ong before he came to his father’s lands, Srin knew he would be too late. All through the course of that two-day ride he saw the signs of the Kantras everywhere – deserted villages, trampled vineyards, peasants who fled at his approach. Clearly there had been raiding parties all up and down the valley, even though the main camp had not been moved. So he had thought himself prepared for what he would find, but even so the first sight of Caer Atath wrung an anguished moan from his lips. The gate hung crazily on one hinge; the hall was a blackened shell.

Heedless of enemies who might still be about, Srin kicked and slapped his tired mount into a reckless gallop. But there was no need for haste, or caution either; only the dead were there to greet him.

In the soft earth of a ruined vineyard he dug shallow graves for his father, mother, and sister – all the family he had in the world. Darkness fell before he finished, but though he was weary to his very bones, he could not bring himself to stay there, where every sight was a dagger in his heart. Tellie had rested and fed while he worked; by moonlight he rode south for two hours, toward the Avur Bridge on the way to Caideth. Finally, after almost falling from the saddle twice, he stretched out on the ground and slept like a dead man.

Next day he came to the Darisha Road, and found it swarming with refugees fleeing over the mountains. Some looked hungrily at his horse, but the sight of his sword, in a well-worn sheath of his old armsmaster, made them think again. He had collected this, along with a number of other personal items, on his search through the remains of the hold. So he had clothes and arms, money and a horse – and no place to go. What would he do after he had delivered his message?

He couldn’t think of a single person he knew that didn’t live in the Avur Valley. Most of them were already dead; if any had escaped, he had no idea where they could be found. What was he to do with the rest of his life? He could think of nothing except to offer his sword to the king, and die in the defense of Caideth. If Et’tharis’set allowed him to live even that long.

Srin had heard tales of sorcery that could see, and slay, at a distance; it was one of the hazards he had accepted when he fled. As yet, his master would be busy at Mondasse. But when he returned to Reddin and found his new slave gone ....

An altercation on the road ahead broke into his thoughts. A couple of rough looking fellows were trying to make off with a sheep. Srin saw one of them knock down a young boy and seize a ewe, while the other was trading blows with the shepherd.

Srin drew his sword and struck at the thief carrying the sheep. In his care not to hit the animal, he managed only to deal the man a shallow scalp wound. But it was enough. With a cry, the fellow dropped his prize and took to his heels. Srin shouted as well, brandishing his blade fiercely, as he wheeled Tellie toward the shepherd and his opponent. A single glance was enough to send this ruffian scrambling as well.

The shepherd looked dubiously at his unexpected savior, but when Srin sheathed his sword, he also dropped his staff and ran to kneel beside the fallen boy. A woman and several smaller children emerged from hiding places along the road, and Srin helped them gather the frightened sheep. There were only a dozen or so, a pitiful flock, but obviously all that this family had been able to salvage.

Srin was about to ride on, when the shepherd came to his stirrup with a respectful salute. "’Tis right grateful we are, young lord."

The boy shrugged. "It was nothing." Then he added bitterly, "Is it not enough that the barbarians should slaughter and rob us, without us robbing and killing one another?"

"My name is Nerid, my lord," the peasant offered. "Of Nemanith, above Mondasse. We’ve little to eat, and that not fit for the likes of your lordship, but we’d be mightily honored if you’d join us."

Srin hesitated, but the goodwife added her entreaty, so he shared a noon meal with them – strong, dry cheese and black bread, washed down with spring water. Other unfortunates passed as they ate – carts piled high with household goods, mourning women with babes on their backs or in their arms, a boy driving a cow – all the sorry flotsam of the Kantra flood.

Nerid told of the destruction of Nemanith village. "They didn’t take anything much," he related sorrowfully. "Not that there was much to take. But seemed like they wrecked things just for the fun of it, dragged people behind their horses, and threw babes around like they was toy balls, and things like that. More like devils than men."

