Beneath the lead-gray skies of a late October afternoon, a lone falcon drifted on a weak thermal, watching patiently for the movement of a rabbit or mouse on the ground far below. The reds and oranges and yellows of autumn leaves had begun to fade to a dull gray-brown wash over the landscape, causing the roads and dwellings of men to stand out more prominently against the ground below. Along one of these crawled a procession of horses and the odd boxy shapes that horses sometimes pulled. The falcon, knowing that her prey would make itself even more scarce while the humans and their pets passed by, settled irritably into another circuit downward on the thermal. The humans would move on soon enough, scurrying from one bit of pointless nonsense to another. A raptor need only wait patiently for her dinner to show itself.

  Hobb the Wise, bouncing uncomfortably in the carriage as it sped along the road, was less sanguine about the prospects for his dinner.

  He rocked back and forth in the cramped box, bracing to prevent himself from being repeatedly tossed against the walls. Across from him, Boris did the same. Their papers and pens rolled and bounced between the two padded seats. The carriage had a relatively good suspension, but the horses were galloping along at a mad pace, and the country roads in central Uelland were full of ruts and holes.

  The sharp crack of gunfire rang out from behind them in a ragged staccato. A large hole appeared in the wood paneling next to Hobb’s head, and another hole on the other side of the carriage. He ducked instinctively, and, turning his head to look through the window, saw one of the red-cloaked bodyguards tumble from his mount.

  Hobb sat back in the seat, steadying himself as best he could.

  “This is unreasonable,” he observed to Boris.

  “Perhaps we should explain it to them,” suggested his secretary.

  “Agreed,” replied Hobb sarcastically. “You just hop on out, run back to those mercenaries behind us, and explain that we’re officials of the Crown, travelling on the King’s business. I’m sure they’ll see it was all just a misunderstanding.”

  If Boris had a witty rejoinder to offer, it was lost as the carriage erupted over a tremendous bump in the road, and both men were slammed against the ceiling of the compartment. Hobb landed hard, and felt a twinge in his lower spine.

  Another barrage of shots rang out from behind them, and more holes opened up in the carriage box. Another Republican Guard screamed in pain, and there was a sudden thud from the ground outside.

  “They’ve found the range again,” grunted Hobb, picking splinters of wood out of his collar. “If we don’t make it to Logwall’s camp soon, we’re going to end up looking like this carriage.”

  Hobb risked a quick peek outside the window of the carriage. An hour ago, before the ambush, it had been paned with glass, but now only sharp fragments remained. To the rear of the pitching vehicle, some dozen or so surviving members of his escort flogged their horses on. Behind them, in the gathering dusk, rode the dark shapes of their attackers. They appeared to be controlling their mounts mainly with their knees and feet, leaving their hands free to reload the accursed long guns that spat fire and death at his Republican Guard.

  There was another sharp bump, and Hobb rose into the air, head still protruding from the carriage window. He felt a splinter of glass pierce the back of his neck. Swearing in pain, he ducked back inside, quickly putting his hand on the fragment of glass. Blood began to pool in his collar, and he could feel it dripping down his back.

  “Let me help, First Minister,” said Boris, scooting across the carriage to sit next to him. With a quick yank and a burst of pain, Hobb felt him pull out the glass shard. Then Boris un-tucked his white shirt and ripped several strips off the bottom with a pocketknife. These he formed into a small wad, which he bound carefully around Hobb’s throat with several more strips.

  “Keep pressure on it, sir,” the secretary instructed. “The wound didn’t look deep, but it wouldn’t do for you to bleed to death before we reach Roosterfoot. Wouldn’t do at all.”

  Hobb braced one leg against the opposite wall of the viciously bouncing carriage, pressing both hands against the painful gash in his neck. Outside, the light was noticeably darker than when they had first been ambushed by Snugg mercenaries.

  The narrow slot at the top of the forward wall of the box opened up, and he heard the voice of the driver calling inside.

  “We can’t keep up like this at night!” the coachman shouted, his voice hoarse. “One of the men knows a route to a place we can hide out!”

  “Won’t they follow us?” shouted Hobb through the slot.

  “There’s a plan,” said the driver in a very loud stage whisper. “It’s not a good one, but it’s a plan.”

  At that moment there was a loud thump from one side of the carriage. The door on that side opened, and the captain of Hobb’s escort detachment flung himself inside.

  “First Minister!” he said, catching his breath. “There’s a branch in the road in two miles. Get in my cloak, sir, and take my hat. You’ll get on my horse, and ride with two of the remaining guards to shelter. Your man here will continue in the carriage. He looks enough like you that we can fool them for a while if they catch up.”

