Dark Moon

Chapter Eleven

Shira was nervous as she lay upon the bed, the golden creature sitting beside her. 'Do not fear me, child,' he said.

'I have no fear of you, sir. It is just that it pains me to have anyone . . . view my deformity.'

'I do understand, Shira. If you do not wish me to continue, I will understand that also. It may be that I can do little, for I have never encountered humans before.'

She smiled at him, then looked to Duvo. 'Do you think I should?' she asked him. He nodded and Shira closed her eyes. 'Very well, then,' she said. Duvo moved to the bedside, his harp in hand.

'There will be no need of actual music,' said the Oltor. 'The song I sing cannot be heard by you.' The scent of roses filled the room. He laid his slender, golden hand on Shira's brow and her breathing deepened instantly. 'She sleeps,' he said, drawing back the sheet. Shira was dressed in a simple cotton shift, which the Oltor raised to her hips. The deformed leg was ugly and twisted, the muscles knotted and misshapen like rocks under the skin.

The Oltor Prime placed his hand on her thigh. Astonished, Duvo watched as the hand began to glow, becoming at first translucent and then transparent. Slowly it sank beneath the surface of Shira's skin. 'The bones of the thigh and shin were broken badly,' whispered the Oltor, 'and they have been set awkwardly and suffered severe calcification. The muscles around them are badly fibrotic, no longer wet tissue, and the tendons are now too short.'

Duvodas tried to mask his disappointment. 'It was kind of you to examine her,' he said.

'Be patient, my friend, we have just begun.' Shira's thigh was glowing now, and Duvo could see the Oltor's hand moving below the surface of the skin. There was a sudden crack, the noise like a whiplash in the quiet of the room. Duvo jerked at the sound.

'What are you doing?'

'Breaking the thigh-bone and re-setting it straight. It is difficult; it is taking longer than I had thought to heal and stretch the muscles.' Slowly the knots and lumps of Shira's thigh began to shrink. After an hour the Oltor removed his hand, and began again below the knee.

As dusk approached, the room grew gloomy and Duvodas lit a lantern. 'How long now?' he asked.

'Not long. Help me to turn her over.' Gently they rolled the sleeping woman to her stomach.

'The leg looks perfect,' said Duvo.

'It is, but the muscles of the lower back are also misshapen, as is the spine. This is natural after years of limping. I must be careful now, for your son must not be touched by the magic.' His hands moved over Shira's lower back, the long fingers gently kneading the flesh. At last he stood, and covered her with a sheet. 'You may wake her now,' he said.

Duvo sat on the bed and took Shira's hand, kissing it. 'Wake up, my love,' he told her. Shira moaned softly, and yawned. Her eyes opened. 'Time to get up,' said Duvo.

Sleepily Shira pulled back the sheet and allowed Duvo to help her to stand. There was no surprise as she straightened. 'This is a lovely dream,' she said.

'It is no dream. You are healed, Shira.' The girl stood for a moment, then took several tentative steps.

Ignoring both men, she sat back down on the bed and drew up her cotton shift, staring down at the now perfectly formed leg. She stood once more, then spun on her heel in a graceful pirouette.

'She still believes it is a dream,' said the Oltor.

'Perhaps you should pinch yourself, Shira,' suggested Duvo.

'I don't want to wake up from this,' she said, tears in her eyes.

'I can promise you that you will not,' Duvo assured her. Shira hesitated, then dug her nails into the palm of her hand.

'It hurts,' she said. 'I am awake! Oh, Duvo!' She ran to him, throwing her arms around his neck.

He kissed her, and held her close. 'You are thanking the wrong person,' he said at last, and Shira turned to the Oltor Prime.

'I don't know what to say to you,' she said. 'I cannot believe it! How can I thank you?'

'Your joy is enough, Shira,' the Oltor replied. 'I think the journey to Loretheli will be a little easier now.

How soon will you be leaving?'

'As soon as the weather begins to break,' Duvo told him. 'There are more than eight thousand people preparing for the journey. You should come with us.'

'I think not,' said the Oltor. Looking down at Shira, he smiled. 'Your baby is strong and healthy, lacking nothing. His development shows he will be a lusty infant.'

'A boy, then,' she said, taking Duvo by the hand. 'A son for you, my love!'

Duvo sat down upon the bed, holding her hand in both of his. 'A son for us,' he corrected her. Releasing her hand, he stroked her raven hair. 'I cannot tell you how happy you have made me. And I cannot believe how I could think that love would destroy my music. Every day with you makes the power swell within me.'

'I think you are embarrassing our guest,' chided Shira.

'Not so, Shira,' said the Oltor. 'But I think I will leave you. Tell me, Duvodas, is there a place within this city where land magic still flourishes?'

'Not with any strength,' said Duvo.

'I feared not. You humans are similar to the Daroth, in that you draw magic from the land without replacing it. You carpet the ground with dead stone. It is not healthy.'

'What is it that you need?' asked Duvo.

'I need to touch the stars. There are truths I must find, and riddles which must be answered.'

'There is a park close by,' said Duvo. 'Whenever I need to feel the magic, I go there. As I said, it is not strong, but then you are far more powerful than I.'

'Will you take me there?'

'I will. In summer it is a haunt of evil men - robbers and thieves. It is too cold for them now. We should be safe.'

Hooded and cloaked, the Oltor Prime walked through the winding streets alongside Duvodas, coming into Gallows Square just as the moon emerged from behind a screen of clouds. The Oltor paused and gazed at the line of corpses hanging there. 'You find it so easy to kill,' he said sadly.

'I have never killed,' Duvodas told him.

'I apologize to you, Duvodas. But you cannot know how much pain such sights cause me. Come, we must move on swiftly. This place is like a Daroth city. It is not just that the magic has gone, but there is force here, like a whirlpool that devours. I can feel the power being leached from me.' They hurried on, through the park gates and up the ice-covered slope to the small group of hills at the centre of the park. The Oltor Prime turned to look back at the glistening city. 'What will you humans do when you have drawn all magic from the land? What will you become?' he asked.

'Perhaps we will also find a way to put it back,' said Duvodas.

The Oltor Prime nodded. 'That is a good thought. Hold to it.'

'You say that without conviction,' Duvodas pointed out. 'Do you believe we are incapable of finding a way?'

The Oltor Prime shook his head. 'No, not incapable. Just different. If all the Oltor were struck blind, save for one man, then the rest would look to him for leadership. They would seek a way for all to see. You humans would not react in this way. The blind would be jealous of the man with sight, and seek to put out his eyes also. I learned much from Brune. There was a woman in his village when he was young. She had power; she was a Healer. But they burned her in a great fire, and rejoiced when they had done so. However, let us not dwell on such matters. Do not be concerned with what you are about to see,' he said. 'No human in the city below will observe it.' The Oltor walked to the highest point of the hill and knelt down in the snow. Within moments it had melted away and Duvo felt the warmth of a summer day radiating from the golden figure before him. The Oltor began to sing in a low, sweet voice, creating music more perfect than any Duvodas had heard. He sat down, lost in the wonder of the moment.