Srin couldn’t have agreed more. For the next two days he shared the road with people like Nerid and his family. It was as if the hordes were a knife, cutting deeply into Sarantia, and this was the blood pouring from that wound.

In one high mountain meadow, the road took a wide and apparently unnecessary detour around a tall black stone pillar. When Srin questioned his fellow travellers, several warned him not even to look in its direction, lest he be drawn onto the enchanted way whose beginning it marked, the way to the Valley of Dread, whence none could escape. He looked anyway, and wondered whether he shouldn’t go to Ta’arim instead of to Caideth, and tell the Master, instead of the king, about Et’tharis’set. But he had no authority to ask the sorcerer’s aid, and Athmor had sent him to the king; if Merak then decided to send him to the Master with his news, that would be the proper way to handle it. So he continued with the rest. But when they reached Caideth, there was no relief. The city was bursting. Rude camps of refugees straggled all about the walls, like children clutching their mother’s skirts for protection. Srin spent the night huddled with others around an open campfire, and in the morning went directly to the castle. But neither his name nor his news, nor even his silver could buy him a royal audience. He was passed endlessly from one official to the next, telling his story to anyone who would take the time to listen; unfortunately he knew nothing of court politics, and so got nowhere. The last man, a minor chamberlain, was kinder than most. He told the boy what he had suspected already, that his ’news’ was no longer news, and that it was futile to try to reach the king. Finally Srin left in disgust and joined the recruiting line, out by the barracks.

His reception here was no more cordial. The captain in charge snorted derisively, "We need men, youngster, not children!"

Srin drew himself up haughtily. "I am Srin, Baron Atath, and a trained warrior."

The captain grinned nastily. "Are you now? Like to command your own company, no doubt, me bucko? Well, tell me – have you a warhorse? Armor? A hundred or so good men?"

"I am skilled with the bow. I must have killed a hundred of the savages at Reddin!"

"No doubt. And when it comes down to defending the city, if it ever does, then we’ll see if we can’t find you a bow and a place on the wall. In the meantime, run along home and let me get to work."

"I have no home!" cried Srin in anguish.

But the captain only frowned and motioned the next man forward.

The boy stumbled away, tears of frustration and despair stinging his eyes. He had grown up as an integral part of the common feudal organization – liege lord, family, armsmen, retainers. To be so alone and adrift was more desolating than the destruction of Atath. What am I to do? he asked himself in near panic.

He tried several inns; all were filled to overflowing, of course. At last he found himself back outside the walls, in the clustering camps. He walked along slowly, leading Tellie and looking for a familiar badge or face. Had no one he knew survived?

He stopped to let a swineherd with a half dozen pigs cross the way. Then he blinked and stared, mistrusting his eyes. In the settling dust of the road a pace ahead of him there crouched a small crimson dragon!

A woman nearby screeched and yanked her two grimy youngsters out of the roadway. Several men also shrank back, gripping their staffs or daggers. Srin drew his own sword, and held the point centered cautiously on the hound-sized beast.

The apparition flicked out a long forked tongue and sucked it back in. Then it looked straight up at Srin, and opening its toothy mouth, it spoke in the Kantra tongue: "I am of Et’tharis’set, Lord of the Dragon."

Srin gripped his hilt tighter, in a suddenly sweaty hand. "What do you want?" he cried.

"Return to me, Srin of Atath, or at this time tomorrow you begin to die! I have spoken." With these words, the dragon vanished.

Srin leaned on his sword to keep from sagging weakly into the dirt. It had happened, just as he feared. He could not escape ....

A couple of the men who had seen the incident were headed toward him; rather than answer questions, Srin quickly swung up into the saddle and galloped away. The men didn’t try to stop him.

 

He rode back out the Darisha Road, fighting his way upstream against the continued flow of refugees. He didn’t intend to return as he had been commanded, but if the sorcerer was still watching, he might be deceived for a time, at least. And Srin needed time – to think, to find a way out, to plan how he would kill himself, if there was no other way.

