“Still, whenever I heard the voice or felt the fire, I would go to Biorkis and we would talk about it. He would ask me what I thought it meant.”

“What do you think it meant?”

Quentin drew a deep breath and looked into the sun-filled sky. “I am not a priest, but I do think a god was calling me. But a god greater than any other. Higher, wiser. And he knew me.”

“You are a special boy,” Alinea said, raising her hand to his face. “I knew that the moment I saw you standing nervously in my chamber. I knew also that you were no furrier,” she laughed.

The air seemed to grow sharper as a gust of wind spun snow around the two figures. Without another word they turned and went back up the little hill to the cottage.

The Prince slouched in his winged chair fingering a soft leather pouch full of gold coins. Sir Bran and Sir Grenett stood on either side of him, and all three gazed with some trepidation upon the three visitors in front of them. Prince Jaspin said, after a moment’s deliberation, “I want them found and brought back-this Hawk and whoever his friends may be-however it may be accomplished. I care not what means you use.”

Sir Bran and Sir Grenett, knights hardened in battle and fearless, shrank away from the sight of the Harriers, fierce and brutal men devoid of human compassion or mercy. The Harriers, as they were known in Mensandor, were last descendants of an ancient people in the realm, the cruel Shoth. A savage, war-loving race who killed for the pleasure of killing, and the twisted enjoyment of inflicting pain on another.

Over a long and unbroken history of war the Shoth had developed special powers which enabled them to pursue their enemies with unerring accuracy, powers the simple peasants considered supernatural: the ability to see in the dark like cats, to scent a trail, and to hone in on the intense emotions of their prey. It seemed as if they could snatch thoughts out of the air, and so many believed.

There were few of the Shoth left in the world; they were dying out stubbornly. But those who lived on employed themselves as mercenary soldiers, or as trackers of outlaws. For either service they received high rewards from their patrons-as much as ever they desired, since they were not the kind of men one wanted as enemies.

The Harriers were greatly feared by everyone who knew of them, or who happened to meet them, upon those rare occasions when one or more might be seen in passing.

Two long braids from either side of their heads were woven together and fell down their broad backs. Their features, wolf-like and hard as stone, were made more fearsome by the blue tattooed designs which covered their faces. Their clothing was rough, made of animal skins with the hair scraped or burned off; they wore soft boots made in the same fashion, laced on the outside from ankle to knee. Around their necks they wore necklaces made from the hair and finger bones of their victims. On their brawny arms were bracelets of human teeth.

To see a Harrier was to know fear. Their bizarre appearance was coldly ordained to inspire terror, to immobilize their hapless quarry.

They carried long, thin swords with serrated blades so that a wound from the thrust of a Harrier sword did not heal quickly or without difficulty. That mattered little since few who ever felt that dangerous edge remained alive to tell it. They also carried small wooden and skin shields on which were painted crude symbols of their barbaric religion-said to include regular human sacrifice.

The Harriers who sold their services as trackers also used birds, most often hawks, but also small eagles or ravens, to help them locate their human game at long distance. These birds rode with them upon the Harriers’ peculiar stout, short legged ponies upon ornate perches built onto their saddles, usually of bones and hide-again the bones and hide of their victims. Some said the Harriers spoke with their birds mind to mind, so extraordinary was the communication between the two preying creatures.

“There are at least three of them, maybe more. I have a report from one of the guards who saw three ride off toward Pelgrin last night.” Prince Jaspin stood abruptly and tossed the bag of coins to the foremost of the Harriers who deftly caught it and slipped it into an inner pouch in his clothing. “There will be more money when you return; you will be paid well.” He smacked his clenched fist into his open palm to add emphasis to his words. “I want them found!”

“So shall it be done,” said Gwert, the largest of the three. Then without another word or look they turned and filed out as silently as smoke drifting away on the breeze.

When they had gone Sir Bran let a deep breath whistle through his clenched teeth. “Fair Prince, I do not like this turn. I would that you had requested me and some of my men-at-arms to bring back this prisoner for you. These Harriers-these barbarians-are not to be trusted. You will get your prisoner and his companions, if you care not how many pieces they are in.”

“I do not care,” said Jaspin angrily. “I only want them found and stopped.”

Sir Grenett interposed, “My Lord, why is this man-this Hawk-such a menace to you? He is only an outlaw-and even if he were chief among them he would account you no more loss than your bounty will cost in the end. Why do you seek his end so ardently?”

“That,” said the enraged prince, “is my own care, sir, and none of yours!” He turned on them threatening, “You will both keep this to yourselves. Do you hear? Besides,” Jaspin continued in a softer tone, “it would not do for my new regents to entertain such troublesome pursuits. There are more important things to be done.”

“Come, let us begin making plans for our next little surprise.” He led them to his table and a pitcher of wine and goblets on a silver tray. “My friends, I pledge your health and continued success,” he said, lifting his glass to theirs when he had poured them full. They all drank deeply, and when they rose from their cups the knights returned Jaspin’s pledge.

“To Askelon’s new king!”

THE OLD man lay upon the stone altar in a great darkened hall. Torches smoldered at each corner of the five-sided altar casting a strange, flickering glow which curled and eddied like water over the man’s face. He appeared to be asleep, or dead, yet even in deepest repose the fierce malevolence of the features did not abate. So bent was the black soul which inhabited that body, it twisted all it touched. The face was a mask of hate, the more terrible because it was also a face of keen intelligence.

Nimrood sank, as it seemed to him, through layers of smoke, as if falling from a great height. His head throbbed; dull pains shot through his limbs. But he willed himself to continue.

The smoke thinned and then scattered completely. He looked beneath him and saw the solid earth sliding away below. Still dropping rapidly, but gliding now, not falling, the magician could make out detail in the land. Behind, a high range of snowcapped mountains, the Fiskills; to the right, the long silver ribbon of the Wilst River now frozen in its wriggling push to the sea; ahead, but still too dim to see clearly, the dark, gray-green mass of the great forest Pelgrin, partially hidden by clouds. Further ahead, but beyond sight, lay Askelon, the city on a hill.

Nimrood slowed his descent and heard the cold air rushing past him, but he felt nothing at all. He closed his eyes and when he opened them again he turned his head to see the black wing rising and falling rhythmically as the wind sang shrilly through his feathers. The sorcerer had taken the form of a raven. He flew swiftly on.

Approaching Pelgrin, Nimrood’s keen raven’s eyes could see the dim shape of Askelon rising in the distance. Light was failing as the world sank into the darkness of a long winter night. It would be dark by the time he reached the castle, but it mattered not. Nimrood was a friend of darkness, and of all things that loved the darkness. He used the black of night as a cloak to hide his deeds.