A shimmering blue light grew around the Oltor, and Duvo sat amazed as he saw the creature's spirit swell out from his body, shining and wondrous, growing, filling the sky - a colossal, towering figure, whose gigantic arms reached out to touch the stars, cradling them in his palms. Flowers sprang into life around the Oltor's body - small snowdrops, yellow daffodils, shining in the bright moonlight. Time ceased to have meaning for the human, and as the music faded he felt a wrench, and a sense of great loss. Tears fell from Duvo's eyes and he fought back a wave of sorrow threatening to engulf him. The Oltor Prime laid his hands on Duvo's shoulders. 'I am sorry, my friend. The magic was almost too powerful for you. Be at peace.' The sorrow faded, replaced by a sense of melancholy.

'I watched you touch the stars,' said Duvo. 'How I envy you that power!'

'There is more to see, if you have the desire,' the Oltor Prime told him.

Duvodas heard the sadness in his voice. 'What is it?' he asked.

'I have the answers, Duvo, but they are painful. When the Daroth had destroyed my people, they set themselves to obliterate the Eldarin. Like us the Eldarin would not fight, but they honed their magic and cast a mighty spell.' Reaching out to the edge of the snow, the Oltor swept his hand across it, scooping it, then rolling it into a ball. This he tossed into the air - where it instantly vanished. 'The Eldarin spell ripped out across the land, gathering power, swallowing the Daroth cities, and containing them in a black Pearl which the Eldarin hid within the topmost peak of the highest mountain. The threat was gone, yet not one Daroth was slain. When the human armies came against the Eldarin there were those who considered repeating the magic, trapping the humans. But the Council of Elders chose a different route. They cast the spell against themselves - leaving one elder to take charge of the new Pearl.

'The humans killed him. And the Pearl became a cause for yet another war. It was perceived as a magical artefact - which indeed it was. And now, as a result of the greed and lust for power of one man, the Daroth have returned and the Eldarin Pearl is far from its home.' The Oltor Prime sighed, then he turned to Duvo and laid his hand on the young man's shoulder. 'Would you like to see the city of Eldarisa again?'

'More than anything.'

'Then stand close to me.' The Oltor rose and lifted his arms, and once more the bitter cold of winter enveloped the hillside, the circle of flowers dying within minutes. Clouds gathered, and fresh snow fell upon the parkland and the city. But it did not touch Duvodas or the Oltor. For now they stood on the barren rocks that had once been the land of the Eldarin.

And here there was no snow.

Karis was very drunk. She stared gloomily at the empty jug. Rolling to her knees, she forced herself upright, staggered, and fell heavily to a couch. It had seemed so easy when she had promised the Duke to control her rebellious, volatile nature. Day after exhausting day she had forced herself to behave like a general, coolly detached as she supervised training routines, discussed logistics and supplies with politicians and merchants, planned strategies with her captains. Today she had watched Forin take delivery of the new axes, double-headed and deadly, each weighing thirty pounds. Even the strongest of Forin's men had been surprised at the weight of the weapons. She had gone from there to the forge of Ozhobar, and viewed the construction of the catapult, and from there to the barracks building roof where carpenters and builders were arguing over the best way to strip it and lay a flat surface for the weapon. And that was only the morning.

An appealing thought struck her. She should run to the stables, saddle Warain and ride off into the mountains, heading south for Loretheli! There she could book passage to the southern islands, where winter had no hold. I could run naked on the sands, she thought, and swim in the warm sea.

Rising once more, she tugged off her shirt and leggings, throwing them across the room. Lifting the empty jug, she hurled it at the wall where it burst into scores of jagged fragments.

Hearing the noise, a servant entered, and stood staring open-mouthed at the naked woman. 'Get out!' she bellowed. The man turned and fled.

Karis staggered to the balcony window, pushing it open. The cold struck her as she walked out and leaned over the rail, staring down at the snow-covered courtyard below. Brushing the snow from the rail, she hooked her leg over it. A strong hand grabbed her, dragging her back into the room. Swinging, she aimed a punch at Necklen's grey-bearded face, but he blocked her arm and threw her to the couch.

'What are you doing?' she cried. 'Get out of here!'

Necklen turned to a servant who stood cowering by the door. 'Fetch me a jug of water and some bread and cheese,' he ordered. Then he knelt by Karis. 'Let's get you to bed,' he said. Her fist snaked out, but sailed harmlessly over his shoulder. Ducking into her, he hauled her upright and half-carried her to the bedroom.

She fell back on the bed, and noticed that the ceiling was gently revolving.

'I want to dance,' she said. 'I want another drink.' She struggled to sit up, but Necklen pushed her back.

'You just lie there, princess, until we can get some food into you.'

Karis swore at him, loud and long, using every gutter insult she knew. Necklen sat silently throughout the tirade. The ceiling was spinning faster now, and something horrible was happening to her stomach.

Groaning, she rolled to the edge of the bed, where Necklen held an empty bowl beneath her and she retched violently. And passed out . . .

When she awoke the room was dark, a single candle flickering on the table beside her bed. She sat up.

Her mouth tasted vile, and her head pounded. There was a jug of water on the bedside table and she filled a goblet and drank deeply.

'Are you feeling better?' asked Necklen. The old soldier was sitting in a chair in the shadows. He rose and moved to the bed.

'I feel like death,' she told him.

'The thaw has begun, Karis. Spring is almost here.'

'I know,' she said wearily.

'This is no time to be dancing naked on balconies. Giriak told me how you stood on the rail at Morgallis. He thought you were mad, but I told him you were merely eccentric. Eccentric and unique - and far too easily bored.' Tearing off a chunk of bread, he handed it to her. Karis chewed on it without enthusiasm. 'Everyone here is relying on you, princess.'

'You think I don't know that? And don't call me princess!'

Necklen chuckled. 'I've known many commanders during my life - steady ones, reckless ones, cowardly ones. But you are an original, princess. You can't be read. With you it is all instinct. I had a horse like you once: sweet as a berry one moment, vicious and deadly the next. Highly strung, he was. But a thoroughbred, faster than the wind, stronger than a bull. And fearless. Rode through fire for me, he did. I loved that horse, but I never understood him.'

'What are you prattling on about?' demanded Karis, swinging from the bed. She groaned as the pounding in her head increased.

'Drink some more water.'

'Shemak's Balls, but you sound like my mother!' Karis drank another goblet, then ate more bread. Glancing up, she grinned at him. 'But I love you, old man!'

'So I should hope.'

She saw that the bandage around the stump of his left wrist was seeping blood. 'Oh, Hell, did I do that?'

'You didn't mean to; you were thrashing around a little. It will heal. Now, to more important matters. I have sent scouts out to the north and south-east. And the Weapon Maker wants to know if you will be there when they set up the catapult.'

'Damn right I will! . . . How are you getting on with him?'

'At first he seems a pompous bastard, but his heart is in the right place. I like him. And he knows his craft, by heaven!'

'Don't try to steal his oatcakes,' warned Karis.

Necklen laughed aloud. 'He makes them himself, you know. They are damn good. He let me have one from a fresh batch. Just the one, mind!'

