Turquoise water (three chapters)

ARDALIA Volume Two: TURQUOISE WATER ***** Along the Great Rift, in the heart of the volcano Ixal, Valshhyk the Immolated is stirring.

The creatures corrupted by his putrid fumes are growing in number daily. Within the fiery walls of Sinista the amberrock swords, axes and lances of an army of outcasts gleam, waiting. The day is drawing near when the ties binding the dark god will collapse. Then, the nylevs will surge forward from the depths of the abyss.

Pelmen, Xuven, Teleg, Elisan-Finella and Lominan, the Messengers of Destiny, have an urgent mission. However, dissent soon rears its ugly head and they go their separate ways. Who among the Children of Aoles or Malia will succeed in warning the world of the danger it faces?

When the time comes to confront the servants of the Sacred Fire, will the Breath of Aoles and the power of Turquoise Water be enough to defeat them? *****

Acknowledgements Special thanks to Dawn Lewis for her so precious last minute help with the book. *****

Chapter One – MATTER OF CONSCIENCE Flames were everywhere. Taller than a krongos, swift and dominant, they were dancing a bloody dance of chaos and madness. Just one step forward, and they would seize him in their deadly embrace, scorching his body and feasting upon his soul. Pelmen turned. The tongues of fire behind him drew back, outlining the path to salvation.

He walked, in a shy and reluctant way at first and then gradually with more confidence.

Before him sprang the Source of All Things. Pelmen instinctively knew that in order to overcome his fear of the flames, he must fully immerse himself. By embracing them, he would conquer them and become their master.

For the first time in his life, he understood that he could bend fate to his will. He was among the chosen, and the rich and powerful would one-day bow to him. All he had to do was reach the center of this power, where he would experience absolute bliss, and he would reign alongside...

Something was amiss. His mind began a feverish exploration, trying to dispel the swirling clouds of red smoke. Eventually, he succeeded in clearing some of the fog. Pelmen saw a tall malian dressed in a tunic with epaulets topped with a necklace that hid his chin, sitting on a throne. With its scarlet and golden gleams, the throne could have been mistaken for amberrock if not for the liquid fire moving under the surface.

Pelmen’s will was weakening under the oppression of the fog, which wasn’t so much choking his body than pervading his mind. Summoning all of his strength, Pelmen surged

forward. Looking the malian more closely in the face, he scrutinized the burns, and noted the sinuous symbol etched into the scorched forehead. A two-headed snake.

The Marked. Sinistan.

The world around Pelmen exploded, and he took his head in both hands. The flames had disappeared in the blast, but he felt as if a cohort of melepeks with heavy hooves had suddenly made his head their playground. He closed his eyes. Gradually, the pain eased. Pelmen was now able to hear his wheezing breath and to smell the aggressive sulfur in the air. He wondered just when he had kneeled? He got up, legs shaking, eyelids blinking. He had not even taken his bow.

The dream (a nightmare, it had to be a nightmare) had forced him to wander off from his companions, and had led him somewhere that he wasn’t meant to go. Sinistan... Was he behind this? Or was it the thing Pelmen had felt in the city of the damned? A monster that had the power to consume souls...

He turned quickly on his heel, and coughing walked as fast as he could through the dark, rocky valley, grimacing in pain with every step that he took. It was so much easier walking in the other direction...

Unable to sense the presence of his companions, Pelmen wondered just how far he had strayed from them. He knew that he should have been horrified at the idea of coming back to Sinista, yet he had to admit, there was something fascinating about the city and its incredible wealth.

I must not think about that!

He was exhausted, which raised the question: when did I last sleep?

They were not far enough yet to escape his influence. They had walked for the best part of the day, but never fast enough. The thing (the Master) lurking in the shadows was merciless, and Pelmen had constantly felt as if a noose had been tightening around his neck. Had he not fought them, then the visions would have driven him insane. There was a high price to pay for his resistance though. Terrible stabbing pains made the world a universe of fire and blood, blurring his sight. His defenses were waning due to exhaustion.

Lominan, her shoulders hunched, slimmer than ever. Xuven, thinner too, beard raised to the chest of Elisan, talking with the magician. Turning to stare at him, frowning. Elisan-Finella again, ghastly, both pairs of hands’ fingers curled. Xuven giving instructions in a strained voice.

Snippets of memories gradually found their way through the fog, eventually becoming whole.

Along with his uncle Xuven, the malians Elisan-Finella and Lominan, Pelmen had fled Sinista.

Teleg, his childhood friend, the blonde-haired hevelen, his face dotted with black scabs, had been carried, unconscious, from the accursed city. So close to the Great Rift and only a few leagues from the volcano Ixal, Sinista was glowing with a dark and crimson seal. Like the malian who gave the city his name...

For a long time, Teleg had lain across Pelmen’s nidepoux. The daylight had revealed more scars on his hands and neck—an unpleasant reminder of his stay in Sinista. Pelmen hoped that the necklace of Cilamon’s power—the artifact was wound tightly around his neck—would help his friend’s body to recover. Teleg’s emotional state worried him even more. A few hours into their journey, Teleg had woken up, and Pelmen had helped him get his feet back into the saddle.

Unfortunately, his mauve eyes had stayed empty, as expressionless as Lominan’s—who for some unknown reason was also immersed in apathy, with nothing that anyone said able to bring her out of it. They had just stopped once, when Elisan, who had awakened from her magician’s trance, her stern face more closed than ever, had reported two scouts coming from Sinista. The rocky defile was straight, and they all felt exposed, their small group being visible from several hundred yards. With his energies depleted, Pelmen had been incapable of using his bow, and given his weariness, Xuven had admitted to being unable to use his power at such a distance.

Their situation was impossible.

Pelmen remembered having suffered a violent crisis at this time. Locked in battle with his inner demons, he had only learned what had happened much later, when Xuven felt able to tell him. Xuven had spotted a small cave, but Elisan-Finella went one step further, and invoked Bubbles of Camouflage, which were mixed and melted around the melepek and their hiding place. While Pelmen, with tears in his eyes and gagged by his uncle, was pulling out his hair, a hevelen and a malian passed close to their hiding place without seeing them. Both were in a poor condition, their skins cracked and burned, yet dressed in leather armor and with weapons that had amberrock tips.

Once they were certain that the danger had passed, Pelmen and his companions had resumed their route. The nidepoux didn’t have any success finding food on the way. Even though they lacked the protection of the magic of the necklaces of Cilamon, somehow the nidepoux resisted the horrific visions. So many animals succumbed to the allure of the Great Rift, and Pelmen marveled at their strength. Despite the corrupt air and the hunger that gnawed at them, the quadrupeds obediently allowed themselves to be guided. The parasites inhabiting their fur had long ago left them, an even worse sign than their hoarse breathing and dull hair. The melepek, for its part, had placed his six paws on the floor with the same unflappable consistency.

More than once, Pelmen had wondered how a hevelen like him was going to find the strength to take on Valshhyk the Destroyer. According to legend, the one also called the Immolated was imprisoned in the heart of the volcano Ixal. However, the word “imprisoned” was to be taken with a grain of salt.

Pelmen wrinkled his triple nostrils and pulled back a strand of black hair, his bulging eyes gazing at the rock at his feet. For as much as the dark god was physically confined, the fumes of sulfur with which he expressed his will still escaped freely from the Great Rift. The three peoples, hevelen, krongos and malanite, had to be told. In the shadow of Sinista a mixed army was being formed, fearsomely equipped and trained, benefiting from the crimson shamans’ power, servants of the fire of the Destroyer.

Pelmen’s head grew heavier, and he wondered if this was an effect of fatigue or the beginning of a new crisis. He had tripped for the third time in fifty paces when he finally made out, lying on the ground, the huddled up outlines of his companions. All so deeply asleep that they had not heard him get up and had done nothing to stop him from leaving, contrary to what they had agreed. Pelmen decided not to tell them what had happened to him, as he felt that it would be pointless to do so. At least they could sleep! Visions had haunted him in his sleep, when he was at his most vulnerable. In the starlight, he spotted a rock on the ground with an uncomfortable edge and satisfied that there was no danger of him falling asleep, Pelmen sat back and watched Teleg lying against a nidepoux. The necklace around the neck of his childhood friend was no longer glowing. The artifact only revealed the full extent of its power when the fumes of the Destroyer were at their most aggressive, particularly near the Great Rift. A nervous twitch occasionally flickered across Teleg’s face.

At least doesn’t he talk anymore in his sleep.

Pelmen felt as though his stomach was devouring his bowels. Glancing at his bag, he thought wistfully about the dried meat, which had been poisoned by the deadly fumes. What’s more, he was so thirsty! Elisan-Finella was going to have to find the strength to purify their last supply of water, or they would all perish.

Aching from the uncomfortable stone, Pelmen dragged himself wearily to his feet, then walked a few feeble steps before sitting back down again, repeating the process over and over several times before Astar rose, turning the sky a fiery red. One by one Xuven, Elisan-Finella, Lominan and Teleg awoke. Xuven’s side whiskers and beard had turned white, Elisan seemed to feel the weight of Finella leaning against her for the first time, Lominan, just a little smaller and thinner than the magicians, had a hardened face while Teleg’s look was still vacant. What a

valiant team! Looking at Elisan with the full intensity of his despair, Pelmen handed her his water-skin.

She made a gesture of denial and Pelmen bent his spine, distraught. Xuven draped his arm over his nephew’s shoulders, meager comfort in the circumstances. Teleg’s nidepoux proving too weak to carry him again, Pelmen went to support his friend. Teleg walked falteringly. Only the melepek, although as hungry as the others, still showed its toughness by agreeing to carry both Elisan-Finella and Lominan on his back. They walked for hours, only stopping for short rest periods. While gathering tauntingly in the sky, the clouds refused to release the so precious water they contained. Gradually, the narrow pass became less barren. They passed a veguer’en stripped of its leaves—its mauve bulbs, bloated, no longer had the strength to breathe the air. Then they passed one of those cacti that contained an aqueous substance in their bulges. At the sight of the greenish tinge strewn with red dots on its trunk, Xuven forbade them to touch it. Pelmen said nothing, not even having the energy to argue, with his parched tongue sticking to his palate. A continuous diffuse buzzing had replaced the terrible stabbing pains from the previous day. Still ubiquitous, the smell of sulfur had stopped arousing the feeling of power just within reach.

Pelmen’s last bits of will were his most valuable asset.

The path had bent, and they suddenly emerged in front of a plain of grass and lichens. It extended to infinity in the east, and to the west was dominated by peaks on familiar terms with heaven.

Pelmen fell to his knees, gaping. The Uncrossable Mountains. He could feel it in every fiber of his body, the breath of Aoles was powerful in the Windy Steppes. Swirling gusts swept the end of the narrow pass, reaching them weakened. Almost all of them were permeated with sulfur, but the effect of the fresh air flow on the hevelens was immediate, Pelmen rose and Xuven and Teleg straightened their shoulders. Finally, the supernatural heat that had dried their skin from the border of the Rift faded.

What month is it? wondered Pelmen. It must be at least the second of Aoles.

Teleg also seemed to awaken from a bad dream. Full of life again, he walked straight to Pelmen. Who did not know how to behave.

“Alicene is not with us,” he murmured. “You lied to me.”

Before Pelmen could answer, Teleg swung his fist at him, squarely hitting him in the jaw.

Pelmen fell on his back while his nidepoux swerved, hissing. Half-conscious, he saw Teleg grab his necklace with both hands and throw it to the ground.

Pelmen leaned on his elbows and spat blood between coughing fits. It’s not possible... not possible. His jaw was a well of pain. Had Teleg’s training made him stronger? Or was Pelmen’s exhaustion holding him back? His head was still spinning when Teleg dealt a masterful slap on the rump of his nidepoux. The beast darted straight ahead, knocking over Xuven before he could use his gnarled wand. The second quadruped, freaked out, ran off in turn.

Teleg had started running in the opposite direction. Pelmen struggled to get up, glancing at the melepek. Led by Elisan-Finella, the animal turned too slowly. Fear was etched across Lominan’s face. Biting his lower lip, Pelmen grabbed his bow. A thorn in the leg should stop him. Teleg’s yellowish buckles jumped on his shoulders. Sorry to do this, but you’ve left me no choice... He had just notched when the buzzing inside his head grew louder. The air was suddenly unbreathable, and everything was rotten. He fell to his knees, gasping. As Teleg disappeared into the curve of the narrow pass, the stabbing pains began to overwhelm Pelmen’s consciousness.

The return to reality was as sharp as it was brutal. The pain was gone, cut at the root.

Pelmen closed his mouth—his lips still quivering from the howl that had burst from his throat.

Xuven stood leaning over him, his fingers lightly brushing the necklace he had passed around his neck.

“Why did you let him escape? What for?” Hoarse and broken, Pelmen’s voice was that of a stranger.

The sagging, gaunt faces of his uncle and Elisan-Finella spoke for themselves.

He wanted to run after Teleg. He barely could walk. No, I’m not exhausted! I am not starving with hunger; I am not thirsty. This is just an illusion. I must catch up with him!

Xuven’s hand fell on his elbow, forcing him to turn.

“Don’t do that, my boy,” he uttered in a scratchy voice. “All your efforts will only be used to get you caught, to get us caught. Your friend...” It was no longer just fatigue burrowing Xuven’s features. Sorrow was in his eyes, too. “Your friend is possessed by the energy of the Immolated. You won’t recapture him. Not in your present condition.”

