Book Excerpts

The Blue Flame


Chapter One

QUEEN'S-COMMANDER KELSEY CAFFERTY stood on the dark overhang, head bowed, shoulders shaking. In the valley below, flames leapt, incinerating the mounded dead. Acrid black smoke billowed upward. After a moment, she drew her shoulders back and with head held high stepped into the choking cloud.

Through burning eyes, she watched the myriad pinhead-specks of light and waited. Drawn to her glow of life, they floated toward her, surrounded her. Their touch tickled, spider silk against bare skin. She cocked her head, straining to hear the ethereal whispers. They spoke of anger, sadness, and hatred of Dirkk and his Ru'taha, but above all they whispered of fear of what lay beyond the beckoning white light. In none of the voices did she detect bitterness or hate directed toward her. No, no one blamed Kelsey Cafferty for their deaths, no one except Kelsey Cafferty. Had she been wrong to attack Dirkk's evil with an army of farmers and merchants that had more courage than experience?

Coughs wracked her body and she stumbled back out of the smoke. Shivering, she hugged herself and stared upward at the pale moon. Here in Daradawn it was known as Kayla, not Luna.

She freed the sword from the sheath on her back and saluted the glowing orb. "I honor you, my fallen! May you at last find peace."

Behind her, a branch cracked. She whirled. Gripping the sword waist-high in front of her, she searched the dark warily.

Three pale nude figures slipped from the shadows into the moon's glow. Ru'taha. Each clutched a chain mace. Midnight-black almond-shaped eyes stared at her from chiseled faces of alabaster perfection. Kelsey stood six feet tall, but these creatures dwarfed her. Towering above her, they circled first left, then right, silently. They glanced at each other, then back at her, and paced three steps forward in unison. She shadowed them, sword held steady, wondering how they moved as one without speech.

She drew in a shuddering breath. Three of the Ru'taha, and any one a match for six warriors more seasoned than herself. She smiled grimly. For once she should have listened to Angus and not slipped away from her royal guards. She was going to die. Well, so be it.

With a defiant scream she sprang forward and buried her sword up to its jeweled hilt in the chest of the nearest Ru'taha. Its knees buckled. She jerked her sword free, ducked and rolled, feeling the kiss of wind as a mace narrowly missed her cheek. She leaped to her feet and backed away.

The Ru'taha advanced, trampling over the still-thrashing body of their comrade. They swung their maces. Kelsey blocked with her sword, the shock of iron striking steel vibrating up her arm. The Ru'taha swung again and two lengths of chain whipped around her blade. With numbing fingers, Kelsey tightened her two-fisted hold on the hilt, but she knew it was useless.

The Ru'taha jerked their maces back. The sword flew from her nerveless fingers, and she screamed as white-hot fire arced through her right shoulder.

She dove to the left, rolled, and came up on one knee. Her chest heaving, her right arm dangling useless, she scrambled to her feet. With a feral grin, she beckoned them. What would they do if she kicked them in their jewels? One thing was certain; she'd make them cut her to pieces. There would be nothing left of her body to be formed into one of them. No soldier could look into the eyes of a Ru'taha and not wonder if what had once been a friend looked back.

"Come on. Fight, you refugees from hell!"

The Ru'taha lurched forward.

"Nak'iha auk Ras'pota." The words, more growl than yell, grated in the night air. Kelsey jerked her head to the right. An axe-wielding blur charged from the darkness. With the axe's first pass, a Ru'taha's pale head sailed, the neck-stump spouting blood before the knees hit the ground.

"Girl, drop."

Kelsey did, feeling the deadly breeze as the battle axe swept within inches of her head. She rolled, screaming as her arm struck the ground. Teeth clenched, she levered herself to a sitting position with her left arm. The Ru'taha, its guts trailing like rope sausages, towered above her. It raised its mace.

Kelsey caught another movement out of the corner of her eye as the Ru'taha's arm was separated from its shoulder. The monster swayed, stumbled backward, then toppled toward her. She dug in her heels and crab-walked to the right. The Ru'taha landed with its head at her right hip. Against her will, her eyes sought its face, seeking but fearing recognition.

"Is it your arm again?" Angus Bladeheart asked, unspoken reprimand sharpening his voice.

Flat on her butt, her eyes were on the same level as the dwarf's. His gleamed, like a newly minted shekel, with disapproving rage.

She refused to look away; she was his commander now, not his student. "Thank you, friend."