Karis lay back. 'How long before the dawn?'

'Another couple of hours.'

'I'll sleep,' she said. 'Will you wake me at dawn?'

'I'll be here.' Reaching out, she took his hand and squeezed it gently. He kissed her fingers, then covered her with a blanket. 'May your dreams be sweet,' he said. 'And don't forget to say your prayers.'

'Thank you, mother,' she said, with a smile. He blew out the candle and walked back into the main room, shutting the bedroom door behind him.

Duke Albreck was tired, his eyes bloodshot and gritty. Pushing away the mass of papers before him he rose, opened the door to the gardens and stepped through into the moonlight. The fresh cold air revitalized him and he shivered with pleasure. A servant announced the arrival of the soldier, Necklen, and the Duke returned to the warmth of his rooms. The old soldier looked wary.

'How is she?' asked Albreck.

'Very well, sir. She is resting,'

Albreck had never known how to communicate with ordinary people. It was as if their minds worked at a different level; they were rarely at their ease with him, nor he with them. 'Sit you down, man,' he said. 'I see your wound is bleeding again. I shall send my surgeon to you.'

'It's stopped now, sir. Scar tissue broke, is all.'

'You are a brave man,' said Albreck. 'Karis tells me you have served her before, and know her well.'

'Can't say as I know her that well,' answered Necklen, guardedly. 'She's good, though. The best there is.'

'I think that is a fair estimate,' agreed the Duke. 'However, the pressures here are very great. The burdens are onerous. Sometimes even the best find such situations ... intolerable. There are many stories about Karis. She has become something of a legend during these last few years. One man told me she once danced naked through a town, following a victory. Is it true?'

'There's always lots of stories about generals,' said Necklen. 'Might I ask where this is leading?'

'Oh, I think you know where it is leading,' said Albreck.

'This is my city, my responsibility. It is threatened with death and destruction, by an enemy more powerful and more evil than any it has faced in its long history. I have no right to ask you for honesty, Necklen. You are not sworn to me. But I would value it, nonetheless. Karis is a great fighter, and a fine tactician. She has courage, I don't doubt that. But is she steady? For that's what we need.'

Necklen sat silently for a moment, staring into the fire. 'I am not a skilled liar, my lord - never felt the need to acquire the skills - so I'll tell you plain. Karis isn't like anyone I've ever known. She's a mass of opposites, tough and tender, caring and callous. And she has a love of wine - ay, and men. She pushes herself too hard sometimes, and then she drinks. Too much, usually.' Necklen shrugged. 'Despite that there is a greatness in her. That will carry her through, don't you worry none about that. When the Daroth are before the walls, you'll see that greatness shine. I promise you that.'

The Duke smiled thinly. 'I hope that you are right. I am a capable swordsman, but I was never a soldier.

Nor did I wish to be one. My skill lies in judging men. Women, I am glad to say, remain a mystery to me.'

'A wondrous mystery,' said Necklen, with a grin.

'Quite so.' In that one, small moment, there was a flicker of camaraderie. The Duke felt it, and drew back.

Necklen sensed the change of mood and rose from his chair. 'If that is all, my lord?'

'Yes. Yes, thank you. Stay close to her. See that she doesn't... push herself too hard.'

'I'll do my best, sir.' As he left, the Duke leaned forward, lifting a sheaf of papers, and returned to his reading.

Duvodas and the Oltor moved across the desert of rocks which once had been the Enchanted Park of Eldarisa.

Together they climbed to the first sandstone ridge of Bizha. Duvodas remembered the first time he had climbed the Twins, scaling Bizha and standing on the top of the natural stone tower, from there to leap across the narrow space to land - breathless with excitement and fear - atop Puzhac. All the Eldarin children made the jump. It was said to epitomize the journey from childhood to manhood.

Now, on this first ridge, Duvo shivered, more at the sadness of his memories than the cold winds howling around the rocks. 'Why are we here?' he asked the Oltor.

'Observe,' said the Oltor Prime. He began to sing, his voice melting into the wind, becoming part of it, dark as the night, icy as a winter peak; a song of starlight and death. The music filled Duvo's heart, and he unwrapped his harp and began to play the notes clear and clean in perfect harmony with the Singer.

Duvo had no idea where the music came from. It was unlike anything he had ever played, weaving a mood that was dark and contemplative. Then it changed. The Oltor's sweet voice rose. Still matching the bitterness of a bleak winter, the Oltor introduced a light rippling chord, like the first shaft of sunlight after a storm. No, thought Duvo, like a birth on a battlefield, incongruous, out of place, and yet beautiful.

A gentle light began to glow some twelve feet above the rocky ground, spreading out like a mist across the land. Then it rose, fashioning itself into ghostly, translucent images. Duvo ceased his playing, and watched in silent awe as the city of Eldarisa was slowly sculpted in light. Not just the buildings, but the flowers of the park and the people of the Eldarin: frozen in place, transparent. Duvo felt he could step from the rock and become part of the light, for it glowed mere inches from the ridge on which he sat. He was about to do so when the Oltor ceased his song and laid his hand on Duvo's shoulder. 'You cannot walk there, my friend. Not yet,' said the Oltor Prime.

The golden figure raised his hands, palms pressed together as if in prayer, then drew a vertical line through the air. As his hands swept down Duvo felt a rush of warm air strike him. His eyes widened with shock as he saw sunlight stream through the line made by the Oltor's hands. The line opened further, and through it Duvo could see the City of Eldarisa, not fashioned in light but in stone and wood, solid and real, the grass of the park green and verdant.

'I have opened the Curtain,' said the Oltor Prime. 'Follow me.'

On trembling legs Duvodas stepped through. There were children, statue still, throwing a ball which hung in the air like a small moon. Older Eldarin were sitting on park benches. Not a movement could be seen.

There was not a breath of wind. Duvo glanced up at the summer sky. Clouds stood motionless.

'How can this be?' he asked the Oltor.

'Time has no meaning here. Nor will it. Come, help me in what I must do.'

The Oltor Prime moved across the Great Square and up the broad flight of granite steps to the entrance of the Oltor Temple. There were some Eldarin inside. A father, statue-still, was pointing towards a section of bones laid upon a velvet-covered table. Beside him his children stood in silent, frozen wonder.

The Oltor Prime stood in the centre of the enormous hall, scanning the thousands of bones. Then he strode towards the high altar, and lifted a chunk of red coral. Duvodas followed him. 'This was once my lifeblood,' said the Oltor Prime. 'Now it will be the lifeblood of my people.' Lifting a section of blue velvet cloth, he tore a long strip loose. 'You will need to cover your eyes, my friend,' he said, 'for there will be blinding lights that would melt your sight away for good.' Duvodas took the velvet strip and tied it around his head. The Oltor handed him his harp. 'You will not know the song I am to sing, but let your harp follow it as your heart dictates.'

Once more the Oltor's sweet voice broke out in song. Duvo waited for several moments, feeling the rhythm, charting the melody. Then he began to play. Even through the velvet blindfold he could see the brightness grow. It was sharp and painful, and he turned away from it. The music was similar to the Song of Morning which Ranaloth had taught him many years before. But it was infinitely more rich and multi-layered. And slowly the song swelled, other voices joining in, until it seemed that a great choir was filling the Temple with a magic so potent that Duvo's senses swam.

