Engines of War

Book 3: The Age of Uprising

by R.S. Ford

Genres: Epic Fantasy

Synopsis

From an unmissable voice in epic fantasy comes the final novel in a trilogy where guilds clash, magic fuels machines, and an all-out war has consumed an empire.

“Ford succeeds in building a complex fantasy world, complete with warring factions, fearsome creatures, and bloody struggles for power . . . Fans of R.A. Salvatore’s DemonWars Saga will be especially hooked.” –– Publishers Weekly on Engines of Empire

“A heady blend of action, arcana, and intrigue.” –– Gareth Hanrahan, author of The Gutter Prayer, on Engines of Empire

"The latest from Ford is the first in a new series that will give fantasy readers exactly what they want: conspiracy, magic, a delectable cast of characters, and an ending that will leave them begging to know what happens next." –– Booklist on Engines of Empire

Publisher: Orbit

Print pages: 576

Sample

An unholy wind whipped down from the Dolur Peaks as Gylbard stood at the summit of Wyrmhead, looking out at the vista. The cold air blew through his white-and-gold robes, but the old man had long since learned to ignore the discomfort. His joints would chide him for it later, despite his position as Archlegate—but age did not care for titles.

From the top of the fortress he could look out onto the northern extents of Torwyn from Kalur’s Fist, rising from amid the mountain range in the north, to the Drift, falling away in the west. South and east were miles of flat country, crisscrossed by winding rivers that fed each of the Guildlands. Wyrmhead was at the apex providing succour, both literal and spiritual, to the whole of Torwyn.

As Gylbard looked out over the white stone parapet, Tapfoot stalked toward him along the balustrade. The cat paused when she reached him, rubbing her head against his hand. Gylbard lifted her gently from the edge, cradling her against him and hearing her purr softly into his chest.

“How many times must I tell you?” he whispered. “There is much danger here. You must be more careful.”

He turned from the balcony, making his way back inside the vestibule that was perched at the summit of the great tower. Inside, Ansell was waiting for him.

The knight commander of the Drakes stood well over six feet, his dragon helm making him appear even taller. His armour was polished to a mirror sheen, surcoat bearing the symbol of the Draconate: a dragon rampant surrounded by five stars, each of a different hue. Gylbard might have been intimidated, but the Drakes were faithful servants of the Draconate Ministry, raised from childhood to serve the Archlegate and his priests.

Bowing his head, Ansell dropped to one knee as Gylbard approached.

“Archlegate,” he said, his deep voice made even more resonant from within the close-faced helm. “High Legate Egelrath is here to speak with you.”

“Ah yes,” Gylbard replied. “Then I suppose we should get this over with. Send him in.”

As Ansell left, Gylbard sat in one of the high-backed chairs beside the winnowing fire. He absently stroked Tapfoot’s back, letting her gentle purring soothe him. For many months now Egelrath had been visiting Wyrmhead. He had voiced his concerns ever louder and more frequently, entreating the Archlegate to act against the constant erosion of the Ministry’s powers. But what was Gylbard to do? The Guilds ran Torwyn now, their industry feeding its people and protecting its borders. The Ministry’s authority was waning, and there was little any of them could do about it.

“Archlegate.”

Gylbard turned to see Sanctan Egelrath kneeling, head bowed. Ansell stood beside him, towering over the priest. A wicked thought entered Gylbard’s head that it would have been so easy to have Ansell rid him of this troublesome upstart, but the notion was gone as soon as it came.

“Please, Sanctan, take a seat,” Gylbard said.

Egelrath rose, moving beside the fire. “If you don’t mind, I will stand. The ride north has left me somewhat sore about the buttocks.”

Gylbard smirked. Pain in the buttocks was more than appropriate for a man so bothersome. “Thank you, Ansell. You may leave.”

“No, Archlegate,” Sanctan said. “Please let him stay. There is nothing I have to say that a Knight of the Draconate may not hear.”

Gylbard shrugged. “Very well. What may I do for you this time?”

Sanctan smiled. His teeth were white, jaw square, hair thick and well-groomed. It made Gylbard all the more conscious of how old he was—of his own bald pate and the white of his beard. Sanctan Egelrath was barely thirty, and already he had gained the position of High Legate. It was unheard of in the annals of the Draconate Ministry, but then, Sanctan was a testament to how far and how quickly an ambitious man could rise. He was popular among both the legates and Drakes—Gylbard had been left with little choice but to approve the man’s ordainment.