He ripped a length of cloth from his tunic and silently bound her arm to her side. Then he moved to her left and waited. Bracing herself for the wash of pain, Kelsey placed her left hand on his shoulder and pushed upward. She gasped, her vision graying at the edges.

"Lean on me. We will go to Helena."

Kelsey breathed deep. "Peter is to meet us here. A few more minutes will make no difference."

Angus swore beneath his breath. He wiped the blood from her sword with the tail of his tunic, then presented it to her hilt-first. She took it from him and he spun on his heels and strode to the butte's edge.

Staring at his rigid back, Kelsey pulled her dented helm from her head. Honey- blonde hair cascaded to graze the top of knee-high, scuffed leather boots. The wind grabbed her hair, whipping it into her eyes. With a soft curse, she pulled the curls together and stuffed them beneath the neckline of her chain mail vest.

"I have decided that you will go for Regan tonight instead of in the morning," she told the dwarf.

Silence stretched and her lips tightened.

"If agreeable to Peter, I will go," Angus said at last.

"No. You will go, no matter what Peter decides."

The dwarf whipped around to face her. She met his gaze, unflinching.

"I obey, Queen's-Commander."

He made the title sound like an insult, and Kelsey felt hot blood flood her cheeks. The dwarf saluted, bowed from the waist mockingly, then presented his back to her.

"Angus."

The jangle of harness stopped her angry words. Peter Canterville, High Mage to Queen Tessa, rode into the clearing astride his white stallion Skylar.

The mage looked from Kelsey's face to the dead Ru'taha, then back again. His left eyebrow rose in question. She started to shrug, but knifing pain rushing through her shoulder changed her mind. Peter sighed, shaking his head as he slid from Skylar's back. They stepped over the dead Ru'taha and walked to stand beside Angus.

Peter on her right, Angus on her left. How many times had they stood shoulder to shoulder and counted burning mounds? Kelsey closed her eyes as smoke and embers drifted toward the stars. "So many dead, Peter, so many."

"Yes, many. But perhaps all of Daradawn, if not for you."

She opened her eyes and faced him. Her gaze shifted to his left cheek. She saw it clearly in the moonlight - the one-inch blue flame. The mark the Power seared into the skin of its chosen at birth. "But with Regan it would've been less," she murmured. "So what's your decision?"

He avoided her eyes. "Dirkk will send more Ru'taha and Black Vipers against us at daybreak. You will need every man."

Kelsey motioned across the valley with her good arm. "Look what today's victory cost! More than ever we'll need..." Her voice cracked and she swallowed before continuing. "Your power isn't enough, but combined with Regan's..."

"If she will not come? What then? You have been missing for seven years. You must know your sister thinks you are dead."

Kelsey winced, imagining the pain Regan had been living with all that time. If she'd been able to prevent it, she would have.

She reached beneath her chain mail, jerking a milk-white pendant free and pulling it over her head. Her hand clutched the stone for a moment before she handed the pendant to Peter. "Show her this. She'll come."

"And Jack? From what you said, he has no love for you and will attempt to stop her."

Kelsey stared out over the valley, a bitter smile curving her lips. "I didn't even stick around for their wedding. If I'd turned down that photo assignment..."

"We would still be bottled up behind the walls of Raya starving to death," Peter finished.

Kelsey's gaze returned to the pendant. It had not left her neck since her mother had given it to her. She felt naked, vulnerable, without its comforting presence. "Regan will know it's from me."

Peter shook his head. "Too many Ru'taha still prowl. Tomorrow is soon enough."

Kelsey drew herself up to her full height and stepped away from Peter. She had feared it would come to this. "No. For seven years I've been trapped here, waiting for the rift to re-open. At sunrise, Angus will be at the Mountain of the Devil to go through. If not with you then with someone else."

A muscle jumped in Peter's jaw.

She held out her hand. "If you're not going, then give me the map I drew to Regan's house. I'll give it to Angus."

He stared at her outstretched hand. "No one knows the area as I do." He turned his back on her. "I will go."

Kelsey touched Peter's arm. "Bring my sister to me. We need her."

"Why do you not go through the rift yourself?" Peter demanded. "Our world is not yours."

Kelsey stiffened. "I promised Queen Tessa. A Cafferty does not go back on her word." And how could she ever leave Rourk? she added to herself. She turned away from Peter, afraid to say more.

