Keyla reined in her mount. The beautiful mare, Ziara by name, was well suited to her. Keyla had taken to riding quite readily, and very much enjoyed being on horseback. The sisters at the Citadel were given training in basic riding skills, but Keyla had spent as much time as she could honing those skills, mostly because she enjoyed being around the horses. When she had requested Ziara as her mount for their journey to the Hall of Champions, the Maajira could see no reason to decline. Now she sat happily astride the even-tempered animal, gazing at the plains that lay before her. Luceya sat her own mount beside her, both Sorceresses contemplating the journey ahead. The Guardians’ message had been quite clear, and the prospect of seeking out the Jivanaar was exciting. Their lands lay to the East, past the northeastern tip of the Haedral Mountains. The two Na’Himara had spent the last ten days riding through the hilly countryside North of those mountains, taking what roads were available

Gerth was angry. It was not an uncommon state of mind for a Goblin, as they were usually angry about something. What angered Gerth at this particular time was his own gnawing impatience. And a growing animosity toward their leader. The Goblin tribes had welcomed the enigmatic stranger, primarily because she had promised them power and conquest. Initial doubts had been vanquished when the magic user had demonstrated considerable talent in the Art, and promised that such powerful magic would be used to aid the Goblins in their invasion. So the tribes had eagerly cooperated when the first assaults had been ordered. Some among the tribal elders had been wary; they were still outnumbered by the humans, and the Grenyaar had always proved to be a formidable foe. Which was why they had decided to attack their Hall, in the hope of defeating as many as possible and killing their leader. It would have been demoralizing to the Black Knights, as well as a boost to the tribes’ efforts. That had go

“Acheya.” Acheya recognized the Raamija’s voice immediately, though she couldn’t imagine why she would have come to her. The Master Sorceress had only visited this place once before, and that had been shortly after their arrival in these rugged mountains. Acheya had the impression that the Raamija had a genuine disdain for the caves. It mattered not, that was her business. Acheya was more than content to do her work without constant supervision. Up until now, she had no reason to doubt that her efforts had been anything less than effective. So why was Sapha visiting her now? Straightening in her chair, she said, “I am here, Raamija.” Sapha stepped quietly into the rough-hewn room to stand across from the desk. The glowing crystals that illuminated the space were not of the brightest variety; Acheya’s work called for her to work in dim places, and she kept her own space less bright as well. Even in the dim light, Sapha was imposing. Her bearing was enough to reveal supreme confidenc

“Master Kolton?” Kolton looked up from the blade he was polishing. “Yes, Sir Kale?” “I’m concerned about Sir Randey.” The Blade Master nodded. “I understand. And your concern for your fellow Knight is admirable.” “Thank you, Master, but what can we do to help him?” Kolton examined the Khortaal he held, watching the light glint from the polished metal. Satisfied, he slid it back into its sheath. He looked up at Kale. “Nothing.” Kale frowned. “Nothing?” Kolton nodded. “Surely, Master, there is something we can do,” said Kale, his voice growing hard. Kolton sighed. He truly did understand what young Kale was feeling, and his desire to help his friend. However, Kolton had the advantage of age and experience. He’d seen more than a few young Knights have to deal with that which Sir Randey was now wrestling. The feelings of guilt and loss, grief and anger; they were all perfectly normal and expected. How he dealt with them would ultimately show his character both as a man and a Blac

Ghaeron roared in frustration. Nayara, gliding at his side, glanced at him in understanding. She was feeling frustrated as well. They were sweeping above the Ramash Mountains, for the fourth time trying to locate the stronghold of the Alva’himar. It should have been simple, given that Dragons have excellent geographical recall, in addition to their mystical instincts. Ghaeron had been sure of the location when he’d glimpsed the dark structure, but every time he and his sister flew low across that region of the mountains it was as if they had never been there before. Nothing was familiar, and they could have been over any part of the range for all their senses told them. They had even made a few passes while flaming, but nothing was revealed beyond scorched trees, earth, and rock. The Guardians knew that Dark Magic was at work. The fortress was there. Of that they were certain. But so long as their instincts and mystical senses were being confounded, it had become an exercise in futi