nothing compared to this.
And he knew precisely what it was, for he had felt this before.
Qeteb.
DragonStar felt both terror and perfect stillness at the same time. Terror, because that was what Qeteb dealt in and what his entire fabric of being was, and again terror because DragonStar knew that currently he was no match for Qeteb — not for a one on one confrontation. He needed further thought, a knowledge of Katie’s Enchanted Song Book, and far more experience before he could possibly confront Qeteb.
Qeteb was too malevolent for him right now.
And DragonStar felt a perfect stillness because he was almost relieved to at least know that the Demons could use Spiredore. He could not be trapped now that he knew.
Unless they trapped him right now.
DragonStar knew he should transfer immediately into Sanctuary, but he edged closer to the balustrade of his balcony and peered over.
Far below him a mass of black wound its way upward. As he watched, the leading figure stopped, and raised up his black metalled head.
StarSon!
DragonStar felt the power of a frightful malevolence (hate, envy, despair, pestilence) surge towards him.
“Spiredore,” he snapped, without any thought, “take that power and vent it elsewhere!”
And far to the north a group of icebergs exploded as Spiredore redirected the power.
Clever, StarSon, Qeteb whispered towards him. But how pitiful that you needed Spiredore to deal with that for you. Are you so weak?
DragonStar backed away from the balcony.
Are you so weak, StarSon?
He backed against a wall, and listened to the taunts flow upwards.
Are you weak that you need others to protect you, StarSon? DragonStar drew his sword —
Pitiful little StarSon. A chorus of laughter and howls echoed up the stairwell. Pitiful little StarSon.
— and drew the doorway of light, hating the relief that flowed through his body as he stepped through.
DragonStar stopped by the blue-feathered arrow that he’d earlier stuck in the edge of the chasm, letting his shoulders slump in relief — and a feeling that he thought might be self-disgust. Had he been afraid?
He sheathed his sword, then flexed his hand, trying to work out some of his tension.
He needed to get back into Sanctuary, think about —
“StarSon! How nice to see you again so soon!” A mocking laugh followed the words.
DragonStar whipped about and stared across the chasm. Six black beasts, gruesome in their constantly shifting, fluid forms, stood on the other side. Behind them stretched one of Spiredore’s blue-misted tunnels.
On the backs of the beasts were the Demons, as well the woman that DragonStar supposed was Niah reborn.
Qeteb — it could be no-one else — had edged his beast slightly forward. He was a vile creature, black metal armour encasing his entire form, and even plating his wings.
He was massive, at least half as tall again as the tallest man, and with a thickness of figure to match.
“Why not step across, Qeteb?” DragonStar called. “I am here. Reach me if you can.”
Qeteb’s laughter floated across the chasm. “You know as well as I that I cannot broach the enchantments that protect this — what do you call it? — ah yes, this Sanctuary.”
DragonStar allowed a wave of relief to wash over him.
“But do not rejoice too soon,” Qeteb continued, “for I surely see that all I need is a key, and I have all the time in creation in which to find it. Wait for me, DragonStar, and I will join you.”
Again he laughed, a sound of genuine amusement rather than forced maliciousness, and DragonStar tore his gaze away from the hypnotic figure of Qeteb and looked at Niah.
Again he had the strongest feeling that there was something so infinitely dangerous about her that, of all those in the group across the chasm, including Qeteb, she would prove the most formidable foe.
But then one of the black beasts shifted and snorted, and the spell was broken. DragonStar gave Qeteb one last stare, then turned his back and walked as slowly and as nonchalantly as he could into Sanctuary.
“Well?” said Sheol.
“He is still weak,” Qeteb said, “and we must not give him the time to grow more powerful.”
“How?” said Barzula.
Qeteb let his eyes roam over the enchantments that protected Sanctuary.
“They have been made, and they can be unmade,” he said. “And all I need do is find the key.”
Neither the Demons nor DragonStar realised that there was another observer.
Isfrael, hidden within a small stand of trees just before the entrance to Sanctuary. His eyesight and hearing were as keen as those of all Avar, and he’d witnessed and heard the entire exchange.
He stood and watched thoughtfully as the Demons swung their black mounts about and returned into Spiredore.
They were evil, Isfrael knew, and he loathed them before anything else in his life, but Isfrael had a burning ambition and that was to regain his rightful place at the head of the Avar.
The Demons were vile, worse than vile, but maybe they could be used.
They could help him into what Isfrael coveted more than anything else: the Sacred Groves. In the Sacred Groves Isfrael could regain his standing. Faraday would be nothing if Isfrael controlled the Sacred Groves.
The Avar would come back to him then.
But if he wanted the Demons to aid him, then Isfrael would need something. Information, perhaps, to exchange. And information good enough to enable Isfrael to navigate safely the hazards of demonic negotiations.
What? What would the Demons want?
Souls. They wanted souls. It is what gave them power.
So what might deliver more souls into the hands of the Demons? Isfrael grinned to himself. Sanctuary would. The Demons needed the key to Sanctuary.
Now all he needed to do was find it himself.
Isfrael turned and walked into Sanctuary, turning thoughts over and over in his mind. The Demons could be used — but it would be more than dangerous. And was he ready to risk everyone in Sanctuary?
Yes! Yes! But only if he could manage to get the Avar out before the Demons gobbled up everyone else within this pastel prison.
Isfrael’s steps slowed as he contemplated the Avar safe forever within the Sacred Groves: no axes, no damned Icarii arrogance, and no Faraday to destroy his power.
StarLaughter was far too insane to be intimidated by Qeteb’s threat.
She stood as Qeteb stepped into the tower, the door closing behind him, and then she slowly turned and stared across the bleak wasteland to the east.
A cold and heartless, soulless, loveless desert. A frigid wind blew dust balls red with sparks and flames over the crazily-cracked surface of the ground. No vegetation survived, save for the occasional malodorous and cancerous versions of small shrubs and isolated grain stalks: weeping, fleshy lumps grew down their stalks and stems. Creatures — of both animal and humanoid origins — crept about its surface, whispering and