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shall found—and pay well!—work gangs, to direct slaves in the rebuilding of every shattered street and building in our city, shaping larger, brighter dwellings for all! Talonar who desire to found their own new businesses shall find me generous in sponsoring them and ordering affairs in our city so they can flourish, for—”
    Gasps and startled cries among the Talonar below warned Jalandral Evendoom then, even before the crones standing with him did.
    Those two Nifl-shes flung off their robes to reveal black leather garb hung about with battle-scepters that could blast more of Talonnorn, to make those work gangs ever more needful. Snatching those blasting wands into their hands, they hissed words that awakened the scepters to almost blindingly glowing power.
    Nifl murmured in alarm and sought to draw back from aroundthe podium, recognizing that they might imminently face the full-risen might of Nifl magic, the wildest fury that consumed its source, and so was unleashed only in dire moments, when all must be sacrificed.
    Yet the crones weren’t looking down at the crowd.
    They were gazing high across the cavern, at the swift-approaching menace—a flying force that some in the crowd had seen bursting out of the spell-glow of a great translocation that had snatched it from afar.
    The Hunt of Talonnorn! Whipswords and longlances gleaming, their spell-armor glowing like gems of all hues caught by firelight, the surviving Nifl of the flying Hunt of Talonnorn swept across the cavern on their long-necked, many-clawed darkwings.
    Like fell dark arrows they came racing, right at the high podium. The crones standing with the Lord of House Evendoom hurled bright blasting-spells at them in swiftly hissing frenzy, but Jalandral Evendoom merely glanced at the Hunt once, smiled, and turned again to the Talonar crowded into his forecourt below him.
    â€œCitizens, have no fear! I will stand for Talonnorn against even this treachery!
I will save Talonnorn, and I will rule Talonnorn!
”
    The foremost darkwings loomed up over the podium, jaws parting eagerly—before a bright burst of fiery magic tore it apart.
    Writhing black scaled fragments hurtled wetly in all directions, spattering those on the podium and the pushing, shoving-to-flee Nifl below. With them tumbled all that was left of its rider: a severed hand clutching a whipsword crawling with dying lightnings.
    â€œPeople of Talonnorn, I am your Lord!” Jalandral Evendoom bellowed, his spell-augmented voice like the deep roar of the fabled Ghodal Below.
    â€œI shall prevail!”
    And he smiled a broad and crooked smile as the air behind him flared with a new spell-glow, so bright and terrible that it made even the great Eventowers seem no more than a few black, vainly reaching fingers.
    â€œTears of Olone!” Clazlathor whispered. “
Now
what?”

3
A Vow of Vengeance
    Will you stand waiting
When the nightskins come up?
Is your sword sharp enough
Dark blood to sup?
Will you be ready
To fight and to die?
Or hide, run, or cower
And when dawn comes, to cry?
    â€”
Orlkettle firesong
    S omething moved in the night, a darker shape amid the deep shadows—a shape as softly supple as any serpent.
    Grammoth’s eyes narrowed. Was it just Kellurt creeping over to tap on Naraya’s back door again? Or heading down to the back fences, to seek the shuttered window of the widow Tayevur right down the far end of Orlkettle?
    What any woman saw in the sour-faced jeweler was beyond Grammoth. Aye, Kellurt the Grand took them food and left them coins, but still . . .
    The shadow advanced with sudden purpose, and Grammothsmelled a faint whiff of something that prickled in his nose, something he’d never smelt before.
    Something . . .
other.
    The swiftest lad in all Orlkettle rolled away, as far and as fast as he could, coming to his feet with a shout. He flung the little bell he’d been holding the clapper of as hard as he