The Twilight herald

CHAPTER 26

'General, the scouts have returned,' Second Lieutenant Mehar re¬ported.

General Jebehl Gort looked up from the map into the anxious face of his aide, hovering at a respectful distance. Behind the lieutenant, Gort could see the dark outline of Scree, crowned by torches that burned unhindered by any evening breeze. From all around him came the sounds of an army camp going about its business, but to his experienced ear it was worryingly quiet. Soldiers preparing for battle tended to act in certain ways, and this wasn't normal. His men were subdued and apprehensive; they gathered in small knots, talking quietly in shaky voices that betrayed their fear. They had heard what was happening in Scree, and now they were asking themselves how there could be any victory over a city of madmen.

There was another worrying detail: the absence of background noise in fields that should have some life – most creatures fled before an army, but it was disconcerting to hear absolutely nothing, not even the wind. They were an island adrift in unearthly seas.

The shadows of twilight thickened steadily beyond the pickets, reminding Gort of a rhyme he'd heard as a child, spying on his fa¬ther as he sat drinking with old comrades late into the night. Those powerful, proud men were the reason he'd followed in his father's footsteps and joined the Knights of the Temples, but that night there had been no drunken singing or horse-play; that night they'd behaved like they were in mourning. One of them, a bear of a man from Embere, had repeated again and again a sad little rhyme in his own language.

Gort's father had whispered a few lines:

Shadows rise and faithful fall,

The readers.sing and the lady comes

With ashes in her hair and secrets in her hand…

Those words had echoed through Gort's dreams for many years, not just because of the strange atmosphere that night, but also because of the ghastly look on his father's face as he spoke. He had never seen that side of his father again.

He shook the mood from him; this wasn't the time to indulge in childish fears. He needed to look strong for his men, both noble and common-born alike. His aide had the right idea: despite the swelter¬ing conditions, Lieutenant Mehar looked positively resplendent in his formal armour. As an aide to a general of the Knights of the Temples, he had to stand out among the soldiery, so his brass-plated cuirass, vambraces and greaves were all spotless and shining.

Look at him, the general thought, another sign of how the order has lost its way. He must dress that exact same way every day he is on duty, while I go into battle wearing antiquated scale-mail because the Codex of Ordinance dictates it. He shook his head. And my second-in-command could order me flogged if I decided to wear a cuirass. We really have lost our way in this Land; 1 hope Lord Isak can restore us to the true path. He sighed and turned back to the young man.

'What do the scouts say, Lieutenant?'

'The remaining mercenary armies are marching on the southern gate of the city, General.'

Gort caught the attention of his second-in-command, General Chotech, and beckoned. The Chetse dismissed the men he'd been talking to and hurried over.

'General, you should hear this; the mercenaries are on their way to the Foxport. Lieutenant, what was their order?'

'I'm not sure, sir.' The lieutenant coughed nervously. 'The scouts were vague; they said the mercenaries had no order. I presume they meant both armies were attacking.'

'They're attacking?' General Chotech spluttered. 'Has everyone in this damned place gone insane?'

it appears that way,' Gort said levelly, 'but I would remind you, Lieutenant, not to interpret what you expect men of the line to mean from what they say; soldiers may be an excitable breed, but scouts (end to be veterans and most of 'em have a modicum of sense.' He sighed as the chastised aide nodded dumbly. 'However, you could be correct; i(they were marching as reinforcements for the city garrisons, one would expect a little more order. What the locals have told us appears to be true; the people of Scree have forsaken sanity and the Gods. They turn on each other like animals.'

'What are we going to do about it?' General Chotech asked.

Gort turned to his aide. 'Lieutenant, you are dismissed. If Major Ortof-Greyl has returned, please send him to us.'

The lieutenant gave a curt bow and left, looking unhappy at being ordered away.

Gort leaned closer to the Chetse. 'I believe we must also march on the city.'

'If we become embroiled in that mess there'll be no escaping until it's finished,' Chotech hissed.

'I know.' He scratched at his armpit as best he could though his scale-mail. Campaigning and an unremitting summer sun were not the best combination for an old man's hygiene, but the bath he yearned for would be a disgraceful waste of water. 'I don't believe we have a choice. We are the Knights of the Temples and we have a clear duty.'

'General, I understand your point,' Chotech insisted, 'but we have only six thousand soldiers here; Siala must have at least fifteen thousand to defend the walls, while we do not even know who's com¬manding those two armies marching on the south. They might not be taking their orders from anyone!'

