While Hamanu cooled himself and slaked his thirst, the Gnome-Bane told him what had happened in the Gray: who'd attacked whom and with what success. Gallard would have told him more, but Hamanu cut his litany short.

"Your feuds mean nothing to me. Why should I care?"

The Gnome-Bane had a quick, disturbing answer: "Because between them, Sacha Arala and Wyan have cracked the cyst."

Hamanu finished pouring a bucket of water over his head then heaved the clay-coated straw bucket across the courtyard. It hit the wall with a satisfying thud and collapsed in a shapeless, useless ma.s.s on the ground.

"Is he free?"

Gallard writhed. "Not yet. We need you, Hamanu. We need everyone."

"Shall I get the realgar?" Hamanu headed toward the locked storeroom where he kept his reagents.

"It's too late for that. We've got to hurry."

Hamanu's peers still hadn't found a way to kill each other, but they were getting closer. Sacha Arala and Wyan were unrecognizable, indistinguishable, as they sagged against what appeared to be ordinary ropes binding them to columns on either side of the white tower's gate. Uyness kept watch over them with Dregoth's stone-headed maul braced across her arms. They'd have been wiser to run-if they'd gotten the chance.

Of far greater concern to Hamanu than the fates of two lesser champions was Gallard's egg-shaped cyst around which the remaining seven champions had gathered. Thick layers of shimmering green warding couldn't hide the damage. While Hamanu watched, finger-length worms of intensely bright sorcery oozed from dark cracks. They wriggled like slugs until the warding destroyed them. With the Dark Lens nearby, the champions could renew the warding continuously. With no more than a thought and a twitch of his thumb, Hamanu added his own spell to the mix. But warding wouldn't hold forever, not against humanity's first sorcerer.

"What about the Hollow beneath the Black?" Hamanu asked.

Borys glowered at Gallard, who shook his head. "Too dangerous to get close enough to look. But it holds... it must! If the Hollow were cracked, nothing could hold here."

"So, do we wait until he breaks free, or what?"

"Another rock," Albeorn advised. "A bigger rock, around this one."

Hamanu arched a highly skeptical eyebrow.

"You've got a better idea?" Borys demanded, c.o.c.king his fist for emphasis.

The Lion of Urik was no master of sorcery, at least not then, and having nothing better to offer, he could only go along, providing the strength, both physical and sorcerous, that his elders requested. Working together, the cooperating champions did construct a second cyst around the original one. It seemed that the new prison would hold, but there were dark lines on the mottled surface by sundown and flashes of dark blue light by moonrise.

"He exploits the weaknesses between us," Sielba said wearily.

Hamanu had come to the same conclusion, but the red-haired champion spoke first.

"We need to make our own Rajaat before we can make Rajaat's prison," Borys suggested softly.

Hamanu thought the Borys who stood before them, tall, thick-necked, and armored like a troll, was the Butcher of Dwarves in his true, metamorph's shape, but that was illusion, too. As golden light cascaded around him, Borys reformed himself. His head became a fang-filled wedge. His eyes glowed with the sun's b.l.o.o.d.y color. His limbs lengthened and changed proportion. Though he remained upright on two legs, it was clear as his torso grew more ma.s.sive that he'd be more comfortable and more powerful if he balanced his burgeoning weight on his arms as well.

"I offer myself." Borys shaped his words with sorcery and left them hanging above the insufficient prison. "Help me finish the metamorphosis, and I will keep Rajaat in the Hollow."

Dregoth roared, but he wasn't nearly the dragon Borys already was. His outrage was moot and impotent.

"Think of the risks," Hamanu said, thinking of himself and the metamorphosis that lay before him. He was unaware that he'd spoken aloud.

I have, Borys said in Hamanu's mind alone. Borys said in Hamanu's mind alone. My risks are not so great as yours would be. I will finish the dwarves My risks are not so great as yours would be. I will finish the dwarves-the elves and the giants, too-but humanity has nothing to fear. Athas will be our world, a world of humans and champions where Rajaat has no power, no influence.

