Keys of Awakening

GAMORN ( A V E R T I N G )

The Eleventh Power of the Arcanum

Gamorn is a Passive power.

As the Seekers fight with their dark forces they learn that there are situations where opposition feeds the enemy. They are now ready to learn the art of Gamorn. This power seems similar, yet is completely opposite to Duma (Opposing). While Duma creates a force opposite to the one that is not wanted, Gamorn uses the force’s own power, movement, speed, and direction to throw it off course.

Application: Gamorn very simply redirects a force or energy from its intended path and destination.

A practitioner of Gamorn is known as an Averter.

From The Arcanum of Wisdom – Introduction for the Initiate

"Gone? After all we have been through to get them here?”

Drevilor grabbed the Prince by the arm.

“We could make use of the descrier’s skill …”

Vardail stared at him for a moment.

“You are absolutely right!”

The Prince turned to Menphan Tarn.

“Wardmaster, where is Kassargan?”

Menphan rose to his feet and sent Blades scurrying to the four quarters.

Within mere minutes, one returned with her.

“Will you scry for me?” Vardail asked.

“Of course, my Lord,” the Iolan said. “What is it you wish me to scry?”

“Two items belonging to Draca Sconder. One, a round artefact made of stone, and the other a very old map with unintelligible markings,” the Prince replied. “They were in my rooms just this morning. They cannot be far … if you need to go up to my rooms …”

“No need, my Lord,” Kassargan said smoothly. “What does the artefact look like?”

“It is one of the Keys,” Azulya replied. “Elan’s Key, the seventh and final one.”

“Good then, I know what the Keys look like … I will start immediately. The only thing that would help me is some silence.”

Vardail nodded.

“Silence!” he shouted, and his voice carried throughout. “Stop whatever you are doing. We need complete silence.”

The ruckus in the hall quickly became a murmur, and then even that was stilled. Riders and Blades moved to the doorways to prevent anyone from barging in and, as if by the power of a spell, silence descended upon the Great Hall.

Kassargan sat still, her damaged eyes staring into the void. Then her hands began to move, her fingertips tracing invisible geometries in the air before her. Her lips shaped words of mystery and power.

Suddenly the descrier stiffened.

“I see him ... there is a man,” she announced. “He is making for Saryam’s Gate.”

“How far?” Vardail asked.

“He is nearly there …”

“Sudra forbid!” cried Elan. “We must not allow him to get away!”

“Sound the horns to shut the Gate!” Menphan shouted.

Blades ran for the doors.

“Where is the nearest balcony?” Elan demanded, frantic with urgency. Hands pointed towards one of the exits.

The priestess bolted towards it.

“What in Krodh’s name does she think she is doing?” Scald asked. But his question remained unanswered. Suddenly Illiom was on her feet, chasing after Elan. Behind her, she heard footsteps but did not turn to see who was following.

She stepped out into a hallway and looked around but Elan had already moved out of sight. Directly ahead some passers-by were staring curiously down a side passage, and Illiom sped in that direction. She caught sight of the priestess again as she stepped through a doorway and onto a balcony.

Illiom was about to call her name, but some strong inner sense compelled her to be silent.

Then she heard the strangest of sounds.

It was like the call of a raptor, only louder and intensely penetrating.

As she reached the balcony, she saw Elan leaning against the railing, her face turned up to the dark and malevolent cloud, repeating her eerie cry.

Without warning, Who spoke into Illiom’s mind.

She is calling my kin.

“What?” Illiom, confused, asked aloud. “Calling another owl?”

Receiving no immediate answer from Who, Illiom made her way to the priestess’ side.

Looking out into the dark cloud, she saw several large shapes gliding through the shadowed world.

What is happening, Who? Show me.

She had to brace herself against the balcony’s rail as the world of stone and mortar abruptly fell away, to be replaced by a great void. Suspended within it, Illiom and Who flew towards the shapes.

They are birds … she thought.

Not just any birds, came Who’s immediate correction, eagles.

He flew over the edge of Varadon’s Keep and the abyss that opened up beneath her made her feel dizzy. She felt her hands grope for support as she slid down the wall to the balcony floor, while Who dropped headlong into the abyss.