  Hobb eyed Boris questioningly.

  “It is not yet your time to die, I think,” said the odd secretary. Hobb’s rational mind suppressed the inevitable wash of cognitive dissonance that followed Boris around like a dark cloud. It was pure irrationality, and he’d gotten used to dismissing it.

  “How am I to get on the horse?” inquired Hobb to the Guard captain with some trepidation.

  “He’s ponied to the carriage,” said the officer, taking off his cloak and handing it to Hobb. “You’ll need to mount from the step, and then I’ll cut the lead free.”

  Hobb stared at him in disbelief. “You want me to mount a horse, tied to a moving carriage, while everyone involved is proceeding at a dead gallop?”

  The captain nodded. “Best idea we’ve got, sir. Those mercenaries are going to catch up to us when the sun sets and we can’t keep galloping the carriage horses—and that’s assuming the horses don’t give out before then.”

  Another round of shots rang out behind them.

  “Now, First Minister!” urged the Guardsman. “While they reload!”

  Hobb only thought about it for a moment. “Well,” he concluded. “All the available choices are dreadful, and yet one must be selected.” He turned to Boris. “Lead them on for a few miles after the turn-off, then signal a surrender. One hopes their orders are to take political prisoners, rather than outright assassination. If I die horribly, get word back to the King. Mr. Robe might be able to make something useful of it.”

  With that, still clutching the wound in his neck, Hobb awkwardly donned the Guardsman’s red cloak and tricorn cap, drawing the string tight under his chin. His joints were stiff and cold after nearly two weeks of riding in the jolting carriage in poor weather, and his limbs felt heavy.

  “Sixty-two years is too old to be jumping out of a moving carriage,” he muttered. Then he opened the door and carefully moved his body out onto the step at the foot of the door, closing it behind him.

  The captain’s wild-eyed bay galloped next to the carriage, his lead line roped to a small post at the front of the box. The driver reached down and pulled in on the lead, drawing the horse close. Its muscles bunched and extended in a hypnotic motion, and the ground beneath them flew by at a dreadful pace. Hobb briefly imagined what would happen if he fell, and then dismissed it as unproductive.

  He put one foot into the swaying stirrup, put one hand on the saddle horn, and then leaped with all his might.

  He teetered alarmingly, and ended up lying face down across the saddle; but it was a superior outcome to falling backward beneath the wheels of the carriage. With a fear-driven surge of strength, he righted himself on the saddle and put his other foot in the stirrup. The red cloak billowed behind him, and the string of the tricorn dug at the bandages on his neck, but he was stable in the saddle. To his side, the Guardsman leaned out of the carriage and cut off the lead line.

  Behind him, scattered bursts of gunfire rang out again, and the frightened horse leaped forward. Hobb seized the reins and drew the mount up beside the nearest Guardsman. He was no expert rider, but he could guide a trained mount.

  “Now what?” he bellowed at the top of his lungs.

  “Follow me!” shouted the rider in reply. “The turnoff is coming up!”

  In the waning light, the old farm road grew hazy and indistinct, and the fields on either side seemed to swim with lurking dangers. Distant patches of trees faded to brown and black obscurity in the dusk. They had left the broad trade road behind in a vain attempt to shake loose the pursuing mercenaries, and now were making their way through the outskirts of some minor thorp in the vast farmlands of the Great Basin. Somewhere out ahead was safety at Swallow Hall; but there was no safety to be found here.

  Ahead, the Guardsman he’d spoken to veered sharply to the left, making his way down a narrow side lane. Hobb desperately steered the horse after him, and the animal took the turn at a hard bank. Behind them, another rider veered to the left as well, while the carriage stayed on the main road, disappearing swiftly into the gathering night.

  After a few moments, Hobb risked a glance over his shoulder. He could see the dim shapes of the pursuing mercenaries, and the crackle of their gunfire lit up the road behind. But the lane was empty.

  The Guardsman ahead reined in his horse, and Hobb and the other rider pulled up beside him. The horses’ flanks were puffing like bellows, and their necks and shoulders were soaked with sweat.

  “What are your names?” inquired Hobb. In an escort of twenty soldiers, he hadn’t bothered to get acquainted with anyone but the captain. But there weren’t twenty soldiers anymore.

  “Citizen-Private Camton, sir,” said one. “And he’s Citizen-Private Iorhen. We’d best move on, First Minister, but these horses won’t last much longer at a gallop. I know of a ruin in a patch of woodland nearby where we can take shelter for the night and rest the mounts. With a little luck, we can be at the gates of Roosterfoot tomorrow.”

