CHAPTER I

"What in thunder is that?" Wit’s feet slid from under him on some small rocks. He skidded, tumbled, and rolled almost a quarter of the way down Lightening Dance. His roll was stopped by an enormous rock wall. Lying still in the position he landed, he checked his limbs for broken parts. Finding none, he gingerly raised to his knees, then shakily to his feet.

"Stupid delf, you’ll pay for this tomorrow." He leaned back and looked up, and up the wall that encircled the castle fortress that startled him and caused his fall. "It is a troll wall and tower, what’s it doing on Lightning Dance?" He shook his head to clear it. It was a fortress! He had not been mistaken. Reaching out a hand he touched the rough stone. The structure was amazing. It was built to look like the mountain it was perched upon.

‘The walls are very high. From above I could see buildings this wall hides. Trees do cover most of the inside, but not so much that I couldn’t tell it was a fortress.’ From where he stood he could see that the wall attached to the mountain itself. ‘Lucky I didn’t land inside this thing. Far as I can see there’s no way of entering the wall except straight down the rocky surface of Lightening Dance. That means there has to be a gate,’ he thought.

"One thing for sure," he told himself, "it’s no troll borough, even if the Trolls built it." He walked backward from wall rising before him. He could see nothing but the slits at the top for archers. Leikangerborough, the nearest troll borough on Milky Top, looked nothing like this, or any other borough he ever saw. "Besides, Trolls never build in circles for themselves," he muttered. "This wall circles around to the south several leagues from what I saw. It seems to come out of the rocks to the north just like this wall. Only Trolls have the talent of molding rocks in this fashion."

Another reason he doubted it belonged to trolls was that his brief glimpse from above didn’t display the bustling life of a Troll borough. It appeared to be huge, and uninhabited. "What is the thing doing here in the middle of nowhere? Why did the Ministers allow it to be built on Lightning Dance in the first place? And more to the point, when was it built, and what is it for?"

Wit traveled often to Fareandar on diplomatic business for the Council of Ministers in Delflia. His father was a Minister, and for the last two annums, Wit had traveled at his biding. In the sevday since his return no one had mentioned a fortress being here. Any building such as this would have roused great curiosity among the delves.

The delves were very strict about building permits and the like on their mountains. Lightening Dance was declared off limits. It was a landmark, it’s magnificent rock face, and tall straight rock columns on the summit where the lightening danced on hot summer days and nights was a place of unsurpassed beauty. "I’ll be bound it would have taken two annums just to get permits to build the thing. Papa would have told me of it before I came up here for my usual spring trek. I gather herbs and roots here all the time, everyone knows this. No one said anything because no one knows it’s here," he concluded

The tower built into the rock, and the wall on the north end where he had landed were in a strategic position to observe both main roads into and out of Lowen. This tower could also observe all of the branch-off tracks of the Lowcragi Mountain Range. Wit thought it possible that the entire valley could be seen from the uppermost part of the tower. With a powerful glass, such as the elves made, one could see clearly to the Western Mountains.

He doubted the castle tower, or wall could be seen from Lowen. Not only did it look like part of the mountain, but it was cleverly built in a large bowl where long ago a lake had been. Surrounded by a forest of evergreens, the rocks were chosen to blend with the rock further up the mountain. "The whole thing looks like a big pile of rocks."

There were no trees lower down where a person could get a hand hold to climb up. By some crafty art of talent, the wall was smooth to the touch, but looked rough hewn like the stones on the mountain. ‘For sure, no one’s going to climb this. No one looking up the mountain from below would be able to tell it is a wall. It looks like part of the rocky crags. There are no windows visible from this side. However, there are cave like openings, cleverly placed, which have to be observation points, and light shafts.’

Wit walked for two leagues around the wall before he found the gate in the far western side of the wall. The gate was fifteen rods high washed in shades to match the rock and trees, and must have been moveable only by a large pulley and wench. A large ditch, and what remained of the bowl created a moat effect in the front of the gate. The gate when lowered would span the large chasm.

Curiously, there was no road to the gate. Brambles and briars grew all around the castle. Wit knew this to his rue having bounced against some on his way down. "It looks like some sorcerer whisked the wall and all to this spot on the mountain, and then abandoned it. There’s no tracks, or other signs of habitation about the gate. It doesn’t make sense."

