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into every heart of Ynis Aielle.” The Black Warlock found no internal rage at the declaration, though the will of Martin Reinheiser remained an equal part of his makeup. Morgan Thalasi was the obvious choice for the name, both for keeping the talons in line and striking terror into the hearts of foes.
    The part of the Black Warlock that remained Martin Reinheiser understood the value of this and accepted the conclusion without argument. All that mattered was the harmony.
    And the power that harmony would bring.
    He walked out onto the tower balcony. The day was remarkably clear for Kored-dul, and the Black Warlock could see for many miles from the high vantage point.
    “Go out!” he cried to the talons assembling at the base of the structure. Their whispers faded away to a hush at thesimple utterance of those two words. They sensed the change in the Black Warlock, sensed the hushed power of the being, and they wanted to hear the commands of their true master, the one possessed of the powers of a god that most of them knew only from the tales their fathers and grandfathers had told them.
    “Go out to the dark holes and valleys,” Thalasi roared. “Find your kin! Tell them that Morgan Thalasi has returned to lead them all! Tell them that Morgan Thalasi is hungry!
    “Tell them that Morgan Thalasi claims this world!”
    The proclamation resounded off every stone in Kored-dul, found its way to every talon ear. The call to arms and to glory. And they came, every one, willingly, hungrily.
    The Black Warlock had returned.

Chapter 3

Gatherings
    “Y E ’ VE CHOSEN YER steeds and the road?” Bellerian asked.
    “Ayuh,” replied Belexus, seeming the very image of his venerable father. Gray flecks peppered his unkempt black locks, but his huge corded muscles still held the hardness of youthful strength. “Across the bridges to the west and Corning, then back to great Pallendara afore we ride for home.”
    Bellerian remembered the roads well, though he had not traveled them, except for a brief trek to the great city, in nearly half a century. He had once been a nobleman of great repute in the court of Pallendara, but then an unlawful king had stolen the throne and sent all of Calva into tumult. Bellerian had escaped to the borders of Avalon, taking many of the children of his fellow nobles—children who would become the proud warriors known as the Rangers of Avalon—with him.
    Bitter years, those decades of Ungden’s rule had been, though Brielle and Ardaz had offered a good life to Bellerian and his troupe. Always the Ranger Lord turned his eyes southward to the rolling plains, where the scourge of Ungden the Usurper exacted a heavy toll on the land and people alike. The reign of terror lasted for three full decades,ending in the bloody Battle of Mountaingate, when the ancient ones came to Ynis Aielle. With Ungden’s forces defeated and the Usurper himself slain, Benador, the heir of the rightful king, sat on Pallendara’s throne, and after twenty years of the goodly man’s rule, the scars of Ungden were few and fading.
    But Bellerian could not bring himself to return to Pallendara, the place of his early life. Avalon was his home now, but still, his son’s mention of traveling across Calva tugged at Bellerian’s heartstrings, and he found his eyes turning once again to the rolling fields south of the enchanted forest.
    “Prepare a third horse,” Bellerian instructed his son.
    Belexus looked at Andovar, his most trusted friend, standing beside him. Andovar wasn’t as formidable as the son of Bellerian, but he stood tall and straight, with the piercing eyes and firm chin that marked the proud rangers.
    “Will ye be riding?” Andovar asked hopefully. “Suren we’d be blessed to have the likes o’ Bellerian beside us.”
    “Me thanks for yer kind words,” Bellerian replied. “But ’tis not for meself that ye’ll be needing the third mount. Ye’ll have a guest for the trip, one ye’ll come to welcome