'I agree. Whoever is leading them – and no matter what we've heard, I can't believe the White Circle would be quite so foolish as to put Raylin in charge of whole legions – they must have decided it is time to salvage what booty they can, while something of Scree still remains. I can't believe any mercenary would agree to march into a burning city to defend it.'

'A move driven by desperation, then. Their supplies must have run out and their commander has realised to keep them together he must give a reason.'

'Exactly, a move that could prove disastrous once they're inside the city.' General Gort broke off as he saw a man labouring through the gloom towards them: Major Ortof-Greyl was struggling to reach them with the aid of a crutch under his right shoulder. As he neared, they could see that his face was bloodied and his mail torn.

'Gods, what happened, man?' Gort exclaimed. 'Did you speak to Lord Isak?'

'No, sir,' Ortof-Greyl replied, panting heavily. Lieutenant Mehar trailed behind the major, plainly confused. The aide, not privy to the secrets of their group, had no idea why the major had been sent to the Farlan Army camp in the first place. 'I only got as far as the out¬riders.'

'And they did this to you?' Gort said, gesturing to the younger man's head wound.

'They did. I asked for an audience with Lord Isak and they refused outright; they wouldn't even take me to their commanding officer. I'd gone ahead of my two guards and before they could make up the ground, the scouts had given me a kicking and ridden off.'

'Do you know why?'

'No sir, but I suspect Lord Isak is not with them,' the major said, casting an uncomfortable glance at the lieutenant. 'Their bluster was hiding something, I'm certain of it.'

'Major, the scouts say the full complement of Palace Guard is with that army, and a large number of nobles and hurscals; surely the core of the Farlan Army would not be here without their lord? No, it must be a miscommunication; Lord Isak would not want his nobles to think that any sort of agreement had been made until he understands our motivations.' He gave a dry laugh. And it's not as though any Farlan noble would believe what had really taken place was a selfless act; they probably wouldn't even understand the concept.'

'Yes sir,' the major replied with a short bow. The man clearly dis¬agreed, but he knew when not to argue. 'What are your orders?'

Gort looked at Chotech. As I was saying, we must not forget we are Knights of the Temples. Whether we succeed in bringing order to Scree or not, we cannot stand back and do nothing; you took the same oath as I did: "Defenders of the faith, a bond greater than blood or nation." It is our duty to the Gods, and whether the citizens of Scree have abandoned the Gods or not, I will die before I do so.'

His second-in-command gave a heavy sigh and leaned over the map laid out in front of them. 'You're right, of course. Priests murdered on stage for the entertainment of the mob, and hunted down on the streets like dogs? We cannot allow this to continue. It's only a matter of time before the Six Temples District is razed. Whatever evil is fuel¬ling this madness, we cannot stand aside.'

'Good; prepare the men. We will secure a section of the city and hold it. The New Barbican, I think – that's the closest, according to our intelligence, and we don't want to be moving any further through that city than we have to. Then a second area surrounding and protecting the Six Temples District. General Chotech, I doubt the garrison of the New Barbican is large, but it's the strongest gate. I need you to prepare an assault that can take it before reinforcements arrive-'

Gort broke off suddenly as a dull clang rang out. The three men looked up as a second sonorous peal echoed through the camp.

'Call to stations?' he wondered aloud as nearby groups of soldiers split up and marched off to their assembly grounds. From either side of his tent, half a dozen soldiers dressed in white-lacquered heavy armour rushed up with their swords drawn and fanned out around the general. They were his bodyguards, and they were reacting to the ponderous ringing of call to stations exactly as specified in the Codex of Ordinance. If it had been the furious clatter of the attack alarm, everyone in the camp would be reaching for their weapons.

'Lieutenant, find out what's going on,' Gort called.

The lieutenant bobbed his head in acknowledgement and marched away, but before he could reach the line of tents ringing the command tent, a young soldier – scarcely more than a boy, swamped in his stud¬ded jerkin – burst through.

'General Gort, message from the advance scouts!' the soldier yelled at the top of his voice. 'The Farlan are advancing!'

Gort instinctively turned towards where the Farlan had been camped, but the fall of night concealed any dust trail or movement he might be able to see. He motioned for his bodyguards to let the boy through and forced himself to stand straight and calm while the youth fought to regain his breath.

'Sir, the Farlan are moving towards the city in advance formation.'

'Not towards us?' Chotech blurted in surprise.

'No, sir, towards the Autumn's Arch gate.' Once the young soldier had regained his composure he seemed to remember who he was now talking to. 'The foot legion of the Ghosts are in front, ready to assault the gate, but the remainder are lined up in columns.'