He sank to his knees and let fall his harp. The music washed over him like a warm wave, and he lay down upon the stones and dreamed. In his dream he saw the Oltor Prime, standing before a host of his people.

The Curtain of Time was open once more, and the people filed slowly through it to a land of green fields and high mountains: a place of peace, harmony and tranquillity. Duvodas longed to go with them.

He awoke as the Oltor Prime touched his face, feeling more rested than at any time in his life. Pulling clear his blindfold, he saw that the Eldarin father was still pointing towards the high altar. But now there was nothing upon it. Swiftly Duvo scanned the great hall of the Temple. It was empty. Not one shard of bone remained - save the skull held in the hands of the Oltor Prime. 'You brought them back from the dead!' whispered Duvo.

'We brought them back, Duvodas. You and I.'

'Where are they?'

'In a new land. I must join them soon, but I need your help one last time.'

'What can I do?'

The Oltor lifted the skull. 'This is all that is left of me, my friend. I cannot join to it, for I cannot both sing and be born again. You must play the song you heard.'

'I cannot do it like you. I do not have the skill.'

The Oltor Prime smiled. 'You do not need the skill. You need the heart - and this you have.' The Oltor retied the blindfold. 'Join with me in the music. And when I fall silent, play on!'

Once more the song sounded. Duvo's fingers danced upon the harp strings. There was no conscious creation of sound, no planned melody. The music he played was automatic and instantaneous. He failed to notice when the Oltor's voice faded away, and his fingers continued to dance effortlessly along the strings of his harp.

A hand touched his shoulder, and he let the music die away. 'We are here, Duvodas,' said the Oltor.

Duvo untied the blindfold and rubbed his eyes. Lying on the floor was the sleeping figure of Brune.

No longer golden-skinned, he was the sandy-haired young man Duvo had first seen in the Wise Owl tavern with the swordsman, Tarantio. Beside him stood the tall, naked figure of the Oltor Prime.

'I must leave now,' said the Oltor, 'and you must return to the world.' He handed Duvo a small piece of red coral. 'I have imbued this with a spell, which will open the Curtain twice only. It will take you to the land below a monastery on a high mountain some forty miles south-east of the ruined city of Morgallis. There you will find Sirano. He has the Pearl with him. Take Tarantio with you, if he will go.'

'Could you not stay and help us?'

'I wish to see no more wars. I have touched the stars, Duvodas, and seen many wonders. The Eldarin allowed the humans through the Curtain many centuries ago. Do you know why?'

'Ranaloth told me it was because our world was dying.'

'Yes, there was charity and kindness involved in the deed. But the underlying reason was that the Eldarin knew you were similar to the Daroth. They felt great guilt for imprisoning an entire race. You humans were not as grossly evil as the Daroth, but you had a capacity for vileness which the Eldarin were trying to understand. They believed that if they could master relations with the humans it would better help them when they restored freedom to the Daroth.'

'We are not like the Daroth! I cannot believe that.'

The Oltor sighed. 'But, deep down, you do, Duvodas. Yours is a race whose imagination is limited to its own small appetites. Greed, lust, envy - these are the motivating forces of humankind. What redeems you is that within every man and woman there is a seed that can grow to encompass love, joy and compassion.

But this seed is never allowed to prosper in fertile ground. It struggles for life among the rocks of your human soul. The Eldarin came, at last, to this realization. And here they are all around us, unmoving. Alive, and yet not living.'

'I thought this but a frozen moment in time,' said Duvodas. 'I thought you had opened a Curtain on a heartbeat from the past!'

'No, my friend, though it is a heartbeat frozen in time. This is the present. We are inside the Pearl.' For a moment only the words failed to register. Duvo looked around him at the silent buildings and the statue-still Eldarin. 'Rather than fight or kill,' continued the Oltor Prime, 'they chose to withdraw from the world. They left behind one elderly mystic to carry the Pearl to a place of safety.

He did not survive.'

'How can I help them?' asked Duvo. 'How can I bring them back?'

'First you must find Sirano and the Pearl, then bring it to the highest mountain above Eldarisa. Lodge it there and climb the Twins. Then you must play the Creation Hymn. You know it - Ranaloth taught you.'

'I know it. But I was here once before. I cannot find the magic in these rocks.'

'And yet you must, if the Eldarin are to live again.'

Brune took a deep, shuddering breath and woke. He sat up and looked at the Oltor. 'You . .. are not with me any more,' he said, fear in his voice.

'A part of me will always be with you, Brune. And now it is time to say goodbye.'

Ozhobar was a large man, and distrustful of the spindly ladders giving access to the stripped barracks roof. Yet he climbed steadily, unwilling to allow his invention to be set in place by inferior hands.

Coming to the roof, he stepped out and cast an expert eye over the work of the four carpenters, who stood by expectantly. They had constructed a large, flat surface of interlocking planks, set on four huge beams. Ozhobar strode on to it, stamping his foot here and there. It was solid, the joints neat, the pins planed down perfectly. Satisfied, he took a piece of string and summoned one of the workmen.

'Hold this in place with your thumb,' he said, laying one end of the string on the centre of the platform.

Stretching the other end to its full length of five feet, he took a piece of chalk and traced a circle with a diameter of ten feet on the wood. The carpenter watched with curiosity as Ozhobar shortened the string by three inches, then traced a second circle within the first. Returning the string to his pocket, he called the carpenters to him. 'I want a series of holes drilled within the chalk lines, three inches deep and set four inches apart. No more, no less.'

'What are they for?' asked the team leader.

'Pegs,' said Ozhobar. 'I need the work completed by noon. The rails are being delivered then.' The Weapon Maker strode away from them to where a series of pulleys had been constructed, the ropes hanging down to the street far below. He had designed it himself to take three times the expected weight of the weapon and its ammunition. Even so his mind was full of calculations, possible problems and their likely solutions.

Crossing the roof once more, he scanned the countryside beyond the northern wall. He already knew it was 400 yards to the first probable Daroth catapult site, 375 to the second, and 315 to the third. Prevailing winds in spring came from the south-east - but not always. In terms of maintaining optimum accuracy, the wind might still prove a problem.

He saw Karis on the wall some sixty feet to the north. She was talking to several officers and the veteran warrior, Necklen. Seeing him she waved and smiled. Ozhobar gave a cursory nod and turned away. Could he build a catapult? Could a blind man piss in the dark? Irritating woman.

His natural sense of fairness asserted itself and he felt guilty about his rudeness. It was hardly her fault that she, like all the others, failed to recognize his genius. People rarely did. The world was full, it seemed to Ozhobar, of men with small minds and little imagination. 'Why are there so many fools in the world?' he had once asked his father.

'Well, boy, the world is ruled by fools so that other

fools might prosper. Men of imagination are not highly regarded, as I fear you will find.'

