had been worn down through the middle of each step, as if many feet had passed there. The carvings on them were difficult to discern in the failing light, but Morlock knew better than to examine Coranian carvings too closely at dusk. There were stories about that. There were stories about everything, here.
The stair passed by a cave. The cheerful light of a fire was flickering across the threshold, incongruous against the dark hillside. Morlock clenched his teeth and stood indecisively in the dusk. He had heard about this place. . . . Finally he left the stairway and entered the cave.
Inside, Merlin rose to greet him.
It was a Merlin a thousand years younger than Morlock’s father, without even a gray streak in his black hair and beard. It was a Merlin who wore the red cloak of a vocate on his crooked shoulders, the black-and-white shield of Ambrosius on his arm (the same shield, barring a millennium of aging and of careful repair, slung now across Morlock’s shoulder). It was a Merlin who was not yet known as the master of all makers, one who was yet establishing his first reputation as a hero.
“I do not know you,” said Merlin Ambrosius. “But I knew you would come here.” He smiled. “I take it for granted that you know me.”
There was arrogance in that smile—a measured arrogance. The smile and the statement claimed nothing, after all, but the truth. Morlock had heard of Merlin.
“Sit down, if you wish. Warm yourself at the fire. You’ll welcome the memory, soon enough.”
Morlock remained standing. The image of Merlin sat down on the opposite side of the fire and continued to speak.
“You have come here, drawn by stories—I might even say legends. You have come here to better my deed. When I made certain choices I knew you, and others like you, would come; to you, I guess, my work here seems incomplete. So I have remained here, in simulacrum, to assure you that the deed is not incomplete, and to warn you against meddling with my work.”
Merlin smiled engagingly. “Those are harsh words for a proud champion. I don’t speak them lightly. They are the best advice I can give to someone I consider my peer.”
“Get on with it!” Morlock muttered, embarrassed and angry.
“I will explain,” the image continued. “We stand (or sit) in part of the tomb of the Great Cor, now known as the Dead Cor. He, like his successors, had a means of prolonging his physical life far beyond its natural term. By feeding on the tal of sacrificial victims he strengthened his own grip on life when it was failing him, preserving life in his body even when that body began to decay.
“In fact, he never died. But the time came when he could no longer act as monarch over the unruly sorcerer-nobles of his kingdom; he required all his power simply to sustain the burden of his own life. Finally he was deposed and his successor did him the honor of burying him alive within this hill, which was then north of the border of the Wardlands. For you must know that the Coranians were descended from exiles, and like all exiles they hungered to return to the Wardlands.”
Morlock nodded reflexively. His mother had been descended from Coranian exiles; it was one of the two reasons he knew more than he wanted about Coranians.
“The practice became a custom,” Merlin’s simulacrum continued. “When a Cor grew too feeble to rule he was taken here and a hill raised over him, in imitation of this one, now called the Hill of Storms (although its Dwarvish name is Tunglskin). But none of the Corain were wholly dead. In time, as their numbers grew, the Dead Cor found he could exert control over, and draw power from, the lingering tal of his successors and inferiors.
“That was a grim time. You have heard of it, or you would not be here. The Dead Cor asserted his mastery over the reigning Cor, who (after a few trials of power) proved willing to be led. The dwarves of Thrymhaiam found their land invaded by the Coranians, who looked to it as the staging ground for an invasion of the very Wardlands. The Eldest of Theorn Clan appealed to the Graith of Guardians to make common cause against the Coranian exiles. The Graith paused, deliberated, and chose to do nothing. I did none of these.
“I will not retell my deeds in the north; you have heard