The Giles Forest had been left to grow right up to the bowl. Wit took a breather in the forest. He snatched off his close cap, and ran his fingers through his dark curls. Absently smoothing the cap’s long red feather in his hand, he stared at the gate with puzzled dark eyes. Patiently he waited hours for the gate to open. It never did. He decided to travel around the wall to where it connected to the mountain on the south end. As near as he could figure it was a total distance of two and hafen leagues from the gate. There was no other way to get inside except by the large gate. From one end of the wall to the other there was no noise coming from within.

Wit climbed the mountain near the wall, but it was too smooth, and there were too few hand holds. He had not brought sufficient tools for a climb of that kind. Carefully he backed down. What he saw troubled him. It was a fortress. Dropping his pack under a shady tree, he pulled a large kerchief from his pocket, wiped his face and neck, and sat down.

‘I’ll have to ask about this when I get back to Lowen,’ he thought. Now that he was thinking on his seat, as he put it, his first thought was that they had built a fortress for the borderwards. However, the place was empty, and it was obviously completed. Also, why build on the sacred mountain, and what need had the borderwards for such an impregnable fortress? It was very strange.

If it was built for the trolls, they would be inhabiting it even while it was being built. ‘No,’ Wit denied the thought, ‘there is something wrong about the setup. I’ll take this news to the council. I suspect they will send a scouting party back with equipment to scale the walls, that is, if they know nothing about it.’

The nearest main roadway to Lowen was about five leagues southeast and down the mountain. "Oh boulders and trolls," he groused, stuck on his hat, re-situated his pack, and struck out straightway for the Lowen Pass. About half a league due west from the wall there did seem to be a faint trail of some sort. It had purposely been allowed, or magically forced to grow over and go to weed. Brambles had grown to either side, and mixed in with the weed, disguising the trail. Looking back over the trail now that he knew what to look for, Wit saw it came in a direct line west from the main gate toward Lowen Pass. It split at a fork going northeast up the mountain, and northwest downward. He would have to cross it to reach Lowen.

Standing back to really look at the phenomenon he could clearly see the trails, and the directions they took. "The westerly trail is working its way down to tie in with the Lowen Pass." He looked to the northeast trail. It was leading up to a rather wild spot, a ravine with high rocky walls. "That trail leads to the Lowflar Gorge," he guessed.

"Blast it, I wanted to take that trail to Milky Top. I’d better not have to wade stickers all the way." Once in this ravine, it was possible to be completely hidden from the pass. The road cut right through the gorge at that point. It was a favorite place for bands of thieves to await unwary travelers along the upper Lowen Pass.

For this reason the borderwards had been created, and they patrolled the area between Lowflar Gorge and the foothills of Lowen Pass. They operated a rest house halfway down the pass for travelers because the long road with all its switchbacks took two full days to descend from the summit.

It was at the fork to Lowen Pass Wit found the first body. "A gilt!" He exclaimed. "At least what remains is dressed like a gilt." With his dagger he slashed at the unwieldy brambles and waded in to brush the leaves away. It was not anyone he knew.

There were three curious things about the body. It had been allowed to lie unburied, the gilt pack had not been touched, and a deadly arrow of delven make protruded from the front of what was left of the remains. From the look of it she had been dead over an annum. It was not surprising to find a gilt with gold in her traveling pack, but why had she been killed, if not to rob? Carefully Wit took one gold coin, her papers, and the identification of the gilt ribbon decorating her uniform, and placed them reverently in his own pack. "I’ll have to go straight to Lowen now," he muttered. "Something is very wrong here."

Crossing the overgrown trail and following it down, Wit noticed that the trail was wide. It was almost as wide as the main thoroughfare of Lowen Pass. "I was up here two annums ago. None of this was here. Talent, what the humans call magic, had to have made this." For someone to blaze a trail even in the ravine would have attracted attention. "How did the provisions needed for this castle fortress and trails arrive here without alerting the borderwards? It couldn’t be done without using talent."