"I believed him," Hamanu said to Windreaver when they had talked and recounted their way through events they both recalled.

Windreaver had been at the white tower the night when Hamanu and the others champions had fledged a dragon, with the Dark Lens's help.

"Champions always lied," Windreaver countered flatly. "Then and now."

In the ancient landscape of his memory, Hamanu recalled Dark Lens sorcery shrouding Borys in a cloud of scintillating mist. The cloud grew and grew until it engulfed the white tower and threatened to engulf the champions as well. Wyan and Sacha had screamed together, then fallen silent. Two small, dark globes had flown out of the mist and vanished in the night. The globes were the traitors' severed heads, still imbued with immortal life, because Borys hadn't had been able to kill them outright when he consumed their bodies. Uyness had cheered, then she, too, had screamed.

Borys couldn't stop with the traitors: he needed every one of them. They'd all underestimated how far Rajaat's metamorphosis would go, how much life the spell would consume before the dragon quickened. In agony and immortal fear, the champions had torn away from the Dark Lens, saving themselves, but leaving a half-born dragon behind.

For a hundred years Borys had ravaged the heartland, finishing the sorcerous transformation he'd begun beside Rajaat's tower.

"He was not Rajaat." Hamanu stated, which was half of the truth. "He wasn't what I would have been."

"You can't be sure," Windreaver chided.

"I've looked inside myself. I've seen the Dragon of Urik, old friend. I'm sure. There were no choices, no mistakes."

CHAPTER THIRTEEN.

Sunset in the Kreegills: a fireball impaled on a jagged black peak, the western horizon ablaze with sorcery's lurid colors, and, finally, stars, one by one, crisper and brighter than they were above the dusty plains.

Hamanu held out his hand and gathered a pool of starlight in his palm. He played with the light as a child-or a dancer-might play, weaving luminous silver strands through moving fingers. In his mind, he heard a reed-pipe melody that lulled all his other thoughts, other concerns and memories. Alone and at peace, he forgot who he was, until he heard Windreaver's voice.

"The world stretches far beyond the heartland. There are lush forests beyond the Ringing Mountains and who-knows-what on the far sh.o.r.es of the Silt Sea. Wonders lie just over that horizon," the ghostly troll said, as if they were two old merchants in search of new markets.

"Leave Urik to its fate? Without me?"

"You chose Urik as your destiny. But you're Hamanu; you are your own destiny. You've always been. You can choose somewhere, something else."

Hamanu thought of the leonine giant he'd seen guarding the Black and the Hollow beneath it. "Hamanu is Urik." He let the starlight dribble off the back of his hand. "If I went somewhere else, I'd leave too much behind. I'd leave myself behind."

"What of yourself, Hamanu? Borys is dead. The War-Bringer's prison cannot hold him. If you can believe what he said-if-there's nothing you can do to save Urik. If he's lying-as he usually does-then what do the champions of humanity do next? Whose fear is stronger than his greed? Which one of you will become the next great dragon and burn the heartland for an age? There is no other way."

"There must be. There will be!" Hamanu's shout echoed off the mountain walls. A cloud of pale steam hovered in the air where his voice had been. "I will will find a way for Urik to survive in a world without dragons find a way for Urik to survive in a world without dragons and and without Rajaat." without Rajaat."

Windreaver merged with the fading mist. "You won't find it here. The Kreegills have been dead for a thousand years. They have no answers for you, Hamanu. Forget the past. Forget this place. Forget Deche and the Kreegills, your woman and me. Think of the future. Think of another woman, Sadira of Tyr. Rajaat had a hand in making her, true, and he's used her, made a fool of her and you. But she's no champion. Her metamorphosis begins each day at dawn and unravels at sundown. She's not immortal. She's not bound to the Dark Lens. She's not like you, Hamanu, not at all, but her spells hold; by day, they hold. Find a way to make them hold at night, and maybe you'll have an Athas without either dragons or the War-Bringer."

"Sadira's a fool." He saw her clearly in his mind's eye: tall, as half-elves were tall, doubly exotic with sun sorcery shadowing her skin.