“No,” said Pelmen. “That can’t be true. The necklace...”

“The necklace does not heal!” said Xuven, losing his temper. “The necklace protects!

Teleg was secluded from Valshhyk’s power until he removed it. Of his own free will!” Xuven lowered his eyes, and his voice softened. “I’m sorry Pelmen, terribly sorry, but if enough selfawareness and willpower had remained in him, we would have seen that yesterday after he awakened. Remember his look, then: lost, astray.”

Pelmen, staring into space, whispered without pausing a number of barely audible “no’s”.

“He was in contact with the poisonous breath for far too long,” Xuven continued.

“Valshhyk’s mind knows no rest. Anyone would have yielded.”

Pelmen turned slowly toward him. He would have cried if only there had been any moisture left in his eyes. The lump in the throat almost prevented him from talking. “So, what have we achieved?”

“You should know better than any of us, my boy. You’re the one who entered this city.”

“So, Teleg is doomed, is he? Like all of them... All those who live in Sinista.”

Xuven’s eyes widened. “What do you call this city?”

“To be purified, one must first want it.”

Elisan, always slender, was coming over to them after having dismounted. She had not lost her fluidity despite the hardships—dehydration was whitening her wide mouth’s lips. Now, she stared right into Pelmen’s eyes as if her words were aimed at him in the first place.

“You! You did nothing. Nothing! Neither to cure him nor to stop him from fleeing!”

“Finella didn’t have the strength, any more than I did. And to heal him, I repeat, it would have been necessary for him to want that.”

Her tone was so cool! So infuriating! And especially since she was probably right. Would Teleg have accepted the need for someone to help him get rid of his Master? Pelmen remembered his friend’s spear of amberrock, thrown over the wall and left there, his house and his chests of precious objects. It was mad to presume that Teleg would agree to give it all up! No inhabitant of the dark city would willingly abandon his property. They had lost everything in their first life, and Sinistan and his minions had given them everything they had ever dreamed about, and more. Or so they thought. Former Disinherited’s loyalty to their “saviors” would be unwavering, whatever the practices of their suspicious partners.

Pelmen stood up painfully and turned around. He would have liked to stop the neverending cycle of his thoughts from telling him that he had failed, that he had abandoned his best friend. That the master of fire and his henchmen had won, in the end. He passed Lominan, hunkering down on her melepek.

The nidepoux had not gone far, stopping in the steppe to burrow the ground with their snouts. Pelmen, soon joined by his three companions, walked into the plain. The wind whipped him, bringing him back to his true self. He rubbed his bristly chin beard. The breath of Aoles seemed somehow to wake Teleg. Yet he chose to turn around, and that means he has changed.

That very idea pierced his heart like the tip of a flint covered with frost, so much so he remained a few moments inert, drained of all emotion. Meanwhile, his uncle struggled to gather the

nidepoux—doing it wrong. Wincing, Pelmen walked in his direction. He had to bait the animals with plants cut from the ground to make them leave, resulting in further delays to their journey southward. However, with every step that they took, the air seemed purer and the yellow hue of the grass, less dull. Daylight decreased rapidly, clouds had covered the vast scarlet globe of Astar. To Pelmen, it seemed that the darkness spreading over the land was an extension of the darkness that descended upon his heart. In the late afternoon, it was as dark as if the Sun-God had already set. Thunder rolled, and the sky was streaked with lightning as rain poured from the clouds.

Eventually, the malians began to emerge from their stupor. Lominan blinked while ElisanFinella raised two pairs of hands, palms open. After this first moment of gratitude, without any delay the magician dismounted, seized the belenite bowl on the flank of her melepek and placed it on the ground. Then ascendant and respondent formed one of the Bubbles to which only they knew the secret and were able to soak up the moisture from the air. They poured the content into the container, and the water was colored turquoise.

“Empty your water-skins on the floor!” Elisan ordered. “Completely!”

Complying with her request didn’t take long, given the meager state of the reserves. The magicians invoked two new Bubbles of smaller size, which they set up overhanging the waterskins held at arm’s length by the hevelens. Water of exceptional purity flowed. Aware of the need to gradually accustom their stomachs, they forced themselves to drink in small sips. ElisanFinella sat in her wide bowl, cross-legged, eyes closed under the soothing patter of rain. Her pale skin was gradually recovering its original blue-gray color. Moments later, Elisan sighed and it seemed she had to pluck up the courage to leave. She emptied the bowl, then filled it again with a new Bubble before motioning Lominan.

The mil’ser remained on the melepek, motionless. Elisan-Finella drew closer and took the young malian by the armpits, helping her down. Lominan’s facial features were expressionless.

Her inability to communicate reminded Pelmen of Teleg, to such an extent that he wondered if the malian’s necklace of Cilamon had failed to protect her.

The apprentice stepped over the bowl, but the Turquoise Water did not have the effect observed many times on her. Instead of calming down, she shrank a little more, and then began to sob without being able to hold on. Elisan watched, seemingly unsurprised. Xuven was also staring at the mil’ser. The latter eventually hiccupped, sniffed, took a deep breath and looked at Elisan.

“I... I saw Sinistan.”

“So it was him,” nodded the feless’tu, causing Xuven to shoot her a puzzled glance. “Sit down, apprentice. Sit down and tell us about that.”

“Talk? I do not want to talk about that!” As her eyes stared at an indefinite point, Pelmen was sure she wouldn’t speak anymore, so much so that he was startled when Lominan’s lips started to move as if by themselves. “It was... it was horrible. Mital... became a living torch.

Those flames! He carried... a whip. Sinistan had a whip, a whip of fire, which stirred and winded, which was burning and scorched. He yelled... Yes, Mital woke up in the midst of the Great Rift. He yelled and turned into... something... a being, a fire being.” She continued to sob.

Perplexed, Pelmen, turned to Xuven.

“Yes, confirmed his uncle, there was a distant howl. We heard it.”

“It was Mital,” said Lominan between sniffles. “One of the others with me in the carriage.”

“One of the mil’ser?” asked Pelmen.

“This fire being that you saw,” broke in Elisan. “Was it a nylev?”

“This is... this is what it... what Sinistan called him, yes.”

Xuven and Elisan stared at each other, in dismay.

“What does it mean?” asked Pelmen.

“Nothing good, my lad. Nothing good.”

“The Immolated regenerated part of his power,” stated Elisan. She was standing near Lominan and placed her right hand’s palm on the forehead of her apprentice, who finally agreed to sit in the bowl—or rather, dropped herself into it shuddering.

“It’s obvious,” said Pelmen. “He’s able to get into our dreams. To influence us.” He swallowed. “To convert a friend into... something else.”

“What happened in the city?” asked Xuven. “You gave it the name Sinista, I think?”

“Not just yet,” replied Pelmen. “First of all, let us eat.”

Dragging his feet, he walked to his saddlebag, pulled out remnants of dried meat and tried to present them to Elisan. Who made a gesture of denial.

“Food is too deeply corrupted, attempting to purify it would be a waste of time. We must get rid of that.”

Pelmen felt a stabbing sensation tear through his heart as he forced himself to obey her. A feverish search in the rain followed. They eventually found enough berries and mushrooms to make the most frugal of meals. Pelmen enjoyed every bite, until the sour taste of red berries, whose juice seemed the best of liquors. His hunger partly alleviated, he told in a flat voice the story of his journey into Sinista. Elisan turned her face at the reference to malians being immersed in mud while Lominan, having regained some liveliness from her bath in the belenite bowl, looked at him without hiding her disgust. She did not seem overly surprised.

Pelmen told of how he watched hevelen and malanite soldiers of Sinistan training, his fear that he had been spotted by a crimson shaman and his subsequent flight, and how he burst into Teleg’s house uninvited. “He almost pierced me with his spear when I woke him up,” he said in an even tone. “To convince him to go with me, I had to make him think his sister Alicene was among us. That’s not something I’m proud of.” He continued with the story of how he and Teleg withdrew into the depths of the amberrock mine, describing with a shudder the burned hevelens and malians and their stiff gait. While talking about Teleg’s delusions, he realized how the visions of power and glory of the hevelen who became Sinistan’s carpenter were close to his own dreams—or at least those that had haunted him in recent nights.

His companions were watching him with dismay. Xuven, who had been silent up until this point, nodded.

“This is very good work. Now we know where our enemies’ vast resources come from.”

“It’s not surprising that they have managed to trigger an exodus,” agreed Elisan. “The only other known deposit is that of the amberrock Caverns, to the east of Lake Iogar.”

Xuven’s gaze became absent, lost in the distance.

“What do you think?” asked Pelmen.

Xuven turned to him. “The closeness of this new amberrock mine and the Rift is unsettling.

It’s as if the God of Destruction is using enticement as a weapon.”

“So what?”

“According to all the records I’ve read and the stories told by the elders, he has never used that—only force mattered to him. All this is very unusual.”

“This change makes him all the more dangerous,” Elisan stated, to which Xuven nodded.

Pelmen once again saw the flames dancing before his eyes, spreading aside to clear a path to Sinista. He blinked and pushed back the memory with a shudder.

“What was that?” asked Xuven.

“Nothing,” said Pelmen. “I wish Valshhyk wouldn’t exist.”

The silence weighed heavily upon them. The rain had stopped, replaced by the cool night air. Pelmen rubbed his wet arms and moved. Lominan was studying her fragment of amberrock thoughtfully. Eventually, she stuffed it into her pants, a disillusioned fold marring the corners of the lips. The decision was quickly made to camp for the night. Everybody was exhausted, and the beasts were moved in order to provide a protective circle so that there was a chance that everyone would wake up in time, in the event of an invasion. Pelmen didn’t approve of putting

the mounts at risk, however his eyelids were so heavy that he didn’t have the strength to argue.

As soon as he lay down, he fell asleep. Astar was at his zenith when he woke from his slumber the following morning. Xuven and Elisan-Finella were busy preparing the nidepoux and the melepek. Lominan was for her part sitting quietly cross-legged in the belenite bowl. The sky was bright yellow, washed clean from the previous day’s clouds. The Uncrossable Mountains’ first foothills loomed much more significantly. Behind the steep peaks, in the heart of the Canyons in the city of Alveg, Alicene was waiting for news of her brother. Pelmen bit his lower lip.

“Where are we going?” he asked, grasping a handful of mushrooms handed to him by his uncle.

“The Three Rocks encampment,” Xuven replied. “The Cilamenites should be the first to be warned. They are the ones on the frontline.”

“If only there were a way to find Teleg and make him see sense...” Pelmen broke off midsentence upon seeing Elisan’s disapproving gaze. “I know, I know, he should want to free himself of Valshhyk,” he sighed.

They walked at a slow pace the rest of the day. The nidepoux frequently stopped to dig the soil and feed on sprouts and roots. Xuven and Elisan-Finella would have liked to go faster, but their mounts were still recovering, and Pelmen urged the others to show mercy upon them. He could sense their weariness nearly as well as his own, guessing their mood at an inclination of snout or at a sniff.

In the early evening, they paused for the night. Pelmen tied his nidepoux to a cactus and went hunting. When Lominan rejoined him striding, he barely even glanced in her direction. A concerned fold crossing out his forehead, his lips closed, he was trying in vain to smell the air— the necklace of Cilamon prevented him from opening up to odors. After a while, Lominan’s clear voice rose.

“You have shown great courage in going for your friend in this... this place.”

Pelmen replied with an indefinite growl.

“I could not have. I wonder how you did that.”

He shot her a warning look, and they both walked on in silence. Astar was now half immersed under the skyline—Pelmen was sheltering his eyes to enhance his visibility. Although the Halenor had taught him to use all his senses under such circumstances, he was missing the sense of smell.

He shook his head. Turning toward Lominan, who at her full height, towered over him, Pelmen looked up. The snub nose, as strange it was along with her two lone nostrils, combined with her glittering emerald irises and the dimple on her chin would probably have made her pretty—for a malian, at least—had not the right corner of her mouth been most often marred by a bitter fold. “I didn’t need courage. I had no other choice.”

“But you were the one to get it right. By refusing the amberrock.”

Pelmen smile reflected his bitterness. “I know what you’re trying to do.”

“Oh yeah?” said Lominan whose complexion turned dark blue.

“What use is that, when it’s going to be me that tells Teleg’s sister what happened.”

“And what exactly did happen?” Lominan retorted without giving him a chance to answer.

“Your friend ran away, so what? You are not accountable for his decisions.”

“DON’T YOU SEE THAT TELEG IS RUNNING TOWARD HIS DOOM?” Lominan recoiled. For his part, Pelmen clenched his fists until the joints whitened, a fire burning in his eyes as he struggled to control his raging emotions.

“I am fully aware of what is going on there,” she said in a trembling voice.

“Excuse me,” he said. “If only I had not played this like... like a hungry nidepoux in a stainflowers’ garden. I should have tried to convince him rather than forcing the matter.”

Lominan’s facial expression reflected her disapproval. “You acted in an emergency. Why blame yourself?”

“I ... I had given my word to his sister.”

“Big deal! But you’re not the only one involved. We all played a part in what happened. Let me remind you that neither I nor your uncle or Elisan-Finella was able to prevent your friend from escaping.”

Pelmen didn’t reply and motioned to continue. Twilight was waning when he turned again toward the malian. “Thank you,” he whispered.

“You know, I think that if...”

A sudden trampling interrupted her. She turned her head, and her eyes widened.

Pelmen reacted in a flash. Grabbing her by the waist, he drew her so hard that she lost her balance and collapsed.