As Wit made his way carefully along the outer perimeters of the trail, it became clear why no one knew of the trail or where it led. All along the trail covered by the overgrowth lay the remains of those who "knew." For two leagues he found undants, humans, even a troll, each with an arrow protruding from their chest. Wit recognized the uniform and insignia of three borderwards. Carefully he collected small tokens from each one he found. If nothing else, a burial detail would be sent for their remains.

In all he found seventeen bodies in varying stages of decomposition along the trail. He would have likely found more bodies if he had followed the trail to the mouth of the ravine, or even the obvious path to where it connected with the pass. He had seen enough. He was looking for no more signs.

It was just after he discovered the third borderward that he became aware he was being followed. Evidently the fortress was not empty as he supposed. It became imperative to elude his tracker. "I’d better get off this trail. If I don’t there’ll soon be an arrow in my back. When my parents come to search for me it will mean their deaths as well.’

‘In any event, I’ve discovered enough to bewilder and sicken me. How did all these peoples venture here to die? For what purpose were they killed? And particularly why,’ the order loving delf wanted to know, ‘weren’t their bodies properly disposed? It seems that every race on Furth has stumbled into this web someone so carefully created, and died for it.’

To elude his tracker Wit ran far into the night away from the grisly trail. He and the tracker played a game of cat and mouse all the way down Lightening Dance. Wit waded streams to the north, the opposite direction of the Pass. He took care to leave no trail, yet he continued to hear his relentless pursuer throughout the night. He dived low under the cover of a bush at first light, but checking with his glass he could still see his tracker. "I have gained on him, but he’s still coming." Checking regularly, Wit saw him or the glare from his weapon all that day.

It had been some hours into the second day when Wit came upon the callously murdered trio of delven youths, two of whom were delffan. When Wit saw the murdered youths, he sank to his knees, and bitter tears burned his sleepless eyes. "Someone will pay for this," he vowed, "There has been too much killing. These murderers have no respect, even for delflings. The black hearted sorcerer who did this must be made to pay." Wit, at that minim, was in no doubt that an evil sorcerer once again plagued the land, his land. It now only remained to discover and stop him. Compassionately and hurriedly he gathered stones for a cairn, disregarding his hunter.

His face was grim as he tenderly took the tokens from the youths. The same tokens he took from every other victim he had found. He was bending low placing stones over the bodies when he heard the whine of an arrow loosed from it’s string, and he rolled under a nearby hedge. The arrow struck through his sleeve and pinned him to the ground. He knew he had only timins and ripped his shirt as he pulled free and burrowed further into the hedge. Just as quickly, a second arrow hit a heavy vine above him and shattered. ‘This is not talent,’ he thought, ‘this hedge would be burning. I’ve got to think my way out of this. If I appear dead, he will come to make sure. I can attack him, escape, and still report to the council.’

Frantically he looked about for his adversary and spotted a glint above him and to the north some rods away. The bow he was using did not look large enough to fly so far. He held it level before him rather than vertically. Looking directly in front of him there was no escape except into the direct fire of his opponent. Another arrow thrunged into a thick branch above him. Several more flew and were deflected by the hedge. An arrow drove through the hedge, and found it’s target. Wit felt the slicing pain as the arrow penetrated his side between ribs and embedded itself into the ground. Only one more arrow thudded into his cloak, Wit made a startled cry, and was still.

When the sun tipped Sarpe Peak and outlined against the sky the many peaked Lowcragi Range, Wit groaned, and awoke. When he first tried to move and couldn’t, he thought himself dying. Then realized he was pinned to the ground by arrows. By some fortune of war he had been decided fatally struck by his pursuer when he had cried out, and left to die. The aching in his side assured him he was still very much alive.

Cautiously he moved to loosen the arrows holding him down. His clothing pulled causing a fresh washet of pain where some of the blood he lost stuck it to his skin. The only free arm was the one next to his injured side, but with much effort he managed to pull out the arrow that pinned him down by his cloak and tunic. The roll onto his injured side in an endeavor to break the arrow loose from the ground caused him to lose consciousness again.