Sadira of Tyr was a beautiful woman, though the Lion-King was ages past the time when aesthetics influenced his judgment, and he'd shed Rajaat's prejudices against humanity's cousins long before that. Elves, dwarves, even trolls and races Rajaat had never imagined, they were all human under their skin. There were no misfits, no outcasts, no malformed spirits made manifest in flesh; there was only humanity, individual humans in their infinite variety. He He was human, and he would not despise himself. That was Rajaat's flaw-one of many. Rajaat despised himself, and from that self-hatred he conceived the Cleansing Wars and champions. was human, and he would not despise himself. That was Rajaat's flaw-one of many. Rajaat despised himself, and from that self-hatred he conceived the Cleansing Wars and champions.

Rajaat's madness had nothing to do with Hamanu's opinion of Sadira. "She's a dangerous fool." Or her council-ruled city. "They're all fools."

"So were you, once. She'll never learn otherwise with fools for teachers, will she? You've got three days, Hamanu. That's a lot, if you use it properly."

Windreaver was gone before Hamanu concocted a suitable reply. He could have called the troll back. Windreaver came and went on the Lion-King's sufferance; his freedom was as illusory as Hamanu's tawny, black-haired humanity. When his master wanted him, his slave came from whatever place he was, however far away.

Hamanu thought Windreaver traveled through the netherworld, but the troll was never apparent there. Like the mist from Hamanu's voice, Windreaver might still hover, invisible and undetectable, in the ancient troll ruins. He might have remained there after Hamanu slit the Gray and strode from the mountain valley down to the plains northwest of Urik.

The Lion of Urik knew the way to Tyr, the oldest city in the heartland. Kalak, Tyr's now-dead king, had been an immortal before the Cleansing Wars began. Unlike Dregoth, Kalak had spurned Rajaat's offers and never become a champion, though in the chaos after Borys's transformation, he'd found what remained of Sacha Arala and Wyan.

The Tyrant of Tyr had suborned the mindless heads, replacing their champions' memories with demeaning fictions. He convinced them that he, not they, was the source of the Dark Lens magic Tyr's templars wielded at home and in Kalak's endless wars with his champion neighbors.

If he'd tried, Hamanu might have pitied the Pixie-Blight and Curse of Kobolds, but he'd never tried. The traitors had served Urik's interest because Tyr's purview controlled the heartland's sole reliable ironworks, as Urik controlled the vast obsidian deposits near the Smoking Crown volcano. With the traitors' Dark Lens magic, Tyr controlled its treasures just well enough to keep the mines and smelters from falling into a true champion's hands.

Hamanu wouldn't have tolerated that, and the other champions wouldn't have tolerated a Urik that controlled both obsidian and iron. They'd have united against him, as they did now, but in greater number, and with Borys leading them. For thirteen ages, the Lion-King had supported the Tyrian Tyrant more often than he'd warred with him, until the doddering fool thought he could become a dragon to rival Borys.

Fifteen years ago, that that had been the single act of monumental foolishness that brought Hamanu to this morning on the Iron Road. In the guise of a shabby, down-on-his-luck merchant, the king of Urik walked slowly through the morning chill asking other merchants- had been the single act of monumental foolishness that brought Hamanu to this morning on the Iron Road. In the guise of a shabby, down-on-his-luck merchant, the king of Urik walked slowly through the morning chill asking other merchants- "Which way to the old Asticles estate?" which was where, according to his spies, the sorceress maintained a household of former rebels and former slaves.

They pointed him toward a hardpan track that wound through estates, farms, and irrigated fields. Guthay had worn her rings above the entire heartland, not just Urik. Tyr's fields were lush and green, though not as tall as Urik's. The unwieldy Council of Advisors hadn't summoned levies to protect their established fields or take advantage of Guthay's bounty. The Tyrian farmers had simply waited until their fields were nearly dry before they planted. Tyr would reap a good harvest, but nothing like the one Urik's farmers hoped to bring in... if there was a Urik, four days from now.

Tyr's smaller harvests weren't entirely the fault of Tyr's council. The Tyrians were shackled to a dubious history.

