Vergence Read Free Page A

of tiny flaming motes, each ballooning outwards, and merging together to form a rushing wall of fire across an arc to his front.
    The stones fell smoking from the air and came to a rest near his feet, glowing hot, and hissing in the snow. The darts turned to small puffs of flying ash.
    As the expanding wave of roiling flame crashed into surrounding trees and slowed, Orim cast his remaining three were-flames directly ahead, aiming at where he sensed the illusionist, the flames growing as they created erratic spark-filled smoky trails through the cold air.
    With a flash brighter than the sun, each fireball slammed into tree or earth, and exploded. Fragments of wood flew past Orim and a gigantic eruption of flaming gas rolled outwards from the impact points, shrouding the forest for scores of paces, rising in a couple of heartbeats to many times higher than the surrounding trees.
    The shock felt like a single extended convulsion running through the ground, and the illusions flickered, vanishing to reveal two flanking attackers closing fast between the burning trees.
    He recognised the tactic now. Most casters would prefer to stay at a distance, having no experience in fighting at close quarters. These men were trained to close quickly.
    With a flick of his hand, one of the stones at his feet jumped into the air, another gesture shooting it at the man closing on his left. A dull thud recorded the hit — but Orim had already moved to his right. His final opponent lunged forward with a raking thrust from his short-sword.
    The familiar weight of Orim's hidden axe settled into his right hand as he stepped forward, angling inside the attack in a single fluid motion. He swung in a short arc, leaning his weight behind the blow.
    The head of the axe caught the man just below his chin, slamming him backwards in a spray of crimson, and Orim allowed the momentum of the swing to carry him round as he dropped to one knee, facing in the other direction with his weapon poised to throw.
    Ten paces away, the man struck by his own stone lay motionless with his arms flung out, weapons lying loose in the snow.
    Both wore the distinctive black garb of Cassadian mercenary assassins, and contracts for men such as these were always costly.
    Without pausing, Orim stood and returned to where the boy lay behind the tree, face bright with fever. Ignoring the choking sounds from the dying man on the ground, he hoisted the boy onto his shoulder, and prepared to return to Fyrenar.
    So much trouble for one so small.

A Visitor

    E BRYN WAS IN HIS eighteenth year, with the trees turning to shades of rust, and the first icy winter winds blowing from the northern mountains, scattering their broad leaves, when he was summoned to an audience with Lord Conant.
    Ezo, the gardener, found him in the stables, brushing down his horse after a morning riding. He'd named the large palomino stallion Soren, in the local dialect, for its wilful temperament. The squeaking of the wheelbarrow that heralded Ezo's arrival unsettled the horse, causing it to pull away, ears folding back.
    Ezo appeared at the open stable doors, an empty wheelbarrow in front of him, and peered inside and grunted, “You’re wanted by the lord, there's a stranger f'ya”
    Clearly satisfied he'd delivered his message adequately Ezo shuffled round and started back down the path to the manor without waiting for a reply.
    Placing a calming hand on Soren's neck Ebryn eased carefully out of the stall. He rinsed his hands in the trough at the front of the stable block before splashing his face and hair.
    Watching Ezo make his way slowly down the slope towards the orchard, Ebryn considered whether he should go directly to Lord Conant's chambers, or first change from his riding clothes.
    He'd lived here for as long as he could remember, and in all that time Lord Conant had asked to see him on no more than five or six occasions. Only twice before had anybody arrived just for him.
    He cast a critical eye over his