  “Lead on,” said Hobb gratefully. “If we make it to safety, I’ll see to it you both receive medals and promotions.”

  He thought back, for a moment, to Mr. Robe’s views on heroes—but then resolved that more pressing matters needed his attention.

  They spent a tense hour trotting along the winding little lane, listening anxiously for the sound of pursuing hooves. None came. The eaves of a forest drew close, and they passed within. It grew nearly pitch black around them, but no one dared light a lantern. Instead, Hobb followed the dim shape of Citizen-Private Camton, riding slowly ahead of him. The waxing moon rose in the sky, and the stars began to appear to light their way.

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  At last they came to an opening in the forest. A dim pile of shadow rose up ahead of them, lit to a faint gray by the starlight.

  “This is it,” said Camton, sliding off his horse wearily. “There’s a sheltered spot inside the old gate at the south end.”

  “What is it?” asked Hobb curiously. Few details of the structure were apparent to him.

  “An old church, I think,” answered Camton. “But it’s a ruin; by the look of it, no one’s used it for hundreds of years.”

  Hobb slid off the tired horse and began loosening the girth. There was a breath of wind in the forest around them, and a cloud scudded across the moon. A faint whispering tickled at his ears.

  “How did you know of this place?” demanded Hobb, suspicion sprouting in his mind like an eager mushroom after a rain.

  “We nearly bagged a group of northerners here a couple of months back,” answered Iorhen. “Two teachers and a gaggle of students from that school in Green Bridge. They took off before we could catch them, but Camton and I were stationed here for a couple days in case they returned. Had a look around. It should be safe.”

  “Teachers?” inquired Hobb, his suspicion growing. “Professors? Did you ever learn their names?”

  Camton nodded. “Our sergeant told us later it was Stoat and Rayth. Both on the Bureau’s most-wanted list. We lost out on a pretty reward when they slipped away from us.”

  Hobb looked up at the dark pile, visible only as a further blackness against the stars. He thought of The Kettle, the priest’s bound and living body plunging over the stern of his rowboat into the darkness of the river. He thought, too, of the anonymous prisoner, hanging from his cable beneath Hoel and speaking with dead lips. He heard, again, the whispers in the wind; and they were not memory.

  “Good luck that we had you along,” he remarked to Citizen-Private Camton.

  ???

  Iorhen helped Hobb to change the bandages on his neck, but their supplies were practically nonexistent. They found a shallow stream nearby and drank, and shared around a few bites of the hard rations that Camton had in his saddlebags. Then Hobb and Camton lay down on the hard stone floor at the south end of the church and tried to sleep, while Iorhen stood the first watch.

  Sleep would not come for Hobb. It was impossible to make his aching back comfortable on the hard floor, and the pain in his neck was ferocious. Instead he sat awake in the darkness miserably, listening to the faint whispers in the air around him. At last he went to find Iorhen.

  “Do you hear that?” he asked, one hand clamped still on his neck.

  “Hear what?” asked the Guardsman.

  “That… whispering.”

  Citizen-Private Iorhen shook his head. “Don’t hear a thing but the wind in the trees, sir,” he said. “Sometimes sounds like whispers, out here. No offense, First Minister, but I don’t reckon you get out of the city much.”

  Hobb shivered in the cold wind, and nodded as agreeably as he could manage. But he knew it was not the wind. He’d grown up on a farm in Half-Nut, many leagues from Uellodon, and he knew the sound of the wind in the bare branches in November. It was not this sound. He gritted his teeth, not wanting to do what came next, but feeling somehow that he must.

  “Do you have a spare lamp?” he asked Iorhen.

  Iorhen fetched one from Camton’s pack and lit it for him.

  “Can’t sleep,” Hobb said. “I’m going to have a look around the church. Maybe find a spot out of this draft.”

  Camton’s lantern threw only a feeble illumination around Hobb as he walked into the darkness of the old church. The whispers in the air teased him on. He almost fancied he could make out words, but comprehension was always just out of reach. And yet there was some compelling quality that pulled at him.

  Hobb knew that his fear of the dark and the unknown was a shabby, vestigial instinct; knew it with the overwhelming certainty of the true and unwavering rationalist. And so he set it aside.

  At the back of the church, the sanctuary floor had collapsed. It was little trouble to descend the fallen oak timbers into the basement. The whispers grew louder and drew him along through the blackness of the ancient stone passages. They were crypts, he knew, but the symbols and lettering of the old Imperial Ecclesia had been defaced and scratched over in many places.

