IHE STONE OF TIME This book is an Ace original edition, and has never been previously published. RUNESWORD: THE STONE OF TIME An Ace Book / published by arrangement with Bill Fawcett and Associates HUNTING HISTORY Ace edition / March 1992 All rights reserved. Copyright © 1992 by Bill Fawcett and Associates. Cover art by Larry Elmore. This book may not be reproduced in whole or in part, by mimeograph or any other means, without permission. For information address: The Berkley Publishing Group, 200 Madison Avenue, New York, New York 10016. ISBN: 0-441-73699-8 Ace Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group, 200 Madison Avenue, New York, New York 10016. The name "Ace" and the "A" logo are trademarks belonging to Charter Communications, Inc. PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERJCA 10 987654321 CHAPTER 1 Revenge The ominous cloud swirled heavily about the dark shapes that moved silently forward in the night. A cold autumn wind blew torrents of rain into their faces, and icy water trickled down through the gaps in their ragged cloaks. It froze into slush on their shoulders ... but they did not complain. A flash of lightning briefly illuminated the scene and revealed hundreds of axe blades and spears pointing upward, and beneath the cloaks, thousands of cruel red glowing eyes. The Mistwall was on the move again, and these creatures of the darkness felt not the cold, for they were filled once more with the fire of victory. An enormous war horse plodded among the figures, and its rider loomed above the others in the freezing blackness. Schlein was happy. More than merely happy. He was ecstatic. His thin blood coursed rapidly through his veins, his body quivering with the anticipation of a child awaiting a present He could feel a song of victory building at the back of his throat Death and destruction stretched in all directions as far as the eye could see. Even in the cold and rain, blood saturated the ground and the anguished cries of 2 ROSE ESTES AND TOM WHAM the dying rang in his ears like the crystal notes of some glorious song. Torrents of black rain pelted the miserable defenders of the village of Cairngorm—those few who were unfortunate enough to still be alive—and a layer of freezing sleet coated the forms of the dead who would never rise again, their swords still clenched in their lifeless hands, cold steel trampled into the bloody frozen mud. The battle was in its final stages and none of Cairngorm would survive. In the distance could be heard sporadic sounds of battle where Schlein's minions, those hideous battalions of ores, goblins, and other unspeakable creatures were eradicating the last bits of human resistance. Around them all came the Mistwall, a sinuous curtain of writhing vapor that swallowed forever, whatever and whomever it encompassed. The village, and also Castle Cairngorm, had been valiantly defended by its loyal citizens, but, thanks to the workings of Schlein, their magic protection was gone... and the defense was now hopeless. Soon, all would be enveloped by the Mistwall. Schlein rose in his stirrups. There was another flash of lightning and the huge magician was startled to see a small group of mounted knights, charging down upon him from a nearby hill in what seemed like slow motion. Schlein reached under his frost-covered fur cloak, pulled out a compact ebony wand, and pointed it in the direction of the impending attack. "It's almost too easy," murmured the magician to himself with a smile. The sound of thundering hooves was now clearly audible above the din of battle and the noise of the storm. Schlein uttered a rhyming incantation, just as another flash revealed the knights almost upon him. A small ball of fire flew off the tip of the wand and grew into a massive roaring flame which enveloped the unfortunate horsemen before they could strike. When the smoke and fire had cleared, the few dazed survivors vanished under a solid wave of axe-wielding goblins. THE STONE OF TIME 3 The Second Battle of Cairngorm was over and done. The miserable village and those who had died defending it were now but a memory, swelling the Mistwall to slightly greater proportions and extending its black border of death. Schlein nodded to himself and stroked his blond beard, which had grown in nicely following his fiery encounter with the sorceress Elizebith of Morea. Were it not for her and her meddling cohorts, this worthless village would have been his long ago. Now its conquest gave him a satisfaction all out of proportion to its real importance in the grand scheme of things. His thoughts returned to Elizebith. Schlein had managed to imprison the girl for a short time, in an effort to wed and bed her... a deed which would have greatly increased his own power while diminishing hers. Unfortunately, things had not worked out the way he had planned and Elizebith had managed to escape, along with the elf Endril. The two