Forral sensed that the Door Between the Worlds was opening once more. He could feel it, like a stirring of the tides of energy within his incorporeal form, like the subtle, almost imperceptible change of atmosphere between a worldly night and morning. Even as he cursed himself for a fool, the swordsman leapt to his feet and ran, as he had run so many times before, racing down the valley in a fruitless attempt to beat the Specter of Death to the already-widening portal.
As always, he was too late. Before he had reached the mouth of the valley, Forral could feel the change within him as the Door closed again upon the mundane world. Still he kept going, fighting his disappointment, anxious to catch a glimpse of the new arrival in the Reaper’s realm, and hoping that for once—just this once—he might be perceived. The ground mist swept aside from the valley’s dark mouth, to reveal the familiar sight of two figures, the bewildered newcomer led by the spectral figure of the old hermit with the lamp.
Memory struck Forral like a physical blow. Grief and a raging sense of injustice swept through the swordsman like an inferno as he beheld the familiar, stocky figure that followed in Death’s wake. He started forward eagerly. “Vannor! Vannor, old fox!”
“What? Who is that?” the merchant peered through the yswirling mist. For the first time that Forral could remember, his old friend looked confused and uncertain. Well, it was hardly surprising, was it? he chided himself. Suddenly he realized that Vannor probably would not understand, as yet, what happened to him. I had better tread very carefully, the swordsman thought—but it was already too late.
“Forral?” Vannor’s voice, usually so gruff, rose in an unsteady squeak. His eyes wide with horror, he began to back away through the mist. “It—it can’t be you,” he stammered. “Forral is dead”
The swordsman sighed. Clearly, there would be no gentle way to do this. He strode after the retreating figure. “So are you, Vannor old friend,” he said bluntly. “Why else would I be here?”
“You are here because you are recalcitrant and foolish.” Forral and Vannor swung round with a gasp. They had forgotten the presence of Death. The Specter was wearing the hooded guise of the old hermit who conducted those who had passed through the Door to their final rest. He beckoned to Vannor. “Come, Mortal. Pay no attention to this renegade—he will do your own cause no good whatsoever. You must accompany me to the Well of Souls, and be reborn.”
Vannor scowled. “Now just a minute,” he protested. “This renegade, as you call him, happens to be a friend of mine. I’m not going anywhere until I find out what is going on here.” His frown grew deeper. “What in the bloody blazes happened to me, anyway? I don’t remember how I got to be here. How is it that I’m dead?”
Death sighed. “If it matters at all, you were poisoned, as were most of your household.”
“What?” Vannor yelled. “Who did this? Who else was poisoned? All of them? Was Dulsina killed? What about Antor, my son?”
Your son has already passed this way.” Death shrugged. “The one you call Dulsina—no. It may be that her time is yet to come. As for the murderer’s identity—well, this is not the first occasion that your enemy has made a good deal of work for me.” He smiled grimly. “I look forward to the day I welcome that one into my realm.”
“Who?” Both men spoke simultaneously.
“The Magewoman Eliseth.” Death shrugged.
“She’s back?” Vannor gasped. “But—”
Forral wondered at his friend’s shocked response, but Death held up his hand, forestalling any further questions. “The manner of your coming here is of little import. You must come with me now, Vannor—and try, if you can, to persuade your friend to join you, for he refuses to listen to reason. Too long has he lingered Between the Worlds.”
Vannor gave the Specter a hard look. “I’ll accompany you if Forral will, but if he wants to stay here, I won’t leave him. He’s my friend.”
Forral felt relief wash over him in a flood of warmth. He had never realized just how desperately he had missed a friend in this dismal place. “Vannor, what about Aurian? I know she must be alive, because she hasn’t passed this way, but is she well? Is she safe? Is Anvar taking care of her? What about our child?” So anxious was he that the questions poured out of him, tumbling over one another without waiting for an answer.
A chill went through Forral when he saw the grave expression on the merchant’s face. “I’m sorry, Forral—I can’t answer you.” Vannor sighed. “About seven years ago, she and Anvar were attacked by Eliseth in the Vale. Aurian had found the Sword of Flame, but Eliseth stole it from her. Then the three of them disappeared—they literally vanished into nothingness.” He shook his head.
“I wish I ...” Suddenly an odd expression swept across his face. To the swordsman, it looked like stark fear. Forral blinked, and rubbed his eyes.—Light was deceptive in this place, but it looked to him as though Vannor was fading....
“Forral—help me,” the merchant cried. “I feel strange—there’s something pulling at me. . . . Oh Gods, I can’t see you. . . .” His voice diminished to a despairing wail that was drowned out by a roar from Death. “Stop! This soul is mine.”
Forral was brushed aside as the Specter lurched forward—but it was too late.—Vannor was gone.
6
Metamorphosis
According to the messenger, Vannor’s life hung in the balance. There was no time to lose. Yanis had put the fastest of the Nightrunner ships at Tarnal’s disposal and the winds were fair for Nexis, but to Zanna the vessel seemed frozen in time, as though it were trapped in the same ice that gripped her heart. She stood in the prow, grasping the rail until her fingers ached, trying to will the ship forward with every ounce of her formidable strength and her desperate need. Every second might make a difference. Her younger brother Antor was already dead—she had been given no chance to say her farewells to him. Zanna felt her heart constrict inside her with pain. It was so unfair! Antor had been little more than a child—he had scarcely begun to live, and now he never would.
Zanna swallowed back her tears, determined to stay in command of her emotions in this crisis. If only Tarnal were by her side to reassure her—but, as usual, he had assumed command. She could hear his voice in the background, giving orders to the men as he strove to plot the fastest course and adjust the sails so that every last scrap of speed could be coaxed from the boisterous wind. His zeal was unnecessary—this crew had been together for a long time and knew what was needed—but Zanna understood Tarnal’s need for occupation to prevent his thoughts from dwelling upon what might await them in Nexis. She, alas, was without such means of surcease, and she missed her husband desperately, wanting the comfort and support of his loving presence.—On the vessel flew, a grey shadow in the night-black sea, with the wind singing in die sheets and a high curl of creamy foam where the bows carved a path through the tossing waves. Unable to contain her impatience, Zanna left the bows and began to pace the slanting deck, oblivious to the risk. Hurry!—Her thoughts urged the vessel on. Oh, hurry! We must get there in time!—How could this happen now, when everything had been going so well? The seven years since the Battle of the Vale had been good ones. Is this our fault?—Zanna wondered as she paced. Did we let ourselves become complacent? When Vannor returned to the Nightrunners with the news that both Aurian and Anvar had vanished from the world, it had seemed a catastrophe beyond all understanding. Zanna and the Mages’ other friends and companions had grieved long and hard for them both, and Parric had been inconsolable. It had taken several days for Vannor to persuade them that not only their friends had been lost, but their enemies, too. Eliseth had gone the same way as Aurian and Anvar—then news arrived from Yanis’s contacts in Nexis that the Archmage had also disappeared.