Thirty years ago, all the golden days of prosperity had come to a shattering end. While Hilder, Gorm’s Lord Defender, languished near death, his second wife, anxious to secure her regency on behalf of their young son, secretly summoned the hideous Kolder to back her rule. The very night that Hilder died, the Kolder swept in from the sea, not as allies, but as merciless invaders. Most of Gorm’s inhabitants suffered an unspeakable fate, forced to fight as mindless slaves for the Kolder until they were killed by their own grieving former friends from Estcarp and Sulcarkeep. Following Sulcarkeep’s tragic, deliberate destruction by its own defenders to prevent its seizure by the Kolder’s forces, Estcarp’s Witches, aided by the famed Simon Tregarth, used their magic to launch a successful invasion of Gorm, exterminating all the Kolder lairing there. Ever since, the haunted island had been abandoned, mourned by all who remembered its fair past.
I now learned from Kasarian that Gratch, Gurborian’s prime henchman, was one of the few who escaped from Gorm shortly before the Kolder doomed the island. Unlike the Gormfolk I had known and respected, Gratch was evidently a wicked schemer, no doubt attracted to Alizon where his murderous talents would be most fully appreciated. Because of Gorm’s betrayal into the Kolder’s hands, Gratch loathed the Kolder, and thus aligned himself with Gurborian, who, for different reasons, shared that detestation for the foreign instigators of the war with the Dales.
I was startled when Kasarian confided that Lord Baron Mallandor had suspected Gurborian of conspiring against him. I had understood that Mallandor had relied upon Gurborian in their violent overthrow of the previous Lord Baron, Facellian. Kasarian boldly admitted to me, however, that he had not told me the entire truth at Lormt concerning the circumstances of Gurborian’s receipt of Elsenar’s jewel. The wretched baron had actually been awarded the stone on two separate occasions by two different Lords Baron!
I was numbed by Kasarian’s factual recital of the murderous intrigues and betrayals that saturated the Alizonian court. I hoped that he did not notice how my hand shook before I steadied my chalk when I queried him regarding the hideous double execution of a disgraced ruler and his underling who were literally fed to the hounds. It was as well that I could not speak, for I do not know what damaging words I might have blurted out—yet what words could have conveyed the depths of my affronted disbelief? I shuddered inwardly to think that countless generations of Alizonders had preyed upon one another in so cruel a fashion. It was difficult to grasp how Alizon had survived for so long when outright murder was a commended tactic for baronial advancement.
Clearly, Gurborian exemplified the most deplorable Alizonian traits. He had benefited from each major act of treachery, but not all of his schemes had succeeded. The execution of Mallandor’s Hound Master had left vacant that powerful Alizonian office of primary war baron. Gurborian attempted to sway the appointment by means of bribes and intimidation, but the new Lord Baron Norandor had ignored Gurborian’s machinations and installed one of his own men as Hound Master.
Kasarian warned me that Volorian had long been aware of the extent of Gurborian’s ambitious plotting. When I posed as Volorian, I should have to reflect his enduring animosity toward the murderer of his brother; Gurborian would expect it. Both Kasarian and I, in fact, would have to strive to convey a plausible change in our established attitudes, from entrenched opposition to grudging acceptance of Gurborian’s proposals. When . . . if we did obtain Elsenar’s jewel as a necessary bribe to secure Krevonel’s backing, Kasarian admonished me to disengage as quickly as possible, so that the jewel could be carried safely to Lormt, out of danger of discovery by the Dark forces of Escore.
As if struck by a sudden thought, Kasarian fell silent. He observed that he was not appropriately dressed to confer with Gurborian and Gratch, and invited me into the adjoining bedchamber. I had an initial fleeting impression of sober elegance. Dark blue wall hangings softened the expanses of bare stone, and I glimpsed a canopied bed draped with a matching blue brocade occupying a raised dais against the far wall. Before I could fully survey the room’s furnishings, however, my attention was exclusively engaged by one of the most terrifying sights I had ever beheld. When I half-turned as I passed a shadowed alcove, I found myself at the mercy of an enormous golden-eyed monster rearing up to attack me. I nearly fell, lurching backward and to one side in what I expected to be a futile effort to evade the nightmare’s fangs and claws. Had I possessed a voice, I should have cried out in despair . . . then I abruptly realized that the beast had not moved.
Doubtless alerted by his sensitive ears as well as his swordsman’s eye for movement behind him, Kasarian spun on his heel, one of his belt daggers ready in his hand. When I gestured at the monster, he laughed aloud. “I should have warned you in advance about Krevonel’s most noteworthy trophy,” he said, sheathing his dagger as rapidly as he had drawn it.
Plucking a torch from a nearby stone embrasure, Kasarian raised it to illuminate what I could now see was a gigantic wolf-like creature whose thick-furred hide had been preserved and mounted upon a hidden framework to mimic the effects of a living, lunging predator. Kasarian was a tall man, but the rampant creature’s outstretched front paws loomed above his shoulders. He regarded the horror with an expression that I had seen only once before, when he had brought me his hound pup. It seemed impossible to believe, but he was genuinely proud, even . . . fond of this monster.
“So few sightings are reported nowadays,” Kasarian mused. “My sire’s sire killed this dire wolf many years ago during a hunt in our northern mountains. The craftsman who mounted the skin achieved a splendid effect with the eyes, don’t you think?” He waved the torch from side to side. I tried not to shudder as the glittering eyes appeared to shift within the massive skull. “Pure gold orbs with black stones inset for the pupils,” Kasarian explained. “They provide a most life-like impression.” He sighed regretfully. “I have never had the fortune to sight a dire wolf myself,” he said. “My sire once told me that he had encountered unmistakable tracks, but the winter weather was too severe for his hunting party to pursue them. Still, we cherish this excellent specimen which not even Gurborian can match, for all his wealth and power.”
I welcomed the goblet of fortifying wine that Kasarian poured from a silver ewer on a side table, and was equally grateful when he offered me a cushioned chair. He then strode to the door to shout for Gennard to attend him in his robing chamber.
My pounding heart had slowed to a more reasonable pace by the time Kasarian returned. I had to admit that he made a striking figure in midnight blue velvet tunic and hose, white leather belt and boots, and with an even more elaborate gold baronial chain suspended across his chest.
He had scarcely seated himself when Gennard thrust open the door. “Master,” he called urgently. “Bodrik has been wounded.”
Jumping to his feet, Kasarian demanded, “Where is he? Was he able to return to Krevonel?” Before Gennard could answer, we heard an approaching clamor in the outer corridor, and suddenly Bodrik himself reeled into the room, closely pursued by several liveried servants scrambling to assist him. Krevonel’s castellan had been sorely battered. A blood-soaked rag had been wound around his neck, and his formerly spotless livery was torn and streaked with more blood. He fell to his knees at Kasarian’s feet, and tried unsuccessfully to raise his right hand to his chest where his House badge had been nearly ripped away. “Arm slashed,” he muttered.
Kasarian immediately knelt, steadying Bodrik with a firm hand to each shoulder. “Gennard,” he ordered, “Send for Wolkor, then fetch a basin of water and bandages. The rest of you, away to your duties.”