had been aided in their effort by their companions—Hathor the troll and the boy warrior Caltus Talienson. Schlein marked these names well; they were at the top of his list. He had not climbed to the position of dark prominence, which he so enjoyed, by being soft and unforgiving. He was nothing if not a vengeful man. Only these four had bested him and lived to tell the tale; he did not intend to let this situation continue. The accursed companions, Bith and her friends, had managed to foil and escape him at every turn for the last two years. A mere moment in history, a brief moment, but he would see to it that they paid dearly, and with interest, for the discomfort they had caused him. The massive man twisted in the saddle, and grimaced slightly at the pull of a stiffened muscle, marking the long hours he had sat astride his war horse, overseeing the destruction. His presence had not really been necessary; the duly required death and destruction could have been achieved without him, for the ores and goblins had merely to be pointed in the right direction and loosed on their 4 ROSE ESTES AND TOM WHAM hapless opponents. They needed no supervision in how to kill. The hard part was getting them to stop. Once the blood lust set in, only exhaustion and the lack of victims could put an end to their wanton slaughter. It was not unheard of for them to fall upon each other, murdering their own kith and kin when their base desires were unslaked at the end of a battle. Fortunately that had not been the case here at Cairngorm, for the defenders had been massed six deep and there had been enough bloodshed to satisfy even the most savage of goblins. Schlein reined in his horse at the top of a knoll. The rain had let up and an eerie blue glow lit up the field; it was almost dawn now. He stretched luxuriously in the saddle, smiling down at the ores and goblins as they moved through the mounds of the dead, retrieving their spoils—weapons and clothing and whatever bits of finery caught their eye— and dispatching those few unlucky souls who had survived the carnage. Scavenging among the dead after a battle was, for the horrid army, like a sumptuous dessert following a banquet. Such activities held no interest for Schlein, however, and he directed his horse toward a certain beechwood forest which stood a few leagues to the north. He rode alone in the receding darkness, along a narrow rutted path. His horse needed no urging; it feared its master, and sullenly plodded on through the freezing mud. At length the man and rider surmounted a low hill. The path led through a tiny village and then into a peaceful wood. Soon it would be peaceful no more. Schlein dismounted and strolled among the stately trees which rose above him in a graceful manner. Their white trunks were massive and bore the marks of great age. Here, there had been no rain, no sleet, and the Mistwall had not yet arrived. Battles and bloodshed meant next to nothing in such a place. Many battles had been won and lost in the long years that had passed since these proud tree-patriarchs were but tiny saplings, and there were few alive who even remembered why the battles had been fought THE STONE OF TIME 5 The silvery leaves whispered above him, soft murmurings whose meanings Schlein was unable to decipher, although he was certain that there were those for whom the message was perfectly clear. The forest had been a source of deep pleasure for the elf Endril, and had renewed his spirit and fortified his courage nightly as he wandered among its peaceful groves. Endril was far away now, and on the ground layer upon layer of fallen leaves absorbed the sound of Schlein's passage as though the step of a mere mortal were incapable of making an imprint on that magic grove. Schlein lifted his face to a ray of morning sunlight and smiled at the thought. He would make his mark on this forest whether or not it approved of him. Its magic was powerful, but then, so was his, now. Schlein rummaged in his pouch and withdrew two items: a craggy flint given to him (although not without persuasion) by a recalcitrant fire giant, and a striker forged by a master dwarf, which never failed to produce a spark. The wood fell silent. No bird sang; no leaf fluttered. Even the sunlight seemed to lose its warmth. Schlein smiled while the forest held its breath. He looked around him, and a tiny twinge of pity pierced his breast as he realized the magnitude of what he was about to do, of the peace and beauty that would be lost forever. For a moment he almost stayed his hand, and then he shook off the aberrant thought, snarled hoarsely, and touched striker to flint. A single magical spark appeared, trembled, and then fell to the dry mast, where it glowed crimson, pulsing slightly as it fed, growing swiftly in strength and size. Schlein stepped back as the tiny flames began to rise, crackling a...
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