Through the eyes of her owl, Illiom saw eight eagles glide past Saryam’s Gate, heading towards the Serp. She flew after them, towards the long train of refugees still climbing the Serp, seeking sanctuary.

A single, hooded man was scurrying down the road, easily spotted, for he was the only one descending against the tide of refugees.

His robes billowed about him.

The eagles folded their great wings close to their bodies and fell like arrows towards him.

The man probably never knew what struck him.

With a scream, he brought his hands up to his head and cowered. The people climbing nearby pulled away from him in terror, as eagle after eagle singled the man out in a series of vicious and relentless attacks.

His hood was torn back and his face and head were soon laced with ribbons of blood. The man snarled up at the eagles in defiance then broke into a run once more.

One great raptor with a gigantic wingspan clamped powerful talons into the man’s shoulders, lifting him momentarily off his feet and bearing him away from the Serp’s pavers, only to drop him over the edge and into the chasm.

He fell, screaming, and the great birds flew alongside. One ripped at his shoulder even as another snatched up something the man had dropped. Suddenly the birds, as one, began the long circular climb back up towards the Keep.

Beneath them, the man’s body continued to plummet, crashing against the cliff face on his way to a merciful death.

Released by her owl, Illiom blinked momentarily. Her gaze fixed upon the priestess, she spared not a glance for Tarmel as he stepped onto the balcony,

The Daughter of Sudra was still standing exactly as she had been; her short red hair ruffled in the breeze as she looked up at the dark sky with an expression that was both vigilant and hopeful.

The first eagle to arrive carried in its claws a leather travelling bag, which it dropped at Elan’s feet before alighting onto the balcony’s railing. As the priestess stooped to retrieve it, a second eagle flew down towards her and, wings beating, hovered for a moment before her. It clutched something small and white in its talons, before releasing it into Elan’s hands.

A flood of golden light, like that of Iod’s own brilliance, lit up the entire balcony and shone upon the priestess’ face.

Illiom felt a surge of heat burst within her belly in response. Breathless, she remained where she was for a while, only distantly aware of Tarmel’s hands resting on her shoulders.

It was as though everything in the entire world had become insubstantial, everything but her own Key and the Keys of the other Chosen. For an immeasurable span of time, she was aware only of the seven Keys and of the power that was brimming at the core of her being. She struggled to her feet then and, holding on to the railing for support, she made her way over to the priestess.

Their gazes locked, Elan’s eyes ablaze with green fire, spilling tears. “You have it,” Illiom said with a small burst of relieved laughter, as she nodded towards the radiant glow in the Daughter’s hand.

“Elan! You have it!”

“Aye, I do,” the priestess nodded, eyes still afire with intensity. “But Illiom, we all have them, at long last! We have them all! All seven Keys!”

They shared a smile and then Illiom embraced her.

“Sometime later, I would very much like to hear the tale of how you came to befriend those eagles …”

Elan smiled.

“Yes, later,” she promised. “Around the same time when you explain how you bested that Virupa warrior …”

Illiom’s laughter was full of delight. She felt lightened up, as though all of their burdens had dissolved.

Illiom was not alone in her exuberance; they were all affected, even Scald and Malco. The Chosen and their Riders regrouped in the chaos of the Great Hall, and even that was a transformed space. Gone was the feeling of impending doom. Gone the sense that the whole of Varadon’s Keep was preparing itself for another Devastation.

They had all felt the current of power that marked the finding of the last Key, signalling to them the end of the first part of their quest and the beginning of the second: the search for the Orb of the Goddess.

A truly momentous occasion, Illiom felt.

His travel bag returned to him, the Prince opened it and retrieved from its folds a flat leather bag. He loosened the straps that held it closed and extracted a folded parchment. This he carefully opened and spread out on the table before him.

Illiom moved closer to peer at what he had unfolded: it was an old map, yellowed, stained, and fragile. Burn marks framed the parchment’s edges, telling a story of fire and destruction. [1]

“When Drevilor received Draca Sconder’s Key,” began the Prince, “it was accompanied by a message, informing him of this map’s existence, and that he should travel to the Draca’s tower to retrieve it, when the time was right …”

“‘… when the Prince of Albradan seeks you out,’ were Sconder’s exact words,” Drevilor said. “He instructed me to look for it, regardless of the circumstances at the time; even if he was not in his tower, even if he was dead.”