Angus still stood with his back toward them. He held his battle axe before him, his gaze sweeping the area.

"Angus," she said. He turned toward her. "Guard the rift well, friend."

The dwarf nodded. "You will seek Helena now, then your tent and find rest."

"Helena, yes, but rest? What's rest?" Kelsey picked up her helm. She stared at Peter for a moment, turned to walk away, hesitated. "Peter, does Rourk live?"

"I left him only moments ago with the horses."

She forced a smile. "See, I have Rourk. All will be fine until you and Regan return. Now go."

For a long moment, Peter stared down into Kelsey's eyes, then he reached out and pulled her close. His shirt smelled of sweat and smoke. The coarse weave chafed her forehead. "Take care, my friend," he whispered into her hair.

She rested against his chest for a moment, then pushed away.

To their right the brush shook and Angus jumped forward. Three soldiers burst into the clearing. Seeing the dead Ru'taha and Angus' glowering face, they skidded to a halt.

The tallest stepped forward. "Forgive me, Lord Angus," he said. "She gave us the slip again." The man cast a quick accusing glance at Kelsey.

Angus glared, then marched silently through the middle of them. The man paled.

"It was my fault, Richard," Kelsey said. "It's me Angus is angry with, not you."

"As you say you, Queen's-Commander," Richard replied, "but stick to you like honey we three do from this moment on."

And after tonight I just might let you. She turned to Peter. "Safe journey."

Kelsey watched as he swung up onto Skylar's back, then followed Angus into the dark. She waited until she could see him no more, then looked east toward the Mountain of the Devil.

"Regan, listen to Peter with your heart, not your mind," she whispered. "Come to me."
 


The Emerald Dagger

Prologue

A MAN STEPPED from the concealing shadows of the forest and into the moon-dappled clearing. Wiping his palms against the sides of his robe, he took a deep breath and whistled three short notes. A snort of laughter sounded from the mouth of the cave across the glade.

"Such nonsense is not needed. If I had not wanted you here, you would already be dead."

Dirkk, ex-Baron of Cornith, sauntered from the dark entrance. A black half-mask covered his face, and he wore a body-hugging jerkin of a burgundy so deep it seemed to absorb the light around him. Hose of the same hue covered his legs, and a fur-lined cloak hung in a straight line from his shoulders to brush the toes of leather boots polished to a high sheen. A chain of gold links encircled his neck and trailed down across his chest to disappear inside the folds of the cloak.

Dirkk's cold green eyes flicked over the waddling figure. A brown robe stretched tight over the man's bulging middle, and his pallid skin glowed ghostly white in the wan light of the moon. He wheezed as he approached Dirkk.

"How goes it, Thomas? Or should I say Healer Kerry Daemon?" Dirkk said.

Gray eyes, the only thing recognizable from the Thomas Dirkk had known from before, hardened to granite. "Don't call me such," he snarled.

At his tone, two pale silver shapes leapt from the shadows. They were huge, the size of small ponies. The origins of the shaggy beasts were seen in the shape of their heads and pointed ears, but those features were all that remained of the forest wolves they'd been. Black lips drew back from their four-inch fangs and a deep growl rumbled from their throats as they circled Thomas. He froze in place and grew paler still.

"You fear my fenris-ena?"

Thomas gulped and nodded, his earlier anger disappearing as fear took over.

Dirkk laughed. "As you should. With but one flick of my finger they would shred you and then feed on your flesh."

"Aye, Master," Thomas choked out.

Dirkk looked beyond Thomas. "You come empty-handed?"

"They wait behind me with Talix."

"Talix?" Dirkk's eyes glittered in the white light. "What is the dear fairie prince doing here so soon after his last visit? Does he strive to lead his father to us?"

"He has news."

"Bring them forward," Dirkk said curtly, then turned and walked back into the cave. He snapped his fingers and the fenris-ena leapt to follow.

Thomas moved back into the towering trees. "Come," he ordered.

Ten small, naked figures, eight females and two males, flew into the clearing. Nine fairies stared straight ahead out of dull, vacant eyes. The tenth fairie, eyes glittering with menace, flew to hover before Thomas.

"Talix," Thomas said flatly.

"Where is Dirkk?" Talix demanded.

"Inside."

Talix darted toward the cave's opening. Thomas smiled, saying nothing. Snarls filled the air, followed by a high-pitched squeal. Then the fairie prince erupted from the cave and streaked back to Thomas.