At the very spot where they had stood less than a second before, horns of ivory met the vacuum they had left behind. Unable to stop, the monster sped past.

Pelmen leaned bluntly on the mil’ser to pull himself to his feet. The growl of disappointment close by ruffled his feathers.

With a move repeated a thousand times during his exercises along with Symen Halenor, he seized his bow and notched.

Shoulders prominent, curved horns on the forehead and low black spotted coat to the back, what could only be a sanrkhas was huddled, the drool dripping from its bared teeth. He leaped when Pelmen released his thorn. Sinking into the half-open mouth, the arrow broke the momentum of the predator, which fell back on Lominan.

She screamed. Impervious to pain, the beast had just closed his teeth on the malian’s flank.

Incredulously, Pelmen dropped his bow. Cold anger seized him as he grasped the thin fragment of flint still usable in his belt—the stone would be forever linked to that memory of him knocking Teleg unconscious. He threw himself on the sanrkhas that had still not let go and, his left arm under his neck struck him with the right hand. The sticky blood splashed and spread over Lominan, but Pelmen refused to stop. His forehead drenched with sweat, he continued to punch the side of the beast, ever more deeply despite the pain in his shoulder, despite his flint cutting his fingers. Finally, he felt the carcass stiffen. Then, ignoring Lominan’s intensifying screams, he removed the wet jaws of the creature and threw it aside before slumping down, exhausted.

Lominan’s cries were now interspersed with sobs. Although the anatomy of malians was not familiar to him, Pelmen estimated after a quick review the wound, not to be a serious one.

Fortunately, the thorn across his palate had hindered the sanrkhas, preventing him from doing more damage. Pelmen took Lominan’s cool hand and patted it. “It’s okay, it’s okay.”

“That’s easy... for you to say” she moaned, triggering a smile from Pelmen. Even in times of drama, the malian continued to contradict him.

“It’s time to return to camp,” he said.

Lominan did not react.

Rather than insisting, he bent over the remains illuminated by the day’s last reddening rays.

The frenzied expression on the features of the sanrkhas wasn’t unknown to him, he had already noticed it in the animals affected by the reeks of the Great Rift. Those who yielded to the power of Valshhyk no longer considered their instinct, devoted body and soul to the urge to kill or to the fascination with the abyss. Such corrupted animals were acting on an individual basis, without any respect for their life. The flesh of this one, poisoned, was worthless. Pelmen tried to collect the precious horns by pulling them out with his piece of flint before facing the fact: he would lose too much time.

“Come on! The smell of blood may attract other animals. We must get away.”

Lominan groaned but rolled over and tried to get back on her feet. Pelmen helped her.

Hobbling, they returned to the camp.

Chapter Two – SACRIFICES In turn the two moons, Tinmal and Hamal, found themselves hidden by the cloud cover.

The swirling wind made Pelmen’s hair flutter—Lominan, like all malians didn’t have any hair.

Xuven and then Elisan-Finella rushed towards them. Pelmen greeted them with a grimacing smile. Lominan groaned again, and Pelmen helped the fused to support the injured malian for a few more steps.

“Are you all right?” Xuven asked his nephew.

“The sanrkhas attacked Lominan.” They dropped off the apprentice close to the melepek.

Elisan, in deep concentration, joined her fingers in a circle and soon, the center of the circle started to show a bluish glow.

Pelmen recounted in a few words what had happened while a Bubble began to take shape.

Stabilizing, it floated above Lominan’s closed hands on her injury. Pelmen quickly moved them apart. The Bubble made several two-way trips brushing past the wound, after which Xuven, who had gone to fetch a water-skin, cleaned Lominan’s mauve stained skin. Lominan’s moans had weakened.

“Are you sure that the sanrkhas was corrupted?” asked Xuven, righting himself.

“An animal that were not possessed would have protected itself against that,” said Pelmen, displaying the bloody fragment of flint. “I hit him over and over again but nothing worked, it took its anger out on Lominan.” Pelmen shook his head. “That was its downfall.” He tried to make out his uncle’s expression, but it was too dark.

“Let us hope this was an isolated attack,” commented Xuven.

Something in his tone troubled Pelmen, and it seemed to him that Elisan was also examining Xuven, perplexed.

“What do you mean by that?” he asked thoughtfully. “You think... it could have been sent on our track?”

“I wonder. The smell of sulfur has never made the creatures of the steppe smart. Quite the contrary, in fact... But so many things are changing. We’ll have to protect ourselves and fast!”

Grabbing his gnarled wand, Xuven carefully conjured up a cavity in the ground. Then, he gathered the earth around the base of the stick. On his instruction, the air currents of the steppe became focused like on an anchor before surrounding the companions and their animals, isolating the bodily smells that could have betrayed their presence.

Their stomachs barely soothed by a meager meal made of plants, they lay down for the night. Elisan-Finella used magic once again, and soon disappeared behind a curtain of humidity that also encompassed Lominan and the melepek. The next day, as soon as the spell of Camouflage was dispelled, Pelmen went to ask about Lominan’s health. The young apprentice gave him a reassuring gesture. All that remained was a series of dark blue dots where the sanrkhas’ fangs had dug into her flesh. Sitting cross-legged, and with eyes closed, Elisan-Finella held her hands apart.

“The Bubble of Vision,” Lominan said following Pelmen’s gaze. “She is exploring the surroundings.”

Pelmen lowered his chin. Elisan-Finella’s eyelids opened, and then the fused straightened.

“They are following us,” she dropped icily. “Fifty, at least. They have warriors and crimson shamans.”

“So soon? How can this be?”

Elisan’s cobalt eyes settled on Pelmen. “Your friend is among them. Alongside Sinistan.”

Pelmen blanched. “I do not understand, he whispered... How Teleg managed to warn them so quickly...”

“Our advance?” asked Xuven. Maybe his skin too had become pale, but otherwise he kept his composure.

“Half a day,” replied Elisan. “No more.”

“The only explanation is that they were already on our trail before Teleg rejoined them,” Xuven said. “Our little trick was not enough to deceive them for long.”

“Why are we waiting?” said Lominan.

“The melepek will have to be abandoned,” pointed Elisan. “And with it the bowl.”

Finella’s warm voice rose. The respondent’s face was rounder and her limbs plumper than Elisan’s. “We cannot offer it to them. The artifact is too precious.”

“Yet what your ascendant said is true,” argued Xuven, “the melepek will not hold the rhythm.”

“Make up your minds!” pressed Lominan.

Elisan raised a hand to silence them. “We have to make a detour to the northeast. A few leagues from here, a large rock has the proper inclination.”

“You plan to hide the bowl?” murmured Finella.

“Desperate times call for desperate measures.”

“Northeast will bring us closer to the Uncrossable Mountains,” declared Xuven. “It will be easier to hide there. Unfortunately, our enemies will think the same and will most certainly look for us there.”

“That’s a risk we must take. Let’s not delay anymore,” said Elisan.

Xuven agreed, and they set off, led by the feless’tu. They were walking slowly because of the melepek. Pelmen decided to go forward in search of game—if we must fight, let’s do it with a full stomach. He had put the necklace of Cilamon in his game-bag so that the smell of the stony plain flowed to the smallest nuances. Scents of stones, lichens, insects. Of life. Soon, he identified the musky signature of a pair of ptats who thought they could escape.

Some time later, he rejoined Xuven and the malians near what could have been the crest of some colossal creature. The rock signaled by the fused, oddly fragmented, was pushed obliquely into the earth. While Pelmen cut-up his prey—it would not be the first time he would eat raw flesh—Elisan-Finella, assisted by Lominan, relieved the melepek of the bowl. Xuven, and then Pelmen came to help bury it. Their task was made easier by the presence of an apparently abandoned den in the hollow of the granitic spur.

“Lominan, retrieve the skins,” ordered Elisan as soon as they were finished. “I’ll take the saddlebags.”

“They are approaching,” said Finella absently. “They sent scouts to the steppe, but the bulk of the troops are heading towards us.” The respondent had her eyes closed.

Pelmen and Lominan glanced at each other while Xuven remained impassive. Perhaps to hide his own fear, Pelmen pressed the trembling arm of the young malian. She turned her face, then closed her hand nervously on the fragment of amberrock in her belt. He wanted to grind his teeth. She must not even realize that she’s doing it.

Once the melepek unloaded, Elisan stood before her mount’s muzzle and issued a series of guttural syllables, designating the nearby cliffs. The animal walked hesitantly, its steps becoming more determined as soon as the magician confirmed the order.

“What will become of him?” Pelmen inquired.

“It will melt away in the mountains,” said Elisan. “With a bit of luck, it will not be discovered.”

Xuven had mounted his nidepoux, and Pelmen did the same. Both kicked their heels, and the giant rodents leaped forward. The malians, meanwhile, ran with great strides in the same direction, southeast, keeping away from the path of the melepek. It was not long before Xuven

and Pelmen pulled the ears of their mounts as Elisan-Finella already lagged behind. Xuven’s face hardened. Pelmen opened his mouth to mutter a caustic comment, but stopped himself at the last moment. It’s not when one’s got a headwind that one blows in the same direction.

The outline of a rock could be seen in the distance, and Xuven set his sights on it.

The walk was irregular in the following hours, continually interspersed with nervous glances backward. Elisan-Finella and Lominan frequently placed their lips on their water-skin’s neck. The leaps and bounds of the nidepoux were always painful to bear so that Pelmen was almost relieved to have to slow down to wait for their companions. Once they drew closer, they realized that the peak was surrounded by rocks strewn on the ground. Looking up, Pelmen was no longer able to make out the top. From a given height, mists girded the immutable giant.

The quadrupeds hissed, indicating the need to dismount if they didn’t want to wear them out completely. Xuven followed Pelmen’s lead. The terrain was steep, and the slope became more pronounced a little further along the line. Pelmen turned.

Dust was rising on the horizon. He saw his own dismay reflected upon the faces of his companions. At the same time, they rushed down the steep path that led them to the bed of a small mountain stream where the malians, relieved, plunged their feet. Pelmen remained with his uncle on the stony shore and noted that the motions of the magician feless’tu and her apprentice had become livelier despite the contrary current. The water was freezing. Narrowing his nostrils, he considered the grayskins’ serene appearance.

A few hundred yards forward, the mountain stream began to wind, stuck between the cliffs of one of the Uncrossable Mountains and a granite plateau whose slope, soft at the base, was straightening toward the heights. Xuven held out his gnarled wand while moving between the large rocks—obviously, he had appealed to the Sign of Aoles. His uncle stopped so abruptly that Pelmen overtook him a double stride before stopping in turn.

“A cart,” he said. “Coming from the opposite direction. If we continue on this path, we’ll meet.”

“So what?” said Lominan while bending to fill her water-skins. “We’ll just warn the driver of the danger without pausing.”

“This is not a trade route,” replied Xuven gravely. “The most likely destination of the cart...”

“Is Sinista,” completed Elisan. “Quick! We have to hide.”

There were many rocks behind which to shelter, however as an additional precaution, Xuven guided his companions to the back of the plateau, where the slope was accentuated. The malians were struggling, their webbed feet being poorly adapted to climbing. Encouraged by Pelmen, the nidepoux progressed with their usual tenacity despite the pebbles that rolled beneath their feet. Having reached the bottom of the cleft, they halted. A little further up along the wall, a discreet opening offered an outlook over the pass below. Xuven, however, studied the scenery in the opposite direction, the side where the mountain faced a steep bank.

“Now is the time to go and reconnoiter the ground,” he said.

“We can do that without us moving,” Elisan replied.

Accustomed to the peculiarities of the fused malanites language, Pelmen knew that by “we” Elisan was referring to herself and Finella.

“To each his methods,” said Xuven. “Up there, I’ll be in a better position to pick up odors and decide what to do.”

The terrain was gradually sloping, and Pelmen realized that his uncle was banking on being able to climb to the top, where he would eventually overhang the opposite cliff. Ignoring the frowned arches of the ascendant, Xuven began climbing. Pelmen was about to follow him, but the gray eyes stopped him.

“Wait for me here. And not a sound until my return.”

The words were barely out of Xuven’s mouth when the sound of remote wheels reached them. He did not take offense and soon disappeared under the cover of the mountain.

Elisan placed herself opposite the opening so that Finella would miss nothing of the arrival of the cart. The ascendant joined her palms and the tips of her fingers in a sphere.

Lominan scanned the rocky path from where the first echoing sounds of the cart came.

According to the whims of the wind, the sound, mingled with the mountain stream flow, was either weakened and distant or on the contrary so close that it was almost deafening. Astar was no longer exactly at his zenith and Pelmen thought of their enemies. He tried to calculate the distance they had covered since the first raising of dust. With a slow gesture, he grabbed his bow and thorn.

Finally, the cart appeared. Long and pulled by four nidepoux it was covered with a tarpaulin. To the left of the driver, a second hevelen armed with a spear threw cautious glances at the sides. Pelmen sent a silent prayer to Aoles for the newcomers not to smell any revealing odor.

Just before the carriage disappeared noisily behind a rock, he caught a glimpse of the rear and wrinkled his nostrils. The Disinherited were piled there, shirtless and emaciated as a result of hardship.

To think that I was one of them. The unfortunate don’t know that it’s their soul that they come to trade with the amberrock. Pelmen had the galcynebumps. He also had an unpleasant taste in the mouth—as if as a result of his inaction, he had made himself an accessory to the dark deal.