“Firstly, you might allow me to stoke this fire,” Sanctan said, approaching the hearth. “It’s freezing in here.” He grabbed a poker, hitching up the red robes that marked him as an adherent of the Great Wyrm Undometh, before he knelt by the fire and put some life back into the flames.

“I appreciate your concern, Sanctan, but I doubt you’ve come all this way to see after my comfort.”

“Indeed not,” Sanctan replied. He turned and fixed Gylbard with his usual serious visage. “I assume you have heard about the impending arrival of an emissary from Malador?”

Gylbard sighed, tousling Tapfoot’s ears, trying to take comfort from the cat’s purring.

“Of course.”

“And?”

Gylbard fought to keep himself calm. He had to show patience. “And what, Sanctan?”

“What do you intend to do about it? Malador is a threat to the freedom of all Torwyn. Those demon worshippers want nothing less than the destruction of everything we have built. They will not stop until the kingdom is in flames and our idols consumed. And now Sullivar welcomes an emissary. It cannot stand.”

“It can and it will,” Gylbard replied, keeping his voice calm and even in contrast with Sanctan’s ranting. “Sullivar only wants peace, as do we all. Receiving an emissary is the first step toward that guarantee. The first step after a thousand years.”

“He is capitulating. We have faced a constant threat from the west. Our borders have been tested innumerable times. Malador is not our friend and never will be, no matter how many emissaries they send.”

“I disagree,” said Gylbard. He stared at Sanctan, as though willing him to defy the word of the Archlegate. The priest remained silent. “A treaty is exactly what we need. The emissary does not represent the whole of Malador, only Nyrakkis, a nation I believe wants peace.”

“And Iperion Magna? You believe they want peace too?”

Gylbard shook his head. “One thing at a time, Sanctan. Once a treaty is signed with Nyrakkis, Iperion Magna will surely follow.”

“And you believe that?”

“I have had assurances from Sullivar himself. There is no reason to doubt him.”

Sanctan turned to stare into the flames that had now responded to his attentions. The flickering fire bestowed a devilish aspect to his handsome face. Tapfoot gave a low mewl, reminding Gylbard he had stopped stroking her.

“You know he has proclaimed himself ‘emperor’?” Sanctan said, still staring into the fire. “His power grows while ours still dwindles.”

“I have heard,” Gylbard replied, his patience wearing thin.

“And that soon he will proclaim that the Guildlands are to be known as ‘princedoms’? Princedoms, Gylbard. And he seated above them? What next? Are we to be renamed too? Cast out? Reduced to mere tokens?”

Gylbard rose to his feet, feeling a shooting pain in his knee, which he tried his best to ignore. He cradled Tapfoot in his arms, stroking her gently, reassuring her all the while.

“Your belief in the notion we are powerless does you no justice, Sanctan. Sullivar is not half the man his father was. Compared to Treon Archwind, Sullivar is but a boy playing a man’s game. The Ministry has always been the sole ecclesial authority in Torwyn. The Guilds still pay fealty to the Draconate. Your fears are unfounded.”

“By your own words Sullivar is weak. And a weak ruler is worse than any tyrant. Sullivar will lead Torwyn to ruin.”

“You are fearful over nothing, Sanctan. You must calm yourself.”

The heat from the fire was cloying now. Gylbard turned and made his way back onto the high terrace. Once again he looked out over the view of Torwyn, drawing some comfort from it.

Sanctan followed him out, coming to stand beside him.

“If we do not rise, if we do not retake what was once ours, all this will be gone,” Sanctan said, gesturing at the beautiful sight of their homeland. “We have to show the Guilds who holds the real power in Torwyn. For far too long we have allowed them to govern unchecked.”

“And what would you have me do? Order a coup? A revolt against the Guilds? Rise up and usurp their power by force?”

“If that’s what it takes. Many of the Armiger Battalions serve their own interests in Karna Uzan protecting the flow of pyrestone. There has never been a better time—”

“No!” Gylbard shouted. Tapfoot squirmed in his grip, but he held on tight to her, feeling the cat dig a claw into his arm. More pain to ignore. “I’ve suffered enough of this impertinence. Now you go too far. Have you forgotten your scripture, Sanctan? Only when the Draconate return shall we rise again. Only when we have a sign.”

“More talk of prophecy,” Sanctan said. “You would wait for dragons to return to Torwyn before you act? Meanwhile the Ministry is reduced to what? A gaggle of petty preachers? We were once revered in Torwyn. We ruled these lands and protected them. The threat from Malador is real. We have to do something. We cannot wait for a sign prophesied in some crumbling old tome.”

