His knight obeyed in some haste, turning a puzzled frown to hs king.
"Majesty?"
"He was not indulging in dramatics," Brorsavar murmured.
"Look; is his nose not broken?"
A thin thread of blood was running out from under the motionless head, to flow its unhurried way across the tiled floor of the court.
"Falcon," the knight muttered, drawing back. "What struck him down so, d'ye think?"
In reply, King Melander silently spread his hands just as the fallen wizard had done, to signify he knew not. The knight barely had time to see the gesture, and no time at all to catch any courtiers' eyes and decide if a polite chuckle was appropriate, when there came a stir from beyond the nearest entry arch, and the guards barring entrance there.
"Let me through!" someone snarled angrily. "Majesty! Urgent news!"
The King of Galath made a brief, beckoning gesture to signal the archway guards to let the new arrival through.
It was one of the court scribes, a man neither young nor humble. He had never before been known to appear before the throne sweating and wild-eyed with fear, but he was in such a state now. Melander wordlessly extended his hand toward the man, palm out, signifying that the scribe should speak.
The scribe bowed low, almost falling in his nervous haste, then went down on one knee, and then blurted out in a rush, "Great King, all the wizards you hired to scry the realm and map it have collapsed! All of them, at once, dashed senseless to the floor as if by some giant hand!"
"Dead?" Brorsavar asked calmly.
"N-no, though some of them bleed from mouth or nose or eyes, M-majesty," the scribe stammered. "One of them was clutching his head and mumbling, and we tried to question him. We shook him and spake loudly in his ear, but he fell dumb and dreaming like the rest. We heard him say just this: 'a great Shaping, and it begins.' Majesty, I thought you should know."
Then the scribe's gaze fell upon the man lying not far from where he was kneeling, and a little shriek of fear burst from him.
"Easy, Nollard," the King of Galath said soothingly. "Rise, and go take wine from our stewards yonder, and drink."
He stood, and added in a dry voice, looking out across the court, "I begin to fear that many of us, as this day unfolds, may have cause to join you."
Through another archway came the muted thunder of running booted feet, and the cry, "Majesty! Grave news!"
King Melander Brorsavar smiled wryly. "And so, as they say, it begins."
Malraun the Matchless sat up in bed, awake in an instant, alarmed. Though Darswords was quiet around him, something was very much awry.
In distant Harlhoh, something had shattered the very foundation-spells he'd cast when strengthening and warding his tower.
Which meant a wizard more powerful than any he knew of, anywhere in Falconfar, was at work with destroying spells-or something else had caused the tower to shatter and fall.
Either way…
He bent and kissed the bound and helpless Taeauna. Not out of any great affection, but so as to most swiftly and efficiently strengthen his mind-link with her, so it could be used to snap back to her body if he needed to flee in haste from trouble. Surrounded by all of the greatfangs bred by that idiot Narmarkoun, for instance, or-
Shrugging away such useless speculation, he closed his eyes and said the word that would take him in an instant to Malragard.
So it was that he never saw the flash of triumph in the eyes of the bound Aumrarr behind him.
Lorontar had been waiting a long time for Malraun to do this.
The wizard Narmarkoun stood alone in a large and gloomy hall in Yintaerghast, staring at a glowing sphere of his own conjuring that floated in the air before him.
He'd laughed aloud when Malragard had fallen. Oh, would Malraun be furious! The man of Earth, wandering alone and halfwitted, somehow avoiding all the traps that had claimed the lives of veteran warriors, high-priced thieves, and the most daring of Stormar wizards-for-hire. Only to do this.
Nicely Shaped, indeed!
The dolt Everlar was still alive! He'd somehow brought the tower down around his ears-crushing most of Malraun's prized beasts, mind! — yet not been himself crushed in its fall! There he was, coughing in the dust, staggering away from the heap of gowns he'd snored on and-
But hold!
As the dust eddied and drifted, and Rod Everlar came stumbling out into a relatively clear area of floor, another figure appeared in midair just above him, literally standing over him.
It was Malraun, here by his own teleportation magic.
Narmarkoun snarled out wordless hatred, watching the Matchless One start to step down from the invisible, momentary platform of force his magic had created. Once Malraun set boot on the tiles of Malragard, the teleport spell would end and he'd be free of its force-echoes, free to work magic. Magic that would undoubtedly slay the meddling Shaper.
Malraun's foot came down, his other leg started forward-and Narmarkoun astonished himself.
Although he'd intended to bide here, watching all and awaiting his best time to strike, Narmarkoun found himself crying out an incantation he did not know, words and runes he'd never seen before.
It was if a door had opened in his mind to shine forth bright amber radiance through his head, a light he couldn't turn to look at however desperately he strove to… the spell he did not know was done and unfolding, more power than he'd ever felt before was flooding through him-and where had it all come from? — and he was trembling like a leaf in a storm wind, mouth open in slack-jawed amazement.
As the lambent sphere of his spying-spell showed Narmarkoun scenes of distant Earth, of his six servitor Dark Helms snatched bodily out of the strange glass castle they were scouring out there, bloody swords in their hands-and the lorn with them, a limp and dripping corpse in their wake.
As the blue-skinned Doom watched in mute wonder, the six warriors and the lorn hurtled at him and then flashed past him, hurtled along through a whirling tunnel of translocation, howling flows of magic Narmarkoun had called into being without knowing how. Flows that whispered a name as they whisked the six and the one to Malragard, and literally flung them at Malraun, dashing that wizard headlong across the tiles.
That name was "Lorontar."
Malraun raised his right hand, too angry to keep this Shaper as a useful captive. He would lash the man to death, lash him with lightnings, burn off his hands and feet yet use spells to keep this Rod Everlar awake in screaming suffering!
Malragard had been beautiful, and it had been his, and no one, no one, would take it from him and not pay the priii-
Lightning crawled up his fingers and spat sparks into the air, and he snarled and brought his hand down to hurl them at Everlar.
Who ducked, dodged, and fell hard, spinning and scissoring his feet around to sweep Malraun's ankles out from under him.
He crashed to the tiles, shouting in anger, and scrambled up to-
Do nothing to Everlar at all, as dark and heavy armored bodies slammed into Malraun in a tide out of nowhere, a tide that hacked and sliced and spat curses as it crashed into him.
His breath was gone, all thoughts of his spell with it, and Malraun numbed an elbow on hard tiles, then cracked the side of his head on tile hard enough for tears to come unbidden, and-something large and wet that stank very much of lorn blood slammed down on him and slid with him ere it bounced off and was gone.
Laughter, and running feet, and dark swords swinging down at him-
He rolled desperately, yet felt wet fire through his shoulder as a sword sliced deep. Falcon shit!
Malraun felt for the mind-link, desperate to take himself back to Darswords and away from these Dark Helms, to win time enough to breathe, Falcon spit, then high time enough to work a blasting spell that would-