How true it had proved! At thirty-five Ozhobar had seen many of his inventions scorned by lesser minds, his written papers mocked by the wise men of the day. Only now, with Corduin about to be destroyed, had they come to him. And for what? His water-pumping machine? His designs for an inter-connected sewage system to alleviate the spread of sickness and plague? His water-filtration device? No. For crossbows and armour and giant catapults. To call it galling would be an understatement.

'What diameter holes do you want, sir?' asked the team leader, moving up behind him.

'One inch should suffice.'

'I'll have to send down for new drill bits. It'll take time.'

'What size do you have?'

'Three-quarter, sir. And we've plenty of pegs that size to fit them.'

Ozhobar thought the problem through. The pegs would lock the wheels of the catapult into place, the rails allowing the weapon to be turned through 360 degrees. When the throwing-arm was released there would be a savage kick-back, driving the wheels into the pegs. Would three-quarters be thick enough? Should he design pegs of iron instead? That would be simple enough. But then iron pegs could damage the peg holes.

'Sir?'

'Yes, use three-quarters. But deepen the holes. If a peg snaps, it will need to be hammered through, so as to allow a fresh peg to be inserted.'

'Yes, sir.'

The man walked away. Ozhobar heard a distant voice call his name and he ambled across to the edge of the roof, gazing down to the street below. There was a cart drawn up there, carrying twelve of the huge pottery balls he had ordered; they were packed in straw. His irritation rose. They were not due until later this afternoon, and the canvas-roofed shelter had not yet been constructed for them.

His irritation flared into anger minutes later when the pulley crew, in their anxiety to finish the job swiftly, cracked one of the balls against the side of the building, smashing it to shards.

For the next hour the Weapon Maker moved back and forth between the pulley crew and the carpenters, checking the work. The pottery balls were stored against the western side of the roof, and covered with a canvas sheet. The circular iron rails arrived in the early afternoon, and Ozhobar himself fitted them over the chalk circles, hammering the iron spikes into place. It was almost dusk before the first sections of the catapult were hauled into the street below. Ozhobar oversaw the lifting of the cross-beamed base and the throwing-arm, then ordered lanterns to be lit so that the work could continue after dark.

It was midnight before the weapon was fully in place, its four wooden wheels set within the iron rails. The throwing-arm extended upwards more than ten feet, the bronze cup at the top gleaming in the lantern light.

Ozhobar swung the machine to the right, and the wheels groaned as the catapult moved. He greased the axles. Now there was no sound as the catapult turned.

'I hope it works,' said the team leader, a thin-faced man with a seemingly permanent sneer.

Ozhobar ignored him, then smiled as he pictured the man sitting in the copper cup as the holding hook was hammered clear. In his mind's eye he could see the fellow sailing up and over the north wall.

It began to snow. Ozhobar ordered the catapult to be covered with a tarpaulin, then made the long perilous descent to the ground, four floors below.

Striding back through the city, he stopped at a tavern for a brief meal, then walked the mile and a half to his workshop. His burly assistant, Brek, was talking to Forin and the female general, Karis.

Ozhobar moved to the forge, holding out his hands to the heat. 'Are we ready?' he asked the black-bearded Brek.

'It is mostly assembled, Oz. A few minor additions will be needed to the helm.'

'Then let us go through,' he said. Aware of his earlier discourtesy, he bowed to Karis. 'After you, General.'

Karis moved through to the rear store-room. There, set on a wooden frame, was a curiously wrought breastplate of polished iron, with bulging shoulder-guards and a raised, semi-circular neck-plate. Brek walked to a nearby workbench and came back with a huge helmet which he fitted inside the neck-guard. 'It looks like a huge beetle,' said Forin, with a deep belly laugh.

'Put it on,' said Karis.

'You're joking!'

'I never joke. Put it on.'

Forin stepped up to the frame. Brek removed the helm, then lifted the breastplate clear, placing it over Forin's broad shoulders. The jutting shoulder-guards made him look even more enormous. The open sides were protected by chainmail, which Brek hooked into place. 'Now the helm,' said Karis.

The large, conical helmet was lowered into place, then hooked to the neck-guard. Forin's green eyes shone with humour as he gazed out of the slitted visor. 'I feel like an idiot,' came his muffled voice.

'How appropriate,' observed Ozhobar.

'What did he say? I can't hear a damned thing in here.'

Lifting a heavy broadsword from beside the black forge, Ozhobar swung it over his head and brought it down hard against the side of the helm. Forin staggered and almost fell; then he whirled on the Weapon Maker. Ozhobar struck him again. This time the sword snapped in two.

'Remove the helm,' ordered Ozhobar. Brek climbed on a bench and lifted the helmet clear.

'You whoreson!' stormed Forin. 'I'll break your . . .'

'You are alive, idiot!' snapped Ozhobar. 'Had you not been wearing the armour, I would have cut your head from your shoulders. I do not know how strong the Daroth will prove, but I am stronger than most men and I could not dent the metal!'

'He's right,' said Karis. 'How does the armour feel?'

'Damned heavy. But the helmet needs padding; it felt as if I was inside a town bell. I can still feel it ringing in my ears. Also we'll need eye-slits at the sides. The helmet isn't made to turn with the head; the head turns inside it. We need side vision.'

'That is already in the design,' said Ozhobar. 'As Brek said earlier, we still have to complete the helmet.

That said, I am pleased with it. If it meets with your approval, General, I shall have the Armourer begin work on the others.'

'What about protection for the arms?' asked Forin.

'I am developing a complex design of interlocking arm plates,' Ozhobar told him. 'The first set should be ready by next week. The elbow section is the problem at present, but I will find a way around it. How are the axes?'

Forin shrugged. 'At first I thought they would prove impossible to wield, but we are getting used to them.

The men improve day by day. Why did you design the blades to flare at the base and tip? They look like butterfly wings.'

'As indeed they were intended to,' said Ozhobar. 'The problem with the simple half-moon design is that when it smashes through the ribs it can catch within the body. The butterfly design will help to prevent such a possibility. I hope you have also noticed that the upward flare of the blades allows it to be used as a stabbing weapon.'

'An axe is not a stabbing weapon,' objected Forin.

Ozhobar moved to a bench at the rear of the room, lifting a black short-handled axe. Holding it like a spear, he suddenly threw it at a nearby door. The upper points of the head slammed deep into the wood. Ozhobar walked to the door, wrenching it open. Two shining points of steel had completely pierced the door, and were jutting like dagger blades from the wood. 'My axe is also a stabbing weapon,' he said. 'It just takes a little imagination to see it.'

'Your point is well made, Oz,' said Karis. 'And I am delighted with the armour.'

Only Ozhobar's closest colleagues were allowed to use the short form of his name, and inwardly he bridled at her casual use of it. But, almost in the same moment, he realized that he liked the sound of it from her lips. Reddening, he muttered something banal. She smiled then, thanked him and Brek for his time and, with Forin, walked from the room.

Brek was grinning. 'Don't say a word!' Ozhobar warned him.

'Perish the thought,' answered Brek.

Outside the snow had turned to sleet, the temperature just below freezing. 'Only a matter of weeks now,' said Karis.

'Ay,' agreed Forin. 'You look tired, Karis. You need some sleep.'