'Columns? They're not expecting serious resistance then,' Gort said. 'But why are they attacking at all?' He paused, then suddenly slammed his fist down onto the map-table. 'Damn it, of course! Ortof-Greyl, you were absolutely right; Lord Isak isn't with his troops, he's already in the city. That's why they're not worried about assaulting the city, Lord Isak is waiting inside with a few elite squads to take them by surprise; it's the only explanation.'

'Your orders, sir?' Chotech asked.

Gort was silent for a while, his face twisted into a scowl. 'It makes no difference. We have no choice; we must march on the New Barbican and try once again to make it clear we are not Lord Isak's enemies. General Chotech, take a party – and the major, if you're up to riding, young man – and approach the Farlan. They won't dare beat up a general. If they won't take you to their commander, send them back with a message and return.'

'And the message?'

'That we are Knights of the Temples, sworn to protect holy ground from desecration. That we intend to march on the city and protect the temples. Our men will have orders to consider the Farlan allies against the common foe unless attacked and I ask that they send a deputation to us at their convenience.'

'Yes sir.' Chotech strode off towards his own tent where his horse was waiting, already saddled. Major Ortof-Greyl struggled along behind.

'Lieutenant Mehar,' General Gort snapped. The lieutenant jumped, wary of further rebuke, but the general was looking out over the heads of his army, towards the walls of Scree. 'Get the men ready to attack.'

Set apart from the clank of steel and the urgent calling of men, he sat in the dark peace of an empty room, alone with thoughts that echoed the chaos outside. His head throbbed with the surging energies in the air: magic and the voices of the dying, the shrieks of the mad and their brutal desire to kill. He could smell it all; that desire he knew as well as the rage coursing through his body that left his hands quivering. He'd sought this place out in desperation, fleeing from the animal stirring inside as the badgering questions broke in a tidal wave over him. As the army had marched in through the gate, the nobles and officers had all crowded around him as soon as they could with a thousand questions and requests, all completely unaware of the effect Scree had had on him, or the news he'd just received.

I lore there were only bare floorboards, split and warped with age. A shutter clung grimly to the window frame by one last rusty hinge. A curtain hanging over the doorway was the same grey as the walls in the weak light. There was nothing to disturb or distract as he sat on the floor with his silver blade across his lap, listening to the ragged movement of breath through his tight throat. He closed his eyes and listened to his own heart beating, counting out the pauses between inhaling and exhaling, bringing the wild gasping once more under control, just as Carel had taught him all those years ago.

Slowly his hand began to uncurl from a fist and the great hammer¬ing of his heart calmed to a steady thump. The pressure behind his eyes subsided a little and he felt a flush of relief. For all the monstrous side of his soul raged and blustered, it could still be reigned in by the human side. The comfort was meagre, but in darkness, any tiny thread of light was to be embraced.

Isak opened his eyes and ran a finger down the smooth blade of the sword in his lap. The whispery echo of magic tingled on his fingertips as he brushed the invisible runes that had been beaten into the silver, but he hardly noticed. His thoughts were fixed on the events of the last half-hour.

Grave news, my Lord. The voice echoed through his head like an accusation. Had he known that it would come one day? Had he been wilfully negligent?

It had been a simple enough thing to cow the defenders of the Autumn's Arch gate into surrendering; half were nothing more than frightened city guard, suddenly facing a straight assault from the Ghosts of Tirah. The poorly trained men from Scree had grown up with the threat of the Farlan on their border, and they'd all heard stories of the prowess of the Ghosts, a professional legion the city could not hope to match. When Isak had appeared in the street behind them with a spitting corona of raw magic blazing about him, Mariq adding to the display before being joined by King Emin's pair of mages, most had simply broken and run. Those who surrendered he'd sent south to the Greengate to join Zhia Vukotic's motley army – by the time General Lahk had ridden up to the gate, it had been clear of defenders and unbarred.

Isak gritted his teeth and took another moment to will his hand to unclench from around Eolis' hilt. It had been a strange meeting, that one: General Lahk at the head of a column of soldiers who roared a greeting to their lord, while a small party of liveried suzerains followed on the general's heels, all looking buoyed and elated at the taste of battle in the air. By contrast, the witch's companion, Fernal, had been disturbingly silent. Fernal's monstrous bulk made the mounted men beside him look small, fragile, even, and even the Ghosts greeting their comrades in Isak's guard had fallen silent when Isak and Fernal stood face to face. The contrasts and parallels made every man present catch his breath and wonder what would happen.