The disguised Kroeni shook his head sadly.

“I thought it an odd thing to say at the time; of course I had no idea that by the time I received his message, he was already dead …”

“When did you receive this message?” Scald asked.

“In the first few days of Seedfall.”

Scald nodded, but his expression was incredulous.

“Draca Sconder knew about us even before the chest containing the Prophecy was opened,” he concluded.

The Prince spoke into the silence that followed Scald’s realisation.

“The Draca know many things – more than most of us can fathom. I am not surprised that he knew about you. And that, more than anything else, has determined my disposition towards you.”

Illiom could not lift her eyes from the weathered map.

All of the edges were scorched ... the fold lines, too, had been licked by the flames. The map showed a section of coastal land, with a mountain range dominating the bottom right quadrant. She pushed in and leaned over the table for a better look.

There was writing on the map; strange, angular, and incomprehensible. She looked at the symbols … and then she saw it: the glyph from her nightmare, the same glyph that was inlaid on the chest containing the Prophecy.

The glyph was etched on the left hand side of the scroll, underneath what looked like a compass rose and more writing. Without saying a word, she pointed it out to the others and was rewarded with exclamations of recognition.

“Here too,” said Sereth, leaning across the table, pointing at the tallest peak of the mountain range illustrated on the map.

“What is meaning?” asked Undina.

“I do not know,” answered Azulya. “But it is connected with the Prophecy, and Illiom even had a vision about it.”

“Yes,” Sereth said. “It is saying that we are heading in the right direction; why else would Draca Sconder give us a map? The only problem is that we have …”

“… that we have no idea where this is!” Scald cut in animatedly. “Just look at that coastline. It resembles nothing anywhere in Theregon, not even remotely!”

“You are right,” Vardail agreed. “I do not recognise it either.”

“Well, at least now we have a map!” Azulya said. “How about we take things one step at a time? Once we get into the Forbidden Lands we might find someone who will recognise the lay of this map …”

Vardail looked from the Pelonui to Malco and finally rested his eyes on Azulya. He swallowed before speaking.

“You are going to the Forbidden Lands?” he asked, his tone full of both hope and regret.

Illiom glanced at the prince and in that moment she saw, not the future king of the realm, but a boy who had glimpsed a toy he greatly desired.

Vardail licked his lips, blinked and took a deep breath.

“Then I envy you,” he admitted. “At times like these I would give anything to be someone other than who I am, to venture where you are going, to walk the path of mystery and magic …” He stopped himself and shook his head. “However, that is not to be, for I have a kingdom to lead and now a war to wage as well ...”

Sereth suddenly laughed; Vardail looked sharply towards the Chosen.

“Forgive me, my Prince,” Sereth said, raising a hand in apology. “I mean no disrespect, but going on what we have seen so far, the magic and mystery that we are walking towards is unlikely to be of the benevolent kind. I fear that we will have to venture into the heart of darkness itself before this thing is truly over.”

The Prince of Albradan stared at Sereth, then sighed and nodded.

“Yes, I believe you may be right. Nevertheless I would ask you to pledge me a boon.”

Sereth’s eyebrows shot up.

“A boon?” he asked. “From me, my Prince?”

“Yes - from all of you. When this is over, when you have accomplished your task and fulfilled the Prophecy, come back here and tell me the entire tale of what unfolded there, in the Forbidden Lands.”

Sereth smiled and straightened.

“Well, that is easy enough to do. I swear that if I do come back then I will come and see you, but doubtless you will also have your fair share of tales to tell.”

The Prince smiled at that and was about to add something more but was interrupted. Three warriors approached the table, two men and a woman covered in grime, mud and blood, their uniforms barely recognisable under all the muck. Two were definitely Blades but Illiom could not identify the rank of the third.

Instantly alert, Vardail rose to his feet.

“What is it?” he asked.

