struck the downed form of Chris's horse. To his dismay, the horse gave no response. He 'saw' that the horse's life force had already ebbed away too far for him to save the poor animal. The pang of grief that arose in him felt distant, outside his autodyne, as if it were someone else's, not his own. If he'd only had some time, with his restoration discipline, or even its hands-on precursor theramensis, he could have healed the wound that was now fatal, beyond his grasp.

Darnak had moved again. He had now halved the distance between himself and the hidden archer, crouched behind a smaller boulder that was still large enough to conceal his enormous form. He started to take another stab at moving closer, but somehow the archer had detected him, probably from the noise he made. Another arrow zipped in and struck the rock, drawing sparks as the steel tip skidded up the rough surface before flopping to the ground. The second and third arrows that followed cut the huge knight off. He had to duck back quickly, narrowly evading a painful, bloody wound as he did.

Chris 'saw' most of this, including the sparks. The archer was good. He could have them pinned down long enough to make their escape from the desert all but impossible. Chris opened his eyes briefly and scanned the area for better cover. A large enough boulder provided some shade their, to his right, opposite the way Darnak had gone. He started up, his eyes closed again. His reward was the sound of three more arrows, one each in the sand on either side of the horse, and one that made a solid thump in the horse's unfortunate carcass.

He had to act - this parley was headed nowhere. He took a breath and reached his mind out toward the unknown bowman. He felt the slight energy burn within as his telepathy discipline came to life. He recoiled at the boiling hatred in the other's mind. The man did not even know him, but his revulsion and antipathy could not be misread. Chris took a mental step back to avoid reading that hatred too closely.

'Oppose me at your peril, bowman,' he sent to the archer's mind.

He felt horror and resistance rise in the bowman, so strong it flowed out toward him even though he had already kept his mental contact distant from the other's. He recognized it at last - only one group of people that he knew of would respond so. It would have angered him, but his autodyne shunted the feeling, distanced all emotion. He added an imperative overlay to his next sent thought.

'Stand and disarm!'

He felt the resistance crumbling. He levered himself up and rose to his feet. This normally effortless exercise, combined with the few dyns of energy he'd had to consume to feed his disciplines, slowed his movements. He felt the burning pain on the skin of his arms, again distanced by his autodyne. He'd have to attend to that soon. Across the sand, he 'saw' his opponent's aura rise in jerky motions, the bow arm slack at his side. Although the arrows had no aura, Chris noted his loose fingers and deduced that the man held no such deadly missile.

Darnak peered out from behind the rock, his sword drawn and ready, his hood shading his brown eyes from the cruel sun, his right hand toying with the sack that held his bolas. He saw the two men facing each other in what appeared to be a stand-off. That made it too easy - he could have run over and engaged the bowman with his bare hands while the bow was down. Something else was going on here. Uncertain as to his next move, he hesitated.

'Approach me,' Chris's mind commanded the archer.

The bowman took one step. Before Chris could react, the bowman whipped out a dagger, then threw himself forward on it. His scream came shrill and weak across the hot open air. Chris's mind recoiled at the violence of the move. He had to cut off his telepathy to save his mind from the pain that punctured the bowman's breastbone, then his heart. Even so, he almost fell over.

"Fog!" Chris swore. He opened his eyes.

"My lord, are you all right?" Darnak called out.

"My arms burn, but the danger is gone," Chris said with a sigh.

"How so?" wondered Darnak as he stood up, out from behind his rock, sword still at the ready. As he did, Chris pointed to their fallen adversary. "What's he doing there?"

"He threw himself onto his dagger," said Chris.

"Fog! I was looking forward to a chat with him."

He gave Chris one of his evil grins. Under all that facial hair, it didn't work quite as well as it used to. Chris gave him a half-smile and just shook his head.

Now that they were free of the dangers, he focused his mind on his arms. The burns were merely superficial, but they hurt nonetheless. The healing balm of his theramensis soothed away the pain in a single, short round, though without the dyns that a real injury would have required.

He shook out his dusty cloak, then drew it on and its hood up to shade himself from the late morning sun. He had not prepared to stop in the desert at all, as his dark blue-gray trousers, boots and vest shouted to any who would notice, and the cloak barely served to shade or cool him. His efforts had generated a fair amount of sweat and he needed less heat.