Weakness and nausea riddled him when he again awoke, but the roll had broken the arrow free. Grimly he grabbed the protruding shaft, and yanked it out with all his remaining strength. Blood spurted from his wound, and the brambles of the hedge scratched his face and exposed hands and arms as he backed out of the hedge. He had to get the bleeding stopped. A steady stream of it trickled down soaking his tunic. He crawled to his pack, found a clean tunic, and pressed it to his side. Wit knew if he had not been wearing a cloak to hide his outline, he would have been killed. Perhaps he would have died of exposure the night before. As it was the arrow barely missed his lung.

At last he stanched the flow of blood, and tied the tunic as tightly as he could around himself. He saw the cairns he had built, his own footprints, but no other sign. "That heinous monster left me to die," he realized. "Lucky me. They’ve blundered this time. I’ll survive." He raised his uninjured fist in defiance. "I’ll survive if I think my way through this. I’ll need strength to get down the mountain for help." He then made a move to his pack, but it proved too much for his abused body. He watched the sun dim out above him for the third time.

The sun was higher and beating down upon him when he next wakened. The sleep somewhat restored him, and he was able to drag himself to his pack. He pulled out some food, and ate. It did strengthen him.

He fashioned himself a crude crutch out of an elm branch that he found nearby. Wrapping his side as well as he could, he took some dried mullein leaves, mixed them in his water cup and drank to lessen the bleeding. He rummaged for his antibiotic salve, and added winter-dried bittersweet and fresh young camomile to make a thick paste for his wound. He bound the leaves to his skin front and back as well as he could, before tying the tunic again over the wounds. He swallowed a bit of wild sage and dandelion for fever. Then he chewed a preparation of pennyroyal, and valerian mixed with honeycomb to give him stamina. It gave him meager strength, but he was able to continue. Before leaving he piled rocks and brush on the cairn as best he could. He bowed his uncovered head over it for several minims before he left to make his way home.

All that day he made his way down the mountain. He crested the rise and found before him another smaller peak he would have to climb. Setting his teeth, he trudged first down, then up. Somewhere during the night he found some shelter beneath some trees, and slept until just before the sun came up.

His return to Lowen was not going smoothly. His former trails had not run in this general direction. Besides, to his bewilderment, the terrain had changed subtly in the past two annums no doubt due to heavy water shed. "It takes two full days on the Lowen Pass road from the summit. I’d take only one and hafen if I’d been able to take the road from where I left the trail. I am so far off it will take me two days to reach Lowen considering how slow I’m going." Wit pushed himself forward, and raced against time.

"I must, I must," he chanted over and over under his breath as he climbed, "I know I can reach the peak." First the peak, then the next peak, on to home. When he reached the peak he must decide what to do. He would either go back to the Lowen Pass road, or veer northeast again.

"I know too much for them to let me live, but I don’t really know exactly what it is I know. I don’t know who, or why, I only know where and what." At the peak, he decided to take one last look with his glass behind him.

Training his glass high up Lightening Dance and watching intently for some minims, he knew he was not mistaken. He saw movement at the fortress. It was inhabited then. He wondered at the care taken to preserve that quality of desertion. He thought he had been left to die, but he saw trackers following the trail he made from the fortress.

For now he was a full day and more ahead of any tracker, but they seemed to be heading for where he had been wounded. They were searching for him. A trained assassin would have removed evidence of crime, or caused it to be viewed as accidental. An arrow left sticking out of each quarry, with totally identifiable clothing and belongings was a careless system. His attacker may have been very intelligent and resourceful, but some wiser one than he sent the trackers back for him.

Wit patted the broken arrow he removed from his side. It was added to his pack for evidence along with the whole one he had removed from the ground. ‘No sorcerer worth his ability would make this mistake,’ he thought. Then a cold thought struck him, ‘only a fool, or someone with no regard for life would do this.’ Training his glass for one last look back along the trail, Wit scowled at the detail now carefully combing the bramble trail. Someone was no longer taking chances on a further ‘discovery’.

If the trackers brought a dark sorcerer with them, his trail would be found, their hounds could scent blood for leagues.

"They’ve left the trail in the general direction I took. It seems they are after confirming my death. When they find my body gone. . ." He lowered his glass. That one last look before deciding his course proved to be wise. There would be no trek to the Pass. If they were after him he would be caught unless he moved in a direction they did not expect.