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664 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 1998

Ian Irvine lives in the mountains of NSW, Australia.
Excerpted from The Tower on the Rift by Ian Irvine. Copyright © 2000. Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.The Great Hall was dark. The glow from the burning city did not penetrate the velvet drapes. The shouts, the screams, the clash of weapons up the hill – all just a murmur from far away. In the room there was no conscious being, no intelligent life. The broken door banged in the wind, the hinges bawled, striking a dreadful lament, crying to the dead to rise. The members of the Conclave lay silent.
Hours passed. In the darkness one man dreamed. Dreamed that he lay cast down and senseless while the army of his mortal enemy poured through the gates of Thurkad. Get up! He screamed. Only you can save your city. But he could not wake.
The tramp of marching feet echoed in his dreams – they were hunting him! He gave a wrenching groan that tore through the fog in his brain and and woke, bolt upright in the dark. His heart was racing. Where was he? Hardly knowing his own name, aware of little more than a growing terror, he felt around him. The things he touched were blank pieces. He could not put a name to the least of them.
A horn blasted, not far away. Panicking, the man clawed himself to all-fours, sagging across the room like a rubber-kneed crab, tripping over bodies, cracking his head against a table leg. Something smashed under his weight, the shards stabbing into the palm of his hand. He picked out pieces of curved glass, feeling the blood run down his arm. Smelling spilled oil on the floor, he felt around for the lantern but his numb fingers snapped the flint a dozen times before it lit. He lurched in swaying arcs back and forth along the rows of benches, then fell down in front of a tall woman who lay on the floor like a fallen statue. Yellow light bathed long limbs, dark hair, skin as rich and smooth as glazed chocolate. Her eyes were open and her lips wet, but the woman made no sound, gave no sign that she saw anything.
With shaking hands, he brought the lamp down to her eyes. It registered nothing. The light showed him clearly – a slim man of average height and uncertain age, with blue eyes and thin, wild hair. His sallow skin was sunk into deep creases; his scanty beard was lank.
The man’s face was wracked. ‘Tallia!’ he sang out, a wail of pain. ‘For pity’s sake, wake!’ He rocked on his haunches, overcome by the magnitude of the disaster, shuddered and bent over her again. Putting his bloody hands around her head, front and back, he tried to force open the blocked channels of her brain, straining so hard that his breath came out as a series of little groans.
In his head the tramping grew so loud that it blocked out all thought. He closed his eyes but the images shone out brighter than before, row after row of soldiers. The mind that directed them – his enemy – was as cold and unstoppable as a machine.
‘Tallia,’ he screamed. ‘Help! Yggur’s coming for me.’
Tallia’s pupils, which had imperceptibly contracted to points of darkness, expanded in a rush and she knew him. ‘Mendark!’ she whispered.
Mendark threw his arms around her. Tears starred his eyelashes. They struggled to their feet, swaying together, then Tallia’s eyes rolled and the room tilted in slow-motion confusion. He clung to her until she was steady again.
‘What happened?’ she asked. ‘I don’t remember anything.’