The Hall of the Mountain King. The Under Mountain, or Thunder Mountain as the Trolledyngjans called it. The caverns where a King of the Dead held sway, and sent damned spirits riding the mountain winds in search of mortal prey...

He stood on a narrow ledge overlooking a cavern so vast its nether bounds could not be discerned. Sahmanan stood beside him. She gestured. So faintly it was almost inaudible, he heard, "All this is yours to command, Deliverer."

They were arrayed in motionless battalions and regiments, in perfectionist rank and file, an army frozen in time. Their number was beyond Ethrian's comprehension. They were both warriors in white and warriors of the breed that had stormed Nawami in the name of Nahaman the Odite. Footmen. Horsemen. Elephanteers. Fell skullfaces still astride their dragon steeds.

They had been captured in a crystalline moment, like insects in amber. They poised motionless beneath a light from nowhere that neither waxed nor waned nor wavered. An air of tension, of impatient waiting, pervaded the cavern.

"They know you, Deliverer. They are eager to find life in your avenging hand."

"What are they?" the boy demanded. "Where did they come from?"

"Long before Nawami fell it was obvious that Nahaman would work her will. We sidestepped her fury by slipping out the door of time. We allowed her her victory. We devoted our Power to preparations for the day a Deliverer would release us from the bonds she would impose. We did not expect you to be so long coming, nor did we foresee her so weakening us that a sending of dolphins would almost be beyond us."

Ethrian's basic questions remained unanswered. He suspected he would not find the important answers till too late. "Who are these people?"

"Some of the fallen of the Nawami Crusades. They were reanimated, motivated, and preserved by our art," said the voice of the stone beast. "They, too, await their Deliverer." Dead men? Ethrian thought. He was supposed to perform some foul necromancy that would recall the dead? Revulsion hit him. The dead were much feared in his age. The woman in white faced him. A smile toyed with her mouth. She began to talk. Her words did not synchronize with the movement of her lips.

"You have your enemies, do you not?" Her speech seemed to come from afar, like a whispering breeze through pines. "Here lies the power to lay them low, Deliverer."

Ethrian was young, confused, frightened, and dreaming, but he was not stupid. He knew there would be a price. What was it?

"Free us," the woman insisted. "Deliver us. That's all we ask."

Ethrian gazed upon the armies in waiting, the armies of the dead, and reflected on the fall of Nawami. Should such fury be released again? Could it be controlled? Was revenge so important?

What other force could face the might of the Dread Empire? Only these elder sorceries could withstand those boiling in Shinsan today.

And he had himself to consider. If he refused them, would Sahmanan and the beast help him survive? Why should they bother?

He would become one more bone monument to the deadliness of this land.

He walked away from the woman, back whence he had come, till again he could see the silvered scape of the barrens. There were lights on the island in the east. He glared at them, hating the people who had lighted them.

He was nothing in this world. He was as powerless as a worm. How else could he punish their crimes?

Sahmanan had followed him from the darkness. "How do I release you?" he asked.

She tried to explain.

"When next we meet," he said, cutting her short. "I'll give you my answer then. I have to think first." He went to his sleeping place, curled into a fetal ball. He was learning a whole new breed of fear.

Dreams came. They never stopped. And this time he did not waken for a long time. He lay in that one place for what seemed an age, unmoving, while the stone beast used the last of its power to show him the world, to proselytize him, to teach him what was needed of Nawami's Deliverer.

Seldom were Ethrian's dreams diverting.

A Time of Changes

HE'S COMING! He's at the Gate of Pearl!" Chu enthused.

Ssu-ma Shih-ka'i looked up from the morning reports. He was a stocky, muscular man with a bull neck. He possessed a porcine air. He looked more like a wrestler than the Tervola-commandant of a legion of the Middle Army. "K'wang-yin, comport yourself as befits an Aspirant."

Chu snapped to attention. "I'm sorry, Lord Ssu-ma."

Shih-ka'i stepped from behind his desk. "You're always sorry, K'wang-yin. I find your endless apologies offensive."

The youth stared over his commander's shoulder. "I'm sorry, Lord."

Shih-ka'i ground his teeth. This one was hopeless. Tervola-spawned or not, this one would not have been elected in the old days. War losses should not justify lowered qualifying levels.

Shih-ka'i remembered the old standards with an almost reverent pride.

Ssu-ma Shih-ka'i came of peasant stock. His brethren among the Tervola never forgot that his father had been a swineherd. He did not let them forget that he had come through his Candidacy in the days of the Princes Thaumaturge, when only the best of the best had scaled the slippery ladder leading to membership in Shinsan's elite.

Jokes about his paternity still haunted Tervola gatherings. They no longer mocked him to his face, but his successes had not changed their secret prejudices.

He had learned much during his Candidacy. He had developed a thick hide and a perseverance which had carried him far beyond the heights his electors had expected him to attain. He was a stubborn, determined man

The Tervpla made great show of keeping their ranks open to every child of talent, discipline, and determination. The show was mostly illusion. Ssu-ma would remain an outsider to the old-line aristocracy. He would sire no sons on their daughters. His daughters, if ever he fathered any, would not be mated by lean, pale sons of the Power such as this scatterbrained chela of his.

K'wang-yin apologized again, killing the silence born of Ssu-ma's moment of introspection. His commander fought the gratification such obseqiousness caused. He had them in his power for a time. He made or broke them. That was sufficient. Only the strong survived. He growled, "K'wang-yin, if I hear one more apology, you'll do a month of primary training." Chu began shaking.

Shih-ka'i looked at pale, twitching cheeks and knew this one would never be accredited Select. Not while Lord Ssu-ma cast the deciding vote. He was too damned timid. "Make a proper report, K'wang-yin."

"Sir!" Chu spat. "Lord Kuo Wen-chin has approached the Gate of Pearl. He requests audience with your Lordship. Commander of the Guard's respects, sir."

"Better. Much better. You're on the right trail. Step outside. Wait two minutes. Compose yourself. Do it again. Knock before you enter."

Chu's cheek twitched. "As you will, Lord."

Shih-ka'i seated himself behind his desk. His gaze returned to the morning reports.

He did not see them. Lord Kuo! Here! He was amazed. What did the man want? Why would he waste time visiting a peasant-born training legion commandant?

Shih-ka'i's legion was the Fourth Demonstration. It accepted a crop of three-year-olds each spring. Over the next eighteen years of their lives it made of them the most dedicated and feared soldiers the world had ever known.

With the exception of a few brief postings, Shih-ka'i had been with the Fourth since childhood, his talent and will driving him upward against the prejudice and inertia of nobly-born Tervola. He had been the legion's commander for two decades. He was proud of the soldiers and Selects he produced. They advanced swiftly wherever they were posted. His superiors believed he was the best at what he did. They extended themselves to keep him happy with an assignment usually given Tervola in heavy disfavor. There were no honors to be won commanding a Demonstration legion.