She chuckled. 'You were right. You did look like a giant beetle.' Then there was silence. Karis was loath to walk away from the green-eyed giant, and he too seemed ill at ease. 'I'll see you tomorrow,' she said at last.

'It is already tomorrow,' he pointed out. She shrugged and walked away. He called her name, his voice soft and low. Karis paused, then walked on. Damn the man, she thought. Why does he fill my mind?

As she strode on, a large black hound padded out from an alleyway and began walking alongside her.

She stopped and glanced down. 'Where do you think you are going?' she asked. The hound cocked its huge head and looked at her. Squatting down, she stroked the squat muzzle, then patted its back; she felt the bones of its ribs under her hand. A figure shuffled out of the darkness and Karis rose, one hand on her dagger.

'You won't need that,' said the elderly man. 'I'm harmless enough.' His back was arthritic and bent and he was struggling to carry a bundle of firewood.

'It is late to be out,' she said.

'The house was too damned cold, so I took the opportunity of ripping a few sticks from a rich man's fence.' He gave a gap-toothed grin, then looked down at the dog. 'He's called Stealer,' he said.

'Your dog?'

'No-one's dog. He lives by his wits - and by catching rats. Good judge of character, is Stealer. He has a nose for a soft heart.'

'His nose has betrayed him this time,' she said.

The old man was unconvinced. 'I don't think so. Anyway, the chill is getting to me, so I'll say good night

to you.' He shuffled away into the moon shadows and Karis walked on, the dog padding alongside her.

At the gates of the palace she waved at the guards and made her way to her rooms. A servant had lit a fire some hours before, and the coals were glowing with a dying red. Stealer loped across the room and stretched himself out on a rug before the hearth. A covered platter had been left on the table. Karis lifted the lid and saw a plate of salted beef, a round of red cheese and a loaf. Suddenly hungry, she sat down. Stealer was immediately beside her, staring up at her with his large brown eyes. 'You are a beggar, sir,' she said.

His head tilted. She fed him the meat, then tucked into the bread and cheese. Stealer watched until the last morsel was gone, then padded back to the fire. Karis added the last of the coal, then wandered into the bedroom.

Blowing out the lanterns, she took off her clothes and slipped under the blankets. Almost immediately a terrifying growl sounded from the main room. Throwing back the covers, she ran out to find Vint standing against the wall, knife in hand, the huge hound before him with teeth bared.

'Come here!' she called.

'Me or the beast?' enquired Vint. Karis chuckled. Stealer did not move. Karis strolled across to him and knelt down, stroking his muzzle.

'This man is, loosely, what one might call my friend. Therefore it would be best if you did not rip his throat out.' She patted the broad head, then stood and took Vint's hand, leading him into the bedroom. 'You are just what I need,' she told him.

Moments later they were both naked. As they were caressing Karis noted a swift change in Vint, a sudden softness. 'What is wrong?' she whispered.

'The damn thing is looking at me,' he said. Karis turned her head, to see that Stealer was standing with his front paws on the bed, his squat nose inches from Vint's face. It was too much for Karis, and her laughter pealed out.

Vint slumped down beside her. 'I don't think he likes me,' he said.

'Bring some meat next time you come. I have a feeling that Stealer's affections are easily bought.'

'He is the ugliest hound I've ever seen. How did you come by him?'

'He adopted me.'

'You do have an uncanny effect on males, Karis! I'll give you that.'

The winds were howling across the jagged rocks, whipping sleet against the cold walls of the cliffs. A violet light shimmered, then two men were standing where a moment before there had been only a long-dead tree and an empty trail.

Tarantio ran forward, ducking behind a rock as the icy needles of sleet slashed into him. Duvodas came alongside. 'This should be the mountain,' he said.

'I have to say, Singer, that I did not really believe your story. If I had, I would have thought twice about accompanying you.'

Duvo glanced up. The clouds were thick, the darkness almost absolute. Then there was a break in the clouds which lasted just long enough for both men to see the outline of the monastery, high up the mountainside. 'That's a long climb,' said Tarantio, 'and it will be a cold one.'

Duvo closed his eyes and warmth radiated from him, enveloping Tarantio. They stood and began the ascent. Despite the heat it was an uncomfortable climb, for the sleet melted into rain around them and both men were drenched within minutes.

The path grew narrow, and Duvodas slipped. Tarantio caught his arm. For a heartbeat only Duvodas found himself staring down over an awesome drop, his heart hammering in panic. 'Walk on the inside,' said Tarantio. Gratefully Duvodas exchanged places and they climbed on. The wind picked up, battering at them, the rocky path underfoot was icy and treacherous. Conversation was impossible, and they ducked their heads into the wind and slowly forced their way up the mountain.

The heat spell was useless against the power of the wind, and ice began to form inside their clothing.

Duvo found his mind wandering; he sat down suddenly. Tarantio loomed over him. 'What in Hell's name do you think you are doing?' he shouted.

'I think I'll sleep for a little while.'

'Are you mad? You'll die.'

Duvo's eyes closed. Tarantio's cold hand slashed across his face in a stinging slap. 'Get up!' ordered the warrior. The sudden pain cut through his drowsiness and, taking Tarantio's hand, he hauled himself to his feet. As the two men struggled on, the wind grew into a storm which lashed at them, buffeting them against the rocks, making balance and movement a continuing nightmare. Arms linked, the climbers pressed on, finally rounding a bend and entering a cleft away from the wind. The relief was indescribable. Duvo pressed his back to the wall, and once more summoned the heat spell. Drawing Tarantio in close, the two men stood shivering as the warmth grew, easing through their icy clothing.

'We must be close,' said Duvo, his voice shaking.

'Let's hope they open the gate.'

'Why would they not?' Duvo asked.

'They might not hear us in the storm. I would guess they are all tucked up in their beds. Wait here. I'll find out.'

Tarantio moved away into the darkness and Duvo slumped down. Steam was rising from his clothes and the growing warmth was delicious. He lay down on the rock and fell asleep. Minutes later, when Tarantio shook him awake, Duvo was icy-cold. The heat spell could only be maintained while he was awake. Shivering uncontrollably, he fought to restore it. Tarantio sat down beside him. 'By the Gods, you are a fool!' hissed the warrior.

'I... am . . . sorry.'

'Not as sorry as I would have been, without a way back to Corduin.'

'Did you find the monastery?'

'Yes. It is around two hundred paces further on. There is a nasty section of rock, narrow and covered in ice. I think we should wait for the dawn before trying it.'

'I don't think I can stay awake that long.'

Tarantio's dagger pricked the skin under Duvo's chin. 'If you fall asleep, I think I know a way to wake you.'

The night wore on, seemingly endlessly to the exhausted Duvodas, and when at last the first rays of dawn could been seen illuminating the southern end of the cleft, he felt a surge of elation.

'What do we know about this monastery?' asked Tarantio - the first words he had spoken in hours.

'Very little. I looked for references to it in the library at Corduin. It was originally built by Priests of the Source hundreds of years ago. Now it is owned by a sect who call themselves the Letters of Revelation. Their cult believes the end of the world is upon us.'