Fernal was of a size with Isak but, unlike Isak, he looked far from human – it wasn't just the deep blue of his skin, which faded into the evening gloom; the thick mane of hair that fell from his head and neck, framed a fierce lupine face with blackness and highlighted the white gleam of his eyes and curved fangs. Where Isak was clad in his armour and long white cape, Fernal wore no clothes, save for the tat¬tered cloak that hung loose on his shoulders and served as a reminder to anyone watching – or perhaps to himself – that he was not some mindless creature from the Waste. He carried no weapons, and kept his taloned fingers turned inward, away from Isak.

For a few precious moments the two had regarded each other as proud equals, then they had exchanged a respectful nod. Fernal had bowed low and introduced himself in a smooth, deep voice that had sent a wave of relief rippling out through the watching rank and file. The sound had clearly unnerved Fernal; he straightened quickly with a hunted look in his eye that made the nearest soldiers freeze, as though they had heard the hiss of an ice cobra.

Isak stepping forward to clasp Fernal by the arm had broken the tense moment, but the son of Nartis had been clearly relieved when Isak turned to the other men and he was able to slip back into a dark ‹ i irner where the witch awaited him.

It had been with relief and a welcome smile that Isak had finally taken General Lahk by the wrist after the strange formalities with Fernal. Only then had he seen the troubled look in Lahk's eye, anxiety in the face of a man legendary for his lack of emotion.

Grave news, my Lord.

In that moment he'd felt the air change around him, suddenly laden with boiling energy.

This should have been foreseen and prevented. Chief Steward Lesarl apologies for not pressing the matter further with you.

His throat had dried. Any feeble attempt at a reply went as the general ploughed on, almost as if afraid to pause for breath before he'd finished.

Your father, my Lord, he had said quietly. Your father is missing, taken.

Isak could feel it bubbling under his skin: that restless nag of guilt and anger, made worse by the fact it had no outlet. The only person

he could find to blame was himself. He was the one with the power – he was the one who'd failed to recognise there could be a threat. His father Horman was as wilful and proud as he was. The antagonism between them had been constant, but it hadn't really mattered before Isak had become one of the Chosen. Now their relationship was a matter of state: a tool for insurrection, or for another nation's use against him.

But that wasn't what haunted Isak; it was the damage that followed in his wake. First Carel, lying sick and enfeebled in a bed, missing an arm; and Vesna with that broken look in his eyes – both men were seasoned campaigners, but they had been indelibly scarred by Isak's company. Now his father, who'd not even wanted to be a part of Isak's new life, was paying the price for his association. He was Chosen, and cursed. Would the rare gift of his friendship exact a similar toll on everyone?

Isak winced as the fire behind his eyes threatened again and the insistent spark of magic swelled in his palms. This almost primaeval feeling welled out from his gut, begging to wreak havoc, to tear the house apart, to do anything – just to distract him from the guilt which threatened to drown him.

'Do not blame yourself for the actions of others,' said a voice inside his head. Isak's eyes flew open in alarm. The witch of Llehden was stand¬ing in the doorway, motionless. Even the rise and fall of her breath was imperceptible. Ehla reminded him of the statues from his dreams of the White Isle: timeless and forbidding, yet calming, still.

The dreams of the White Isle, and Bahl's death there… they hadn't returned since they had come true. Nowadays his nights were more fragmented, jagged shapes in his mind, scraps of Aryn Bwr's brutalised memories, mingled with his own fears for the future. Apart from when Xeliath chose to visit him, Isak dreaded his dreams. The familiar trepidation of the White Isle was almost preferable now.

'Who else am I to blame?' he said aloud.

'What use is blame?'

Isak's hand tightened, but he kept his anger contained. 'What in the name of Ghenna do you mean by that?'

'Blame serves no purpose other than to fuel the fire inside you.' Ehla's face softened somewhat. 'Don't focus on who is to blame, or who should bear guilt for what has happened. Care about rectifying the matter, not stumbling over it.'

'I'm Lord of the Farlan,' Isak said in a controlled voice. 'Despite what some think of me I've learned a little of what that means. I know my duty to the tribe is more important, but such things cannot go unanswered or we will appear-'

'Duty to the tribe?' the witch scoffed. 'No wonder there are so few warlocks in the Land if all men are so blind. A man thinks he is a great lord if he sacrifices himself to duty to the tribe, never once thinking that the tribe is better served if he recognises the duty he has to himself.' She squatted down suddenly to be on Isak's level, her fierce gaze seeking his. 'Blind faith in duty will drain you as surely as a vampire, and leave you nothing more than a dead husk. Your lord knew that, did he not? Lord Bahl knew that it would, use him up and spit him out, suck the very marrow of his being and leave only dry, broken bones.'

