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  Fost had to reach Moriana and tell her of her mistake. If she wore the Destiny Stone into battle with Synalon, thinking it made her invincible, she could perish. That thought formed a cold lump in the pit of the courier's belly. No matter what she'd done to him, he loved her.

  He and Jennas rode north of the lava flows around Omizantrim, coming down off the Central Massif of the continent through the dark foothills of the Mystic Mountains. Following the Black River which flowed from the Mystics to meet with the Joreal at Port Zorn, they planned to take passage there through the Karhon Channel around the headlands of the Wirin River delta, and through the Dyla Canal to Kara-Est. It would be much quicker than faring overland as long as the army of the Sky City was interposed between them and the seaport.

  They stopped on a high bluff overlooking the Black River. It was Jennas's turn to cook the evening meal. Fost, weighed down by his thoughts, went off by himself in search of his earlier lightness of heart.

  Though he'd become an experienced rider, Fost still felt the day's jostling most poignantly in the kidneys. He wandered downstream through twilight touched with the scent of wildflowers and dead fish. He whistled as he searched for a likely spot out of sight of the encampment.

  'I do so wish you would leave off that noisemaking,' Erimenes said sourly from his pouch. 'You can't carry a tune in a sling.'

  Fost laughed. It was true enough. 'Whatever you say, old spirit,' he said, opening his breeches.

  'If you did anything I said, you'd be much better for it,' Erimenes said loftily. 'For instance, right now you'd march back to camp and put what you've got in your hand to much more pleasurable use trying out certain variations I've designed especially for you and Jennas.'

  Reflexively, Fost thumped the jug with his free hand. He resumed whistling.

  'Ouch! You're a townsman, Fost. No country-born lad would ever urinate in a running river.'

  That was true, too. Though he'd spent most of his adult life under the stars, he had been born a child of High Medurim's slums, and such he would remain. He shrugged. And almost died.

  Erimenes squawked a warning. Fost froze. When first he'd met the genie, Erimenes's inclination was to let Fost discover approaching danger as it jumped out at him. Erimenes declared this was in the interests of a rousing battle. He often derided the courier for his lack of adventurous spirit, his 'cowardice' in the face of overwhelming odds. The change in Erimenes's habits had come slowly after his brief return to Athalau. Fost didn't yet trust the ghost's reformation.

  Water parted in a surge. Fost had a glimpse of toothed jaws opening wider than his own weight. He backed, frantically trying to cut off the stream of urine. A four-foot-long beak slammed shut inches from his stubbornly spraying wand.

  'Great Ultimate!' he cried, still scrambling for footing. 'What is that?'

  'Something you're best away from' advised Erimenes, 'Far away from. It appears most hungry. I certainly don't cherish the idea of my jug ending up in that maw.'

  Fost sat down clumsily in his. attempt to escape. A black head reared above him. Eyes like slits of red fire hungrily appraised him. Fost beheld his attacker as a bird like a black cormorant, but gigantic beyond imagining. Its neck reared a dozen feet from a body of unguessable size. Its head and pointed beak protruded eight feet. Fost had a few more brief seconds to see that the dripping monster was dark above and light below, and then it struck.

  The beak drove down with lightning speed. Fost rolled desperately. The lancelike beak buried itself three feet deep in the soft earth where he had lain an instant before. Then the courier was up and running, fumbling to stuff himself back in his trousers and bawling at the top of his voice. 'Down!'

  This time Fost knew better than to doubt Erimenes, He dived forward, gasping at an impact that drew a searing line of pain along his back.

  Tucking his shoulder, he rolled. As he twisted, he drew sword from scabbard. The beak cracked with a sound like the gates of Hell closing. Dying sunlight glinted from teeth like spikes. The bird voiced a triumphant, whistling scream. The awful jaws descended.

  A furred, dark form struck them like a bolt shot from a catapult. The monster went down with Grutz snapping and clawing at its head. In an instant the bird had its webbed talons beneath an oily body and snaked its neck out of the bear's embrace. The head cocked itself back preparing for another strike, eyes burning with unnatural hatred.

