thawing snow. She heard others doing the same. Even Shranree had gone pale. The Shaman raised Mehmon’s head up near his face and stared into its lifeless eyes.
She suddenly felt very scared.
‘Are you done, Mithradates?’
There was a collective gasp from the sisters beside her, as well as those at the front of the crowd just behind. An old man had appeared near the King’s throne, seemingly from nowhere. He wore crimson robes that were overly large for his slight frame and his thin beard and moustache made him look like an elderly fop. He supported himself on a slender cane, and was the very picture of weariness.
One of the Six immediately sprang towards the intruder, his longsword raised high to smite this strange Lowlander.
The elderly man raised one eyebrow and suddenly the warrior’s sword was plucked from his hands. It floated up into the air and rotated slowly around so that its tip was pointing down at the man. The bodyguard grimaced but did not move, keeping his body between the sword and Magnar.
There was movement to the side of Yllandris. ‘Sisters, attend me!’ cried Shranree, and she spread her hands towards the interloper. Golden light leaped out from her outstretched palms, raced towards her target – but then, instead of striking him, the arcing light bent around him to dissipate harmlessly. The old man crooked a finger and suddenly Shranree was clutching her throat. Her ruddy face turned purple as she struggled desperately to breathe. The other sorceresses prepared to launch their own magic as some Highlanders went for their weapons and others turned to flee.
The Shaman finally spoke. ‘Enough, Salazar. Release her.’
Salazar? Yllandris recognized that name: the Magelord of Dorminia, one of the original champions of the Godswar uprising and perhaps the most powerful man in the north.
The crimson-robed figure did as he was asked. Shranree dropped to her knees, sucking in deep breaths, tears rolling down her face. ‘Sheathe your weapons,’ ordered the Shaman. ‘All of you.’
Those Highlanders who had pulled steel put their weapons away, though the King’s guards kept their hands close to their hilts. The hulking form of the Shaman walked slowly across to the crimson-garbed man. Yllandris watched, filled with awe. Despite his frail appearance, if this wizard really was Salazar, he possessed enough power to collapse the very mountains around them.
‘Why have you come here?’ the Shaman asked. His voice was unusually quiet, almost apprehensive.
The old man stared down at his counterpart’s hand in distaste. The Shaman saw the look, grunted and tossed Mehmon’s head backwards into the fire which now blazed behind them. The chieftain’s body was already engulfed in flame. Mehmon had saved himself several minutes of intense agony with his desperate story. Whatever one might say about the former chieftain of the North Reaching, he was wily until the end.
Salazar leaned on his cane and tried to blink the tiredness from his eyes. ‘You once made me a promise,’ he said simply. ‘A promise to repay a vow you broke. The time has come to honour it.’
The Shaman narrowed his eyes. ‘What do you need of me?’
‘You know of events in the Trine?’
‘I care not for the outside world.’
‘I destroyed Shadowport. I believe Marius perished within.’
‘Marius,’ the Shaman muttered. ‘He was ever the slyest among us. I would not consider him dead until I saw proof.’
Salazar nodded. ‘Be that as it may, Thelassa now moves against Dorminia. The White Lady has three companies of mercenaries from Sumnia in her employ. They plan to invade. Without help, we cannot hope to win – and my magic is near spent. I lacked the reserves even to Portal here. My journey has taken the best part of a week, using what little power I have available to me.’
The Shaman growled low in his throat.
Salazar stared boldly back. ‘We once fought side by side, Mithradates. United in our tragedy. United in our desire for vengeance. Do you remember that much, at least?’
‘I remember. There are some things I cannot forget. I try – but I cannot forget.’
‘It is our curse, Mithradates. Our curse and our blessing. I would speak somewhere more private.’
The Shaman shot the King a glare and Magnar rose from his throne. ‘Go back to your homes,’ he ordered loudly. ‘Anyone still here in the time it takes a man to piss will spend a night in the stocks.’
At once relieved and disappointed to be dismissed, the assembled Highlanders began to depart. Yllandris was preparing to follow her sisters when a