Nicholas gasped and sputtered, clawing at Vlad's shoulder to get up out of the chill water. He rolled over, clinging with both hands to the feeble collection of spars and tangled rope. Vlad moved aside a little, grinning furiously through the long trails of black hair plastered to his face by the water. Nicholas coughed up water and sneered at the Northerner. "A brilliant: cough: move, my friend. I could have swum back to the dromon, you know, with this armor to hold me up."

Vlad clapped him on the shoulder, still smiling like a loon. "No matter, my friend. I'm sure you sailors know many tricks of the sea to get us home again."

The sun drifted into the west, passing behind a thick band of smoke, its vast red shape shimmering and dancing over the rooftops of the distant city. Nicholas rolled over, seeing the sails of the fleet a mile or more distant. The waves rolled slowly up and down. Fine white ash began falling out of the sky as the upper air cooled. Not too far away was a sudden frenzied splashing in the water, then a short scream. Nicholas shaded his eyes against the glare of the sun. A great white shape rolled over under the water, a massive tailfin swinging from side to side, diving deep after seizing its prey on the surface.

The air filled with the rattle of wings as flocks of gulls and terns rose up at the disturbance. The white birds were streaked with blood on their downy chests and wings. Within moments they had settled again on the water, feasting on the harvest the day had yielded up.

"Brilliant, truly brilliant."

"You're welcome," Vladimir said, wringing seawater out of his hair.

The Highlands of Tabaristan, Northern Persia

A man, dressed in worn robes and grimy armor, looked up out of the shadow of a narrow canyon between towering walls of granite. Far above, a pale strip of sky showed the lateness of the day. He rode a stout-chested warhorse- a Sogdian charger, by the look- and he leaned heavily in the saddle. Weariness was etched in his face and in the line of his shoulders; he had traveled a long road. The clip-clop of his horse's hooves echoed back from the cliffs that hemmed in the narrow trail he followed. Above him all he could see was a jagged strip of blue. He had been riding in deep shade for nearly a day before he came to this place. At his left, below the road, a foaming cataract plunged down the steep canyon, the roar of the waters reverberating among the thick, dark pines and gray-green rocks.

Behind the man, on the road, a dozen black mules strained to drag a wagon up the pitch. Behind them, hundreds of men slowly followed- they were exhausted too, having pressed hard for a month or more to cross eight hundred miles of desert, desolate mountain, and forest. The wheels of the wagon just fit between the looming cliff on the right, a grainy rock with long, deep crevices in its surface, and the crumbling edge of the canyon itself. The lead man gently kneed his horse, and it resumed its slow walk up the winding road. Despite his weariness, he kept a wary eye on the rocks and cliffs above- the land they had entered bore an ominous reputation, long stained with blood and murder.

Hidden away behind the barren peaks and ridges of the land, the sun settled into the west, plunging the dim canyon into darkness well before sunset. The sky itself shaded to pink and then purple, while the mountains assumed a diffuse golden glow that threatened to linger even when the sun was gone and the sky was a black pit. The man on the lead horse reined in and raised his hand.

The wagon rumbled to a halt, and the puffing breath of the mules ghosted through the chill air. On the broad seat of the wagon, a dark shape stirred itself and then stood. Deep black robes of silk rustled away from lean arms and a broad chest. The man on the horse turned in the saddle and nervously smoothed his long mustache.

"Lord? Shall we press on or camp on the road?" Other unspoken questions hung in the air.

"No, faithful Khadames," a voice whispered out of the darkness. " There is but a little to go. Behind this narrows, a valley opens out, and there, amid sweet gardens and lush fields, we shall find rest. Just a little farther and we come to the end of our long journey."

Khadames flinched a little at the sound of that rich, smooth voice. In all the long weeks of grueling passage and intermittent horror, nothing troubled him more than the steady and unmistakable restoration of the man in the wagon. Not long ago, before the looming walls of the City of Silk- Palmyra in the deserts of Syria- that voice had been a hoarse croak coming from a smashed and crippled body. Not much more than a corpse had been dragged from the burning ruin of the Plain of Towers. Khadames had commanded an army then, in the name of his lord Shahr-Baraz, and for a brief moment considered with giddy delight that the black sorcerer was upon the gates of death. But he had bent his knee instead, and pried back a blood-caked eyelid to see if life still flickered in the odd yellow pupils. It had, and they had focused upon him and swelled and rippled like the back of a snake, and he held no will but theirs. The moment had passed, and life had crawled or crept back into the shattered body of the dark prince.

"So: so soon? We are there?" Khadames' voice cracked in astonishment. Laughter echoed out of the dark shape, the sound of an adult amused by a child.

"Yes, Khadames, this is the Valley of the Eagle's Nest. Press on, we are very near."

Khadames spurred his horse forward, and it trotted around the bend of the road, hooves striking on a sudden pavement of fitted stones. The Persian nobleman whistled in surprise as the vast bulk of a fortified gate rose up before him, octagonal towers springing forth from the sinews of the mountain itself. It was hard to gauge their size in the twilight, but the afterglow from the mountaintops picked out a wall of massive granite blocks closing off the canyon. At each side the towers climbed up, a hundred feet or more to the pinnacle of each. Between them a great dam of dark stone arched up, with a crenellated battlement spanning the gorge. A sluice gate roared and foamed at the base, spewing forth the swift stream that they had followed for the past two days. Water plunged another fifty feet to hammer at the rocks below. The road ran into darkness at the base of the near tower.

Khadames let the horse find the way across the metaled road. Behind him the wagon wheels rattled up onto the pavement and picked up speed. A mass of shadow grew before him and, trusting to the words of his master, the Persian rode on. A tunnel enfolded him, narrow- again, no more than the width of the wagon. A chill wind hissed down its length, and he followed as it wound forward. It turned first to the right, then back again to the left. Each time the mules were forced to slow down and make a careful turn. Each time, the wagon barely fit around the corners. All was in complete darkness. Khadames rode slowly, his hand on the left wall, trusting the horse's nose and careful tread.

The wind suddenly stopped, and it took Khadames a moment to realize that he had ridden out of the tunnel mouth and onto a broad road at the foot of a valley. The sky above was pitch black, without even a star to break the ebon firmament. He tasted the air and found it dampclouds blotted the sky. The moon had yet to rise, too, and Khadames slowly urged his horse to the side of the road. A stone lip ran there, and the Persian stopped.

"This is the valley below the Eagle's Nest," that smooth voice said again as the wagon rumbled out of the tunnel. "You and I will go up the mountain to see what decay the years have wrought. Bid the men make camp by the banks of the stream- they may make a fire, for no enemy of ours will ever find this place."

Khadames watched as the sorcerer rode past with his wagon and the long coffin of gold and lead that had ridden in it, securely fastened with ropes and chains, from the gates of dead Palmyra. The memory of cold yellow eyes remained with him. He even fancied he could still see them hanging in the air when the dark shape had turned away. The Persian reached down to the travel lantern slung on a leather strap by the pommel of his saddle. At least light would be allowed them for this camp.