  Grutz scrambled nimbly away from a vengeful thrust of the beak. Though they weighed a ton each, the bears were as agile as dancers on their feet. But as immense as Grutz was, he was dwarfed by the nightmare black birdshape that stood over him poised to kill this new interloper.

  Roaring, Chubchuk lumbered down the slope to aid his companion. The hetlbird turned its head; instantly Grutz darted in and swiped it on the side of the head. The head reared, shrilling agony. Streaming black ichor dripped from parallel slashes below a burning eye.

  Fost regained his feet, breathing heavily, sword held double-handed with one hand gripping the outside of its silver basket. He heard Jennas's angry cry as she charged into battle waving her greatsword.

  The head darted at Fost. He leaped away, barely keeping his footing on the wet grass. His hauberk swung freely at his sides, its fabric of interlocked iron rings rent as easily as paper by the deadly beak. He felt wetness drench his back and knew it was his blood. 'Fost!' cried Jennas. 'Are you still in one piece?'

  'Mostly,' he gasped, feeling the first waves of pain from his wound. 'Watch yourself. This thing's strike range is phenomenal.' Even as he spoke, the creature unleashed itself like a steel spring straight for the courier.

  The monster's strike at Fost gave the bears a chance to close in on it, ripping and biting and snarling up a storm. The monster retreated toward the bank in an ungainly waddle. But it was not defeated. Its head moved with blinding speed. Chubchuk bawled as the beakpoint pierced his shoulder.

  Grutz grabbed a scaly leg and bit. The bird collapsed, an unearthly keening echoing out over the rush of the Black River. It was up again on one leg in an eyeblink, holding its wounded leg to its belly, but Grutz's sally had given Chubchuk a chance to scurry to safety. The bears worked well as a team, but Fost realized that even those ponderous, furry engines of destruction were outmatched by this avian menace.

  Fost saw Jennas circling wide behind the monster, coming up on its blind side. He knew then what he had to do. Ignoring Erimenes's shrill cheering, interspersed with demands to be freed in order to get a better view, he took the stoutest grip he could on the sword and sucked in a huge breath.

  The flaming gaze fixed on him. Strength left him in a flash. His soul was being sucked out through his eyes, drawn out to fall into a void, into fiery scarlet suns.

  'You limp-peckered, frog-witted son of a catamite!' shrieked Erimenes in tones ill-suited to the Realm's most distinguished dead philosopher. 'Move!' Fost moved.

  'Yaah!' he screamed, soul snapping back into his body in a blaze of fury. 'Come and get me, buzzard!'

  He had fully intended to draw the hellbird into a strike at him, dodging aside at the last moment while Jennas attacked from the opposite side. But instead of leaping out of the way, he stood his ground as the needle-sharp point of the monster's beak arrowed at his chest. Time slowed as his whole being focused on the black blade of the bird's beak. When it was an arm's reach away, he swung his sword. Power flooded him now, adrenaline-backed power. His lips stretched back in a maniacal grin. The beast made a horrid flutelike sound of surprise and agony as Fost's sword smashed its beak in two.

  The head jerked back. Air hissed like a venting fumarole in the night as jennas chopped half through the long, snaky neck with a slash of her greatsword.

  Stinking black fluid spattered over Fost. The shattered beak opened and closed in mute agony as the head flopped at random on the half-severed neck. The monster waddled back two steps and slid over the river bank. Fost ran forward to see it come to rest partly in the water. It kicked twice, trying futilely to make one
last attack. Then the light went from its eyes and it lay still. Fost turned and threw up. After a time he felt Jennas's touch on his shoulder. 'Are you hurt?'

  He felt as if the left side of his back had been splashed with liquid fire.

  'Not seriously.' He gratefully accepted a sip of water from her canteen, rinsed the warm water around his mouth and spat.

  'A new War of Powers is in the offing. My divinations are being proven correct,' Jennas said solemnly. 'Evil creatures go abroad on the planet again, as the Dark Ones make plans to reclaim their dominion.' The world spun around Fost.

  'No, no, no,' he repeated over and over in stubborn denial. He wouldn't live in a world where the gods took active part in the affairs of men and where powers beyond comprehension played and lost human beings – and monsters – like pawns.