Despite two thousand years of rule, Kalak had never understood that a city's might wasn't measured by the size of its armies or the magnificence of its palaces, but in the labor of its farmers. In a good year, Tyr could feed herself; in a bad one, she bought grain from Urik or Nibenay.

Kalak had been a man of limited vision and imagination. In Urik, there were free folk and freed folk as well as slaves; guild artisans and free artisans; n.o.bles who lived on estates outside the city walls and n.o.bles who lived like merchants near the market squares. In Urik, a man or woman of any station could find outlets for enterprise and ambition. In Tyr, folk were either free, rich, and n.o.ble, or enslaved, poor, and very common. For two thousand years, ambition had. been a criminal offense.

The rebels of Tyr, whose recklessness had turned the heartland on its ear could, perhaps, be forgiven for thinking that slavery was the cause of all their problems. It was easier to identify abused slaves and set them free than it was to resurrect a dynamic society from stagnation. At least, the council-ruled city hadn't succ.u.mbed to rampant anarchy as Raam or Draj had done since the demise of their champion kings and queens.

Sadira and her companions had shown themselves capable of learning. Perhaps Windreaver was right and Tyr was the heartland's future.

Hamanu left the hardpan track. He approached a gate guarded by two women and a pa.s.sel of children, who could not have kept him out even if he'd been no more than the peddler he appeared to be. Indeed, the Lion-King's problem wasn't getting onto the estate, but escaping the curious women who wanted to examine his nonexistent wares. Realizing that curiosity might be worse at the estate-house, Hamanu scooped up a handful of dried gra.s.s and pebbles as he walked away from the gate.

"For your mistress's delight," he explained as he displayed the dross to the door-steward.

With only a tiny suggestion bending through in his mind-not enough to rouse anyone's suspicions-the steward saw a handful of whatever the steward imagined would please Sadira this deceptively unremarkable morning.

The steward chuckled and rubbed his hands together. "Follow me, good man. I'm sure she'll want some for both Rikus and Rkard."

Hamanu wondered what the man had seen, but kept his wondering to himself as the steward led him through a series of corridors and courtyards to a small, elegant chamber where-by the bittersweet flavor of the air-Sadira of Tyr was in the midst of a melancholy daydream.

No need for you to remain. Hamanu put the thought in the steward's mind. Hamanu put the thought in the steward's mind. I'll introduce myself to your mistress. I'll introduce myself to your mistress.

When the steward was out of sight in the next corridor, Hamanu erased his entire presence from the mortal's memory. Then he crossed the threshold into Sadira's chamber.

"Dear lady-?" He interrupted her as gently, as unmagically as he could, though aside from his simple peddler's illusion, he'd done nothing to disguise himself, and Sadira should recognize him instantly.

She did. "Hamanu!"

"No cause for alarm, dear lady," he said quickly, holding his hands palms-up, though, like her, he didn't need conventional gestures, conventional sources to quicken his sorcery. "I've come to talk-"

Before Hamanu could say anything more to rea.s.sure her, the sorceress quickened a spell. It erupted faster than thought, and whatever its intended purpose, its sole effect was to destroy completely the little pebble Hamanu cached between the black bones of his left forearm.

A smoking gap formed in Hamanu's peddler illusion. Hot, viscous blood dripped onto the floor, corroding the delicate mosaic. The physical pain was intense, but it paled beside the heart-stopping shock as greasy smoke began to flow from the wound. Hamanu clapped his right hand over the gap. The smoke seeped around his fingers. Windreaver took shape in the smoke.

"We come to the end of the trolls at last."

"No." A soft, impotent denial.

"Let go of the past, Hamanu. It's time."

Another denial, equally impotent. The hole in his arm was empty. Windreaver was real, and Windreaver was gone. Hamanu's anguished rage began to suck the life out of everything around him.