Lominan turned to him, her face animated. He shook his head, and she looked over her shoulder. Her still hopeful face darkened almost immediately. Finella had confirmed the need to wait. Lominan’s attitude was not surprising, as in the past she had shown on various occasions that she was rebellious and inclined to flee from danger.

This time, however, Pelmen understood her. If he had felt that he had no other option, he too would have been in a hurry to run off and put as much distance between him and their pursuers as possible. To witness their arrival helplessly was not a prospect that delighted him.

Time passed with no trace of Xuven in the air. What could possibly be delaying him? I wonder if... Pelmen grimaced, raising a hand to his nose. The stench of sulfur. The miasma was spreading through his lungs. Pretty soon, he was overwhelmed by the thoughts that he had so far managed to keep under control. The game is up. This time they are on to us. We are easy prey, so easy for their shamans. It’s all just a game for them. Pelmen was prostrate with fear, the certainty of imminent defeat and futility of resistance growing in him with every passing second, clasping his heart as would the jaw of a sanrkhas.

“Are you all right?” asked Lominan, worried.

His eyes widened. His breathing turned to pants as his headache resurfaced, more stabbing and debilitating than ever. It was as if someone was trying to snatch every last one of his thoughts away from him. His hands searched clumsily for his game-bag, clearing a path, closing on the necklace of Cilamon. With Lominan watching him with a puzzled expression on her face, he shakily fastened the artifact around his neck. The tiny orange gems embedded into knots of the cilamen wood emitted a pale glow. His thoughts suddenly brightened, and fear loosened its grip on him.

Finella was also watching him with curiosity. Clearly the malians’ less developed sense of smell had not warned them of the atmosphere’s toxicity.

Pelmen nodded to the respondent, and Finella grabbed her necklace. The object was distended when she pulled it around her slender neck and that of her ascendant.

“You do well,” Elisan whispered in a voice devoid of intonation. “The shamans... have urns. A strange fire is burning there. The smoke that escapes from it doesn’t disperse with the wind as it should. It spreads through the air.”

In her haste to imitate Finella, Lominan almost let slip her necklace.

Elisan turned. “This is serious,” she said. “In the steppe, sentries are heading to the cliff overlooking us.” She pointed to the cliff to the west of the mountain. “As for their main forces, they seem determined to follow the pass below. The junction with the cart will not slow them down for long.”

“Xuven was right,” said Pelmen. “They knew that they would find us here.”

“That’s because there’s water here,” said Finella.

“We can’t wait for Xuven,” said Elisan. “We need to make a decision quickly. Your...” She paused as rocks came crashing down on top of them, and Xuven appeared, his necklace of Cilamon swaying on his neck.

“They have scouts,” he gasped. “I had to hurry down under the cliff to avoid being spotted.”

“Why don’t we leave?” moaned Lominan, on the verge of hysteria.

Pelmen stared at her reproachfully.

“There are sanrkhas to the southwest of here,” said Xuven. “Lots of sanrkhas.”

His news had the effect of an icy burst. Elisan shot him a piercing stare while Lominan stared blankly at him, her arms dangling. Pelmen’s pupils dilated.

“They are moving in packs, so I do not believe them to be corrupt—the smell of Valshhyk tends to break them away. They are, however, no less dangerous.”

“So we’re trapped,” muttered Pelmen.

“Not quite.” Xuven smoothed his beard in a familiar gesture. His eyes sparkled. “Before the crimson shamans cast their poison cloud over us, I had time to prepare a little surprise for some of our enemies: the scouts, in this instance. We will soon be rid of them and able to flee.

But for now, we must wait without being detected.”

“What do you have in mind?” asked Elisan.

“As luck would have it,” replied Xuven, smiling, “the smell of hevelen flesh has reached the sanrkhas and will lead them straight to the scouts. We just have to wait until the animals start fighting each other for prey and then slip by unnoticed.”

“Well done,” said Pelmen.

“It’s all too uncertain,” countered Elisan. “This will spark chaos and the sanrkhas can still reach us.”

“We cannot risk being too close to Sinistan and his minions,” added Finella. “They will be on our tail in no time at all.”

“What do you recommend?” asked Xuven coldly.

“You have no other choice but to stick to your plan.” Elisan turned to Lominan. “Come here.”

Lominan considered her mistress, then Pelmen. She pursed her lips and took a step toward the feless’tu.

“Closer,” commanded Elisan. Then, once again, turning to Xuven she said “As long as there’s no crimson shaman among the scouts to sniff out our power we should succeed in getting around unnoticed. But as soon as we start to move, we will limit our possibilities, and, unfortunately, our Bubble will not encompass you. You are both going to have to escape on your own. We are sorry.” Pelmen wondered if the ascendant’s attitude really suggested regret. He had much to learn about the malians. Lominan, with her half-closed eyes and turning her head to avoid his gaze, was easier to read—and there was no reason to be glad about that.

Without further delay, Finella brought together both her hands, palms, and fingers, and Elisan did the same. A curtain of humidity wrapped the grayskins so that one could no longer distinguish anything but the rock where they stood a moment before. A small stone overhanging broke away, and Pelmen heard Finella’s whispering to Lominan. “Hold on to my arm.”

Pelmen turned to his uncle, his jaws clenched. “Nice team spirit,” he snapped between his teeth.

“Leave them alone. I already told you, females only bring problems. We cannot count on them.”

“But where are they headed?”

“A little higher along the mountain, there’s a steep promontory that forms a sort of natural bridge to the cliff. You can climb over and reach the steppe.”

“The steppe? But the watchers came from there! They are bound to monitor this passage!”

“The promontory is slightly below the cliff. From up there, you would only see it by nearing the edge. They will only guard it if they already know it exists or if they find it by chance. Now silence!”

The sound of trampling could be heard over the wind, and Astar’s glow shone on amberrock. Sinistan’s warriors formed a troupe as mismatched as the buildings of Sinista.

Hevelens and malians walked in a disorderly manner, wearing simple rags or rich surcoats beneath their glittering armor. Where those sensibly-minded would have warily considered the surrounding’s rocks, they showed an unshakable confidence, advancing straight ahead, brandishing their spears or spiky clubs. Most of them had the gait and movements of trained fighters, but their eyes weren’t moving. By contrast, the three shamans behind them were constantly scrutinizing the relief.

We are in the shadow of the mountain, the daylight’s glare dazzles them and the smell of sulfur covers ours. Pelmen tightened his grip on his bow. From the pass, no normal hevelen would be able to see him and his uncle. The beings whose faces were horribly burned under their cassocks’ hoods, however, had unknown powers. They were positioned in an arc so as, it seemed, to protect two silhouettes who towered over them. As different as could be, the two malians strode across the land with the confidence of Aguerris in conquered territory. One, undulating in a dark shimmering fabric, wielded a daunting spear tipped with serrated amberrock. His smooth movements suggested the mastery and experience that only numerous fights could have provided.

Regnan.

The second individual, dressed in a white tunic decorated with rubies and whose high collar concealed the lower face, also had an eerily familiar look. From where he stood, Pelmen could not make out the mark of infamy in the shape of a double-headed serpent burned on Sinistan’s forehead. He nonetheless knew that this was the malian he had seen in the flames, the malian who several months ago in Belenia had been described to him by Xuven. The Marked.

The vanguard was already out of sight. One of the nidepoux fidgeted behind Pelmen, who quickly wiped a drop of sweat from his forehead. Despite the cool air in the shadow of the rock, his skin was damp. Xuven’s breathing proved barely perceptible as if he too was holding his breath.

Keep walking... Begone!

Sinistan, who until now had been moving at a regular pace, stopped suddenly. He raised his hand, and the troop halted as one hevelen.

Pelmen blanched. Had the enemy somehow managed to pick up on his thoughts? Two shamans turned to their master, eager for any sign. Sinistan leaned to one side as if listening. A moment later he straightened and fixed his gaze on the mountain. Pelmen cast a frightened glance at Xuven. His uncle had not moved an eyelash.

Sinistan slid his hand down to his belt, unfurling a whip that glowed incandescently. To Pelmen, the crimson glow wasn’t unlike some fire lash that had fallen just short of its mark one night near Port Subelin, ages ago.

Its consistency is different. This one seems more solid.

Sinistan had apparently decided to review his fighters. After having walked a few moments between the ranks he grunted in satisfaction, pulling the arm of a hevelen with yellowish hair, one of the few not equipped with armor. Pelmen tried unsuccessfully to swallow. He should have

expected to find him there, of course. As despicable as the idea was, he would have preferred him to get back to the city of the Immolated. Sinistan jolted the carpenter with such force that Pelmen almost shouted Teleg’s name. He bit his lower lip and a bead of blood appeared, which he licked without thinking. Something heavy was resting on his shoulder, perhaps Xuven’s hand.

“It’s useless to resort to the pitiful magic of water!” Sinistan’s roar echoed through the pass, so hoarse and distorted that it was difficult to believe that the voice belonged to a malian.

“Yes, I can feel that you are making use of it right now!” he triumphed. “I could hunt you down wherever you go! Flush you, one by one, out of your wretched ptats holes!” He paused and Pelmen felt as if the look of the possessed was running through the shadow, exposing him. “But I have no time to lose in childishness.” With his free hand, he lifted up Teleg face-high, who did not try to struggle. He presented him in front of the plateau. “I think you know him.” There was now a kind of greedy glee in his voice. The whip, as if moving by its own will, winded until brushing past the young hevelen’s face.

“One of my most faithful servants. What a pity that he should perish!”

Again, a break. Total silence in the pass. On the slopes of the mountain, Aoles himself was holding his breath. The incandescent lash seemed about to touch Teleg. The latter remained motionless, silently accepting his fate.

“You will have his death on your conscience... Unless... unless of course you come out of your hiding place. SHOW YOURSELF!” In a surge as violent as sudden, Pelmen pushed aside Xuven’s hand. His mighty muscles stretched the bowstring. He aimed and triggered the shot so quickly that one would think that he had acted instinctively—how many times had he repeated the act in thought in the seconds that preceded! Springing from the shadows, the deadly thorn swooped upon Sinistan’s face.

There was a fiery flash followed by a raucous roar.

Sinistan had retreated two steps away. He had dropped Teleg and raised his hand to his cheek.

The whip. It’s the whip that deflected the thorn, damn it! How was that even possible?

The weapon twisted about itself in a hypnotic movement.

Someone grabbed Pelmen by the arm. Though baffled, he did not try to resist being drawn in by his uncle. They scampered along the slope on the western front of the mountain, climbing to relative safety, just before the universe collapsed into chaos. The first deafening explosion reverberated deeply, and caused rocks to begin tumbling around them. Then, Astar himself tried to engulf them. Blocked by terrain, the blinding molten ball inched its way into view. Though only its outline showed, it competed for an instant with the Sun-God’s intensity exploding in a doomsday’s roar. Pelmen and Xuven would have been thrown away if they hadn’t pressed themselves against the rock. Still, a tongue of fire licked them, scorching their skin. Bits and pieces of rock flew everywhere, and the dust rose high into the sky before starting to dissipate.

Pelmen’s ears whistled, and all his hair bristled. His mouth opened and closed spasmodically— that of a fish out of water. He got the impression that the hevelen whose leather tunic was covered with ocher and whose blood had been drained from his face had spoken to him.

He ignored him, opening his eyes wide while trying to catch his breath. Where there had been a ledge, only a gaping hole remained. The nidepoux probably hadn’t suffered, blown tens of yards down and buried under rock—at least, they heard no complaint. In the distance, however, someone was hurling abuse.

Sinistan. Despite the ringing in his ears that prevented him from fully understanding the meaning of the words, Pelmen, gradually recovering his senses, guessed the reason for his enemy’s fury. By collapsing part of the cliff, the explosion had made it impossible to climb.

Meaning that while Pelmen and his uncle could no longer turn back, their enemies couldn’t get to them either from their current position.

May Aoles have them search for our corpses instead! They would lose hours, days perhaps, searching the rubble.

Pelmen locked eyes with Xuven, who nodded and motioned to follow him in silence. Both were shaking while trying to find the most reliable supports on the slope. In turn, remorse, sadness and anger vied with fear in Pelmen. As a result, his surroundings were altered into a hazy and fragmented dream. The quadrupeds had been loyal companions. The Deadroot marsh, the Forest of Shadows, the Bitterhills region... so many sinister and dangerous lands the nidepoux had helped them cross with courage and tenacity. It was an understatement to say that he and Xuven owed them a lot. At this very moment, Teleg may have suffered the wrath of Sinistan too, Pelmen realized in horror. By Aoles, my impulsive gesture probably doomed us all.

What the hell came over me? Their power is too great.

Before him, Xuven slowed, hesitating. Pelmen forced himself to look more closely at the scenery, his nostrils quivering even though he was unable to pick up any odors. They would soon reach the level of the cliff where the Windy Steppes stopped. Gripped in shadows for the most part, the promontory that served as a bridge was only about ten yards long. As was specified by Xuven, the block of granite advanced under the cliff to a place where a slender-tree’s golden roots could be seen. By grasping them, it should be relatively easy to climb to the top. The apparently unoccupied tree would conceal their approach. What would follow, though, was going to be considerably more dangerous. Unless Elisan-Finella managed to create a diversion—which was unlikely—the scouts dispatched into the area would not fail to spot them.

Xuven continued to climb the ledge eagerly. Pelmen frowned when his uncle passed the rock without stopping. Attractive targets. That’s what we’ll be, hanging on to this mountain like insects just waiting to be pinned.