“My liege, Ollord has taken Taverom, Ramatar and Orgest. All the border towns and villages to the north have fallen. A massive bridgehead is moving down Middle Road, at speed. Another is heading cross-country, directly towards us.” The warrior paused to take a breath.

“Kollum will fall by the morrow.”

Vardail nodded slowly. The boy that Illiom had seen just moments earlier had vanished.

“Well then, all is exactly as we anticipated. Given the disparity of the forces a siege was always the only desirable option anyway.” He turned to Menphan Tarn. “How go the Garrison preparations?”

“All ready, my Prince,” the Wardmaster answered. “Surdalan’s Ward surrounds Akta, the rest are stationed around the Keep, and all vulnerable sections are under watch. Sentries are posted everywhere, ready to report quickly should the unimaginable happen. The Legion chariots have been positioned to transport our forces to meet any eventuality that might arise. The caverns beneath the Keep have also been prepared and most of the stores have been transferred there.”

Vardail nodded.

“Then we are as ready as we will ever be. When do you anticipate you will need to raise the bridge at Saryam’s Gate?”

Menphan clenched his jaw like an iron trap for a moment.

“We will leave the bridge down for as long as possible, my Prince. The enemy cannot surprise us there. I give it two days.”

Vardail nodded again, slowly, evaluating.

He turned to face the Chosen.

“This means that you must leave as soon as you can, by tomorrow at the very latest. Even today, if you can manage it …”

Illiom felt strangely untouched by all this. Even this news could not subdue the relief she had felt when Elan claimed the last Key. But of course Vardail was right, soon now the jaws of Ollord’s army would clamp shut and Varadon’s Keep would become an inescapable prison. To risk becoming trapped here was unthinkable.

“Is there anything else we need to discuss, Wardmaster?”

Menphan gave a short, stiff nod.

“Aye, my Prince, plenty. I will need your ear and your orders on a number of matters …”

“Very well, just grant me a few more moments to finalise things with the Chosen. Oh, and Menphan, have you selected a suitable replacement for the fallen Rider?”

“Yes, I have the perfect candidate.”

“Good, make sure that they meet with their Chosen at the earliest opportunity.”

“My Lord Prince,” Scald objected firmly, “I thank you … but I do not want Wind replaced. She can never be replaced.”

Vardail listened to the Chosen’s words and looked into his scarred face.

“No, you are right. Rider Wind can never be replaced. Instead, see this as someone who has been commanded to ward you, and will do so because they must, one who will accompany you to the end of Âtras, if need be.”

“My Prince, I do not want …”

“Chosen Scald, I do not care what you want or do not want. This is not a request. It is what I am giving you and you will accept it.”

To forestall any more protests, Vardail turned to address the rest.

“We may not have an opportunity to say our farewells later, therefore I will do so now.”

Vardail searched their eyes in silence before speaking again.

“I will do everything in my power to protect the people who have sought refuge upon Varadon’s Keep. Soon now, we will be severed from the rest of the world, and those not sharing our fate up here will be on their own. So, take what you need now, for there will not be another opportunity to do so. May the Gods speed you on your way. May you prevail over our enemies and may you fulfil the Prophecy and restore peace to Albradan and the Common Weal.”

Several Chosen responded with words of assurance.

Illiom found no words to add to this parting; she just watched as the future King of Albradan turned back to his Wardmaster.

“And now, Menphan, I am completely yours.”

Whispered voices, urgent tones, and a hollow sense of dread … the wash of these sensations caused Illiom to stir and stretch, but she really did not want to open her eyes.

They had packed their few possessions and had thought about what else they might need. They had made their requests to Argolan and then had bedded for one last rest before setting off.

“Illiom?”

The voice penetrated through the fog of Illiom’s sleepiness. She groaned and opened her eyes. There was a bitter taste in her mouth. Her eyelids were heavy and opened reluctantly.

“What is happening?”

Glancing around, she saw Undina follow her Rider from the room.

“The cloud has reached the Keep,” Tarmel said. “We are completely engulfed in it.”

His words were like a plunge into cold water. Instantly awake, Illiom climbed out from her bedroll. She found herself shaking and knew it had nothing to do with the cold. Without a word, she followed him down several passageways before they reached a row of windows.