He felt more than saw Darnak walk over to the nearly dead archer and study him briefly. At least the giant knight had had the sense to wear light clothes, in weight and color, including the cloak. His best friend always seemed to have that one up on him.

The big knight hooked a foot under the man and turned him over. He could see the widening pool of blood that still poured from the wound. The bowman's eyes glazed over, half-closed. Darnak stabbed the fallen man through one. The body jerked once, then lay still.

"Explain?" Chris requested, shocked.

"It would have taken him turns to die," Darnak said as he wiped his blade clean on the dead man's tunic. "I thought I'd put him out of his misery. Or had you planned to heal him, too?"

Chris shook his head. He had developed the habit of healing most injured creatures, human or not, but he had yet to extend this obsession to his enemies. Even so, the brutal mercy would not have been his preferred course. None of this would. He turned to his horse. It lay still, its eyes closed. What was the point of its slow death either?

"Farewell, my faithful rented one," he said gently as he stroked the horse's flank.

Chris unlashed his saddlebags from the horse's carcass. He extracted his water skins and slung them over his shoulder and neck. He took a quick sip from one water skin, then stoppered it and raised the strap back over his head.

"That's going to make things a little more difficult, my lord," Darnak rumbled behind him.

Chris turned as he stood and looked up at the knight who towered over him, arms akimbo, his own horse's reins in one fist. Chris smiled in an odd way. Inside he felt relieved and amused despite the grim situation.

"A little?"

"All right, a lot," Darnak said with a frown. "How are we supposed to ride out on one mere horse, and a borrowed one at that?"

"We pack what is left in these bags into yours," Chris said. "You ride on and get our own steeds at the inn. Then come back for me."

"And leave you alone out here in this heat?" Darnak said. His bushy eyebrows collided with his unruly mane in surprise. "Wouldn't it be easier to go back and rent another horse?"

"We are almost halfway to the next inn," Chris said, his voice disturbingly calm, as usual. "I will survive better than you. We cannot both ride your horse, and your knight's training is no match for my zentek disciplines."

Darnak looked shocked. Then he burst out laughing. Even so, in the open arid space where they stood, his basso profundo sounded thinner and less booming than usual. Chris fished around in his saddlebags and pulled out only a small pouch of dried provisions and a change of clothes. He handed them to Darnak.

"I already know better than to argue with you," the giant said as his mirth subsided. He stuffed the new gear into his own horse's saddlebag. "But if I find a corpse when I return, your family will roast me better than this sun."

"If you find a corpse, you will have missed me. I shall be miles down the road from here."

"As you wish," Darnak said. He held out another water bag. "Our departed friend won't need this any more, and you might. He also didn't have any money, papers or anything else worth noting."

"No horse, either," Chris said, his voice subdued. That was another strange aspect of this already bizarre encounter. He frowned up at his large friend, then shrugged off his own backpack and handed it over as well. "Thank you, my friend. Now go. I fully expect to be rescued alive."

Darnak hauled himself back into his own horse's saddle. He touched his brow in brief salute, then wheeled and accelerated off toward the east. Somewhere, not too many miles ahead of him, Chris could almost feel the cool of the forest calling to them. In a few moments, the thunder of Darnak's horse's hooves had faded and the dust cloud he raised began to dissipate.

Chris waited for the dust to clear, then headed off in the same direction. The afternoon heat still lay ahead, only now he walked, and alone at that. He adjusted the hood of his cloak over his head for maximum shade. He had to trust in his disciplines to keep him alive.

The strangeness of the whole episode grew on him as he walked. Why was the Cult so intent on killing him? A lone archer this far out in the desert was an act of desperation, a certain suicide mission, even if he had succeeded. Or was the dead archer so confident he could kill them both that he'd ride out on one of their own horses? He knew he had enemies, but the Cult was usually more plotting, more methodical. Such an extreme and shoddy ambush was unlike them.

He tried to reason his way through the surreal situation. What purpose in their cause could his death serve? Whence this sudden urgency, so far from his home? Did they think him more vulnerable here and now than elsewhere or before? On the other hand, there was some legitimacy to that idea. Still, it struck Chris as more than merely odd. Perhaps a larger group might have succeeded here, but just one man? Or were there more ahead? Did they truly think this lone act had any chance of success?