To attract Xuven’s attention, he would have had to raise his voice, and he dared not—if Elisan was right, their enemies were too close. The promontory was there. To jump over it and reach the slender-tree would be a matter of a few moments. Under the cover of roots, he could wait for night to come...

Pelmen whispered an expletive, before hurrying after his uncle. As much as Xuven had the annoying habit of keeping most of what was on his mind for himself, it did not make him a hevelen likely to act thoughtlessly... In ordinary times, but what if he too was panicking?

Pelmen rejected that idea as ridiculous. Besides, his concentration was required elsewhere, as while he was sometimes able to walk along the slope, most of the time he had no choice, but to crawl on his hands and knees. A guttural intonation rose suddenly, and he raised his chin expectantly. Just a little higher up the slope, Xuven was waving his gnarled wand toward the cliff.

“Press up, my boy!” he cried.

Pelmen gritted his teeth before eventually rejoining his uncle. The steppe and its clear horizon stretched out in front of the mountain. Lying at the foot of the slender-tree, he was able to make out the body of a hevelen. Silhouettes, large enough to be malians, were rushing up, and were followed by smaller, stockier beings. All of which converged on the tree.

“Where are we going?” gasped Pelmen.

He turned to his uncle, only to find that he had disappeared. He caught sight of him a little higher climbing as if his life depended on it. Once again, Pelmen rushed and had succeeded only in grazing his hands and knees before he realized that panicking would not help him. Forcing himself to breathe more normally, he tried to figure out his best course of action.

Shock and the vibration almost broke his grip. Fresh liquid ran down his thigh and for a moment, Pelmen wondered if it was his own blood. His eyeballs rolled in their orbits, toward his injury.

Thanking Aoles, he realized that the thorn had merely pierced his water-skin, ending up in his game-bag. Pelmen exhaled. No need to see him to be sure that the enemy archer had him in

his line of sight. The terrain around him was steep, except for... a few yards just below, a little wider support than the others. He came down as fast as he could, settled his tiptoe and turned to lean against the rock. The wind whipped, but he stood firm. A burst scratched his cheek when the following arrow ricocheted just inches from his face.

His aim is accurate. I will not be so lucky the third time.

Pelmen freed his bow from his shoulder and grabbed a thorn. The shooter, a hevelen, was posted to the right of the slender-tree, a little lower on the edge of the steppe, at about a hundred yards. Not far away, a malian was running fast toward the abyss, a spear in his hand.

“My turn,” Pelmen whispered. He cleared his mind, hearing the beating of his heart with a surprising detachment. Dum-dum. Dum-dum. There, the light-brown haired hevelen was stretching his bowstring. His studded armor shone with gold and scarlet.

The air vibrated with a limpid sound. Pelmen’s shooting was clear and accurate, the thorn piercing the throat of the enemy, who staggered under the impact and released his last arrow. At the same time, the malian threw his spear, which also crashed against the face under Pelmen.

The beanpole screamed with rage. Not remotely concerned about the fact that his comrade in arms was at death’s door, he scanned the cliffs of the mountain. Pelmen saw him freeze when he spotted the promontory. A growl escaped the lips of the mil’ser just before he bounced into the void. He flattened his hands on the rock, landing heavily.

Another danger, however, had already appeared. At the periphery of Pelmen’s field of view, a new archer tried to take aim at him.

Pelmen was the quickest. His first thorn pierced the shoulder, and the second bounced back the hevelen’s wader.

Symen would have been proud of me, thought Pelmen with a fixed grin at the sight of his victim writhing in pain and uttering animal’s growls. About Master Galn, it’s less certain...

He wrinkled his nostrils. It seems that my troubles are just beginning. Five newcomers, attracted by the screams of their comrade, were rushing up at full speed. Five archers. At the bottom of the slope, the malian had started climbing. Although slowed by his webbed feet, he was already no more than sixty yards from him.

“By all the nidepoux’s dung!” blurted Pelmen, putting his bow back on his shoulder and turning to face the cliff. His fingers worked feverishly as they sought support points. He climbed, his mind already beginning to compute his chances of survival based on the remaining distance between his enemies and the foot of the cliff and their shooting range. They would pin him as a creepy-crawly. It was inevitable.

Pelmen threw all that he had into climbing. If he only had one chance in a thousand, he would still have attempted it. A thorn swished and sang. A second touched him at the bottom of his left arm. His guts knotted irresistibly as he raised imploring eyes. His uncle stood on the top of the mountain. Inexplicably, it was toward the sky that he was pointing his gnarled wand.

His wound near the wrist was only superficial, however, despair consumed Pelmen. It’s only a matter of seconds. He was so slow now, so bundled up in this carcass that weighed on him like armor. His sweaty fingers slipped on their catch. Wheezing, he wondered if the fatal thorn would pass entirely through him or stop halfway, whether his death would be an instant one or on the contrary if his agony would be prolonged. What his last thoughts would be.

His hands groped around and met only the void. There was a clear space above. A cornice.

He knew that his enemies would not let him go—in their shoes, he would have denied himself the same escape—yet, still, he began to lift himself with the strength of his arms.

To his immense surprise, at the cost of a tremendous strain, he succeeded. With the exception of this slash on the forearm and multiple abrasions, he was unharmed. As he gave himself a few seconds to breathe, puzzled growls and roars went up to him. He straightened up and knew why he had survived. Out there on the steppe, the sanrkhas had gone on the attack.

Obsessed with their target, the bowmen had not detected their approach. One of them pierced by

a pair of horns managed to throw himself back but was unable to stop the blood escaping from his dual injury. Drained of any force, he wavered before falling to his knees and collapsing. The beasts rushed for the kill.

The last two hunters faced a second group of these gray coated predators spotted with black. The beasts surrounded them. A thorn went, and one of the sanrkhas reared up growling.

His brothers in the pack rushed to the attack. In the melee, Pelmen knew that the hevelens had no chance.

“To your right!”

Pelmen didn’t wait to see the tall silhouette and the golden red blade before throwing himself back. Some of his hair, sliced clean by the amberrock dagger, flew. The great malian turned toward him. Froth was dripping from his lips. In his eyes, a crimson glow. His skin hung in shreds on his arms, revealing mauve raw flesh.

“Get down!”

Pelmen did not have to be told twice.

“Halneven!”

The malian’s face became deformed by the impact of something invisible. He flailed, and then fell. The soft sound of the bouncing body gradually weakened. Pelmen felt suddenly as dried and hardened as the veguer’en exposed to the fumes of Valshhyk. Energy and feeling had deserted him, replaced by the nausea that rose to the point of overwhelming him. He staggered along the cornice. His hand brushed against the bumps of his necklace of Cilamon, and he regained a little courage. Fifty paces further away, the slope to the summit became again passable. He climbed and rejoined Xuven.

“Thank you for your help,” Pelmen said in a hoarse voice. “A little late, but thank you anyway. Their bloody bowmen almost had me.”

“I couldn’t do any better,” retorted Xuven. “The danger threatening us is far more serious than mere archers.”

Pelmen followed the direction of the gnarled wand. On the steppe, the sanrkhas had won their first battle and fought hard over their prey. The final victory, however, was far from certain, for Sinistan and Regnan were now advancing at the head of their troops. Unable to see Teleg, Pelmen gritted his teeth. Along with several hooded shamans carrying smoldering urns, the warriors, malians dressed in gleaming armor for the most part, marched on.

A handful of sanrkhas had gathered outside the bulk of the pack and tried to smell themselves, probably disturbed only to sense the sulfur.

“Our friends will not appreciate someone trying to deprive them of a hard-earned meal,” muttered Xuven.

After a short consultation, indeed, the predators turned toward the intruders, rushing forward with a perfectly timed sense of coordination. Their fur was the living froth of the steppe and stirred by the wind, seemed to be about to cover everything. The shamans were hampered by the malians, who showed no fear. Sinistan barked an order and without warning, scarlet whips appeared in the hands of the crimson shamans. The malanite warriors received the charge, their spears pointed forward, piercing the first wave of attackers through-and-through. New sanrkhas replaced them, leaping over the bodies. Trying to ram the enemy, they bounced off the armor, biting and clawing, seeking soft spots, taking it out on the less protected legs. Two malians fell down. The defensive circle broken, a bold predator pounced on Sinistan himself.

The whip stopped it in midair, winding around his chest like a strangul’s tentacle, igniting his hair, consuming it in its incandescent embrace, suspended in the air. The shamans, in turn, sent their scarlet whips whistling through the air, and soon the only sound that could be heard were the growls of pain emanating from the sanrkhas that had attacked them.

“The sanrkhas will not hold long,” said Pelmen.

“It’s a big pack.”

“Sinistan’s warriors are too well armed, and most importantly, there are the shamans. The animals cannot prevail. We must run off while we still can.” Without waiting for an answer, Pelmen began to walk around the plaza. Leaning over the pass, he was forced to push himself quickly back, when he spotted guards dotted along the mountain stream, under the watchful eye of a shaman.

Sinistan leaves nothing to chance. Taking extra care, Pelmen continued to survey the situation. The blood slowly drained from his face as he realized that other than the path he and his uncle had already followed, there was no way out. Since the collapse of the cliff face, the rocky outcrop was their only chance of escape.

“We’re stuck,” said Pelmen, his voice breaking. “Even if Sinistan and his troops spend the rest of the day and the whole night fighting the sanrkhas, we are tra...”

Somewhere deep in his heart, the feeling had always been there. However, he had become so accustomed to it since their first meeting that he had it relegated to a mere memory. Now the memory was being re-kindled. Nostrils flared, he looked up at the yellow sky.

Three hundred yards above, fast and unseen to all but him the algam was approaching.

Xuven turned his gaze in the right direction, without following the path of the legendary bird. Pelmen turned to face his uncle, suddenly clear as to why Xuven had never tried to run.

“You sent for him, didn’t you?”

“I never used the Call before,” said Xuven thoughtfully. “Stenlen told me that it must always only be used as a last resort. According to him, the shamans who did not show discernment had their power removed from them.”

“So, how could you be sure that it would work?”

Xuven’s gray irises sparkled. “I was far from being sure! I just felt it was the right thing to do.”

A shadow engulfed them. Xuven stepped back, unlike Pelmen, who watched confidently the algam with its outstretched wings. The wingspan of the legendary bird was over twelve feet, however, the most striking thing about it was the sharp long beak and the most extraordinary golden eyes. A gust of wind ruffled the hevelens when the bird landed in a puckering of feathers a few yards from Pelmen. Feeling like he had just been reunited with a life-long friend, he allowed himself the briefest flicker of a smile.

The yellow eyes, sparkling with intelligence, seemed to ask him what he was waiting for.

“Go!” ordered Xuven. “There’s not a moment to lose! It can only take one of us.”

Pelmen turned his neck stiffly in his uncle’s direction, about to reply when Xuven preempted him, pointing his gnarled wand in a southwesterly direction.

“The link between an algam and his Rider should allow you to guide it to the camp of the Three Rocks. I’ll try to hold out until you can send reinforcements.”

Pelmen opened his mouth again to argue, and then while Xuven looked on impatiently, he reached out to stroke the fabulous ocher plumage tinted with flecks of brown.

“Wait here,” Pelmen finally muttered in his rough tongue. “And stand up straight.”

“I don’t see where I could go...”

Pelmen’s heart began to beat wildly. His empathy for most animals was negligible compared to the affinity he shared with this one. He was confident that the algam understood him. The bird also felt something more, a complex feeling that included a kind of amusement.

Taking a deep breath, Pelmen straddled the spine, in the same way that one would sit on a throne. A warm glow spread over him, as he connected with the plumage. Hauling himself up, he sought the point of equilibrium—its silky feathers were apparently resistant. The algam raised its rostrum. Pelmen felt it move a talon, then a second. The bird hopped to the edge of the summit.

With a last little leap, he rushed forward into the void.

Fear, excitement, and joy at the feel of the wind in his hair intermingled in a dizzying maelstrom. Pressed against the backbone of his mount, Pelmen lifted his chin with effort and saw

the sharp edge of a rocky spur rush toward them, only just missing them. They had lost altitude before the mighty wings took action, the rider and his majestic companion flying straight over the steppe.

Riding an algam is like prancing on Aoles himself! Freedom and joy had no limits, nothing seemed out of reach or impossible. Below Pelmen, however, rumblings, growls and screams of pain mingled, more or less distinct. The fighting was still raging. After taking the initial impact with some losses, Sinistan’s forces had begun to move.

Pelmen noticed that at the ends of the wings the feathers shimmered. The algam was using its ability for camouflage. Focusing on his feelings, Pelmen pulled at the neck with his right hand. The algam veered, softly at first and then with greater determination as Pelmen accentuated his movement. His nostrils wide open to inhale the intoxicating air, he remembered the day he had first gained the upper hand over a wild nidepoux, just before he stole Laneth from her elder brother’s jealous watch. He had intuitively known what gestures were needed to guide the animal, and it was the same thing here now.

The algam suddenly made an unexpected dip, and Pelmen clung as tightly as he could.

It was almost the same thing. I could force the nidepoux whereas, with the algam, the slightest mistake can cost me my life. “You have a sense of humor, huh?” he gasped. “Go.” He pulled again on the plumage, more gently, and the bird resumed its initial course toward the mountain.

Sinistan’s warriors had after a heavy battle, finally conquered the promontory. Several of them started to climb the rocky plateau and a hevelen armed with an ax had just set foot on the cornice preceding the summit.