  'I've heard of such giant birds before,' he managed to choke out as bile rose in his throat. 'Nonsense.' The cap of Erimenes's jug had slipped off in the fracas. The genie's column of mist wavered by Fost's side. The shade eyed him disdainfully. 'The natural helldiver is appropriately named. They were too common in my day, though I gather they've died off.' He gestured at the Black River, murmuring unseen in the growing darkness. 'But that bird is strictly a salt water creature. Might I point out that the Black River is fresh this far up from the ocean?'

  Still Fost shook his head, too tired for words, mutely denying that which he could not bear. With surprising gentleness jennas took his hand and helped him rise.

  Grutz and Chubchuk hunched like fat gargoyles at the edge of the bank. Fost heard an odd, low moaning, an uneasy despairing sound that he took first for a roaring within his head and then for the wind in the reeds. But as his head cleared he realized it came from the bears. The long hairs on their necks and shoulders stood up like spiked harnesses and their wicked yellow teeth were bared toward the water.

  Clutching Jennas's shoulder, Fost staggered to the bank's edge and looked down at… nothing. 'See?' Jennas said. 'It's gone.'

  Fost pulled away.

  'That doesn't mean anything. It slid into the water and was carried away by the current. The river's swift here.'

  'No, look at the grass, Longstrider. The monster fell flat. The grass is crushed in all directions. Had it slipped into the water the grass would lie in that direction.'

  The courier squinted. The lesser moon peeked up from the horizon, Omizantrim piercing its side like a dagger. Its rosy light showed black smears on the grass with steam rising in wisps from it. As Jennas said, the grass had been mashed down straight. His knees gave way beneath him. 'Gods!' he cried.

  'Yes.' Jennas was as grim as an executioner. 'The gods. And we are bound to fight their battles for them.'

  CHAPTER SIX

  The path into the Mystic Mountains was little more than a haunting memory. When the low, humped foothills had started to grow into jagged mountains the party had hesitated for a moment among the stunted ugly bushes of the ravine where the trail had petered out. Moriana stared up into the heights while the others rested their dogs and sweated.

  Finally she said, 'This way,' and rode on. The party that followed her was three less than that which had stopped.

  So it had gone. Half the remaining contingent had deserted after the death of latic Stormcloud. Though what had happened was apparent enough to all, and though Darl argued in Moriana's favor with all his old skill and verve, more than twenty knights and footmen had turned their mounts to the northwest and ridden back for the River Marchant and the City States of the Empire that lay beyond. This journey lay under far too many ill omens for even the strong of heart.

  Another factor entering into the dwindling of Moriana's force was the cultural background of the men. These were northern men unused to women who could slay warriors as strong as the young mercenary captain with their bare hands. By her own testimony Moriana was a sorceress. Stormcloud's death convinced a number of her followers she was a witch.

  Others had lost battles with conscience or courage as they neared the ramparts of the Mystic Mountains, low and uninviting. Now besides herself and Darl, who remained in a state of watchful quiet that was less alarming than his earlier detachment, Moriana's retinue consisted of five dog riders and eight footmen. All left in her band now, for reasons of their own, were not afraid to penetrate the citadel of mankind's ancient enemy.

  She questioned none of them as to their motives. The princess wasn't sure she wanted to know why they chose to accompany her. All her attention had to be directed forward – and up, up into the Mystic Mountains.

  The path mounted quickly along crooked switchbacks up almost sheer granite faces, straightening out now and again to follow the spine of razor-thin ridge.

  'The drop – it must be five hundred feet,' came a fearful voice from behind. Moriana didn't turn to see who spoke.

  'No, not five hundred,' came still another voice. 'By the gods, it has to be closer to a thousand.' The second speaker laughed boisterously, an action not shared by the others in the party.

  For Moriana, a mere thousand-foot drop was like home. In the Sky City she often peered out from the forward prow down at the terrain as it slowly slid beneath her. No one in the City in the Sky harbored any fear of heights, not when their everyday existence depended on separation of City and ground of at least a thousand feet. Her training aboard the war eagles had accustomed her to much loftier vantage points with even less substantial footing than that enjoyed by the dog she rode.

  'Your men fear,' came Ziore's quiet voice from the pouch at Moriana's side. 'Is there nothing you can do to calm them?'

