Man of mystery ... deadly mercenary ... obsessed adventurer ...
From a life of misery, chained as a galley slave under the whips of the marauding Mhurgai, Korendir contrived an escape against impossible odds, only to gamble his hard-won freedom against ever more deadly stakes—in a world endangered by elementals, shape-changers, demons and perilous wizardry. Even Haldeth, fellow captive at the oar and his only accepted friend, can not understand what drives Korendir to repeated risk. But the hazardous tasks serve a madman’s hope, to build an unbreachable citadel.
Yet, can any fortress wall be enough to disarm the inner nightmares that ride the Master of Whitestorm with the cruelty of a death-wish?
“IS KORENDIR ALIVE?”
Staring at Haldeth thoughtfully, Orame, wizard of the White Circle, said, “He’s alive.” A frown marred his olive skin. “But not for much longer.”
“What do you mean?”
“See for yourself.” And the polished glaze of Orame ‘s teapot suddenly acquired an image.
Haldeth looked down into darkness and torchlight; but the flame was failing, flickering wildly. The torch was held in the white-knuckled fist of Korendir of Whitestorm, who climbed a rock wall with his dagger between his teeth and his sword thrust unsheathed through his belt. The left shoulder of his tunic was sliced to gore-drenched ribbons.
“Neth, he’s hurt,” cried Haldeth. Haldeth saw his friend’s face was worn with exhaustion and hunger, and that something else stalked him from below.
“Wereleopards!” Haldeth reached out, bruised his knuckles against heated ceramic, and cursed. The image disappeared, and he frantically looked to Orame. “Neth’s grace, you can’t just let him die ...”
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