He had a long way to go, and now with more caution than before, though no less urgency. He decided to pick up the pace and began an easy run. Between the extra water skins that now beat about his waist, and his autodyne, he decided he should have the endurance to survive for a while. The breeze from his increased speed helped little.

***

"Wake up, little one," a gentle voice said through the fog of her sleep.

Minx opened her eyes and smiled.

"Hi, Uncle Jo," she said, groaning through her stretch.

She brushed her straggly golden blonde hair out of her eyes. The older man turned away. The teenage girl's blanket had pulled away, exposing far more of her beauty then ever she had intended. She almost giggled.

"Such sights are not for me, Nightingale," he said, then coughed a deep, painful hack.

She could see him wince even from behind. She reached over and pulled her three, worn-out tunics across the bed. She had nothing else in the bare, shabby room but her patchwork cloak and two old daggers, and her worn boots beside the lumpy bed. She didn't like to play games like this, least of all with him. Between her mentor and Uncle Jo, the latter at least liked her. He was the only one who had ever treated her well. To see him like this almost brought tears to her eyes. She dressed quickly.

She wasn't even sure he was her real uncle. She had two different memories of him; one as he was here, now, and the other as he was - where? Or was it when? Maybe it was just part of the whole setup.

That stopped her cold. She wondered where that thought had come from.

"I hate that name," Uncle Jo whispered.

She almost failed to hear the words. They came out like a curse. Still, they brought her back.

"What's wrong with my name?" she asked.

Her frown only marred her stunning face slightly.

"It's not your name," he muttered fiercely. "There's nothing wrong with your real name."

That meant something to her, but what? 'Your real name is . . . .' What? Why didn't that thought complete itself? She shook her head.

"Uncle Jo?"

She finished lacing up the tunics. With a bound she was up and beside him. Her soft hand on his shoulder trembled with his shakes that quickly expanded into heaves.

"Uncle Jo?" she said again, louder this time, alarmed now.

He almost fell on her. She shifted to load his weight onto her thin shoulders. Then she carried him to his own room, staggering all the way. The clutter of Jo's room made this harder as she had to keep from tripping on all of his nags, trunks and discarded clothing to get him to his own shabby bed. By the time she did, her mentor was up and waiting at the doorway.

"You're late," he said with a scowl. "Put the old man on the bed and get to work."

"If I'm late," she said, panting as she did so, "you could have woken me yourself."

She set her uncle on the bed, then turned away to straighten up. Her mentor's hand caught her across the face, back side first. She squeaked at the shock more than the sudden pain, and almost fell. Somehow, her instincts, or something beneath her conscious mind, helped her turn with the blow to minimize its impact. He seemed to have a knack for hitting her when she was least prepared for it. Of course, he was better at their Slow Hand skill than she would be for some time. Wasn't he?

"Thieves work until they have enough to support themselves!" he snapped.

"I already give you everything I steal, or make," she said, her voice low but intense.

"You could give me more," he said with an ugly leer.

"Not even in your twisted dreams!" she snapped. "And don't hit me again."

He just laughed, a cruel, jagged sound that might have hurt if she hadn't found it so pathetic.

"If you weren't so dumb, you'd already have enough for today."

"I just graduated to novice a few months ago. You're not being fair."

"Fair?" he yelled, livid now. "You want me to be fair? I'll beat you blind if you don't get going! Now get out of here and earn something, you sniveling, little tramp bitch!"

Minx turned and ran. Her angry tears chilled her cheeks as she whirled through her room to slip on her holey boots and grab her daggers and tattered cloak.

"And you'd better bring me everything you get, or I'll have your hide!" she heard him yell after her.

"Some day you'll pay for this, you bastard!" she muttered to herself as she ran.

She wrapped herself tightly in the cloak. With a deep breath, she plunged out the door into the snow. By instinct, she made her way to the gate out of the district. She sighed through her shivers. Time to find work.

***

They numbered six, three in shapeless, hooded cloaks, three in plain brown leather armor. From the hall window, they could all see the afternoon shadows lengthen in the inn courtyard. Something about their stance, or their grouping, or perhaps the deep frowns on the three visible faces, radiated profound hatred. They spoke in quiet, angry tones.