"Leave it be, Hamanu," Windreaver cautioned, and laid a faintly warm, faintly tangible hand over the Lion-King's wounded arm. "I know your ways. You think this is no accident. You think this is my vengeance. It's not. Thirteen ages is too long to think of vengeance, Hamanu. We've fought the past long enough. Think of the future." The troll's smoky fingers began to collapse. "I'll wait for you, Manu of Deche. I'll prepare a place beside me, where the stone is young..."

Four greasy streaks of soot on Hamanu's arm and a larger splotch on the floor were all the remained of the last and greatest commander of the once-great race known as trolls.

Sadira rose from her stool. Her foot came down beside the stain.

"Stay back!" Hamanu warned.

The power of death was inside him, and the will to use it She lived because Windreaver wished her to live. Hamanu would honor the last troll's wish-if he could. And if he couldn't let her live, then he'd live with the consequences, as he'd lived with all his other consequences.

Sadira sensed her danger and retreated. "What-" she began, then corrected herself. "Who was that? Another dragon?" was that? Another dragon?"

It was an almost-honest question. The half-elf had no notion of trolls or the Troll-Scorcher. Her experience bound Hamanu with dragons instead. He collected his wits and tried to speak, but it was too soon.

Sadira mistook his silence. "Did you think that you could come in here and work your foul sorcery on me?" me?" she asked with all the arrogance that Rajaat's sorcery could breed in a sorcerer's mind. "I she asked with all the arrogance that Rajaat's sorcery could breed in a sorcerer's mind. "I know know how to destroy dragons. Kalak, Rajaat, Borys, how to destroy dragons. Kalak, Rajaat, Borys, you- you-you're all alike. You destroy my world. Athas won't be safe until every dragon's dead."

Hamanu's tangled emotions snapped free. The rage that killed with a thought vanished like a cool breeze at midday. Grief and mourning were set aside for the moment when he'd be alone-very alone. He forgot, in large part, why he'd come, and that Rajaat's promised doom hung over his city. What remained was the capriciousness, the cruelty that fully deserved the hatred the half-elf directed at him.

She was a fool, and he intended to enjoy proving it to her.

"You know very little, Sadira of Tyr, if you don't know the difference between Kalak and Borys, Borys and Rajaat, Rajaat and me."

"There is no difference. You're all the same. All evil. All life-sucking defilers," she insisted. "I know you get your magic from the Dark Lens. I know you'd enslave all Athas if no one stood against you. I know all the lies, you told me that day in Ur Draxa when Rkard bested Rajaat. You were children rebelling against your father, but the only reason you rebelled was envy. You wanted his power for yourselves. What more do I need to know?"

"You need to know that every dragon is different and that Rajaat created dragons when he created sorcery and that was long before he created champions to wage his Cleansing Wars. You need to know that if a sorcerer lives long enough to master the secrets of the Unseen netherworld, then that immortal sorcerer will change into a dragon-but not a dragon like Borys. Borys wasn't a sorcerer when he became a dragon; he was a champion. Rajaat shaped his champions out of human clay in his white tower. He bathed them in a black-water pool and stood them in a Crystal Steeple beneath the Dark Lens. The dragon is a part of a champion's nature-a large part, an inevitable part-but not the only part, or the most powerful part."

"Anything else?" Sadira asked, feigning disinterest.

She feigned disinterest because she owed her sooty armor and shadow magic to an immersion in that black-water pool and to spells cast in the Crystal Steeple. Her inner thoughts betrayed a deep concern about the powers she used so freely. The Dark Lens hadn't been in its proper place when the shadowfolk transformed her. Rajaat hadn't been there, either, but the shadowfolk were Rajaat's minions, and they'd acted on his orders. Sadira had reason to be worried.

Hamanu savored her worry.

"Borys was a champion. I was Rajaat's last champion of the Cleansing Wars. Kalak wasn't a champion-" Hamanu began.

"Tell that to his templars-"

"Sacha Arala and Wyan were were Kalak's champions-fools and traitors, too. Kalak's champions-fools and traitors, too. They They gave Tyr's templars their spells. They could have done the same for anyone-especially after t.i.thian found the Dark Lens." gave Tyr's templars their spells. They could have done the same for anyone-especially after t.i.thian found the Dark Lens."