There were people everywhere, more than usual; but the palace might have been empty for all the noise they made. The people crowded at the windows and balconies gaped silently beyond, or spoke in muted whispers.

The only light came from torches, none from the windows that she passed. The world outside seemed to be cloaked in night.

She continued towards a balcony, vaguely aware of the Rider behind her. She pushed her way through those gathered there. Servants, Ward, nobles - these all mingled together, staring at the world beyond -hierarchies and formalities forgotten.

Illiom reached the railing and allowed herself to feel the full impact of the cloud’s dominion. She gripped the balustrade, rooted to the spot, her mind and senses frozen.

The whole of Kuon and most of Varadon’s Keep were shrouded in a penumbra that reminded her of a time when Sudra had passed in front of Iod and had temporarily obscured the God’s light. An eerie silence hung in the air, as if the hovering cloud had swallowed up all natural sounds. There was no birdsong, no movement of wind, nothing.

She felt Tarmel’s hand on her shoulder and only then remembered to breathe. Looking out past the city’s rooftops, she saw that daylight still bathed the Keep’s western reaches and the lands that stretched beyond. Far towards the east too, a thin band of daylight could be seen shimmering, like a promise that not all was lost.

But it was a weak and distant hope, for whatever light managed to filter past the cloud was changed and tainted, and charged with heaviness and despair.

“What can be done?” someone asked.

She did not know who had spoken and did not really care.

Nothing, she thought. There is nothing any of us can do … not here, not now.

She turned away from the balcony and pushed her way back inside. She had no plan, she just wanted to get away from the darkness; at least until she could muster the strength she needed to face it again.

Tarmel was beside her; she felt his presence and was thankful for it. She was also grateful that he did not try to reassure her.

Illiom walked back to their room. She retrieved her bow and quiver and then sat down with them in her lap, as though they were her last source of comfort. Then, on a sudden impulse, she pulled out her Key.

The Key of Faith.

She held it out in front of her and stared at the ruby as it pulsed with power. The incarnadine light dappled her face, the ceiling, and the walls, and slowly the darkness that had begun to constrict her loosened its grip. Why had she not thought of this before? The Keys were an antidote for what loomed outside, and now she began to wonder in how many other ways they could prove to be valuable.

The others filed in, a few at a time.

Seeing Illiom’s Key blazing caused each to pause and stare. Elan was the first to emulate her, and soon they were all holding their own Key aloft. The small room was completely transformed then as the fire from each Key painted their faces with rainbow light.

The Riders looked upon their charges with wonder. They all stood thus, completely transfixed for a time, until Illiom began to feel the beginnings of a smile which was soon mirrored upon all their faces.

Sereth laughed like a child.

It was Azulya who spoke first.

“Time to go,” she said.

“Absolutely,” Sereth agreed.

They put their Keys away and darkness slowly returned. But the despondency that she had begun to feel earlier did not.

“Very well,” Malco’s tone was more buoyant than Illiom had heard in quite some time. “What do we need to do?”

He looked to Argolan.

“All that could be done is ready and waiting,” the Shieldarm answered. “Water, tents, weapons, and all things that do not spoil are already down in the stables, waiting to be packed. The only things left to gather are fresh food supplies, fodder for the horses, ah and yes, the horses themselves …”

“What about Grifor,” Malco asked. “Will she be healed enough to travel so soon?”

“Grifor is doing well. I went to see her last night and her wounds are mending nicely. However, I will not rouse her until the last possible moment …”

“What about you, Argolan?” Illiom asked. “Your leg ... I noticed that you are still limping.”

The Shieldarm turned towards her.

“I am healed enough, Illiom. Do not concern yourself with me, I have suffered much worse.”

Argolan turned to the Riders next, and tersely delegated her instructions, charging each with different areas of responsibility. When she was done and her charges had dispersed to carry out their orders, Argolan turned back to the Chosen.