Hoping and praying that the algam was as smart as it seemed to be, Pelmen gave instructions to it.

Stones were few upon the flattened top, and Xuven was quick to arrange to the best of his ability the rare ones that he had found. He knew that it was only a matter of time before they came, and he was aware that he would only be able to delay the outcome. Futile, no doubt. Even if he miraculously survived the first wave of warriors, the wrath of the crimson shamans would not be far behind. The servants of destruction had managed to burn his mentor remotely. If the sanrkhas hadn’t been around to distract them, then there was no doubt in his mind that he would also have suffered the same fate by now.

At least he had managed to give Pelmen a chance of survival...

A half-burned hand appeared on the esplanade. He pointed his gnarled wand toward one of the stones.

The impact took his breath away, his head shot backward. Lifted clean off his feet, Xuven fluttered his legs, brushing past the dumbfounded hevelen warrior. Then, there was nothing but the void beneath him. He stopped resisting, for it was the claws of the algam that had seized him in a stranglehold from behind. The wings of the mighty bird flapped forcefully in the air, its course stabilizing after taking a sharp curve. Some of the fighters, below them on the ground, pointed their fingers at them. Most, however, were still engaged in battle, and too busy to notice.

For as soon as the sanrkhas were disbanded, several groups harassed the enemy in order to safeguard the bulk of the pack.

Xuven noticed a puny figure standing apart from the others, surrounded by smoldering corpses. As the algam headed towards him, the individual raised his head swiftly, conjuring up a red glow between his palms, which grew to be the size of a camlorn. Too late, for Xuven was already pointing his gnarled wand, and it took just a moment for the Wind’s Fist to reach his goal. The crimson shaman, hit hard, wobbled on his legs, hands apart. The explosion of the fireball cut him in half. Debris was thrown tens of yards around, creating confusion. An early panic saw the demise of some warriors.

Inch by inch, the algam gained height despite its dual load.

Chapter Three – TRACKED The world was blurred, the colors faded. Indistinct silhouettes passed them without stopping. Elisan-Finella was the only clear landmark. Lominan was still holding the hand of the respondent—in truth, without this contact she would already have turned tail and fled. Until now, the only time she had let go was to cling to the roots of the slender-tree after crossing the promontory. This had been a terrifying moment, and not just because Elisan-Finella had been no longer visible, then. The thunderous dual explosion followed by the end of the world crash had made her believe death was imminent. Proud of her analytical mind, Lominan had, just a few months earlier, believed Valshhyk to be nothing more than a legend. Now, she had found herself wondering whether the Destroyer had caused the disaster. At this point, if she could have blended into a crevice, she would have gladly done so.

She had been forced to continue, though. With the fear her only companion, sending shivers down her spine, she had repeatedly slipped before finding supports, her arms and shoulders numb to the point that she had considered offloading her water-skins. She would have done just that if the climbing were not made easier as soon as the rough roots’ diameter had widened. The world was again draped in a diaphanous veil and Finella, fully visible for her part, had appeared to her at the foot of the tree. The respondent had motioned her to remain silent as they slowly advanced across the steppe, surrounded by enemies.

Finella shook her hand, and Lominan realized she was pressing it more than necessary. She released her grip but a moment later, nearly cried out. A hevelen was walking right over them.

By Malia, we’re lost! Even if he does not see us, he’ll be able to sniff us out!

Elisan-Finella stepped aside with flexibility, imitated in a less gracious way by Lominan.

The hevelen did not seem to realize that the wind was not what had stirred the grass before him.

He brushed the malians so that his bow became distinct. His gaze remained fixed.

Lominan breathed more freely. The bowman had not noticed them, continuing his run toward the sheer drop. They set off again, slower than before, until the sound of someone screaming in pain in the distance made them pause. Turning to determine the origin of the screams, Lominan bumped against Finella. The features of the usually so serene respondent’s face were contorted in misery—the waters of a lake in turmoil. At first, Lominan thought that someone was hunting them down and wondered, puzzled, if this was the case why Elisan had stopped so suddenly.

From the corner of her eye, she caught a glimpse of movement. Perhaps fifty yards to the left, something gray was sneaking by.

Other beasts quickly followed. The newcomers moved quickly, growling discreetly.

Lominan held her breath and waited.

Sanrkhas.

She stared into Finella’s eyes, her legs swinging. The respondent must be feeling Elisan’s fear in addition to her own, and yet she had already begun to pull herself together. The bite of their fangs... those awful fangs that sink deeper and deeper into your flesh… Craving comfort, Lominan nestled in Finella’s arms, slamming her face into the flat and smooth chest. Unless she managed to banish the unbearable vision, she would scream for all eternity!

Finella did nothing to push her away, but began to move anyway. Feeling as heavy as a melepek at that moment, Lominan winced, not sure if she had the strength to follow Finella.

It’s either that or remaining here with the sanrkhas, visible. Shaken by the realization that she was doomed unless she did something, still holding onto Finella for support, she took first one step, then a second. Gathering her last shreds of courage, she glanced sideways. The group of sanrkhas had walked away. She let out a sigh that was more of a moan and turned, grateful, toward the horizon where, free of predators, the endless expanses of the steppe awaited them. At least that’s what she hoped until Elisan spoke.

“There are others to the south,” whispered the ascendant. “We must run now!” The feless’tu rushed forward, her pale yellow dress flying behind her. At first, Lominan thought that she had no choice but to let go of Finella’s hand and await her fate. However, to her surprise, the same fear that had her paralyzed now made her legs feel lighter. Better still, she was the one who had to slow her pace, so as not to outrun the fused! She blinked. The magicians had been unable to maintain their Bubble of Camouflage, and therefore, the scenery had once again regained all of its sharpness. Lominan knew that they stood out from hundreds of yards away because of their size. At times, she felt that the blue-tinted lichens of the steppe passing under her feet were nothing more than little wrinkles of Turquoise Water into which the slightest fiber of her body yearned to throw itself.

It would just take one of these sanrkhas to turn the wrong way, she thought breathlessly.

Just one and we are doomed.

Her legs felt heavier than ever. A few strides from a stump overgrown with moss, Elisan raised her hand. She lay down on the side just behind the stump, in a position so natural to the fused. Lominan lay down in turn under cover, out of breath. At first, her heavy breathing stopped her from hearing the clamor of battle. “We are no longer in reach of the sanrkhas,” gasped Elisan, “but the danger is not over. Our pursuers are not yet out...”

The quivering preceded a frantic trampling nearby—too close for comfort. Lominan, her pupils dilated, barely dared to look at the stump. The thought that she would not have time to grab her fragment of amberrock to defend herself occurred to her at the very same moment as a slender, graceful animal sprang at full speed, snapping his spiky tail, before disappearing into the distance as quickly as he had appeared.

“A steppe-runner,” said Elisan. “He must have been as scared as us.”

“I doubt it,” said Lominan, her voice blank.

“Who would have thought that this stump was hollow?”

Lominan stared at her in disbelief. During her journey by her side, she had become accustomed to Elisan-Finella’s self-confidence, her ability to predict the slightest hazard... that something might surprise her seemed incongruous.

Still lying in the position she had adopted earlier, Elisan joined her hands to summon up a Bubble. The surroundings blurred again. “I hope we can hold long enough,” said the ascendant, getting up. “Let’s go. Walking, this time.”

The sound of the fighting waned and disappeared, with the exception of a final bang that made the malians turn and forced them to quicken their pace. During their quiet progress, Lominan managed to get her thoughts in order. She thought about Xuven, convinced that the hevelen with gray whiskers and hair tied back must have perished with his nephew in the dual explosion that shook the mountain, while she was clinging to the roots of a slender-tree. A thought all the more appalling because his last act had most likely saved their lives. If the sanrkhas weren’t keeping them busy at this very moment, Sinistan and his minions would be on our tail. She would have liked to ask Elisan-Finella to use a Bubble of Vision to check whether any of the hevelens had survived against all odds, but dismissed the thought, knowing that in the circumstances, the ascendant and respondent were mobilizing all of their resources to maintain the spell of Camouflage.

Lominan raised her water-skin to her lips, and then pursed them. Sulfur had begun to spread its sourness into the water. She drank anyway, thinking that she had tasted worse.

“Where are we going?” she asked.

“Where do you think?” Elisan said in a weary tone. “To Belenia.”

At dusk, Elisan-Finella released her hold on the magic and the universe regained its sharpness. The blades of grass bending under the assaults of the unpredictable wind were now barely lit by a low light. Despite Finella and Elisan’s impassive facial features, Lominan was certain that both shared her sense of insecurity. The steppes were not their turf. Her gaze slid from side to side. A ridiculous reaction, of course. They could easily do without the hevelens.

What a terrible waste. Lominan wondered why Pelmen had made all those sacrifices for someone like Teleg. When, back from his perilous expedition, and beside the ramparts of Sinista, he had placed his necklace of Cilamon around his friend’s neck, Finella had said that he deserved to have been born malanite. Lominan sighed. Maybe this was why she had never found her soul mate. The mil’nan were probably reserved for the purest souls, nobler than hers at least.

She shivered. It was high time they came to a halt for the day. Exhaustion was beginning to make her have dark thoughts. Elisan-Finella, however, continued unrelentingly. Lominan decided to drink again, thinking it best to ignore any possible impact on her state of mind. It seemed to her that there was less sulfur in the water than there had been earlier as if the crimson shamans’ sphere of influence was now behind them. In the sky, a few clouds were dissolving to emerald curls shrouded in carmine. Darkness was slow in descending. When darkness did eventually fall, and Elisan-Finella decided to stop for the night, Lominan was no longer able to feel her feet. Crashing down like a rock on the floor, she made no attempt to remove her equipment. Her last conscious thought was that this day had been the longest of her life.

When she woke up, her tongue furred and her limbs numb, she blinked. The green clouds that stood out against the yellow sky were heavy with rain—a sign of hope. Elisan-Finella was working on unearthing some roots. Clear lines crisscrossed the double pair of arms of the feless’tu, the same as those stretching her own skin. They would need time to recover. Lominan took a sip of water and then, wincing, rose to lend a hand to the magician. The roots seemed to be much heavier than herself. Black bulbs were tangled inside, less nourishing than toropones but in sufficient number to allow them to rebuild some stock.

The meal was eaten so quickly that both Lominan’s stomachs grew stiff at the sudden intake of food. She realized that Elisan was studying her.

“You’ll have to stay with me throughout the journey,” said the magician.

“So that you can make me invisible whenever necessary?”

“That’s one reason.”

“There’s something else?”

“The belenite bowl. We’re not going to retrieve it, with our enemies in that direction.”

“So what?”

“The lack of Turquoise Water not only makes us more prickly. For a mil’ser like you, the effects will probably be more harmful.”

Lominan raised her eyebrows.

“It’s worse for those who have not found their mil’nan. Do you remember your prostration after your meeting with Sinistan? Lack of Turquoise Water could cause this to happen again. It is also possible that you’ll start wandering aimlessly or forget to eat or drink. Violent reactions are rare, although the possibility should not be ruled out.”

Elisan’s tone was detached, and she had an icy stare. A healer would not have described to one of his peers in such cold terms the potential progress of a disease.

“I’m not sure,” stepped in Finella, “that thinking about what might happen to her is beneficial to her spirits.”

“You’re right, no need to waffle back and forth. We need to track down the symptoms of withdrawal and come to your aid without wasting time, and that’s why you mustn’t get away. Do you understand?”

“There’s a way?”

“Just a meditation that will allow us to go for a quick fix. I’ll show you.”

Elisan-Finella sat cross-legged.

“Do as I do. There, give me your hands.”

Lominan put her thin and slender fingers on Elisan’s palms.

“Ease your mind,” said Elisan in her crystalline voice. “Forget everything but the moment.

Let your mind go and watch your body from the outside.”

Nothing happened at first. However, as the minutes passed, the cobalt blue eyes of the ascendant were subtly altered to become the Turquoise Water in which she could see her reflection. A current began to flow between them while, under Lominan’s skin, the alveoli shuddered. They would not open, she knew. It was already surprising that the magician could cause such a reaction. A moment later, Lominan jumped.

“How... how is this possible?” She stammered.

Elisan kept a stony face. “Take back my hands. We have not finished.”

Lominan licked her lips. By the time she gave herself over, feeling herself drifting into the waters of Elisan’s gaze, she had seen the submerged outlines of an elusive cluster of ideas and feelings. She had always thought this type of contact to be unique to the pools of harmony. Was it not in the pools that she had been imbued with the knowledge of her elders? In the Turquoise Water that she had shared emotions, some well-known and others totally new, with other malians? But to be able to envision such intimacy in the open! Unthinkable...

“Calm down,” whispered Elisan. “Your mind may not open up as long as it will be subjected to the flow of your thoughts. Let go.”

Lominan took a deep breath, vowing to let herself be guided like the first time. Once again, it seemed to her that she was swimming on the surface of a lake beneath which lay a dual presence of extraordinary dimensions. The feeling was different than in the pools. Here, the scraps of thoughts did not stretch to her. Conversely, she was the one who was carried by a current, above the conscience of which she sensed duality. At least one mind remained impenetrable to her. Worse, each effort to move towards them took them away from her. The fact that she knew she was not doing it right was not enough to stop the overwhelming sense of powerlessness.