"That's one," said the shortest hooded one as a large bearded man rode into the courtyard.

The deep hood completely hid this one's features from the rest, except his, or her, above-average height. The voice was a husky tenor or alto, slightly muffled, quite neutral. The robe hid all of its wearer's features.

"Where's the one we seek?" asked the first armored man.

"They should be together," said the tallest of the six.

He, too, wore a hooded cloak, but the voice was clearly masculine.

"The other must still be out on the road."

"Why not apprehend this one before he gets away?" said another of the armored men, a bearded young ruffian. "The other may perish from thirst or hunger or both."

"Perhaps he already has - he is not here," said the first armored man.

"We have no interest in this one," said the tall hood.

"We must be certain the one we seek is handled," said the shorter hood. "This one is incidental."

They glared as their quarry rode his horse into the stables and disappeared inside. The six figures in the corridor just stood, watching. A turn and some rounds later another figure emerged from the stables. This one rode a much larger, horned black steed and led another just like it.

"We should stop him," said the first ruffian. He turned to leave.

"Let him go." The tall hood caught the other by the arm. "You'd never catch him on that thing anyway."

"That's the same man?" gaped the second armored one in awe.

They watched the rider and his extra mount speed off out the gate again. Then they slowly walked back down the corridor to their room. Once inside, they spoke again, still in hushed voices, even heavier with malevolence, if that was at all possible.

"What is your plan now?" the tall hood asked the third hooded figure that had not spoken yet.

"It is now clear that they are headed this way," said the subject. He threw back his hood. This revealed a young, fresh face, framed in bright golden blond hair, full of energy. His brown eyes glittered with anger, hatred. "We'll follow them along the road until an opportunity presents itself. Then we strike."

"That sounds risky."

"Why?" demanded the blond. "There are just the two of them. These three and I can handle them, certainly. Besides, that present we left by the road may make this all unnecessary. You two go on ahead and announce the good news."

The tallest and shortest turned their hoods toward one another, then looked back.

"That was a foolish idea," said the tall hood. "You would have been better off with more men here. We have underestimated our target before, to our detriment. His unarmed combat skills are the best we've seen, and we don't even know what else he can do."

"You can forget about your 'present,'" said the shorter hood. "He will never be seen again, unless I miss my guess. Like you, he is too eager and will fail, almost as certainly as all the others before. If he is not so lucky, he will die out there anyway. In the process, you have given away yet another warning of our mission. The target uncovered our agent in Garpathia as easily as you breathe. Nevertheless, we will go on ahead. You four proceed with your plan."

"Is that wise?" asked the tall hood.

"It can't hurt now," said the shorter hood with a shrug. "We can raise a larger group in Vertumnus, or better, at the Dragon's Teeth. That way, should the need arise, we can meet them with enough force to settle the matter permanently."

"What do you mean, 'should the need arise?'" demanded the young blond angrily. "These men and I can handle two with ease!"

"So sure are you, brother?" said the shorter one, unruffled. "They may not stop for your convenience to waylay them. If they stick to the roads and the inns, you will find it difficult to get close enough even to see them, let alone anything else. If they choose to stop and meet with you, I would estimate your chances at no better than even. Remember this: the Church wants our target out of the way, permanently. The reward is high."

"I know that," said the young blond. A sulky expression took over his face. "I'm counting on victory."

"Good. Try to remember it in case you find that things change," said the tall hood calmly. "Don't be too impatient, brother. The Church has waited centuries for this chance, and we want it done properly. That one out there is just a pawn in the larger scheme of the plan, though an important pawn to be sure."

"He is also an extremely dangerous adversary in his own right, as we have found from bitter experience, and you will again, soon," said the shorter hood. "Be careful."

With that the two hoods turned for the door.

"There's one thing I am not clear on," said the oldest, a grizzled, armored bare-head. He spoke now for the first time. "What are we going to do with this 'extremely dangerous adversary' once we encounter him?"

The departing pair stopped at the door and turned.

"You are being paid one thousand gold crowns," said the taller. "What do you think?"

The shorter one faced its hood directly at this one, and within he saw a brief flash of golden hair.

"When you encounter him," said the shorter hood, "kill him."

The door closed quietly behind them.