'They may not be far wrong,' said Tarantio grimly. 'Let us hope they are early risers.'

The two men rose wearily to their feet and moved

along the cleft. Duvodas stumbled to a halt before the narrow ledge leading to the gates of the monastery. It was around 100 paces long, ice-covered and slanted, in places no more than three or four feet wide. The drop to the left of the ledge was dizzyingly deep. 'How high do you think we are?' he asked Tarantio.

'A thousand feet. Maybe more,' answered the warrior. 'The height is immaterial. A drop of a hundred feet would see a man dead. All this means is that you will be in the air for longer.'

'I don't think I can walk across that,' said Duvo.

'Move ahead of me. I'll catch you if you stumble.'

'I can't.'

Dace grabbed Duvo's fur-lined cloak and slammed him back against the rock wall. 'You listen to me, you miserable whoreson! You've dragged me half-way across the land with your tale of woe, of rescuing the Eldarin and imprisoning the Daroth. And now a little danger has you pissing your breeches. You'll walk - or I swear I'll hurl you over the edge.'

'Not everyone is blessed with your courage,' said Duvodas, 'but I will make the attempt. Not because you threaten me, but because you are right. It is more important to find the Pearl.'

Tarantio released him. 'Hold to the wall, and move slowly. If your foot slips, drop to your stomach. Do not try to maintain balance.'

Duvo took a deep breath and was about to step forward, when the sound of distant singing came from the monastery. A wall of warmth struck him. Ahead the ice began to melt on the ledge. The heat was now almost unbearable and both men turned their backs to it. As they did so, they saw the same effect flowing along the cleft. 'They understand the magic of the land,' said Duvo. 'They are clearing a path for us.'

The wall of heat moved on, flowing past them. Stepping out, Duvo ran along the ledge and up the small slope to the ancient gates. Tarantio came up behind him.

'They are not doing it for us,' said Tarantio. 'If they were, the heat would have stopped where we were.

And they are still singing their magic.'

'I don't care,' said Duvo happily. 'We made it, Tarantio.' He thumped his fist on the gate. After several moments he heard a latch creak, and when the gate opened an elderly monk stood there in woollen robes of flowing white. He had kindly brown eyes and a gentle smile.

'Who are you?' he asked. 'What are you doing here?'

'Can we come in?' asked Tarantio. 'It has been a cold night and I would appreciate a warm meal.'

'Of course. Of course.' The old priest stepped aside. After they had entered he closed the gate and led them across a small courtyard and into the main building, up three flights of stairs and along a corridor. Here there was a long, narrow dining-room. Another white-robed priest was working in the kitchen area, cleaning dishes. The sound of singing was muted now, but the travellers could still hear it coming from far below.

'Good-morning again, Brother Nemas,' said the old man to the dish-washing priest. 'We have two visitors. Is there any soup left?'

'Indeed there is, brother. Have they come to join us?'

'If they have, it is too late,' said the old monk. 'But at least we can give them a warm meal for their journey back to the damned.'

There was a bright fire burning in an iron stove by the far wall. Tarantio walked to it and warmed his hands, then he moved to the window which overlooked the courtyard and the gates. The old priest set two bowls of steaming soup on the table. Duvodas thanked him. 'We are here looking for a man named . . .'

'Kario,' said Tarantio suddenly. 'A young man who was sent to join you. Have you seen him?'

'Kario? No, I don't believe we have any acolytes of that name. But then we may have turned him away.

Now that the last days are upon us, there is no need of new acolytes. The evils of this world will be burned away and the Letters of Revelation will rule, as our prophet ordained. Have no fear, brothers, we will rule wisely and well, and the world will become a paradise of prayer and celebration. I am sorry that your journey here has been in vain.'

'We are grateful for your hospitality,' said Tarantio. 'And doubly grateful for the heat spell you sent down the path for us.'

'It was not for you, my friend, though I am glad you took benefit from it. The Servants of the Lord are coming, and we wished to show them courtesy.'

'The Servants of the Lord?' queried Duvodas.

'Those who are fulfilling His desires. The Cleansers. The Bringers of Fire and Destruction. As the Holy Word tells us: "Their swords will plough the cities, their spears will sunder armies. Fortress walls will shiver and fall at the sound of their hoof beats."'

'The Daroth,' said Tarantio.

'Indeed,' agreed the old man amiably. 'The Servants of the Lord. Your soup is getting cold. Eat. Rest.'

Tarantio sat down and ate, dipping bread into the soup. It was bland and tasteless. 'It is very good,' he said. 'Tell me, brother, why are the Servants of the Lord coming here?'

'We sent an emissary to them - to let them know that not all men are consumed by evil. We captured one of their enemies, the vile Sirano. He destroyed many of the Servants with devilish fire, then escaped into the wilderness. We have him here - awaiting their justice.'

The sound of singing faded away, to be followed by a booming noise coming from the gates. 'Ah, they are here,' said the old priest. 'Please excuse me. I must welcome them with my brothers.'

It was Dace who rose and moved to block the priest's path. 'Where is Sirano held?' he asked.

'Why would you wish to know that?'

'We are here to rescue him,' said Dace.

'You are Slaves of the Ungodly?' The old man took a backward step. 'I shall tell you nothing.' Dace drew a throwing-knife, then spun and hurled it into the throat of the priest in the kitchen. The man staggered back, then fell from sight. Dace drew a second blade and advanced on the old man.

'Oh, you will tell me, old fool. And you will tell me now!'

'He is in the upper turret,' wailed the old man. 'Please do not kill me!'

Dace sheathed the knife, and gestured to the priest to leave. 'Go,' he said coldly. 'Welcome your guests.' As the old man shuffled past the warrior, Dace slammed a blow to the priest's neck which snapped with a loud crack. 'Let's go,' he told Duvodas.

'There was no need to kill them,' stormed Duvo.

'Look out of the window,' ordered Dace, and Duvodas did so. In the courtyard below, some twenty Daroth warriors had marched through the gates. 'You think any of these priests will be alive come dusk? Now let's find Sirano.'

With a heavy heart Duvodas followed Dace. The two men left the room and ran along the corridor. Finding a

set of stairs leading up, they took them two at a time. At the top was another corridor; moving along it they came to a spiral staircase. 'This place is like a rabbit warren,' said Dace. 'I can't tell where we are. Let us hope this is the way to the turret he spoke of.'

Running up the stairs they came to a bolted door. Dace opened it and stepped inside, but the room within was empty. He swore and moved to the window. There were three more turrets visible. 'Is there no magic you can use to find him?' he asked Duvodas.

The Singer shook his head. 'Not magic - but have you noticed only that turret window has bars?' he said, pointing across the courtyard. 'The question is, how to reach it.'

'That, at least, is simple,' said Dace, opening the window and climbing out on to the narrow sill. The courtyard was some sixty feet down, but below the window, to the right, was a parapet that connected the turrets. Dace tensed, then leapt the gap. Duvodas took a deep breath and climbed out. Closing his eyes, he made the jump. Dace grabbed him, hauling him to safety, then together they ran along the parapet, entering a small door and emerging into a narrow corridor and a second circular stair.