  'You are the emphatic one,' pointed out the blonde-haired princess.

  'I have tried. It is a wearying job. The fears of several of the men are acute.' 'Those from the forest of Nevrym?' hazarded Moriana.

  'Yes. They are more accustomed to the closeness of their forests. The precipitous drops of these mountains work against their courage.'

  'With luck, we won't have much longer on the trail.' Her fingers lightly touched the hidden black and white stone of the Amulet around her neck.

  'Darl bears up well,' added Ziore, almost as an afterthought. 'He returns to his former self.' 'With a little help from your powers?' asked Moriana.

  'With very little help from my powers,' corrected the genie. 'He heals himself. It is for the best.'

  Moriana fell silent then, not wanting to speak further, even with Ziore. She no longer knew what was for the best. All she knew was what she had to do. Right, wrong, it made no difference. It was what she had to do.

  She fell into the slight rolling motion of the dog between her legs as the creature struggled to climb ever higher into the mountains.

  The sharp igneous rock of the mountains cruelly punished the pads of the dogs' feet, causing them to become slippery with blood. On trails often no wider than a strong man's shoulders such poor footing could be fatal. Knowing something of the geology of the Mystic Mountains, Moriana had prepared for this.

  'Halt!' cried Moriana after another hour of upward struggle. 'Rest a while in the clearing beyond.' She pointed ahead to what amounted to little more than a widening in the narrow trail. But the area proved a narrow canyon leading back into a sparse stand of trees. A small spring spurted from rocks and provided a much needed diversion from the sight of nothing but hard volcanic rocks.

  'My Princess,' said Darl, moving to her side. 'Should we put on the leather boots now? Our dogs are beginning to suffer.'

  'Aye, pull them out and see to it, Darl,' she said, pleased that the man had taken the initiative to approach her on the subject.

  'And,' spoke up Ziore, 'you might boil some of the olorum root found in the crevices yonder and apply the resulting sediment to the dogs' feet before putting on the boots. It will soothe and heal their torn pads.'

  'The olorum root?' asked Moriana. 'One I am unfamiliar with. Thank you, Ziore. It shall be done.' Darl bowed and silently turned to see to it. More and more he seemed his old self. Moriana hoped the chang
e went deeper than his visible actions. It pained her greatly seeing the man suffer so – and all for her.

  Several men brewed tea and others tried to ease their nerves with stinging draughts of Grassland brandy. Moriana accepted a cup of steaming tea – a pleasantly bracing Samazant strain, not the resinous amasinj of the steppes – and allowed a grinning Nevrym forester to lace it with colorless liqueur. She sat on a rock and stared back the way they'd come. The mountains fell away in toothlike peaks of gradually diminishing size, becoming foothills, spreading away to the south and west into an open plain. To her right yellow prairie gave way in the distance to the brown and pale green patchwork of cultivation; at the edge of vision the black line of the forests that had sheltered them for the vital first days of their flight swam in heat haze.

  Ahead of the princess rose Omizantrim straight and stark from the plain. As always in the last weeks, a plume of smoke grew from its maw, steely gray today. By a fluke of the weather – or something more, a possibility Moriana studiously avoided thinking about – the wind blew from the Throat of the Old Ones straight into the Mystic Mountains. They had been tasting ash on their tongues all morning, and some of the dogs sported reddened, running eyes from it.

  To her left, away and southward, the scrubby short-grass plain was abruptly interrupted as the land dropped a thousand feet to the Highgrass Broad below. Far-off smoke spires lifted above the tall grass prairie. The Grasslanders engaged again in their favorite sport, it seemed, which was massacring one another in internecine feuds that kept them honed for mercenary work.

  Darl saw that the dogs watered and canteens were refilled from the tiny artesian spring, always making sure that no one got out of sight of the resting place without accompaniment. In more and more ways was Darl returning to his former self.

  Moriana was relieved at the precaution. These mountains had a feel about them she disliked, and she knew it went far deeper than mere superstition engendered by cradle fables. The leitmotif of the Mystic Mountains was black: black soil, black-stemmed shrubs, black birds wheeling on spring thermals overhead. The anhak here grew black, more gnarled than in the woods below, and higher up grew black pine, whose very needles were as much black as green.