Without warning, her sense of frustration was swept away, engulfed by a wave of new emotions. There was hope, here. Peacefulness. A peace, which although fleeting was similar to the feeling she had enjoyed in the foot baths, in the belenite bowl. Lominan waited for a new wave of similar feelings. Impatient, she decided to search for it, with all her might...

The contact broke.

“There’s some potential in you,” said Elisan. “Of course, for now, you are your worst enemy, but perhaps the obstacle is not insurmountable...”

“What do you mean?”

“You have to learn to use your will more subtly. Meditation should allow us to touch you more often.”

“Do not worry,” said Finella. “Elisan is a perfectionist. I can guarantee you that she is satisfied with this first session. We both are. How do you feel?”

Lominan considered the question for a moment. “Better,” she said, studying her arms. They seemed less pale than before. “Yes, a little better.”

Elisan nodded. Still sitting, she joined the palms and fingers of both hands. Her brow furrowed in concentration.

A Bubble of Vision. Lominan could not explain where her intuition came from, but it was right, she was sure. Likewise, she knew that the Bubble was going to be released just before Elisan’s fingers began to feel the air. The ascendant’s efforts to maintain the Bubble’s integrity were painted on her face. When, after a struggle that seemed to go on endlessly, she winced and

blinked, Lominan figured that the fatigue had taken over. Exhaustion, however, was not the only thing to whiten the complexion of the magician.

“One of Valshhyk’s shamans,” she articulated in an almost hoarse voice, out of place for her. Lominan’s blood froze her mouth half-open.

“He’s some distance away from the others. I think he has sensed the Bubble.” Elisan’s tone was so altered that Lominan did not immediately realize the implications. When she did, she moaned frantically scanning all directions.

Everywhere, the wind stirred the grass of the steppe. She was unable to make out a presence anywhere.

“Follow me,” ordered Elisan. “Match your stride with mine.”

The ascendant’s tone of voice had strengthened. She was again the self-composed malian, certain of being obeyed. She knows that I have no chance of survival if I split up from her.

Lominan rushed after her. Running, she soon joined her, her tongue flapping against her palate.

“Easy!” urged Finella. “Save your breath!”

A rocky path borders the black rampart and the Great Rift: the landscape passes before her eyes at full speed. Suddenly, the ground gives way and the universe topples over. She rolls, eventually bouncing back against something hard. Lominan winced but slowed her pace. Luck had been on her side, this vile night.

The head of the respondent swayed with Elisan’s motions. As far as Lominan could tell, Finella stoically endured the trial. A rock took shape, lonely in the bleak expanses. Elisan at first seemed to take it in focus, but soon changed direction. Lominan, wheezing, frowned. The piece of granite was more than a landmark to cling to. She could easily hide in its shadow and let her heart that was beating frantically slow down. She might even be able to catch her breath!

Her lips stretched, her legs too heavy, and Lominan saw the distance between her and the feless’tu increase. The rock was now on the right, the surrounding land dotted with strange ocher spots. Her gaze lingered there, and then she understood. The grass was overgrown with ochreonces. Hidden out of sight for most of them, they still twisted their thorny stems at least tens of yards around the rock. Had Lominan made the wrong choice, her limbs would have been shredded. She swallowed and turned her attention back to the magician. Elisan-Finella had started to cross a gently sloping landscape’s fold, a sort of fine wrinkle stretching in the steppe.

She must have memorized the route up to a certain point. This may be our one and only advantage over the shaman. The thought strengthened her determination to catch up to her mistress, and drawing on her resources, she managed to stretch her strides. By the time she started climbing with the aid of her hands, Elisan-Finella was already out of sight. Lominan was panting, grasping the wetland. An applicant to the return to Harmony. That’s what I have to look like. The grass was denser and taller on the other side, high enough to reach the chest of a malian. If she hadn’t overhung her, Lominan would perhaps not have spotted Elisan-Finella. The magician was resting and beckoning Lominan to join her as soon as possible.

Lominan did not have to be asked twice, and awkwardly made her way moving aside the stems. Once close to her, she quickly raised her water-skin to her lips, thirstily gulping down big sips. The water spread its blessings, making her body lighter. Elisan’s facial features grew tense.

“No more!” she said, lowering the water-skin authoritatively.

Lominan glared at her. Elisan-Finella responded by fixing her cobalt gaze on the young woman.

“You need to save the water for later,” she said. “Even if it should start to rain, I won’t be able to take water as long as the shaman is on our trail. The crimson shamans can remotely sense Bubbles of any kind.”

“Even those of Camouflage?”

Elisan nodded. “There is, fortunately, a way to make him lose our trail from here. Just bend below the level of herbs and float by as if you were the wind. Take your time. If Malia is with us,

he will not guess where we are. Follow me, silently.” Elisan whispered in a tone that brooked no reply. Her wide fused legs were bent, and her chest bowed. Finella did not complain, untroubled by the fact that she was facing the sky.

Lominan did as she was told. Bending, she noticed that the vegetation was colored with various shades of gold and blue, and despite the low light due to cloud cover, some aphids were going about their laborious life among the stems. At this height, no landmark to guide them.

Lominan did not know how Elisan would manage to stay on track without straightening up. She strove to imitate her predecessor’s movements, grateful not to have to run anymore. As both sank further, fatigue became more of an issue. Lominan clung to the magician’s shape in order to avoid thinking just how the tall and bushy grass oppressed her.

Elisan-Finella stopped at regular intervals and turned around. Lominan was torn between the comfort that she derived from Elisan-Finella’s concern and the embarrassment that such interruptions caused. During a particularly lengthy pause, she realized that Elisan was gazing off into the distance. Without a word of explanation, the fused crouched. Lominan turned round— then flattened herself on the ground. On the now distant rise stood a small silhouette. The identity of the hevelen would have warranted further investigation in other circumstances.

Prostrate, Lominan dared not move an eyelash. Even so, the rhythm of her heartbeat quickened.

After so much time had passed that the Emerald Ocean could have dried up, she finally forced herself to look up.

The hevelen was still there. There was something fascinating about his immobility and Lominan realized with horror that part of herself almost wanted see him unleash his power. She wanted him to consume them, her and Elisan-Finella, and to be done with it. Finally, he began moving and disappeared. He had descended into the plain, on their side as far as she could tell.

“Let’s go.”

Half-straightening, Elisan-Finella had already moved on. Lominan initially crawled, before finding the courage to lean on her hands and feet. Always bent, she hurried after the magician.

Focusing on the rustling of plants, she was aware that the hevelen would in all probability be doing the same thing. The roar of the wind could not disrupt the deadly game of hide and seek alone, the gusts that were bending the stems could unexpectedly reveal either of their positions.

Lominan moved way too slowly. The crimson shaman would have no such scruples. Sooner or later, she would hear the sound of grasses moving aside with frenzy. He would probably emerge from the rear, one side or the other.

A rustling longer than that of the wind, along with a kind of whistling, confirmed her fears while adding to her sense of bewilderment. Just ahead of us? Like Elisan-Finella, Lominan froze, barely daring to breathe anymore.

The seconds passed slowly by without anything happening. A hunch occurred to her.

A spell. He’s using a hearing spell to drive us to him. That’s why he didn’t hesitate to hide in these herbs.

The rustling had, however, resumed, growing louder and increasingly disturbing. Elisan gripped Lominan by the wrist.

“To the ground!” ordered Elisan.

No sooner had Lominan complied than the stems a few steps away parted, giving way to a dual flat snout.

By Malia!

Descended from the remotest legends, the unlikely creature slowly unfolded until it overhung them by about twenty feet. The two-headed snake hissed, spouting two forked tongues from both its mouths, one of his gazes falling on the malians at his feet. Lominan wanted to bury her head in the ground. The moment was interminable. Only the roar of the wind shook the plain, and she felt as if she was slowly getting several years older. Then came, ever closer, the sound of the flattened grass like a whirlwind closing in on them that would soon embrace them,

squeezing their bodies to the breaking point. The shock was even more brutal than what Lominan had previously expected as she was unceremoniously thrown against Elisan-Finella like a wisp of straw.

Dazed, she watched the yellow tubular mass of the blue-spotted reptile sliding a few inches from her. The end of the monstrous ringed tail was almost translucent. Lominan stood there, gaping long after the disappearance of the creature. Someone was shaking her arm. She blinked, realizing that the danger had moved away. She found herself being reminded of the passage of a grimoire read and reread in the mil’ser shelter where she had been raised. Shezea had written in her Peregrinations that a slessyk—the name of the two-headed snake—would turn away from a malian if it had a choice, preferring hot-blooded preys.

“Stay bent!” ordered Elisan as Lominan tried getting to her feet, rubbing her left arm—the magician didn’t employ half-measures. Lominan pinched her lower lip and obeyed. Her legs flabby, she stumbled, catching herself as she could.

May Malia protect me, a crimson shaman, and now a slessyk!

The snake had left a furrow that they took for a few dozen yards.

The quivering had almost stopped when a muffled explosion was heard and was immediately followed by a series of crackles. Lominan and Elisan-Finella had turned in the same movement. There, the plain blushed from a glow that had nothing to do with Astar. An acrid burning smell floated in the air. The suddenly amplified rustles of the crumpled grass now combined with the crash of thunder and lightning which snaked across the sky. The rain poured down the moment the slessyk rose its dual snout above the flames.

Captivated by the show, Lominan involuntarily straightened. In its fury, the giant reptile had bent the grass within twenty feet around it. A brighter radiance gave away the shaman. In his hands glowed a fireball that he threw towards the snake. The blast, less powerful than those that had rung out the day before, released a blinding light. Lominan blinked, the whole plain was shaking. Hit at the base of its neck, the slessyk waved its rings in every direction, sweeping madly across the ground. One of the convulsions hit the shaman, who was catapulted maybe fifteen yards before rolling on the floor. He remained where he had stopped, inert.

“The fire is spreading!” shouted Elisan against the rumble growing louder with every second.

Carried by the wind, a curtain of fire devoured everything in its path. Lominan ran in Elisan’s wake while the elements rolled and thundered. The rain dripping on the malians’ skin gave them a boost of energy, the plants’ stems whipped them without slowing them. Pops and crackles, however, were getting close. In a last-ditch effort, Lominan accelerated and overtook Elisan-Finella. And suddenly she was free, the trap of the tall grass behind her, her feet landing in step on a rocky part of the steppe, where only a few already soaked lichens came to her ankles.

Several hundred yards further, she slowed down before flattening her hands on her legs, exhausted. Elisan-Finella rejoined her, their faces drawn and looking pale. Both gazed at the roaring front twisting and deprived of combustible, defeated by the rain, beginning to diminish on the edge of the grassy plain. Lominan fingered her fragment of amberrock, hoping that the frantic beating of her heart would settle down. The damned thing had cost her so much... She hated it, for that very reason, but, above all, because she knew she was incapable of giving it up.

They had continued for several days, still westward. The bad weather had initially lingered, which had allowed Elisan to use her powers to replenish their water supply. She and Finella no longer feared using Bubbles, Vision or Camouflage, as they had been forced to do when first approaching a herd of wild nidepoux—it was mating season, and it would have been very easy for the males to get their blood up, and charge them on sight. Exhaustion had restricted their movements the first two days, a lapse of time that would have been longer without the rain to revive their strength. Since the encounter with the shaman, the steppe had proved to be the same

blue and yellow ocean wherever they looked. Lominan frequently worried that they were drifting aimlessly, for it seemed like they were constantly revisiting the same ground, crisscrossing their steps ad infinitum. Elisan’s attitude, proud and straight, ended up looking arrogant, and Finella’s words of encouragement, overflowing with condescension.

One evening, Elisan-Finella decided to put away the necklaces of Cilamon in her gamebag.

“Who told you that we are safe?” asked Lominan.

“What you call security does not exist in the Steppes,” retorted Elisan. “Our enemies, however, no longer chase us. That should be reason enough.”

“Why should I believe you?”

Elisan raised her eyebrows.

“You always pretend to know everything, but you did not see the shaman until it was almost too late. And as for the slessyk, you did not see it at all!”

“Bitter words,” commented Finella. “And unfair.”

“So that’s why I couldn’t make contact during our last sessions,” said Elisan. She ran a finger under her nose, thoughtfully. “You think you were much better before we met, don’t you?”

“Oh, yes! I learned to get by on my own. I made it all alone in life.”

“Like when you were traveling in the cart of Regnan and... what was his name, your old master again? Ezechian-Uzeve, right?”

“It was my choice. My free will.”

“Of course, you chose to embark on that little escapade independently. Without being influenced in any way.”

“We now know our enemies’ methods,” Finella explained softly.

Lominan was unimpressed at this unwelcome reminder. The experience to which both alluded was still a painful memory. Spurred on by the old Zech—her nickname for the toropones’ grower—she had immersed in the Pool of Felicity. The pool, in the Stray’s quarter of Belenia, had then given her the most exhilarating dreams, only for depression to sink in the second she dragged herself out from the pool. During the hours that followed, she would willingly have accepted any deal, as long as it offered an escape route out of her mundane life.

Which is exactly what happened, she traded her freedom—and almost traded a lot more—against the fragment of amberrock that weighed down her only pants’ pocket.

“You think you’re so superior...” spat Lominan. “...Just because you’ve found each other...

That’s why you despise me, isn’t it? Because I’ve not been able to discover my mil’nan?”

“Come, come,” said Elisan. “I already told you I will help you in your quest. I keep my promises. Will you keep yours? You’re supposed to be my apprentice, don’t forget...”