"Why did you not tell me?" he screamed, his face contorted with rage.

"You did not ask," Thomas said smugly.

"I will...I will..."

Thomas leaned toward Talix and smiled again, his lips curling with malice. "You will what?"

"Enough." The cold word sent both Thomas and Talix spinning to face the cave. Dirkk's gaze swept over the nine fairies. "This is all you have brought?"

Talix flew to hover before Dirkk's eyes. "This is all I could chance," he whined. "Father is growing suspicious. He has gone to Daradawn to demand help from the queen."

"Tessa," Dirkk said, his voice soft, but his hands curled into fists at his sides. "And?"

"I don't know. He hadn't returned before..."

"You came without finding out what the harlot queen intends?"

The fairie darted back behind Thomas. "What can they do? No one knows where you are."

"Have you forgotten Regan and her insipid mate Peter?" Dirkk said.

Talix hesitated, then drew closer to Dirkk. "They can do nothing against your glorious power, Master."

Dirkk dismissed the flattery, staring into the trees beyond the fairie prince.

"The rift is open," Thomas said.

Dirkk turned his attention back to the fat man. "Has Kelsey come?"

Thomas shrugged. "Patrick has not yet returned. I do not know."

"Rourk's whelp remains beneath your thumb?"

"Completely," Thomas said, standing taller.

Talix fluttered between them. "We do not need the human. I..."

"...have brought not nearly enough fairies," Dirkk said. Talix cringed and darted again to hover behind Thomas. Dirkk walked to the group of silent fairies. "How long before they will be missed?"

"They are from a deep woods clan. I took them all. It will be a while before any alarm is sounded."

Dirkk turned on his heels. "Bring them." As if in response to his command and the evil to come, clouds covered the moon and plunged the glade into blackness.

 

 

 




The Silver Angel

Prologue

THE MOON, SWOLLEN and bone white, striped the twin burial mounds with broad bands of gray.

"It is enough. Hurry before someone comes." The hoarse words came from the writhing shadow floating at Patrick's shoulder.

Patrick dropped the spade and moved the oil lantern closer. Yes, there looked to be enough room. He slipped into the opening.

Wedged between the wall of dirt and the simple hammered-metal casket, he pried at its lid with an iron bar. It gave way with the shriek of nails ripping free, and his breath caught in his throat as he scanned the darkness overhead. But no alarm came. Of course not, he thought with a harsh exhale, no one cared about the man who lay swathed inside. It was enough he was dead.

The cloying scents of lavender and sage flooded his nose as he pushed the casket's top aside and looked down. The form was intact. The shroud covering it was stain-free, whole, and a startling white.

"It is good. It has been a long wait."

Patrick glanced at the demon beside him. "All is prepared." Taking a deep breath, he reached in and lifted the body, then shoved it up toward the opening. Struggling, he got his feet on the edge of the casket and, using his legs for leverage, he used his shoulders and arms to propel the corpse onto the ground above. Panting, he placed his palms on the ground and lifted himself out of the hole. The demon hovered anxiously.

Outside the grave, Patrick glanced up as clouds scudded across the face of the moon and blanketed the small square of land once again in darkness.

He hoisted the body over his shoulder and carried it to the waiting cart. The mare sidestepped and snorted as he laid it inside. "Easy."

The demon remained well back from the restive horse. "I will await you at the cottage." The darkness rippled and Patrick was alone.

It took only a few hurried moments to replace the dirt of the grave and pat it down. He spared a minute to stand by the other unmarked mound and bid its inhabitant a sad, but final farewell.

* * *


ONLY THE SHUFFLE of the horse and the creaking of the cart's wheels broke the silence of the still night.

Patrick spied the stunted tree and turned the cart from the path. Glancing back, he strengthened the shielding ward.

Dirkk would be surprised at how strong the magic was within him now and how easy it had been to summon the demon who'd led him to the hidden scrolls and tomes.

In stolen hours he'd pored over them, learning and obeying the words, gaining the knowledge to obtain the power he craved. And, with the finding of the blood scroll, he'd even gone beyond what his old master had dared.

Patrick halted the horse and cart before a small woodcutter's cottage. Closing his eyes, he mentally traveled the circle of the red ward. Satisfied, he jumped from the cart. The door opened at his silent command. He carried the shrouded body inside, past the simple cottage's large square table and by the hearth taking up the entire space of one daub-and-wattle wall.