He rode the remainder of the day with little rest. And when he finally halted at sunset, at a large encampment of refugees on the Darish River, he had made his decision. Returning to Et’tharis’set was unthinkable. Even if he could escape punishment, even if the sorcerer had no perverted interest in him, even if he could bring himself to play the compliant slave any longer, still he could not be a part of the destruction of his homeland. Nor would he fall on his dagger in despair, or tamely wait for the sorcerer to kill him. If his life was to be forfeit anyway, he would cast it away in one bold gamble; he would appeal to the only man who could, if he chose, save both Srin and Sarantia – the Master of Ta’arim!

Noon the next day found him still headed toward the pass, though he had not hurried that morning. He did not want to come to the Ta’arim Road too soon. If Et’tharis’set checked on him, it must seem that he was dutifully returning the way he had come.

Mid-afternoon passed without incident. Either the sorcerer had not checked, or he was satisfied with Srin’s course of action so far. The sun was low when he came at last to the crossroad of the black pillar.This time he rode straight to it, rather than follow the circuit of the dusty track. From its foot there sprang a solid ribbon of rock leading away toward the mountains on the north.

Srin reined Tellie close enough to look at the carvings on the stele. There was the same dragon symbol that he wore about his neck, and below it that other glyph which was called the Sign of the Master. Behind him, someone on the road called hoarsely, "Get away from there, you little fool, ’afore that cursed thing strikes you dead, and us with you!"

Without even turning to look at the speaker, Srin spurred Tellie to a reluctant gallop up the stone road, her hooves ringing loudly, like derisive laughter.

The road climbed toward the highest peaks of Neth, winding and looping in gentle stages, cutting and even tunnelling through the slopes where necessary, crossing ravines with sweeping spans of black stone.

The sun sank, and the moon was hidden behind clouds. The road seemed to climb forever, as if it were going all the way to the sky. At last he stopped and stretched out on the stone of the highway itself, since no better camp was visible in the thick darkness. At least he should be safe tonight – his owner wouldn’t be able to tell where he was at, even if he looked.

He rose at first light and rode on. The sun was just rising when he came to a pair of the square pillars; they formed a gateway in a narrow, rock-bound pass. The road ran between them and disappeared around a corner a score of paces further on. There were no gates, no barriers, and no sentries, not even monstrous ones. The guardian posts bore the Dragon and the Sign, and many other carvings as well, in scripts Srin had never seen before. But one was in Sarant: Beyond this gate lies the valley Ta’arim, and in it terror and death for those who enter uninvited. If you have business with the Master of Ta’arim, set your hand upon his Sign below and wait for a reply.

His mouth dry with apprehension, Srin dismounted and set his palm against the sign indicated. It seemed to him that the chill rock warmed slightly under his hand, but he couldn’t be sure. He pressed harder, and now it grew perceptibly colder instead.

He stood there waiting for some kind of answer, for what seemed like hours, though it was probably only fifteen or twenty minutes. He shifted from one foot to the other, hugging himself against the bitter wind which poured through the pass. His legs trembled with weariness; finally he sat down with his back against the rocky side of the defile.

He must have slept, for the sun was measurably higher when a sudden sharp cramp seized his bowels. He gasped, clutching at his middle. It passed, but as he moved to get to his feet, the pain returned with redoubled force. Groaning, he fell to his hands and knees. What was wrong with him? An illness? Or Et’tharis’set carrying out his threat? Or the Master’s reply?

There was no way to know. But he set his teeth in a grimace of painful determination. He would die in the valley, at least! The monsters would doubtless give him a quicker death than the sorcerer would. With a strangled cry, he flung himself forward between the pillars.

As he passed them, the pain in his gut disappeared. But he scarcely noticed, for now a wild surge of animal panic gripped him instead. There was danger here ... danger ... DANGER! Still bent double, he frantically spun around to escape. But his feet, already clumsy with fatigue and further confused by the attacks on his nerves, would not move fast enough. He tripped himself and fell heavily, striking his head on the stone of the roadway.