Gylbard felt his ire rising. He could barely quell it, yearning to rage at his underling, but Sanctan was young. Surely this boy could be curbed without resorting to extreme measures.

“I will forgive your heresy this time, Sanctan. One more word and I will not. The High Legates answer to me, and I will be the one to dictate the actions of the Ministry. I am still the Archlegate.”

“And what use are you, old man?”

Gylbard could suppress his fury no longer. He held on tight to Tapfoot, trembling at the words of his subordinate.

“Enough,” he spat through gritted teeth. “You are done, Egelrath. I will summon the High Legates. You will regret the way you have spoken to me.”

“I doubt that, Gylbard.”

Before he could redress Sanctan further, something hit him in the back. Tapfoot fell from his grip as he staggered forward, his hands grasping the parapet. Gylbard tried to stand, but his legs would no longer hold him up and he crumpled to the floor. He looked up to see Ansell standing there, sword unsheathed, blood on the blade.

“No,” Gylbard managed to whisper.

“Yes,” Sanctan replied. He was cradling Tapfoot, and the cat seemed comfortable in his grip. “Your time is at an end, old man. Mine has just begun.”

“No,” Gylbard said again, reaching out a trembling hand toward Tapfoot.

Sanctan looked down at the cat, content in his arms. “A treacherous creature. Once yours, and now clearly mine. Such a fickle little thing, and you were blind to it all this time. But fear not, Gylbard. The cat will be safe with me. As will Torwyn’s future.”

“This is not the way, Sanctan,” Gylbard tried to say, but his words were lost on the wind. Sanctan had already turned away, was already relaying his orders to Ansell.

Gylbard could only watch helplessly as the chill seeped into his bones and the world darkened.

That dream again, returning night after night to haunt him in vivid colour. Ansell had rarely been a sound sleeper, but in recent weeks he had awoken before dawn plagued by night terrors, feeling more fatigued than when he laid down his head. But they were not nightmares. Memories would have been a better way to describe them. Stark visions of his past sent to taunt him.

In the haze of morning, it was impossible to distinguish between those dreams and his misdeeds, and there were so many misdeeds to choose from. The only sure thing was the one that cut the deepest… Gylbard. When Ansell had slid the blade into that old man’s back, he had been convinced it was the right thing to do. The Archlegate’s stubborn inaction would have doomed them all. Now, in the cold clarity of hindsight, the truth of it was plain; Sanctan had only wanted Gylbard removed from his path to power.

That frail old man had been a father to them all. The Archlegate they deserved. And now they were left with…

Ansell rose sluggishly, squinting in the stuttering light of the candle still burning on his table. His eyes focused on the book that sat beside it. The book he had studied since he was a boy. The book he had abandoned.

Was this his punishment for turning his back on the Draconate Prophesies? To be tortured by dreams of the past? Was it the Great Wyrms who tormented him so?

Ansell smirked at the thought, feeling the tightening of flesh around his mouth where it still refused to heal. No, he was plagued by no gods. It was his own conscience that punished him, that reminded him each night of how far he had strayed from the right path. But he could see no way back now—not while he still followed Egelrath.

A knock at the door. A merciful distraction from his thoughts. Ansell stood, feeling the ache of old wounds and the tug of those only recently knitted shut. Conscious it might be Grace come to visit him at such an early hour, he tied a blanket to his waist, covering his nakedness before crossing to the door. When he opened it and saw who awaited him, Ansell found it difficult to disguise his disappointment.

“Knight Commander,” said Legate Kinloth with a bow, ignoring the despondent sigh that greeted him.

“It is early,” Ansell replied. “Even for you.”

“Yes.” Kinloth bowed again in apology, before gesturing toward Ansell’s chamber. “May I?”

Ansell took a step back, allowing Kinloth to enter. The legate glanced fretfully about the room as though there might be someone waiting inside to attack him. Always the nervous one, this Kinloth. Fearful of his own inconsequential shadow. Constantly looking as though he had something to say, but lacking the courage to say it.

“What can I do for you at this unearthly hour?” asked Ansell.

Kinloth cleared his throat. “Actually, it is almost midday.”

Clearly Ansell’s fitful dreaming had gone on for longer than he thought. “Then what can I do for you at this late hour?”

“The Archlegate has requested your presence. He asked that I come see you were dressed and brought to him with all haste.”

