chapter 3

The dark thing that had taken the reins of each horse waited as the travelers took their mounts, and then shambled back into the vast, eternal night of the caves.

Out of the bronze gate the Dragon Kings rode. Some in pairs, others single, all following the one path through the mountains. A wyvern, just waking, accidentally stuck its head out in their path, and sighting the riders, pulled itself to one side and cowered. It did not move again until they were long by.

At the end of the Tyber Mountains, the group split apart, each one going his separate way, knowing that mortal men would pay little attention to a single rider. Those who dared impede them would only be leaping into death.

A single rider, heading to the south, slowed as his fellows disappeared from sight. Ahead of him was a small grove of trees, and it was here he finally halted. Staring into the darkness, he settled down to wait.

His wait was short. Within minutes, he was joined by another of the Dragon Kings. Wordlessly, they acknowledged one another’s presence. There was no friendship in their actions; they merely had a common goal and sought to accomplish it through the easiest means possible.

The newcomer pulled a great sword from its sheath and held it out, point first, to the other. His companion reached forward and placed a gauntleted hand on the tip. His eyes glowed brightly as power emanated from him. It flowed through his arm, through his hand, and finally into the weapon itself.

When they were finished, the sword glowed and pulsated. Slowly, the light dimmed, as if the power were being absorbed by the object itself. After a moment, the sword had returned to its former state, save for a slight vibrating. The other rider replaced it into the sheath.

The two stared at each other, communication taking place on a level far different from those of men.

They nodded. What was to be done was necessary. Then the newcomer kicked his mount and rode off. He was not headed in the direction of his kingdom; rather, his destination appeared to be south.

The remaining rider watched until his comrade was out of sight. His gaze turned momentarily to the overwhelming mountain range and to Kivan Grath in particular. Then, turning away, he rode off in silence.

The floodgates had been opened.

...***...

WHERE’S MY ALE?”

The Wyvern’s Head Tavern was known for its diversity of customers, some human, many not. One such nonhuman was the ogre that now banged down his meaty fist, breaking off a good portion of a table. His demeanor matched his face—cruel and ugly.

His eyes sought a black-haired human in his twenties who even now was hurriedly filling a mug with ale and cursing the slowness with which it poured from the spigot. To the ogre, his features were as ugly and incomplete as any other human’s, but by human standards, they were regular. His face was not the face of heroes, but the strong chin, slightly turned nose, and attentive eyes gave him a rough sort of handsomeness.

Customers standing nearby formed an unintentional barrier that hid him from the thirsty creature’s sight, but the human knew it was only a matter of time before the ogre came searching for him.

Cabe rushed forward, nervous, but forced to confront the ogre because he was a serving man of the tavern. Quickly, he dropped the heavy mug on the table and almost blanched when a drop nearly hit the ogre in the face. He waited for his rather dull life to flash before him.

The creature eyed him murderously, but decided the ale was more important. Tossing a coin to Cabe, the ogre picked up the mug and drank with a gusto that would have outdone most men. Cabe made a quick retreat to the kitchen.

“Cabe! Brought Deidra a present, did you?” A deft, slender hand relieved him of the coin and a well-endowed form wrapped itself around his body. Deidra gave him a long, moist kiss and then artfully deposited the coin into her blouse, a piece of clothing that did very little to conceal her generous attributes.

She flung back dirty-blond hair and smiled as she saw him staring at her ample chest. “Like a view, do you? Maybe later.” It was always later for Cabe, never now.

Deidra turned, wiggled her backside, and carried a tray out into the tavern. Cabe watched until she was out of sight and then remembered the coin he had lost. It might’ve been worth it—later on, anyway.

He knew that Deidra liked men with money, but she still seemed attracted to him—somewhat. Admittedly, he was not ugly, and while he was not the stuff of heroes, he was still capable of handling himself in a fight …providing that he stayed long enough. For some reason, Cabe almost always backed away if a fight seemed close. That was why he was working in a tavern and not making his way in the world, like his father, who was a huntsman for the King of Mito Pica. Although Cabe had been useless on the hunts, his father had never seemed too upset about it. He even seemed pleased when his son told him that he had managed to find work at a two-bit tavern and inn. Rather odd behavior for a warrior, but Cabe loved him.

He pushed back a lock of black hair, knowing that somewhere under his touch was a wisp of silver that he constantly kept covered or colored. Silver streaks were supposed to be the sign of warlocks and necromancers. Cabe did not want to be killed by a mob just because he had hair like a sorcerer. The trouble was, it appeared to be spreading.

“Cabe! Get yourself out here, basilisk dung!”

The summons by his employer was one that Cabe would have obeyed even if he had not been employed here. Cyrus was a mountain of a man, and beside him, even the ogre looked small.

He rushed out. “Yes, Cyrus?”

The owner, who looked more like a bear than a man, pointed to a table far away in a dark corner. “I think I saw a customer back there! See what he’s up to and if he plans on buying something!”

Cabe made his way to the spot Cyrus had pointed out, slipping around the various tables and customers. It was strangely dim, but he could see that no one was there. What had Cyrus—

He blinked and looked again. There was someone there! How he had failed to see him the first time was beyond him. Hastily, he moved to the table.

A cloak. That was all the man, if it was a man, appeared to be. A hand, the left one, slipped into sight and placed a coin on the table, and from beneath the hood of the cloak, a strong but unreal voice spoke.

“An ale. No food.”

Cabe stood for a moment and then realized that he should be getting the customer’s order. With a mumbled apology, he made his way back toward the bar.

The ale was handed to him by Cyrus almost immediately, but as Cabe started back through the crowd, he was caught up by a large hand.

The ogre dragged him over and stuffed a coin into Cabe’s hand. “When you’re done there, bring me another ale! Keep it in the tankard this time!”

Reaching the table, he placed the ale down carefully. As he did so, the gloved hand reached out and grabbed him by the wrist.

“Sit, Cabe.”

Cabe tried to loosen the grip, but it was as if the hand were stiffened in death and would never let go. Resignedly, he sat down on the opposite end of the table. As he did so, the hand released him.

He tried to look at the face under the hood. Either the light of the tavern had become dimmer or there was no face beneath the cowl. Cabe jerked back in fear. What sort of man had no face? Worse yet, what would such a creature want with someone as insignificant as he? As if amused, the stranger turned his head for better inspection.

But there was a face. It was slightly out of focus and always in half shadow. He caught a glimpse of silver hair amidst a field of brown.

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