At the top they unbolted the door and stepped inside, where a man was lying in a pallet bed. His face was hideously burned on the left hand side. Pus was seeping from the ruined eye-socket, and his hair had been burned away. He was unconscious.

'He looks close to death,' said Dace. 'You want me to carry him through?'

'You are right. He is on the verge of death.' Duvodas unwrapped his harp and sat beside the bed. His fingers rippled across the strings and the scent of roses filled the room. 'What in Hell's name are you doing?' hissed Dace. 'The Daroth could be on their way here now!'

'Then watch out for them,' said Duvodas calmly. His fingers danced upon the strings.

Dace ran from the room and down the stairs. Far below, someone screamed. Moving to a window, he gazed down to see a priest staggering out into the courtyard, blood streaming from a gaping wound in his back. The huge figure of a Daroth moved slowly after him. Other screams began. 'Well,' said Dace softly, 'you were right about the end of the world. Your world, anyway.' To Dace the screams were more musical than the hideous noise coming from Duvo's harp. How, he wondered, could people enjoy such sounds?

'I do,' said Tarantio.

'Then you enjoy them, brother. Call me when killing is needed.' Dace faded back and Tarantio rose and moved back up the stairs. The wounded man was awake now. His face was still badly scarred, but the wounds were clean.

Sirano sat up. 'Who are you?' he asked.

'I am Duvodas and this is the warrior, Tarantio. We have come to find the Pearl. We must return it to the lands of the Eldarin. We must bring them back.'

'What are the screams I hear?'

'The Daroth are killing the priests.'

Sirano gestured to a canvas pack by the far wall. When Duvodas moved to it and opened the flap, the Eldarin Pearl lay there. Reaching into the bag Duvo tenderly stroked the surface, which was warm to the touch. His hand trembled. The Eldarin were here, trapped within an orb of pure magic together with their homes, their lands, the rivers and streams that fed the earth, and the forests where Duvo had played as a child. All existed beneath his palm. Reverently he closed the canvas flap. 'Now we can go,' he said, looping the bag over his shoulder. 'Now there is hope.'

'We can talk about hope back in Corduin,' said Tarantio. 'Are you ready, Duvodas?'

'Ready for what?'

'To get us back with your Oltor magic?'

'We must make it back to level ground,' Duvo told him. 'Otherwise we might appear a thousand feet above Corduin.'

Tarantio swore. In the courtyard below three priests had tried to reach the mountain path. A long spear plunged through the back of the first, pinning him to the gates. The second was almost cut in half by a swinging broadsword. The third, a young man, fell to his knees and begged for his life. A Daroth warrior grabbed him by the hair and dragged him back into the building. Tarantio drew back from the window. 'There is only one way out,' he said, 'and the Daroth are there. Our only chance is to find a rope to climb over the battlements.'

Sirano rose and put on his clothes, which were scorched, blackened and bloodstained. The three men left the room and made their way back to the parapet door. Tarantio stepped through and peered down into the courtyard. Five bodies lay there, blood drenching the snow around them. There were no sounds of screaming now. Swiftly Tarantio led the others across to a second door and along a corridor, stopping to look into each room. Moving silently down another flight of stairs, they came to a store-room where there were barrels of wine and ale, casks of dried fruit, sacks of salt and flour.

In the corner lay two coils of rope. Sounds of booted feet on stone came from outside, and the three men ran to the rear of the store-room, ducking down behind the barrels.

The door opened and two Daroth entered. Duvodas heard the hissing sound of their breathing, and was sure they could hear the pounding of his heart. A clicking noise sounded, and Duvodas heard the scraping of a sack on the stone. Then there was silence. Cautiously he peered over the barrels: the Daroth had gone.

'They wanted the salt,' whispered Tarantio. 'I would guess they are about to feed.'

'Maybe we can slip by them,' suggested Duvodas.

'I doubt it. Any time now they will find Sirano gone; then they will search the monastery. Our best chance is to use the ropes and slip over the battlements.'

'They will be able to see us from the main building,' objected Sirano.

'You have any other suggestions?' Tarantio asked.

'Let them find me. Then you two can slip through the gate.'

Tarantio stared at the scarred young man. 'You want to die?' he asked.

'It holds no terrors for me. I brought the world to this. I destroyed the Eldarin and allowed the Daroth to live again. My city is destroyed, my people slain. Look at me. Disfigured and grotesque. Why should I fear to die?'

'He has a point,' said Dace. 'He is an ugly son of a bitch.'

'It is true that you have been responsible for great evil,' said Duvodas, 'but no man should ignore the possibility of redemption.'

'I don't want redemption,' declared Sirano. 'I want revenge! That will best be achieved if you succeed with the Pearl. The Eldarin can destroy the Daroth. They have the power.'

'Even if we brought them back, they might not do it,' said Duvodas. 'They are not killers.'

'The more fool them,' said Sirano. 'But at the least they could cage them again. You have magic. You understand the heat spell?'

'I do.'

'Good.' Sirano moved to the shelves on the back wall. There were scores of empty bottles there; he took down several and laid them on the floor. 'Apply great heat to the necks and melt them, making a complete seal,' he said.

'For what purpose?' asked Duvodas.

'Because I ask it.'

Duvodas knelt on the floor and held his hands over the neck of the first bottle. Tarantio watched as the blue glass neck swelled, then sagged over, melting like candle wax. When six bottles had been heated, Duvo glanced up at Sirano. 'Now what?' he asked.

'Now you leave me. Get as close to the gate as you can. You will know when the moment to leave has arrived.'

Sirano knelt by the sealed bottles and began to chant.

'Sorcery!' whispered Duvodas.

'Yes, sorcery,' answered Sirano wearily. 'Black, evil sorcery.' Looking up at Tarantio, he smiled. 'I will give you a gift, warrior. Let me have your swords.' Tarantio pulled his short swords clear and laid them by Sirano. The Duke of Romark lifted the first and sliced the blade along his left palm. Blood welled and he smeared the blade with it. The chant began again. The blood on the sword hissed and bubbled, and the blade shimmered and shone like polished silver. Cutting his right palm, Sirano repeated the process with the second sword. 'Be careful as you sheath them,' he said.

'Why?' asked Tarantio.

Sirano lifted a sword and lightly swung it at a barrel filled with dried fruit. The blade sliced through the wood as easily as a wire through a round of cheese. Dried apricots spilled from the barrel. 'As I said, sheath them with care. Now leave me.'

Carefully Tarantio scabbarded the blades, then took Duvodas by the arm. 'It is his life,' he said. 'Let him live it - or lose it - as he will.'

As they reached the door Sirano's voice called out. 'Tell me, who is in charge of Corduin's defences?'

'Karis,' answered Tarantio.

Sirano smiled. 'Give her a message for me. The Daroth burn like wax. Naked fire is a terror to them.'

The two men stepped into the corridor and silently made their way to the ground floor. Ahead of them was the door to the courtyard. Bodies lay sprawled in the corridor; Tarantio noted that all of them were older men.

'What now?' whispered Duvodas.

'Now we wait,' said Tarantio.