Description: "Is it some distance?" Borklore asked as he scanned the tumult of stone walls rising on both sides of the narrow gorge where the woman had taken them. It had been more than an hour since they found the beaten woman in the road. She rode beside him on a gray courser flecked with brown. "I ran in the dark until I had no breath and could take the pain of my feet no more. I hid in the wood and waited for the dawn." She looked at him and held his eyes. "I hope I shall find a way to show my gratitude to you and your men." "A marvelous coincidence," Borklore flushed and tried to hear her thoughts. "Clearly, the gods intended for us to gather these brigand bastards." He touched his forehead. "Pray forgive me, m''lady, for assaulting your gracious ears." "Wait!" she said and reined in her horse. Borklore stopped the column. "There!" She pointed to a large boulder that had fallen from the walls of the canyon. It had split open, and the crack looked like the profile of a human face. "I think . . ." she began, then listening to something no one else could hear, she raised a finger to her lips. It was impossible for a hundred men and horses to be silent, but the hum of chatter and rattling of equipment quieted until the hooves of restless horses on rock was all that was left. The woman slipped from the saddle and walked forward. The spare boots were big for her feet and made a slapping sound when she walked. She motioned for the captain to follow. An officer started to dismount, but Borklore stopped him and followed the woman himself. The canyon narrowed and turned sharply right. A small stream ran against the wall. They waded in knee-deep water for a hundred steps before she stopped and pointed to a wider spot half a stone''s throw ahead. "Where did they leave the wagons?" Borklore whispered. "We had no wagons," the woman said. Borklore furrowed his brow. "You said they put the woman and children in wagons and . . ." "Did I?" she said and jutted her chin. She took a few steps forward. A shiver of inexplicable dread sliced through the captain like a blade of ice. He turned at the muffled rattling behind him. Four men blocked the passage. They wore iron and leather, rusted and scuffed. Their helms were mismatched and plumeless. Each stood with an arrow nocked and a bow fully drawn. At such close range the sharpened spikes of steel would penetrate Borklore''s chest plate, but the arrows were pointed at his face. One of the bowmen sniggered. When he whirled around in surprise and confusion, the woman was facing him. She reached a hand beneath black wool and as she pulled it back out an eruption of air wracked his body and clouded his mind as if it were siphoning away his very essence. He fell on the rocks and splashed backward through the water on his hands and feet like a crab trying to escape a giant gull. He stared in terror as a strange gray light retreated into the small black stone the woman held in her hand. The dirty light was sucked into the stone like a rush of foam into a whirlpool. What was happening? Borklore rolled over and scrambled to his feet, looking for the archers. They stood motionless as if nothing had happened. He kept his hand a deliberate distance from the hilt of his sword. He had no defense. He whirled again toward the woman. She was gone! No. She had changed. Transformed in the mist of the strange gray light to a man with the skin the color of rusted iron. His face was shaven and scarred. Drakkor closed his fist around the stone of translucent black crystal and slipped it back into its place of hiding. The stone possessed an even greater magic that he''d been told. Magic? Was the power of the pyrophilus a force from the soul of the universe itself, or from the powers of darkness from the underworld? It mattered not to him. In the years he wandered the North, he had gradually learned its secrets. Quite by chance, he discovered the stone had the power to fool men''s eyes and twist their minds. It demanded an intense focusing of consciousness, but over time he had mastered the skill. He could change the perception of anyone who looked upon him. By possessing the stone, he could compel those who looked at him to see him only as he wished to be seen. Drakkor''s breastplate protected his muscular chest and flat stomach. The pauldrons on his shoulders and buckles were tarnished brass. His cloak was the color of blood and flowed in the slightest breeze as though he could fly. As the light gathered, he was joined on either side by fierce men with iron breastplates, iron helms, and two-handed great swords. "By the gods, what manner of evil is before me?" The captain heaved out breath from exertion and shock. Drakkor held the man''s eyes, his smile cold. His spiders had told him about Borklore. A man of such nobility would do anything to avenge a woman violated by villainous rogues. "What is evil to one is a blessing to another." The captain stiffened. "I command you, in the name of the king, to surrender your weapons and stand aside." A whisper of amusement rippled among Drakkor''s men. "Ah, the tavern gossip is true." Drakkor raised an eyebrow and recited the disparaging adage. "The courage of a kingsrider is only surpassed by his arrogance, and his arrogance only by his ignorance."

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