“You do not belong here, Toli. Go now.” Toli felt the color rise to his face; his shame burned within him. “You are right to send me away. I have dishonored my people.”

“It is not from dishonor that I send you, my son,” said Hoet gently. Toli’s eyes darted to his elder. “Why does it surprise you? You have not turned away from your master-that would be dishonor. No, I send you for yourself. Go, my son, and find the white leader’s son. Your life will not be your own until you have found the boy.”

Toli smiled and gripped the old man’s arm. “Thank you, my father. The knife in my heart does not hurt so much now.”

“Yes, go. But come again one day, and we will sit together and share meat.”

Toli took up the tether peg and gripped the reins, swinging himself easily into the saddle. Riv snorted, eager to be off. “I will ride more swiftly with your blessing.”

“I have no blessing to give you that Whinoek has not already given.” Hoet paused, regarding the slim man before him. “It is said the King raises a temple to the One Most High.”

“Yes,” replied Toli. “The Father of Life is not widely known among the white race. My master seeks to make the name of the God Most High known to every man alive under the great heavens so that they may worship the only true god.”

“That is most worthy,” replied Hoet. “But it seems to this old one that where one temple stands, another may not also stand. Is this not true?”

Toli stared at his tribesman for a moment before the implication of what Hoet had said broke in on him. “Yes, your words are true, Wise One, and I would hear more.”

Hoet shrugged and lifted his antlered staff. “It has been reported to me that there has been much night traveling in the forest by men from the east, who also returned that way. I did not see them, so I cannot say how it is, but the white men’s great temple of Ariel lies to the east, does it not?”

“You know well that it does,” said Toli with a grin. “Thank you, my father. You have given your son a great blessing.” He turned Riv into the forest and stopped before entering the shaded trail to raise his hand in farewell.

Hoet raised his staff and said, “Go in peace.” He remained gazing into the forest long after Toli had disappeared, then turned and shuffled back into the Jher village.

NIMROOD CACKLED with malicious glee at his good fortune as he flitted through the shadowy passageways of the High Temple like an overgrown bat, his black cloak billowing out behind him like wings. Such a stroke of luck! The gods had sent the meddlesome Jher to the very steps of the temple.

That ridiculous High Priest wanted to turn him away, thought Nimrood. Would have turned him away! But I was there to stop it, and before the dog could run away I had him bound and beaten and thrown into the cell with that mewling Prince! Ah ha! Ha, ha!

At first the sorcerer had to fight down the impulse to finish the deed begun in Pelgrin Forest on the day of the hunt-to strike down the Jher at once. Even now the old hatred fired his thin blood, but he was compelled by a greater prize to turn away from his long-nursed wrath at the one who had shorn him of his power, his precious magic, and had very nearly stripped him also of his life.

The image of that day still burned in Nimrood’s black brain: Durwin, a far inferior wizard, stood before him and would not even protect himself, would not lift a finger to summon the power at his call-not that it could have saved him. No, thought Nimrood, nothing could have saved him.

And then, as Nimrood lifted his rod to deliver the lethal bolt and so blast that cursed hermit’s bones to powder… that arrow! From out of nowhere it had come, striking deep into his flesh, sending the rod from his hand. Then, there was the Jher notching another arrow onto his bowstring. The sorcerer had pleaded for his life-those miserable pleas still echoed in his skull. “Don’t kill me!” he had screamed, and the words had mocked him every moment since that day. He had been humbled before the bow of the Jher, but the young warrior had withheld his pity, had sent another arrow into his enemy’s heart.

It has exhausted every last living spark of Nimrood’s power to transform himself into a raven and wing to safety. It was a long time before he could once again take mortal shape, for he had not even the magic left to change, but was forced to wait until the spell wore off of its own accord.

And a bitter exile it was, trapped in that feathered body, prey to the elements and living on scraps of dead, rotting meat. But though he regained but a thread of his former power-the rudiments of mere child’s dabbling still clung to him, the ability to make noise and light-yet he had returned to seek his revenge equipped with an older and more pernicious art: treachery.

The name of Nimrood the Necromancer had perhaps died from men’s memory; so be it. His lies would do what enchantment could not-of that he was certain. Yes, at long last he would have his revenge.

Oh, the gods were fickle and full of mischief! It took all one’s cunning to outsmart them. Nimrood had done it all his life. And now they had finally delivered the victory into his hand. Yes, oh, yes. Soon the upstart whelp of an acolyte king would suffer as he, Nimrood, had been made to suffer all these years.

Nimrood allowed himself one whoop of demented joy at the impending consummation of all his dreams. Yes, the Dragon King would fall; and that barbarous god of his, that brutish Most High, would fall with him.

The wizened old sorcerer clenched his fists and laughed out loud, throwing his head back and letting the sound pour forth from his wicked throat. It was a sound to chill the marrow of anyone passing by. But no one heard it; he was alone and savored the moment to the full, his black heart lifted in exultation.

Pym stood before the sign of the Gray Goose, a strolling heap of scrap metal and tools, bags and bundles and barter enough for any two tinkers. The hand-painted sign of a long-legged, long-necked plump gray goose wobbled on its chain, the windows of the inn dark now, the door open, but silence within.

“Tinker!” he cried. “Tinker, ma’am!”

He waited, winking at Tip. The dog winked back with both eyes.

In a moment he heard footsteps coming toward him across the planked floor. Then appeared a round, flushed face and the plump form of Emm, the innkeeper’s wife. She waved her apron when she saw him, exclaiming, “Pym! You are a sight, you are! Come around again, have you? Give me a hug.”

She threw her arms around him, and he around her. They were old friends and good ones. “It’s good t’ see ye, Emm. You know me-I been afancy for one of yer meat pasties and a noggin o’ yer best. We ‘uns jest had t’ come back soon’s we ‘uns finished away south.”

“You missed Emm’s cooking, eh? Well, come in, come in with you. We’ll set a fork and trencher at the board and put you to it.”

Pym followed the matron inside, rattling like a calf in a cupboard with every step. “Milcher!” she called. “Otho! We got us a guest. Look lively, now!”

Milcher poked his round bald head out from behind a cask he was rolling across the room. “Oh ho! Pym it is! Oh ho! Pym, good to see you, old friend. Come to visit, eh? Glad to have you. Glad to have you!” He called over his shoulder, “Otho! Hurry up now! We have a guest!”

A tall boyish-faced man came into the room carrying two small kegs under each arm. He grinned at the tinker and put the kegs down, then went to the cask his father was straining at. With ease the overgrown Otho hefted the cask into place. “Pym and Tipper is it?” He grinned boyishly.

Milcher wiped his sweating face on his sleeve. “Whew! I’ve been at it since dawn this morn.” He shook his friend’s hand. “Come and sit down with me. We’ll drink a sip and fill our bellies.”