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hadn't bet his gloves on that last roll of the dice two towns back. He never had been lucky with dice,
unless they were his own. He had been given a pair of Viktor's gloves, but they were light, flimsy things
meant for show and not for keeping the cold out. Besides, the colour clashed with his outfit.
The open moor stretched away in all directions, coloured grey and purple by the hard-wearing heather
that flourished where little else would. The only disturbance in the even landscape was a smooth oblong
mound that rose a good ten feet above the moor, lying not far from the rough trail. Jordan walked slowly
through the heather towards it. Despite the patchy heather that covered the mound from crown to foot,
he could still tell the shape was too regular for it to be a natural phenomenon. More likely it was a barrow
of some kind, a burial mound for some ancient chieftain. When he was a child, Jordan's mother had told
him never to go near a barrow, because that was where the faerie kind lived, and if they tempted him
through the secret door in the heart of the barrow, he'd never be seen again. When he was a little older,
he sat and listened wide-eyed to the old ballad of Silbury Hill, which told of a King in golden armour who
lay sleeping under a barrow with his great sword in his hand, waiting to be called forth to do battle with
the final evil at the end of time. When he reached a man's age, Jordan decided that all the stories and
ballads were nothing more than myths and legends, and bar-rows were just graves and mounds of earth.
He still had a fondness for the old stories, and often incorporated them into his act, but he knew there
was no truth in them. Or so he'd believed. Until now.
Approaching the great mound of earth was like knocking on the door of a haunted house. There was
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something about it, a disturbing sense of presence, of something evil waiting and watching . . . Jordan
stopped halfway to the mound, and stared at it for a long moment. He shivered suddenly, and pulled his
cloak about him. The chill of the early morning air grew sharper, and a gusting wind tousled his hair. The
temperature dropped sharply, and Jordan was startled to see his breath suddenly steaming on the air
before him. The light began to fade away. Jordan looked up at the sky. Dark clouds were rolling
overhead, cutting off the sun. The wind began to blow steadily, carrying a bitter cold that sliced through
Jordan like a
knife, despite his thick cloak. He moved quickly back to join the others, who were chattering agitatedly
together.
'What is it?' demanded Jordan. 'What the hell's happening? The sky was clear ten minutes ago. Storm
clouds can't gather that quickly. It's not natural!'
'Damn right it isn't,' growled Gawaine. He drew his axe, and hefted it lightly. 'Stay close, your highness.
We're under attack.'
Jordan looked up at the sky again. The dark clouds stretched across the sky, and thunder rolled
menacingly close at hand.
'Is this what you meant by elemental magic?' he asked Roderik.
Roderik shook his head quickly, still staring at the darkening sky. 'No, Jordan. You'd need more than air
or water magic to build a storm like this. This has got to be High Magic.'
'All right, it's High Magic. What do we do about it?'
'I don't know,' said Roderik. 'Give me time to think. Gawaine . . . stand ready with your axe.'
'His axe?' said Jordan incredulously. 'What's he going to do with that - climb on my shoulders and start
carving chunks out of the clouds?'
'Keep the noise down, your highness,' said Gawaine calmly. 'This isn't just an axe. The High Warlock
made it for me a long time ago.'
He hefted the heavy weapon easily in his hand, and for the first time Jordan noticed a series of spidery
runes traced across the steel blade. They seemed almost to glow and shimmer in the reduced light.
Jordan looked back at the sky. Dark clouds boiled above them, seething with energy. The light had gone
out of the day, and the moor was grey as twilight. Thunder crashed suddenly, a deafening roar that shook
the air. Jordan staggered back a step, and clapped his hands to his ears. Rain hammered down. The
heather bowed under its concentrated pressure. Jordan was soaked to the skin in moments. He looked
frantically about him for some kind of shelter, but there wasn't any. The horses were rearing and neighing
shrilly, despite
everything Argent did to try to soothe them, spooked by the sudden storm.
Lightning flared across the sky, and cracked down to strike the ground barely a dozen yards away from
the group. The ground shook violently and, where the bolt had hit, the heather burst into flames. The
pouring rain put them out again before they could spread. Thunder roared again, even closer and louder
than before. It seemed to echo on in Jordan's bones, even after the sound was gone. Lightning struck
again, closer this time, and the impact sent all of them flying to the ground. Jordan burrowed down into
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