'"Your blood, your pain, shed for those who neither know of it nor care,'" Isak mumbled, remembering Bahl's warning when Isak had first strapped on the last king's armour. The taste of magic buzzing through that underground chamber, the rasp of a dragon's scales running over the Stone floor. The old lord had warned him that those close to him were in danger, so why had he not listened?

Ehla cocked her head. 'He said that to you? So he knew what it was doing to him, and he warned you against it. Xeliath tells me he died in the Palace on the White Isle, searching for a Crystal Skull.'

'He was driven to it,' Isak said, suddenly desperate to defend Bahl's decision though he knew it had been foolish. 'A necromancer drove him there so that Kastan Styrax could kill him.'

'And before he went, he warned you not to become the same as he, not to make the mistakes he could not help but make. He gave himself to guilt and grief; lost himself in duty until there was nothing left of the man he'd once been, only the lord. He didn't want you to fail in that duty as he had.'

Isak leapt up, Eolis flashing through the twilight as he cried out angrily. Ehla did not back out of range of his sword's terrible gleam but faced him down with an expression of calm determination, raising a hand to stop whoever was behind her in the corridor. Isak felt a flood of magic course through his body as he realised it was Fernal there, watching over the one he'd sworn to protect.

'There is no need for anger; you do not curse him by accepting that as a man he had faults. They are as much a part of a man as his qualities and they tell far more about his character.' She took a step forward, close enough to reach out and put a comforting hand on Isak's arm.

For a moment he thought she was going to touch him, to pass on her serenity, perhaps, but she made no more movement towards him. He lowered the sword, ashamed of his temper.

'Accepting one's own faults is vital for any man, even more so for a lord. Without understanding what is inside you, it is impossible to understand the Land outside your mind; it is the filter through which you see every-thing.' She turned and walked away, so smoothly that she glided like a ghost, the tattered hem of her dress silently brushing the cracked floorboards.

Before she turned to go down the corridor, she paused to give Isak one last considered look. 'Look inside yourself, my Lord. Understand what lies within you first, and then you will look upon the Land with fresh eyes.'

Isak found himself unable to move as the witch departed. He heard the creak of the stairs as Fernal walked down them, and finally the bang of the door as they left the house and he was again alone in a silent oasis, separated from the others by the walls he'd placed within himself. It took him a while to realise his anger had all but vanished, like smoke on the breeze. The guilt remained; that could not be so easily erased, but now he was not consumed by the desire to destroy everything within reach he could think clearly. He undipped Eolis' leather scabbard from his belt and sheathed his sword before sitting down, this time with his back resting against the wall.

'Look inside? What would I find there?' he wondered aloud. 'A boy, pretending to be a king? A king, pretending to be a boy?' He grimaced. 'A beast straining at its shackles? Or all of them?'

He thought on Ehla's words. Fresh eyes. He needed to look upon the Land with fresh eyes. 'What I need fresh eyes for is this damned city, for a way to understand the madness here,' he said aloud.

And finally he realised the witch, intentionally or not, had been teaching him a lesson sorely needed, and guiding him towards the answers they had all been seeking, answers neither Zhia Vukotic nor King Emin could provide, but that might spell salvation for them all in the years to come.

Look within yourself.

Isak smiled and did so. There, he found fresh eyes.

So now, my chained dragon, he thought, before 1 go to kill Isherin Purn, I need your eyes. You've been hiding yourself away inside me ever since we arrived in Scree, as quiet as a mouse – or as a child hiding under the blankets. Like a king pretending to be a boy. Something here frightens you, doesn't it? Something on the air, something you recognise.

He stretched out his legs and placed Eolis between them.

So, tell me about Azaer.

Like flowing swathes of grey in the darkness, the mercenary armies surged over the shattered remains of the Foxport gates and into the city. Rojak watched them through failing eyes, sensing the frothing tide of hatred and petty jealousies, now inflated to monstrous propor¬tions by the theatre's spell, more than seeing the men themselves. He was propped against a cracked column, part of the once-grand entrance to the Merchants' Forum, and the building's prominent position gave him a fine view of his handiwork. The inrush of soldiers swept up the maddened flotsam of the city's population and drove it on through the channels of Scree's streets. He felt them in his veins, their energy forcing his weary heart to beat on, the violent movement rocking his dying body as viscous, sludgy blood filled his arteries and powered his muscles.