“We are about to head into the unknown, so we must not rely on finding support along the way. Bear this in mind as you prepare. We will have to fend for ourselves and look after our own needs as best we can. Each of you must take charge of yourselves. If there is anything that you must have, then you will have to carry it. Remember not to overburden your horse; the less you carry the better … and at the same time, if you do not carry what is essential, you will suffer. I have taken charge of vital necessities - bedrolls, rain cloaks, blankets, water skins, tinderboxes. As far as clothes go, carry no more than one of anything, but remember this ... the clime grows ever colder, and winter is but a few moons away. You will want to keep warm if we are still on the road by the time it reaches us. So make sure that you provision yourself for bitter cold as well as for heat - remember that desert climes swing between both extremes.”

Illiom frowned.

She had not thought of that. How long would they be gone? How far would they need to travel? Altra seemed far enough to her, but the Forbidden Lands were as far again. The true enormity of the task before them now loomed over her.

The Shieldarm searched their faces to see whether her instructions had fallen on receptive ears.

“Once you have gathered everything, I will inspect your pile. If I do not approve of something, or if I feel that you have missed anything, I will let you know.”

“What about weapons?” Malco asked.

“If you want something other than what you already have, you must go to the armoury and secure what you want. Remember too that if you use bows or crossbows they will become useless once you run out of arrows or bolts, so bring enough to last you for a time.”

In that moment a Rider walked into the room.

Argolan turned to face him.

“What is it?”

“First Rider Zoran, reporting for duty, Shieldarm.”

The man stood bolt upright before her. As Riders went, he was not very tall. He had wavy black hair and brown eyes; a small scar marked the centre of his forehead.

Argolan frowned at him for a long moment before understanding dawned in her expression.

“Ah yes, Zoran,” she said, nodding to herself. She turned to the Chosen.

“Chosen Scald, this is Rider Zoran, your new escort.”

Scald looked at the newcomer without comment for a few moments.

The Rider looked back at him.

“Chosen Scald,” he said at length, his words followed by a perfunctory bow in Scald’s direction. “I understand that you have lost your Rider. I take her place from this day. My sword and my life are at your disposal.”

Scald frowned, but did not meet the Rider’s eye.

“Your Prince has made it clear that I must have you, whether I like it or not. But I want you to know that I do not want your life. That is your responsibility, not mine.”

“And yet it is still yours,” Zoran answered quietly.

Scald looked up then, and stared for a long moment into Zoran’s dark eyes. In the end, he just nodded and turned away, busying himself with his gear.

Zoran looked at his new charge with an expression that Illiom found completely inscrutable.

Within a mere three hours, all departure preparations were complete. Grifor, looking well rested and for the most part recovered, had rejoined them, and the Rider’s presence had brought with it a fresh levity.

The party that made its way down to the stables consisted of sixteen: the seven Chosen, their escort of Riders, the descrier Kassargan and the Iolan conjurer, Keilon Var.

When they arrived, they found Shrian Olum waiting outside the stable entrance. As they approached, the scholar turned towards them. Her lopsided smile had always given Illiom a pang of sympathy, but this time there was sadness in Shrian’s eyes. The scholar moved to intercept her.

“I caught wind that you were about to leave and I could not let you go without saying farewell.“

“I was wondering if you were coming with us,” Illiom replied. “We have shared quite a stretch of the journey already …”

Shrian shook her head slowly.

“Regrettably, I have had as much excitement as I can stomach. I would be quite content to live out the rest of my days in the college.”

Illiom peered at the woman uncertainly.

“Are you sure? It seems to me that staying here might be fraught with even more danger than coming with us …”

“Nevertheless,” Shrian Olum said. “If Kuon is to fall I would prefer to fall with her. Better than to be elsewhere, mourning everything that I have ever valued.”

“Be safe, Chosen,” Shrian said, hugging Illiom then turning to embrace them all within the sweep of her glance.

“All of you. Be safe.”

Moments later Shrian Olum turned and walked away, and Illiom wondered if she would ever see the scholar again.

She sighed, and then followed the others into the stables where the stable-master awaited them.

