In the ensuing silence, the Druid and the Highlander faced each other.

“They don’t really think they can keep us in here, do they?” Paxon asked.

Avelene gave him a look. “Who knows what they think? What they think doesn’t matter. Only what we think matters.”

“Well, I think we can walk out of here anytime we want,” he said.

“But that isn’t the trick, is it?”

“No? Then what is?”

“The trick is to leave without them knowing it.”

He nodded. “That stands to reason. Unfortunately, I don’t happen to know that trick.”

She gave him a wink. “I do.”

The Horn of Honor was a huge stone monolith engraved with the names of those soldiers stationed in Sterne who had perished committing particularly memorable acts while in service to the Federation army. The memorial stood at the far end of a broad plateau that overlooked the city proper and the broad sweep of the Prowl River directly below. The plateau itself served as the resting place for all of Sterne’s Federation soldiers, whether or not their names were engraved on the Horn, if at some point they had been stationed in the city. All were memorialized by small squares of white marble that bore their names and beneath which their cremated remains were preserved in tiny boxes.

This night, the plateau was filled with members of the Red Slash. They stood in loose formation all across the bluff, gathered by squads and brigades, filling the open spaces between the stone markers, surrounding the Horn on all sides. The entire command was present, save for those few left behind to maintain a presence within the barracks.

At their head, standing just apart and facing toward the head of the roadway that led upward to the bluff, was Dallen Usurient, resplendent in his scarlet dress uniform, his posture erect and rigid, his hands clasped behind his back to conceal the handheld flash rip he was hiding within the sleeve of his great coat. He wanted to appear unafraid at the prospect of a confrontation with Arcannen while at the same time remaining prepared for it. By now word of what they were doing and on whom they were waiting had spread through the ranks. A few, perhaps more, would be frightened, if only by the rumors they had heard. So he must do what he could to keep his soldiers calm; he must set a good example.

He glanced around briefly, taking in the spectacle of the entire Red Slash standing ready to fight. They bore weapons of every sort—blades and crossbows, spears and darts, flash rips and rail slings—strapped and sheathed or drawn and held ready, a formidable challenge to any enemy. They provided a spellbinding sight, a tableau worthy of an elite fighting unit. Torches burned at the perimeter of the burial ground, their uneven spray of firelight casting shadows in all directions, layering the landscape with intricate patterns. The faces of his soldiers glowed red and yellow; some were colored almost brown by the flames. It gave them an otherworldly look, an alien appearance that brought a shiver to his spine.

Where are you now, Arcannen Rai? How will you react to this when you come face-to-face with it?

He was anxious to find out, eager for the first time since he had received the other’s note, confident that whatever the sorcerer sought to do by arranging this confrontation would end badly for its instigator. This would be no Arbrox. This would not be a repeat of what had happened to Mallich and his men. No amount of games and tricks would fool this many experienced men and women into reacting foolishly. No type of magic would cause them to turn and run.

No, it would end here. It would end with Arcannen’s long-overdue death and the slow disintegration of his corpse after it had been hung from the city walls.

He was looking forward to it. He was anxious to watch it happen.

He started at sudden movement on the roadway before him. Shadows appeared. Three figures, faceless black forms, emerged from the night. The firelight illuminated them with its inquisitive flicker as they approached and revealed their features.

Dallen Usurient smiled.

Arcannen Rai was here.

TWENTY-SIX

REYN FROSCH WAS FEELING THE FIRST TWINGES OF FEAR AS HE climbed the road leading to the bluff where a blaze of torchlight lit up the whole of the sky in an eerie orange-and-yellow glow. At first, it was difficult to determine what was happening, the light flickering and dancing across its black backdrop, erasing the softer glow of moon and stars and revealing in garish color the wisps of cloud that hung overhead in the windless air like strange elongated birds. It was only when he came closer to the end of his journey that he could discern the light’s source, and then glimpse the heads and spear points of the Red Slash soldiers revealed in a sea of shifting shadows like sea creatures risen from the deep.

“You remember what you are to do?” Arcannen whispered out of the side of his mouth.

The boy nodded, unable to speak.

“You can do this, can’t you? You can be strong enough when it’s needed?”

Again, his nod.

Although Lariana was walking next to him, she did not reach to take his hand when he silently willed her to do so. He felt overwhelmed by what waited, even before being able to take its exact measure. But when he saw the whole of it—five hundred soldiers crowded together across the heights, their faces lit by the torchlight in strange colors and their weapons on fire with the reflection of the flames—he felt all the strength go out of him and his courage turn to water.

“What a glorious sight!” the sorcerer whispered.

Reyn wanted to turn around immediately. What chance did they stand against so many? The soldiers seemed to be everywhere, these men and women of the Red Slash. They filled the burial ground with their dark presence. This was suicide. Yet he kept walking, kept his feet moving, knowing there was no choice but to go forward. Any deviation now would doom both Lariana and himself. Neither would survive Arcannen’s wrath. They had been clearly seen by now, the eyes of the hundreds turned on them, and he could imagine the affront—the disdain!—these men and women felt at this foolish challenge. Three against hundreds! It was a fool’s chance. It was ridiculous. The outcome was a foregone conclusion.

Yet Arcannen seemed not the least disturbed. If Reyn did as he was told, the sorcerer insisted, all would be settled before the sun had fully risen. Already, the boy could see glimmerings of first light in the distance, beyond the bluff and the firelight, illuminating the ragged outline of the mountains east. He closed his eyes momentarily against what he was feeling, the prospect of his fate a dark shadow descending upon him like the sky falling.

He knew what he was expected to do. Arcannen had explained it to him as they walked, his voice kept low and soft so that only the two of them could hear. Lariana was not permitted to listen in, and Reyn had been given no chance to confide in her. His part in this effort was crucial, the requirements of his magic’s use enormous. But Arcannen assured him such use had been made before, and that his heritage of the magic made him equal to the task.

“You are no less able than those who came before you. You are no less endowed with their power. Use it as I have told you. Bind these creatures and hold them fast; do not waver in your strength, do not give thought to what you witness afterward. Do this, and your future is assured.”

By which he meant that although Reyn would live, his life henceforth would belong to his mentor. What he was not saying was that the boy would never be free of the legacy he would forge by his magic’s dark use; he would be a killer of men and women, forever bound to a history he would write in blood and death this night. He and Lariana would have each other, but only on Arcannen’s terms and only until their usefulness was at an end. Then they would be cast aside, broken and hollowed out, emptied of everything good and decent.