At a glance from Patrick, flames sprang to life inside the fireplace and fed upon the mounded wood. He skirted a black cooking pot, tipped on its side, a shroud of spider webs its only content. His hip bumped a haphazard stack of crates by the hearth, and his breath caught as a pile of scrolls and books inside trembled, then released when they did not fall. The books were old and fragile, their covers cracked and pitted. Ancient runes, parts of them faded into pale shadows, titled them.

He carried the body to a cot against a far wall and with care placed it down. Too impatient to free the sheathed blade strapped to his side, he ripped the cloth away with his hands. Dirkk's pale face shone in the dimness. They'd removed the black leather mask before burial and, for the first time, he looked upon his master's scarred flesh. His heart raced and his hands trembled as he ran his fingertip across a gray ridge of puckered skin. They would pay for this. All of them.

A cold wind gusted inside the cottage, raising chill bumps upon his arms. He turned and watched the air ripple. A loud crack sounded and the dank odor of rotting kelp and wet earth filled his nose. A writhing shape formed before him.

The demon's grating words filled his mind. "It is time."

Patrick nodded and moved toward the door. As he passed the table, he picked up a lantern.

Around the side of the cottage, a hunched form lay staring upward, unseeing, into the darkness. The man wore tattered clothing, and a fetid stench of sweat and filth filled Patrick's nose, causing him to grimace.

The man turned sunken eyes upon him. Then, as they went beyond Patrick's shoulder, he screamed, and the stinging smell of urine filled the air. Patrick did not have to turn to know the demon floated behind him. The man's form shook uncontrollably. Patrick murmured a few soft words, and the man jerked and scrambled onto his knees.

An earthenware bowl sat next to the man. He fumbled for it and held it up to Patrick, who took it. With a raspy sob, the man dropped his hand, tilted his head back, and bared his throat. The demon flowed to hover above them.

"No," Patrick said. "You waste too much blood."

"I hunger."

"Afterward."

Patrick slipped his knife free and sliced it across the man's throat. His eyes glittered as he watched the blood flow. When it reached the rim, he pulled the bowl away. The blood pooled and steamed upon the cold ground as the demon howled in protest. Its black liquid form spread across the widening pool, and a sound, like that of a thirsty dog lapping water, filled Patrick's ears.

Sheathing his blade, Patrick grabbed the dead man by the heels and dragged him toward the back of the cottage. He heard a flurry of scrabbling feet and a chorus of angry growls. From the darkness, yellow eyes stared at him. He dropped the man next to a pile of bones, some gnawed clean, some still with dried, withered meat clinging to them. He turned back toward the cottage, the sound of snarling filling his ears before he'd taken ten paces.

* * *



PATRICK PLACED THE bowl on the table before the opened blood scroll. The fire flared high in the hearth now and warmth filled the cottage. He unbuckled his knife belt, pulled the blade free, and rested it beside the bowl. In slow, precise order, he removed his clothing. His softly voiced chant changed in rhythm as each article fell to the floor.

Naked, he dipped his fingers into the still warm blood and marked his face, hands and chest with runes, symbols whose meanings were last whispered into the ears of those of the ancient sect of dark mages known as the Cocidius. Stilling himself, he picked up the knife and sliced across the end of his thumb. He tipped his hand and let his blood drip to mingle with that in the bowl. He counted the drops as they fell. When they reached seventeen, one for each eye of the demon goddess, Ea'Donia, he pressed his index finger and thumb together. He changed the cadence of the chant, his voice rising to a shout. When he stopped and held his thumb before him, the cut was no more.

With the blade of the knife, he blended the bloods inside the bowl, then reached and pulled the scroll toward him with his trembling right hand. A shadow fell across the table, and he glanced up as the demon moved close. A dark stain coated the fangs at each corner of the demon's mouth. Patrick hiked his shoulders in warning and the dark shape drew back.

The writings on the thin, brown-edged, parchment were more sounds than words. As the first fell from his lips, Patrick found himself cringing at the power ringing within them. His body hair rose and a fierce need to scratch crawled across his skin, but he did not take his gaze from the bowl as he spoke. As he uttered the last word, he leaned closer still. All remained unchanged. This was not right.

The demon moved close again. "What have you done wrong?"

Ignoring the question, Patrick dipped his finger into the blood, but before he could etch the runes again onto his naked body, they began to burn as if he was being branded. Scarlet smoke rose from each mark and drifted upward. Grunting, the demon rose and writhed among the red haze.