Ansell had foregone the privilege of a personal serf to help him dress since the day he was granted his position as knight. Curious that Sanctan would now send him Kinloth to do the deed.

“I can dress myself well enough.”

Kinloth picked at his fingernails, jaw working as he tried to think of the right way to speak his next words. “When I say he asked me… I probably mean he commanded me.”

As irritating as this was, it would only have been cruel to put Kinloth through any further discomfort. “Very well. See to it then, and be swift. We should not keep him waiting.”

Kinloth went about the task meticulously, helping Ansell into his trews and gambeson, before buckling his plate. As he did so, Ansell could not quell the feeling of unease that nibbled at him like a rat on his neck. He had not seen Sanctan for days, not since their meeting in the tower of Ravenothrax. It was obvious he had fallen out of the Archlegate’s favour, and it would not be out of character for Sanctan to reconsider the show of mercy he had offered that day. Nevertheless, it was doubtful he would have ordered Ansell fully decked in his regalia if he was planning an execution. Would he?

Kinloth finished securing the armour and offered Ansell his helmet. As Ansell cradled it in the crook of his arm, the legate took his sword from its stand, struggling somewhat with the weight of it.

“I should carry this for you, Knight Commander.”

“There is no need, Kinloth,” Ansell replied. “It is my burden, and mine alone.”

Again the legate’s jaw worked frenetically. “I am afraid the Archlegate insists. And it is an honour to be granted a sword bearer… I am led to believe.”

Perhaps in times past, during the Age of Kings, sword bearers were considered fashionable among the nobility, but no Knight of the Draconate was ever parted from his weapon—not even in death. Ansell should have insisted he carry it, but these were clearly explicit instructions passed down by Sanctan himself.

That rat began to nibble at Ansell’s neck with ever sharper teeth. “Very well. Lead the way.”

Another bow from Kinloth, and perhaps a look of relief, before he made his way to the door. His spindly arms struggled to bear the weight of the sword, and his stub-nailed fingers fumbled at the doorhandle before he managed to open it.

As Ansell followed the legate through the vaults of the Mount he wondered where Grace might be. Normally he would visit with her, ensure her lessons were proceeding well and that she was eating enough. If he was absent for any reason she often took it upon herself to seek him out, but not today.

He tried to dismiss his worries as Kinloth led them up into the nave of the Mount. It was silent—there had been no visitors for days, the doors sealed and guarded against any interlopers. The lack of worshippers offered the place a strange serenity, though more akin to a sepulchre than a chapel. A pall of loss hung in the air, as though this ancient temple lamented the lack of its congregation come to seek solacement from the gods.

A few hooded legates lit votives or clasped their bunched amulets as they prayed. Of Ansell’s fellow knights there was little sign, but then most had been sent to the four corners of Torwyn to secure the Archlegate’s dominion. Little wonder the place had been sealed, with so few left to guard its sanctity.

Ansell followed Kinloth, still struggling with that heavy sword, toward the temple gardens. Through the archway he could see the trees and bushes that had once been carefully tended were now overgrown. Even the gardeners had been dismissed from their labours in recent weeks, and the evidence was plain to see.

Once across the threshold, he heard Sanctan’s voice in the distance, crooning in that gentle preacher’s tone. Kinloth proceeded toward it, and when Ansell saw who the Archlegate was speaking to it felt as though the rat at his neck had suddenly gripped him in rabid jaws.

“… and these flowers only blossom in the middle of autumn,” Sanctan said, as he teased the bud of some plant or other. “We dry and crush the petals, and mix the powder with incense to turn the smoke blue.”

Grace watched him intently, spellbound by his words. Sanctan’s hand was laid gently on her shoulder as he appeared every inch the wise teacher, and she his attentive pupil. Father and daughter locked in a tender moment. Ansell was struck by how unusual it seemed. Had the Archlegate turned over a new leaf? Was he really teaching his daughter about the temple gardens out of some newly discovered paternal affection? Ansell found it hard to believe.

Before he could wonder further, his eye drifted to the edge of the garden, seeing Olstrum watching from the periphery. His expression gave nothing away as usual, though Ansell was sure his mind must have been racing. Perhaps he was even thinking about his own children. Of how he should be teaching them about blossoms and plants, and other carefree matters, when instead their lives hung in the balance.

“Ah, Ansell—so glad you could join us.”