  He carefully ducked under a blade that had sprung from the wall sometime in the past, and now hung suspended in the middle of the passage. Further along, he picked his way over a heap of stone on the floor, where a section of the passage’s ceiling had fallen in. And then he came to a doorway on his left that opened into a broad, circular room.

  There was a hole in the center of the floor, visible by his dim oil lamp. The edges were rough and broken, as if something had smashed through the stone. The walls of the chamber were decorated with dense, angular etchings that made the eye swim to look at them. His gaze found an Unbroken Circle carved on one wall amidst the maddening runes—but the circle was defaced with a faint pair of bars crossed at right angles.

  He let himself be drawn forward to the edge of the pit, and peered down.

  There was a rope into the darkness. It was secured with a spike at the top, and dangled into unknown depths at Hobb’s feet.

  , said the whispers.

  “There is a certain repetitiveness to our conversations,” said Hobb firmly into the darkness. He felt fear clawing at the edges of his mental discipline, but he banished it. “Whoever you are, you aren’t much for artful variation.”

  , whispered the voice again. And Hobb, aged sixty-two, tucked the lantern into his belt and began to slowly lower himself down the rope, into the pit.

  It was a blessedly short descent; just twenty or thirty feet. But when he reached the bottom, Hobb’s arms were aching with the effort of lowering himself in a controlled fashion. He unfastened the lantern from his belt and shone it around him. He tightened the bandage on his neck carefully.

  Hobb stood on a pile of rubble in the center of a large, open space. Above him, the rope stretched back up into the darkness toward the hole, but the ceiling was not visible. No walls could be seen either, within the lantern’s anemic range. But the low, burbling stream of whispers was strongest from one particular direction in the darkness, and so Hobb set off that way, picking carefully along the broken stone of the floor.

  After a minute of hesitant progress, he came at last to a wall. There was an opening, stretching up to at least twenty feet overhead. The opening led into a passage, only the first few feet of which were illuminated by his lantern.

  And yet, to his surprise, in the distance ahead was a tiny point of light.

  The shadows at the edges of his own lantern’s illumination began to dance and waver, and Hobb saw to his irritation that it was his own right hand shaking as it held the lantern aloft. He steadied the wrist with his left hand, and then strode confidently forward.

  , whispered the voice.

  The passage seemed endless, and the light ahead remained tiny. Hobb lost track of time as he walked, and wondered if this was to be his fate for all eternity; walking along a passage with a lamp, toward a light that never arrived. But then he came up suddenly to a heavy slab of metal that extended, floor to ceiling, across the passage, barring his way. The source of the light was a small crack on the right side of the slab, where the metal had separated from the surrounding rock.

  He put his face to the crack and peeked through. The passage beyond continued into the darkness, and the light source came from a broad opening on the left-hand side.

  As Hobb watched through the crack, something emerged from the alcove.

  It was in the shape of a man, tall and well proportioned, with a broad chest and powerful limbs. It stood perhaps six feet tall, and a mane of golden hair flowed from its head, reaching midway down the back. But where its face should have been, there was only a smooth, blank surface of glistening metal.

  There was a grinding rumble, and the slab separating him from the man with the metal face began to move.

  Hobb’s fear, which he had until now dismissed as mindless atavism, finally won the argument with reason. He backed away from the door as fast as he dared, retreating up the long passage with frequent glances over his shoulder. The crack in the wall grew wider, opening up to illuminate the entirety of the passage beyond. There, walking slowly toward him, was the man with the metal face.

  Hobb ran. He tripped, fell, picked himself up, and ran again. He came to the end of the passage, gasping for air, but kept running. He set off into the darkness of the broad domed chamber, trusting to his approximate memory of how he’d approached the passage. To his relief, there was the rope. But try as he might, Hobb’s weak arms could not pull himself up.

  Do not run, said a voice behind him; cold, dry, emotionless. It was a real voice, entirely present and impossible to ignore. He spun around, and there was the man with the metal face, directly behind him. Hobb could see the light of his lantern reflecting off the smooth, silvery surface.

  Hobb did not obey the command. Instead, he ran off blindly into the darkness of the chamber, stumbling but moving as fast as his legs would take him. He found some other passage at the edge, and ran through it, not taking in even the sparse details afforded by his puny light source.

  I must hide, he thought. It was the only thought available. I must hide, and lengthen the time before it reaches me. It was the pure instinct of a hunted animal.

