The aged sorcerer looked up. "What spell?"

"The one to separate me from this, of course!" Norrec banged the breastplate with one hand. "This damned armor! You said you had some way you could peel it off of me!"

"I believe my earlier words to you were closer to ‘if you hope to live, you will do exactly as I desire.»

"But the armor! Damn you, wizard! That's all I care about! Cast a spell! Get it off of me while it's still subdued!"

Looking down on him as a father might a whining child, the silver-haired mage responded, "Of the armor, while I cannot as yet remove it, I assure you that you need not worry about its other enchantments while I have it under my power." Reaching into one of the deep pockets of his robe, Drognan removed what at first seemed a short stick but quickly revealed itself to be much, much, much longer. In truth, by the time the sorcerer had it freed from the pocket, the «stick» had swollen in size and length-the latter a good four feet and more-and revealed itself as a spell staff covered in elaborate and glittering runes. "Observe."

Drognan pointed the staff at his guest.

Norrec, who had traveled with Fauztin long enough to know what it meant to be on this end of the magical staff, leapt to his feet. "Wait—"

"Furiosic!" shouted the mage.

Flames shot toward the soldier, flames that spread as they moved. A blanket of fire sought to envelop Norrec.

Just a few scant inches from his nose, the fire abruptly died out.

At first Norrec believed that the suit had saved him again, but then he heard the wrinkled figure chuckle. "Not to worry, young man, not even a hair singed! You see now what I mean? My control over the armor is complete! Had I so desired, I could have left you a roasted skeleton and even the suit could not have saved you! Only my canceling of the spell protected you now! Now do sit back down…"

The searing heat still burning his nostrils, Norrec slumped back into the old chair. Drognan's unnerving display had proven two things. The first had been that what the elderly sorcerer had claimed had been true; with his magic, he had subdued the enchantments of the armor.

The second had been that Norrec had evidently placedhimself into the hands of a somewhat ruthless and likely half-mad wizard.

Yet… what else could he have done?

"There is a bottle of wine next to you. Pour yourself some. Calm your nerves."

The offer itself did little to calm Norrec down, for both the bottle mentioned and the table upon which it now sat had not been next to the veteran a second earlier. Still, he kept himself from showing any uncertainty as he first filled a goblet, then sipped some of the contents.

"That should be better." One hand spread over a page in the massive book, Drognan peered at his guest. The staff rested loosely in his other hand. "Do you know anything of the history of Lut Gholein?"

"Not much."

The wizard stepped away from the book. "One fact I will impart upon you immediately, a fact I think central to your situation. Before the rise of Lut Gholein, this region served briefly as a colony of the Empire of Kehjistan. There existed Vizjerei temples and a military presence. However, even by the time of the brothers Bartuc and Horazon, the empire had begun to pull back from this side of the sea. Vizjerei influence remained strong, but a physical presence proved too costly for the most part." An almost childlike smile spread across the dark, narrow features. "It is all quite fascinating, really!"

Norrec, who, under the circumstances cared little about history lessons, frowned.

Seeming not to notice, Drognan continued. "After the war, after Bartuc's defeat and death, the empire never regained its glory. Worse yet, its greatest sorcerer, its shining light, had suffered too much in body and, most pointedly, mind. I speak, of course, of Horazon."

"Who came to Lut Gholein," Norrec helpfully added, hoping by doing so that it would assist the ramblingelder to reach whatever point he sought to make. Then- perhaps then-Drognan would finally get around to helping the fighter.

"Yes, exactly, Lut Gholein. Not named that yet, of course. Yes, Horazon, who had suffered so terribly even in victory, came to this land, tried to settle into a life of studious pursuit-and then, as I informed you earlier, just disappeared."

The veteran soldier waited for his host to continue, but Drognan only stared back, as if what he had just said explained all.

"You do not understand, I see," the robed sorcerer finally commented.

"I understand that Horazon came to this land and now the cursed armor of his hated brother has come here, too! I also understand that I've had to watch men slaughtered, demons rise from the earth, and know that my life's no longer my own, but that of a dead demon lord!" Norrec rose again, having had enough. Drognan could have easily raised the staff and slain him on the spot, but his own patience had come to an end. "Either help me or slay me, Vizjerei! I've no time for history lessons! I want release from this hell!"

"Sit."

Norrec sat, but this time not of his own accord. Adarkness crossed Drognan's features, a darkness that reminded the hapless soldier that this man had readily taken control of not only half a dozen guards, but the damnable suit, too.

"I will save you despite yourself, Norrec Vizharan- although certainly no servant of the Vizjerei are you despite that ancient name! I will save you while at the same time you will lead me to that for which I have searched for more than half my life!"

Whatever spell Drognan used pressed the fighter so tight into the chair that Norrec could barely speak. "What… what do you mean? Lead you to what?"

Drognan gave him a nearly incredulous look. "Why, what must surely be buried somewhere under the city itself and what the armor must also be seeking-the tomb of Bartuc's brother, Horazon… the legendary Arcane Sanctuary!"

Twelve

As he did each night, General Augustus Malevolyn marched the perimeter of the encampment. Also as he did each night, he studiously observed each detail concerning his men's readiness. Ineptitude meant severe punishment no matter what the soldier's rank.

Yet, one thing the general did different this particular night, a single change that went little noticed by most of his weary men. This night, Malevolyn made his rounds still wearing the crimson helm of Bartuc.

That it did not quite match with the rest of his armor did not concern him in the least. In fact, more and more he considered the possibility of finding some manner by which to dye his present armor a color more akin to that of the helmet. Thus far, though, Malevolyn had come up with but one method by which to possibly match the unique color, a method that surely would have caused a full-scale insurrection.

His hand touched the helm almost lovingly as he adjusted its fit. Malevolyn had noticed some discomfort on Galeona's part when he had earlier refused to remove it, but had simply chalked it up to her fear of his growing might. In truth, when both the helmet and the suit became his, the general would no longer need the witch's magical skills-and while her more earthly talents were most expert, Malevolyn knew that he could always find a more willing, more submissive female to satisfy his other needs.

Of course, such matters of flesh could wait. Lut Gholein called to him. He would not be cheated out of it, as he had been cheated out of Viz-jun.

But are you worthy of it? Are you worthy of the glory, the legacy of Bartuc?

Malevolyn froze. The voice in his head, the one that asked on a previous eve the questions that he himself feared to ask out loud, that proclaimed what he dared not yet proclaim.