“The Iolans have sent back your own horses, along with two dozen of their Surmur steeds,” he announced, with a measure of awe in his voice. “I have never set eyes on one before, though I have heard many tales of their legendary resilience. Their handlers have been speculating as to the nature of the journey, for the Draca of Iol has never before offered these prized horses to any other …”

“Twenty-four horses?” Argolan interrupted. “We actually only need seventeen - nine for riders and eight for supplies. The Riders and I will not change horses …”

“Oh, I understand,” muttered the other. “I would have assumed nothing less. I tried to tell this to the Iolans but …”

Illiom lost all interest in the conversation then, for just as they rounded a corner, there they stood, arrayed before them.

Though smaller than the Riders’ mounts, they were absolutely stunning, all sharing the same lustrous, jet-black coat. Illiom found them to be even more beautiful than the destriers, with their elegant, slender necks, straight legs, and graceful proportions.

They watched the approaching group with large, intelligent eyes. A few snorted softly. Several Iolans who had been readying them also turned to look at the newcomers.

Without thinking, Illiom made her way towards them; she locked eyes with one splendid creature that sported a luxuriant silver mane. He seemed to be looking directly at her.

The steed’s ears twitched as Illiom approached. He turned his whole body around to face her, stepping forward to meet her.

Illiom stopped, suddenly uncertain of the powerful creature heading towards her. The horse did not hesitate but came right up to her and she found herself stroking the side of his face. He nuzzled her and then made a long, measured lick down the front of her vest.

Taken by surprise, Illiom took a step backwards. The horse looked up at her for a moment and then stretched his neck forward again and continued to lick her vest.

Embarrassed, uncertain of what she should do, Illiom looked to Tarmel. The Rider did not look at her but smiled to himself.

“He likes you,” one of the Iolans said. “He has chosen you.”

She looked at the man sharply but he only grinned in response.

“That is how it is with the Surmur steed; they do the choosing, not we …”

Illiom looked at the horse with new interest and already felt a kinship developing.

“Hello,” she said, stroking his muzzle, taking in the length and the size of him.

He stomped his right foot a few times and, quite instinctively, Illiom knew that he would be nothing like Calm or his replacement.

“What am I going to call you?”

The horse’s ears flicked back at the sound of her voice and he snorted.

“You are as black as night, except for your beautiful mane,” she whispered, stroking his great head. She recalled a night on the Diamantine; Sudra had hung in the black sky and the waters beneath the Goddess were unfathomably dark, but the foam on the crest of the waves shone silver, just like his mane.

“Night Foam?” she asked after a moment. “Do you like that name?”

The horse grunted.

“I think he likes the ‘night’ part well enough, but is not so keen on the ‘foam’. Cannot say I blame him,” Tarmel teased.

“Well, what would you call him?” she asked, without turning to face her Rider.

“Black Lightning,” he said, without hesitation.

This time she did turn.

“I like that!”

Then, turning back to the steed, she asked, “Do you like that better, Black Lightning?”

The horse continued to lick her, all the while looking directly into her eyes. She was about to make a second comment about the name when the horse blinked.

It was no ordinary blink, for the eyelid itself did not seem to close. An almost completely transparent membrane had descended over his eyes for an instant, just long enough to catapult Illiom into an earlier and almost forgotten memory.

She had come to regard it as a dream, but now she knew with certainty that it had not been. She remembered it clearly: a man’s face hovering close to hers in the howling wind, the man’s eyes open wide and yet similarly protected by a transparent membrane, just as Black Lightning’s eyes were.

It had happened in Iol when she had become lost in the sandstorm. She turned to the Iolan handler.

“Do they all have eye-coverings like this?”

The man nodded.

“They do. The sheath is like a second eyelid, one of the peculiar features of the Surmur breed,” he explained. “It enables them to withstand the worst possible conditions by preventing sand from …”

“Are there also some people who have similar eye sheaths?” Illiom interrupted.

The Iolan looked at her as though puzzled by the question.

“Yes, of course, the Shakim – our desert tribals. It is they who breed the Surmur steed …”

Black Lightning had stopped licking and was now nuzzling her shoulder bag instead.

“There is nothing in there for you, my sweet,” Illiom said, running her fingers through the coarse silver hair of his mane.

The Chosen and their Riders could only spend a few moments with their mounts, for there was very little time to spare before they needed to set off.

It was touching to witness the instant recognition and palpable bond that existed between the Riders and their horses.