He turned at Sanctan’s greeting, seeing that smiling mask and trying not to think on the monster that lurked behind it. There was no way Sanctan had forgiven his transgression so easily, and yet he welcomed him as an old friend. Ansell knew better than anyone that when Sanctan offered his hand in friendship there was all too often a poisoned blade hidden behind his back. His recent dream had reminded him of just that.

Ansell’s eyes shifted to the overgrown foliage. If his executioner was lurking in wait they were well hidden. It was hardly likely Olstrum would try to kill him. The only possible danger would come from Kinloth, standing there with that sword, but the legate could hardly lift it, let alone swing it with any intent. There was nothing here he should fear, and yet still he could not shift the nagging dread.

“I am here at your command, Archlegate,” Ansell said, trying to ignore Grace, resisting the urge to offer a reassuring wink. “But I am curious as to why we are meeting in this place.”

Sanctan raised his arms, spreading them wide to take in the breadth of his surroundings. “I, like so many others, take comfort in this garden. When it is quiet there is nowhere else in the city I would rather be.”

“Indeed,” Ansell replied. “It is quieter than ever, now all its attendants have been dismissed.”

For a moment he thought maybe he’d overstepped his mark, but Sanctan nodded knowingly. “Ah yes, I thought it best they be sent home. For their own safety.”

For Sanctan’s safety, more like. It was obvious he was growing ever more fearful of the very people he had freed from the tyranny of the Guilds. Seeing assassins in every shadow. In his crusade to break their shackles he had dismantled the very thing that kept them fed, and in the process made enemies of many.

“And so I am here, Archlegate. Kinloth informed me this was a matter of importance?”

“Indeed it is. The time is upon us, brother. We are about to strike back at the enemy as it approaches our gates. The Guilds must not be allowed to reach the Anvil. Our army will crush them before the walls of this city are within their sights, and you will march at its vanguard.”

Ansell felt excitement at the prospect of finally going to war, of fighting alongside his brothers. “Where is the Guild army now?”

“Less than a hundred miles to the northeast,” Sanctan replied. “I have placed you under the command of Marshal Sarona. She is particularly keen to exact her revenge after the massacre of her troopers at Oakhelm.”

Ansell’s fists clenched at the prospect of being subservient to one of the Armigers. “I am to be commanded by a battalion marshal? I should be the one to lead.”

A knowing smile crossed Sanctan’s face as he stepped away from Grace and onto the winding path that wended its way through the gardens. “Walk with me.”

There was no other choice but to follow. Ansell glanced toward Grace, expecting her to at least offer him a smile, but she turned her attention back to the buds on the overgrown bush. That one dismissive gesture provoked an odd sense of loss within, but he forced himself to dismiss it as he followed the Archlegate.

Sanctan strolled through the gardens, and it became clear how sad this once vibrant place had become. With no gardeners to tend it, the foliage had run rampant—vines creeping their way up the walls, leaves left to fester on the ground. Sanctan barely seemed to notice how this once beautiful place had become degraded. It had been sacrificed as part of his crusade, one more casualty on his road to dominance, and he was oblivious to its suffering.

“I assume I do not have to remind you of the tenets laid down within the Draconate Prophesies, Ansell. I know that despite your recent… lapse, you are still a devout brother of my knighthood.” He made a point of stressing the word my. “And I don’t have to tell you the numerous passages which refer to sacrifice throughout that hallowed text. Believe me, I appreciate all you have suffered over the years. None of this could have been easy for you. But you must understand, we’ve all made sacrifices during the course of this struggle. And we must continue to do so until the whole of Torwyn is brought into the grace of the Great Wyrms.”

Ansell was tempted to point out that he had sacrificed more than most, but that would be a dangerous game to play with a man who coveted loyalty above all things. “I understand, Archlegate.”

That brought a smile to Sanctan’s face. “Good,” he replied, as they rounded a particularly overgrown part of the path, which led to the temple’s orchard.

Ansell gritted his teeth as he saw what awaited them. Hanging by the neck from one of those trees was a single corpse. He recognised the face from so many days ago—a woman, skin weathered and limbs lean from years of hard work in the manufactories. She had been brave enough to single herself out from the rioting crowd at the Burrows and speak to the Archlegate of how their livelihoods had been destroyed. To implore him to help her people. In return she had been offered promises of a better future. Now she was dead for her trouble.

Was this some kind of message? A warning of what might happen if the Archlegate’s will was defied? If so, why do it here, and not in the Burrows where this example could be stamped plain for all to witness? Perhaps this message was for Ansell alone.