“Resentment leads to strife and strife only serves to reinforce the isolation,” said Finella.

“Which in turn leads to extra bitterness,” Elisan completed.

Lominan was unable to think of a suitable response. The vicious circle was as familiar as her worn and patched pants. She had already been suffering before meeting Ezechian-Uzeve.

Otherwise, she would never have dived into the Pool of Bliss, which in turn would have spared her so many setbacks... She pursed her lips, before holding her hands toward Elisan, eyelids lowered. “I think... I think I’m willing to try a new session.”

Elisan studied her carefully before cracking a smile and taking her hands.

Lominan scrutinized the outlines of the hill that, earlier this afternoon, had finally broken up the monotony of the place. The sky was clear, but the ground was still spongy. According to Elisan, they neared the Hado. The magician could have changed the course to avoid the hill, hadn’t she decided to go the shortest way. The river described in the texts as very large was unknown to Lominan. To dive under its surface would probably be pale in comparison to the Turquoise Water, yet the mere thought had the ability to make her alveolus quiver.

She could barely contain her excitement! She had to see the flow that was also said to be as powerful as it was serene, with her own eyes. She had to hear its lapping. Turning to look at Finella, she saw the all too familiar expression of dread flash across the respondent’s face.

“The shaman is over there…” Finella’s voice was full of incredulity. The notion was absurd. More than that, it was impossible! The crimson shaman could not have survived the slessyk. Lominan had watched as he was thrown among the burning embers with her own eyes!

The blow had been so violent... She spun around.

Barely visible on the horizon, the dumpy silhouette moved forward. The hevelen could not have failed to see them as the steppe was flat for miles around. They started to run, and Lominan felt fear in her heart as she did her best to avoid the ortalies and sharpest stones. She knew that the slightest lapse in concentration would prove fatal and wondered at the distance that they would need to put between them and the shaman before they were safe. Elisan-Finella had placed the necklace of Cilamon around her neck and handed her hers, which Lominan took while still running. The hill’s details became clearer. At the foot of a rather steep slope stood a tri-folds’ grove. It was gusty in the Steppes, which took some adjusting to—she almost lost her balance on numerous occasions. Her legs were burning, her feet even more. Each run in the steppe had made the glumass under her skin drier. The water that she had drunk for the past few days had barely helped to restore the glumass’s resiliency.

Reeds edged the grove. After gaining ground on the hevelen, Lominan noticed on entering the shadow of the tri-folds that they had lost ground again. The shaman’s brown cassock, almost tattered, blackened in places, was just three hundred yards away at the most.

Elisan had raised her water-skin to her lips. Lominan did the same. Together they snaked between the massive trunks covered with red bark tightly interconnected by the branches with broad leaves. What Lominan saw a little further on removed what little remaining courage she had left—she let out a plaintive moan. In other circumstances, the canalees’ tasty golden brown stem that grew among the rocks and ochreonces would have given her cause for optimism. But there was this slope, much steeper than she had expected. They would need hundreds of yards, probably, to bypass it. Beyond was the great river, which she felt in every fiber of her body. So close and yet so far away. Even Elisan-Finella frowned.

This is beyond our strength, and she knows that as well as I. The shaman will be upon us before we reach the summit.

“Follow me,” said Elisan confidently. She made her way among the reeds, dragging Lominan away. Soon, Lominan felt a little better, her feet having stopped burning. Canalees were immersed in the water, where they grew in tight rows. Hidden behind the vegetation, a small pond was curling up itself against the hill.

A single look towards Elisan-Finella was all that was needed. Her gestures swift, the fused was getting rid of her yellow dress with blue slashes. Lominan in turn hid her bag in the reeds, keeping her water-skin tight, and her amberrock in her pocket. She sank with fluidity, without a sound nor a splash. Beneath the surface, the green environment was at first unclear. Slowly, Lominan’s malian eyes, able to take advantage of any light source, adjusted to the new conditions. Leeches came fast at her. She swam forcefully to reach the bottom. There, she found what she wanted—algae, tall enough to hide her. She was busy wrapping plants around her right wrist when Elisan-Finella rejoined her. Finella gripped the algae while Elisan scrutinized the surface.

The silence was almost absolute. Lominan had curled herself up, rolled into a ball. How did he manage to survive? Are they really indestructible? Fortunately, the water restored strength and courage. Lying this deep, only a sea creature could spot them. They could remain in this position for hours if need be. Hopefully, long enough for the danger to pass. Or for that cursed shaman to set a trap for us, Lominan thought, grinding her teeth.

A long moment passed. As Lominan’s wrist wrapped with algae started to become stiff, she stirred her fingers so as to fight against the numbness. A hissing noise had gradually been getting louder these past few moments. Elisan was peering at a specific point in the distance, and Lominan wriggled to find it. Up there toward the surface, something stirred. A big fish could have caused this kind of swirl by struggling. It was not that, though. Hotter and hotter waves raced toward them.

The temperature rose at an alarming rate. Small fishes brushed against them in panic.

Water, a bit too cool at first, had become warm, then unbearably heated. If that was not quite the temperature yet of an oven, it was pretty close to being one.

The shaman must be causing that. He is waiting for us by the edge of the pond. By Malia, I could have wagered it would happen! Lominan clenched jaws. Her features tense, Elisan seemed to wait for something. The temperature climbed again. Lominan was sure that her skin was going to be covered with blisters. The stinging pain was entering through every pore, soon enough her body would be no more than a gaping wound from which shreds of skin would start to detach themselves. No longer able to bear the suffering, she let go of the algae and swam back up as fast as possible—any death was better than that one. Her momentum was such that she gushed out of the surface and landed on the reeds, her mouth gaping, panting. What, under the water, had seemed like a hissing was transformed here into a loud bubbling. A voice rose above the din.

“So now you are seared medium rare, you gray skin scum. And that’s just the beginning.”

Lominan turned, horrified. The voice, full of hatred, came from a blackish mouth overhung by bloated cheekbones and a nose striped with festering scars. On the opposite edge of the pond, the shaman was holding a glowing whip. It was impossible for the eye to determine the weapon’s exact shape. Bubbles and steam escaped from its end plunged into the water. Lominan felt her strength leave her. Drawing on her ultimate reserves, she managed to drag herself back, half sitting. She held the hevelen’s gaze. A flick of the wrist and the whip vanished into thin air. The crimson brought his hands closer and began to whisper something.

At the same time, the lake began to rise, and in a gush of foam, a sphere with bluish reflections emerged, encompassing the shaman before he could react. Carried away a few feet above the ground, he glared furiously at Lominan.

From where he is, he cannot miss me.

The look of fury on the shaman’s face was however soon replaced by one of surprise and pain. Lominan’s eyes widened at the sight of the Valshhyk’s servant struggling to escape from the Bubble of Confinement.

There was a loud lapping. “Run! We cannot hold him for long!”

Elisan’s voice sounded tired. She and Finella had just burst the surface at the center of the pond. Regaining her strength, Lominan scrambled to her feet.

“Climb! To the river! Don’t wait for us!”

Lominan rushed. With a last look at the shaman, she overtook the feless’tu—Elisan-Finella struggled to drag herself onto the shore—and began climbing. The slope was steep, however, by taking several detours, she managed to find a barely passable way. She climbed higher and higher, ignoring the little nicks in her feet and hands—all that mattered was advancing! A rocky spur split the hill in two, and after a brief moment’s hesitation, Lominan chose to take the path to the left. Once she had traveled a hundred yards down the path, she turned to glance over her shoulder, but was no longer able to see Elisan-Finella. Her attention was however soon drawn to a movement near the pond.

Having freed himself from the Bubble, the shaman fell before immediately picking himself up, uttering a hoarse cry. Lominan had to get herself under cover quickly or... The noise of the great river made her alveolus, which had been burned by the hot water, quiver. The Hado was on the other side, below. She would find out soon enough. The slope finally softened and soon, the top of the hill was in sight. She rushed to the opposite side, slid, crossed a bush, resulting in

more cuts to her body, and finally landed with her hands on a flat rock. The Hado unfolded just fifty yards below her. So wide, so vast... A few more yards and she would jump, dive into the ever so inviting waters. The flow would carry her away, and the shaman would no longer be able to reach her.

She stopped in her tracks. A dark sense of foreboding held her back. Elisan-Finella had made much slower progress than she had. The feless’tu was nowhere to be seen, which meant that she must have taken the other fork. The peacefulness that prevailed was the kind that came before a storm.

Lominan told herself that she owed her nothing. It was, after all, Elisan-Finella who, alongside Pelmen and Xuven, had forced her so far from her home. Elisan-Finella was the envoy of the High Hierarch, and Lominan had no reason to assume that she wouldn’t carry out the mission that had been entrusted to her. Almost no reason.

Lominan studied the stone she had just taken and weighed it. Smooth, it comfortably fitted the palm of her hand.

The ascendant had ordered her to get away, anyway. She had foreseen what would happen —her sacrifice was voluntary.

Lominan had begun to climb back up the slope, going where the second pass was to lead.

She must have lost her mind. It was the only explanation, why else, would she throw herself into the sanrkhas’ mouth in the way she did? Why would she who had never hurt a zeanong, be foolish enough to attempt to stand in the way of a crimson shaman?

Lominan frowned, making a conscious effort to quiet her mind. On the verge of the audible, she heard a familiar panting. Pushing aside a shrub, she stepped onto a ridge for a better look. The way below was more rugged than the path she had climbed. Astar’s rays lit up ElisanFinella’s gray-blue frame as she struggled to climb. Lominan’s face brightened, and her first instinct was to call out to her. Instead, she froze. Less than a hundred yards were between the hunter and his prey. Too little, far too little. He would have her in sight as soon as he passed the next rock on his way... Lominan bit her lower lip, appalled. Her worst nightmare became reality when the crimson shaman reappeared behind Elisan-Finella, at the exact spot she had predicted that he would—from which he couldn’t miss her. Unaware of the danger, or refusing to take it into account, the feless’tu did not relax her efforts. Lominan did not hear the shaman but saw him join hands. Howling in despair, she threw her stone. Powered by her rage, it bounced off the hevelen’s chest. Gasping, the servant of Valshhyk took two steps back. Then he scanned the scenery and saw her.

The sound of trampling let Lominan know that Elisan-Finella had reached the less steep portion of the slope and had begun to run.

A small scarlet ball had just taken shape in front of the shaman, who hurled it towards Lominan just before she threw herself back into the bottom of the ridge. The blast on the top of the cliff was mercifully on a limited scale, yet it was followed by an impact so violent that Lominan immediately felt as if she was losing ground. Her hand fumbled around her shoulder and came back covered with a sticky mauve liquid—her own blood. Unreal it may seem, something sharp and large had pierced her arm.

With stabbing needles boring into her, and tears in her eyes, Lominan got on her feet, and then staggered over several yards. The slightest gesture felt like torture. Everything was blurred.

She thought she was going down the slope but maybe her mind had already capsized. The ground slipped away beneath her feet, and then she felt nothing other than the wave of the piercing pain, mixed with the feeling of an endless fall. *****

From the same author

Ardalia, volume 1: The Breath of Aoles Pelmen hates being a tanner, but that’s all he would ever be, thanks to the rigid caste system amongst his people, the hevelens. Then he meets Master Galn Boisencroix and his family. The master carpenter opens up a world of archery to young Pelmen, who excels at his newfound skill.

But Pelmen’s intractable father will have none of it, and tries to force Pelmen to stay in the tannery.

One day, however, Pelmen’s best friend and Master Galn’s son, Teleg, disappears. Lured away by the prospect of untold riches through mining amberrock, the most precious substance in the world, Teleg finds himself a prisoner of the Nylevs, fierce fire-wielding worshippers of the god of destruction.

Now Pelmen must leave all he knows behind, overcome his fears and travel across the land, in search of his childhood friend. Along the way, he will ally himself with strange and fantastic beings: a shaman who controls the Breath of Aoles, or the power of the wind, a krongos, a creature of the mineral realm who can become living rock, and a malian, adept at water magic.

Amazon link : getBook.at/ardalia Ardalia, volume 3: The Flames of the Immolated (to be published) The great hunt had begun, and the hevelens were the prey. When would it end, and how?

Impossible to predict…

With the malian army defeated, the forces of Destruction are laying siege to the Gate of the Canyons and spreading out over the Windy Steppes. For every child of the wind or the water captured and hurled into the Great Rift, a Nylev, a fire-being, is born. Pelmen, Laneth, Lominan and Elisan-Finella must convince the krongos to join them in their desperate struggle, but only a handful of the mineral creatures remain, and Valshhyk, the Immolated seems unstoppable…

A brief history of Ardalia This mythological, not to say cosmogonic, story describes in a few pages the genesis of the four great civilizations of Ardalia and the most significant events preceding the Ardalia trilogy. For those who have read The Breath of Aoles, Turquoise Water and The Flames of the Immolated, it offers an interesting adjustment of perspective. For others, it permits an easy introduction to the details of the universe while furnishing a complete synoptic history benefiting from a different viewpoint.

Amazon link : getBook.at/ardaliahistory About the author

Alan Spade worked for eight years for the press, reviewing video games. In his youth, he acquainted himself with the classic French authors, while immersing himself in the works of H. P. Lovecraft, Isaac Asimov, J. R. R. Tolkien and Stephen King. That wide range of influences is reflected in his style, simultaneously approachable, visually evocative and imaginative. ***** Š 2015 Emmanuel Guillot Publishing