  A side passage branched off, and stairs leading up. Hope surged in his breast. Perhaps they led to the surface. He dashed up the stairs, but almost immediately reached a dead end of fallen rock. Weeping in frustration, he turned. There was the tall figure of the man, illuminated at the edge of his lamplight.

  Do not run, it said.

  Turning back to the fallen stone, Hobb saw an opening below his waist. It was a passage in the rubble, just tall enough for him to enter. And so, like a hunted mouse, he fled into the hole. The lantern, flickering and bobbing, went ahead of him, and he crawled through the dust and dirt and filth, sobbing in terror and urgency.

  The passage went on and sharply upward for perhaps thirty feet. Hobb was briefly pinched in a narrow passage, knowing true and complete panic for the first time in his life. But he wriggled through, and finally emerged again into the stone stairs.

  He collapsed against one wall and sat on a stone step, gasping for air as the panic slowly receded. He felt sure the man with the metal face was too large to follow him through the narrow passage. His eyes focused slowly, and rational thought began to resume.

  On the other side of the stairwell sat a large frame pack of leather and stout wooden poles. It showed no signs of decay, and the opening at the top was neatly tied up.

  Too confused to imagine how a frame pack might have come to be here, but with just enough curiosity to wonder what might be in it, Hobb slung the pack over his thin shoulders with some difficulty and then began to climb the stair.

  He soon found himself, once again, in the old Imperial crypts, emerging from another passage beyond the round room in which had first descended. He made his way swiftly back to the fallen section of floor, ascending to the cold, open air of the ruined church. Breathing deeply in relief, he went to find the two Guardsmen.

  “Campton?” he called out softly into the darkness. “Iorhen?”

  There was no reply. Camton’s bedroll, in the shelter at the south end of the church, was empty. He walked out of the shelter into the narrow clearing around the ruin.

  “Campton?” he called out again. There was a strange smell; it reminded him of rotten eggs and rusty iron. He held the lantern higher, looking around for the two soldiers.

  His foot brushed something on the ground as he moved away from the church, and he stooped, holding the lantern over it. It was a boot, of the sort worn by the Republican Guard. Within it was the stump of a foot. The blood was fresh.

  He stood again, sighing deeply. He would not panic. Whatever terror lurked in the night around the old church—if it was going to eat him, he would face it with the dignity of his reason intact. He backed slowly toward the shelter at the mouth of the ruin.

  From somewhere in the dark forest around the church, there came the sound of something large moving, and of deep, rasping breath.

  “Do not run, Hobb the Wise, First Minister of the Kingdom of Uelland.”

  The voice came from behind him. Hobb turned, thrusting the lantern out before him. At the dim edge of its light, he saw the tall figure of the man with the metal face.

  “Who are you?” he asked. His voice was steady now, and his hand didn’t shake.

  “Don’t you know?” replied the voice. It was cool, emotionless, dry, and clear; but it was a human voice. Hobb fancied there was a faint wash of mockery to it. “This one is a Herald,” it continued. “You may think of it as a diplomat, if you wish.”

  “What nation do you represent?” asked Hobb, beginning to feel slightly reassured. “And what did you do with my men?”

  “Your servants were unnecessary to our discussions,” replied the Herald. “Our servant removed them. Our words are for you, and you only, First Minister. And you are mistaken to think this Herald represents some mere nation of men.”

  The sounds in the forest beyond grew louder, and Hobb began to see movement at the edges of the narrow clearing. Shapes emerged from the darkness under the trees; like men, but much larger. As they drew nearer, he saw that they stood between ten and twelve feet tall each. Their bodies and limbs were perfect in form, and their faces were beautiful. They wore robes of pure white, and moved with a terrible grace. Their eyes regarded him from above.

  But there was another shape as well. It snaked above even the tall giant-men, emerging from the tops of the trees like a vast serpent. At the end of the long, curling neck were jaws, and eyes, and horns. The light of Hobb’s lantern reflected from scales of deep red. The smell of sulfur and iron grew stronger, and he saw that the jaws dripped with blood. The hulk of the body blotted out the stars as it drew close, and the wings stretched out from edge to edge of the clearing, wider than the span of the church.

  “These are the least of my servants, First Minister, but they accompany this Herald in its journeys to do the will of its master.”

  Hobb turned away from the dragon, and the giant-men, to face the man with the metal face.

  “Herald, who is your master?” asked Hobb. “Who am I dealing with?”

  The Herald had no face with which to smile, but he tilted his head to one side in a gesture of faint amusement.

  “I am God,” he answered.