Gritting his teeth, Patrick picked up the bowl with shaking hands and moved to Dirkk's body. With a piece of sun-bleached wool, he painted his right palm with blood and then placed it against Dirkk's stilled heart. He refused to think of the heart as dead, pictured it instead just resting between beats. He drew his hand away, leaving behind a bloody print. He dipped a finger into the bowl, touched each eyelid and then traced the contours of the pale lips.

Closing his eyes, he sought to calm the quaking within him. He opened them and cut the remaining stitches holding the shroud together. Trembling, he drew the same runes on the pale naked form. Taking a deep breath, Patrick chanted the final words of the spell. The whispered sounds rose in volume as they floated toward the beams of the cottage's ceiling. The air above Dirkk began to shimmer, like rising heat from the King's Road in the middle of a scorching summer.

Patrick stared at the bloody print on Dirkk's chest, willing it to rise and fall. Chills formed on his naked body as he waited. Did he need to start over? It would take some time to begin again. He would need fresh blood. A grating groan filled his mind. At the same instant, the demon shrieked. Patrick jerked, and the bowl fell from his hands. He watched in angry silence as the blood spread across the stones and seeped into the daub cracks. He spun to find the demon, to shriek his own anger, but the room was empty.

"Well, pup, what have you done?" a voice demanded inside his head.

He jerked back toward the bed. "Master?" he stammered.

The answer was long in coming, as if Dirkk was taking in his surroundings, but that was not possible, for the eyes of the corpse remained closed.

"You have used the blood scroll."

"I sought to return you to life."

"A noble undertaking," Dirkk said. "Then you have found its twin?"

"What?"

"Did you not wonder, pup, why I had never used the blood scroll?"

The whispered words made Patrick cringe. "You feared the demon." He looked behind him again. "Where is the demon?"

A mocking laugh echoed in his mind. "No, pup, I did not fear the demon. I did not have the scroll's twin."

"Twin?" Patrick repeated dully.

Dirkk sighed. "You have but brought me halfway back."

An overwhelming thirst struck Patrick and without thought he stumbled from the cottage to the well outside. In frenzied movement, he dropped the bucket and cranked it back up. He cupped his palm and gulped the frigid water.

"Get inside, pup. We don't want to fall ill."

Only then did Patrick realize his body shook with cold.

Dirkk's words rang in his ears as he stumbled toward the cottage door. 'We don't want to fall ill.'

Shivering, he tossed more wood on the fire, throwing quick glances at Dirkk's still, prone body.

"I do not look bad for seven years in the grave," Dirkk said. "Replace my mask, pup."

"How?"

"You did keep it, did you not?"

"I have it." Patrick rubbed his forearms. "But how is it that you are in my head?"

"You have but the one blood scroll," Dirkk said, as if the answer was obvious. "You must have the other to bring my body back."

"You will remain inside my head?"

"Until I have my body, pup."

Patrick swallowed. "Can you control me?"

Dirkk laughed. "Only if you wish me to."

"Why would...?"

"Just think what I can provide you."

"You retain your knowledge?"

"I retain all. Everything I remember. Tessa, the harlot queen. Regan who betrayed me and stole the emerald dagger. Tell me, where are my fenris'ena...my fire wolves?"

Patrick hesitated. "I'm not sure. The queen had them moved to a secret valley."

"We must find them."

"Why? Regan has the emerald dagger. She now controls them."

"I will have it back. I will have it all back," Dirkk said. "But first my body must be restored. You must obtain the twin blood scroll for me."

"Where do...?"

"In the palace of the elven king, Timothias."

"How am I to get into the palace of the elves?" Patrick demanded.

"I will see to it, but first I must give to you your name of power."

"My name?"

"All apprentices must be given a power name. I've known yours from these many years. I had planned..." The words trailed away. "But enough. I give it to you now. You are - Gearoid - my brave spear. It must be known only to master and apprentice, and is now how the dark gods will know you. They will not respond to Patrick Bannion but, if supplicated right, all power will be offered to Gearoid."

"Gearoid," Patrick repeated.

"You shiver. Clothe our body. We must not catch a chill. And then feed us. I crave a thick slice of rare beef and roasted tubers."

Patrick had always preferred his beef well done, but now found his mouth watering at the thought of a slab of the meat still glistening with red. "Yes, master. It will be as you command."