Illiom stood watching Tarmel with his horse and, for the first time, saw them as an inextricable pair. She fully sympathised with the Riders’ loyalty to their mounts and with their refusal to even consider exchanging them for the Iolan steeds, regardless of any possible advantages.

The final preparations were made; the packhorses were loaded, saddles and bags were adjusted, straps tightened, and they were ready to leave.

Argolan and the Riders mounted their horses and Illiom climbed carefully onto Black Lightning’s saddle, but her new horse accepted her weight easily. The rest of the Chosen did likewise.

There was a further short delay whilst the Iolans, obviously still attached to their charges, made their final lingering farewells.

However, soon afterwards, and for the second time in as many moons, Illiom and the rest of the Chosen rode out of Kuon’s Palace at a trot, bound for the unknown.

Once outside, the darkness of the storm cloud loomed oppressively over them, and soon Illiom found herself gasping for breath.

Suddenly she wished for nothing more than to be gone from Varadon’s Keep as swiftly as possible.

Their ride along Garrison Road was uneventful until they reached King’s Parade. Here they found themselves confronted by a torrent of people, animals, and carts, all seeking sanctuary in Kuon.

They pushed past the wall of Blades that prevented the refugees from entering Garrison Road, and made their way towards Saryam’s Gate, struggling against the advancing human tide.

They were the only ones travelling away from the city.

When at long last they reached the Gate, they quickly realised that there was no way they could reach the drawbridge. The Gate’s entrance was so tightly jammed with people that not even a single person could have pushed their way through.

“What is happening?” Argolan called out to the nearest Blades, needing to shout out several times over the roar of pleading voices of those seeking refuge. Eventually one looked over dismissively before recognizing the Shieldarm and making her way towards her.

The woman virtually had to shout into Argolan’s face to be heard.

“You are not thinking of going down, are you? Because nothing is going down. Traffic is now only one way ... up.”

“What is happening?” Argolan repeated.

“It started a couple of hours ago,” the woman answered, wiping sweat from her face and neck, her short auburn hair plastered to her head. “Rumours have wings. Since the Kroeni invaders have been sighted, all order has fallen completely by the wayside ...”

“Ollord’s army has already been spotted?” Argolan interrupted her.

Icicles of terror crystallized in Illiom’s throat.

“Aye, they are bound to reach the Serp by nightfall … the number of people spilling through the Gate has almost doubled now and it will be impossible for anyone to descend …” She looked at their party with an appraising frown. “Not that anyone in their right mind would want to venture down at this stage. Those poor people still down below are desperately trying to reach the Keep before the invaders reach them …”

She let the sentence hang, unfinished, but Illiom had a pretty clear idea of what it would mean for the men, women, and children who fell into Kroeni hands.

The Blade shook her head hopelessly.

“Anyway, the Ward below has failed to contain the stream of refugees. I guess it would be impossible to stop them, except by putting them to the sword …”

“Are we trapped then?” asked Sereth, his eyes wide with concern.

No one answered him.

Argolan was already turning her horse away, making for a path that climbed to the left of the Gate’s fortifications. The others exchanged glances for a moment and then followed her lead.

The path led up to the cliff’s edge, to a place where it overlooked the Serp. Argolan dismounted, giving her horse’s reins to Grifor before approaching the edge. Several others, including Illiom, joined the Shieldarm to peer down.

The fires, at each bend of the road, were still burning, and by their light Illiom could see that the Serp was packed with a continuous ribbon of humanity, all the way down to the plains. It was dark on account of the cloud but, even so, Illiom thought she could make out a sea of people pressing in to gain access to the Serp.

Her eyes filled with tears and she shook her head as despair constricted her throat.

She glanced at the Gate.

Even the bridge that spanned the chasm between the end of the road and the Gate was crowded with people and wains. Yet more kept coming up behind the ones already there, pressing forward, trying to push their way to safety.

Pushed and crushed by the crowd coming up behind them, the way forward blocked by a wall of Blades, those closest to the sides of the bridge had nowhere to go.

Except down.

Even as Illiom watched, one, two … five shapes toppled over the sides of the bridge.

Falling, they tumbled over and over, their final screams fading as they vanished into the gloom.