“As you can see,” Sanctan said, gazing up at the body, “sacrifices have been made by everyone. It pains me to see such suffering among my brood, but we must all endure. At least for a little while longer.”

Ansell glanced over his shoulder. They had been followed along the path by Olstrum and Kinloth, who still struggled with that blade. To his relief, Grace was not here to see this.

He regarded Sanctan as coldly as he could manage. It wouldn’t do to reveal how sickened he was by the sight before him. “I am sure you have suffered greatly too, Archlegate.”

Sanctan’s mask of serenity did not slip an inch. “Oh, I have indeed. But I am prepared to suffer—to do what is required of me so that the Wyrms may rise.” He stepped closer. “I hope you are too.”

Without waiting for an answer, he turned and left Ansell in the shadow of that dead woman. She had been brave, and this was her reward. It should have made Ansell more wary, keener than ever to leave this place behind, but instead he feared more for Grace. Despite Sanctan’s seeming change of heart regarding his daughter, it was obvious he was still black as night on the inside.

Ansell turned to Legate Kinloth and held out his hand. “Give me that weapon, before you do yourself a mischief.”

Kinloth looked grateful as he shuffled forward and held out the heavy blade. Ansell took it from him, dismissing him with a wave of his hand before strapping the sword to his waist. As Kinloth disappeared into the overgrown garden, Olstrum stepped closer, hands clasped in front of him as he leaned in.

“We are standing on a precipice,” he said quietly.

“What does that mean?” Ansell replied, heedless of anyone listening, in no mood to be cowed by the prospect of eavesdroppers. If Sanctan had left spies behind, let them listen.

Olstrum sighed in frustration. “You are being sent to die, can’t you see that? Sanctan has removed your authority and placed you under the command of one of his generals. She will use you as fodder, and it will be your end. You must live, Ansell. Remember you made me a promise you have yet to fulfil.”

“I think you underestimate how difficult I am to kill, Olstrum.”

“Anyone can be killed. Even you.”

“So what do you suggest I do?” Ansell growled, feeling more helpless than ever. “I cannot refuse the word of the Archlegate, as you well know. And I do not need to be reminded of the debt I owe.”

Olstrum wrung his hands, knuckles white. It was an affectation Ansell had seen often. At first he had thought the man merely twitchy, or stricken by bad humours. Now he knew what burden Olstrum carried, that he feared for the safety of his family, it made more sense.

Slowly, Olstrum’s look of frustration turned to defeat. “It doesn’t matter anyway. I don’t even know where they are.”

“Then you have work to do, Consul. I suggest you get to it.”

“How? Where do I look? Who do I ask?”

Ansell shook his head. “You are the spymaster, not me. Find out where they are and I will keep my promise. Until then, stay away from me.”

If Olstrum had more to say, he lacked the will to say it, and left Ansell alone in the garden to look up at the body of that once brave woman. He could only wonder how many other brave folk would die before all this misery was brought to an end.

Turning from the corpse, he considered making his way back through the garden to find Grace, but dismissed the idea. Perhaps she was better left alone. He had already spent so much time on that girl, and what good had it done either of them?

Olstrum was right; very soon Ansell might become fodder on the battlefield. Better that he think on winning this war, rather than becoming one more casualty.

The further their horses plodded eastward along the road, the safer Conall felt. Strange that he felt better for leaving the impenetrable walls of a fortress behind, but then impenetrable was only a matter of perspective. Those walls hadn’t stopped Nylia from trying to murder him. Hadn’t stopped that demon whispering in his ear and offering its shadow blade when he needed it most. No, the walls of Fort Karvan had been little safer for him than the wilds of the Drift.

Not that it was any safer where he was going. Right now he was riding his horse straight into the teeth of the Draconate Ministry. There was nothing to protect him behind, nothing to save him in front, so he may as well keep going and hope his salvation would present itself sooner or later.

Deep down, though, he knew there was only one answer to all his ills. The only person who could protect him in all Hyreme was his mother. Maybe if he could reach her, tell her what he’d been through, what he knew, then she would know what to do. But was that wise, or was it just selfish? He knew what Senmonthis wanted; for Conall to murder the great Lady Rosomon. They had foreseen that she would lead some crusade against the alliance of Malador’s Scions, and he was the weapon sent to kill her. If he ran to hide behind his mother’s skirts it would only endanger her further.

Conall had been strong enough to resist that alluring voice so far, but could he keep it a