The Forum towered over the neighbouring buildings. The fire that had ravaged the fretwork roofs around the central courtyard and devoured the beams holding them up could do nothing about the fat Stone platform the Forum stood on. On one of the steps, where blood had pooled in the worn-away centre and dried to form a cracked lake-bed, a figure lounged contentedly. She watched her own handiwork with a girlish self-satisfaction, looking back at Rojak every minute or so to ensure he was appreciating how prettily her blazes were light¬ing a path through the city. Flitter had cast off her delicate theatre clothes in favour of a stained tunic and hauberk, but there was still an intangible femininity about her carriage that Rojak recognised as something that would have stirred him in those years before Azaer called him to service.

He did not give her the satisfaction of appreciating the fires, instead forcing his face into a mask that hid his approval. He could feel her annoyance growing at his lack of reaction. Through the pain in his chest, a flicker of pleasure still shone. At one stage they had all as¬sumed they could manipulate him. One by one, Rojak had dismissed their efforts. Flitter was simply slow in realising that she was nothing compared to him, her fires were paltry in comparison to the conflagra-lions lie bad wrought. Only by the light ol the coming dawn would Scree be seen as the sculptured masterpiece over which he alone had laboured.

'It is time,' Rojak croaked. His throat was a ruin; speaking was a rapturous agony that sparked every nerve in his body, one that would soon culminate in the final pain of his demise. Not death, never death, he thought with the twist of a smile. The loss of his body was in¬evitable, even necessary, considering the runes cut into his festering flesh that echoed those once painted on the theatre's walls, and the ultimate goal of that spell. But he would not die.

I will be spared the gross indignity of that empty beings final judgment.

He gave a cough and saw Flitter looking up at him. Clearly the ruin in his throat had made him difficult to understand. No matter. As he tried to push away from the pillar, one of the Hounds saw his intent and scampered to help. The creature's arms were like polished oak under his body and he submitted gratefully, letting it bear most of his weight down the two dozen steps to the street below.

'Where are you going?' Flitter asked, appearing in a blur on the cobbled road before him. Rojak kept his eyes on the street. She had always moved faster than he could see, even when he was healthy.

'We go to finish our task.'

'But surely it's done?' she said.

The remaining Hounds joined them, stepping out from the shadows to surround Flitter. The woman paled and instinctively slipped her fingers around the hilts of her hooked knives as the Hounds stared in¬scrutably at her with their large black eyes. Her eyes flickered between the two she could see and strained to focus on the one just on the periphery of her vision. When at last her nerve broke and she turned to face it, the movement prompted all the Hounds to grin wolfishly and lope off down the street.

Only the one assisting Rojak remained, and the minstrel knew which of them, dog or master, Flitter was most frightened of. He could feel her eyes on him as he watched the Hounds trotting through the dark and snuffling at the air, as though there were horrors worse than them in Scree.

'What else would you have me do?' Flitter asked, looking cowed. 'I thought driving the people towards the abbot was all you intended.'

'Merely a means to an end,' Rojak whispered, 'as is everything in this city.' He took a tentative step forward, his helper as gentle and tender as a nursemaid. 'They will not hurt the abbot, only frighten him into doing something foolish.'

'They will tear him apart!' Flitter said. 'The Skull will not protect him against thousands who are so lost to madness they do not under¬stand fear.'

'They will not harm him,' Rojak asserted, wincing at having to repeat his words. 'I have another plan for the abbot, and when it comes to fruition I must be there.'

'To do what?'

Rojak stopped and looked deep into her eyes. They widened in horror as he looked deep into her soul. Her mouth fell open to shriek but no sound came, only a tremble of air from her shuddering lungs.

'To do our lord's will,' he hissed.

Leaving Flitter shaking and gasping, Rojak and his Hound started off down the street again. In the distance he heard hollering voices, discordant sounds of no meaning against the background of the grow¬ing crackle of flames. On his cheek he felt a breath of wind as Hit's zephyrs tentatively crossed the boundaries he'd raised and once more explored the avenues of Scree.

He smiled. His strength had been too meagre to maintain that blockade any longer, but the wind's return would serve him as well as its absence had. Flitter's fires were burning quickly now. The newly returned breezes brought him a taste of their soot and he knew it wouldn't be long before it carried sparks and heat as well. The place¬ment had been careful, sending the throngs of people east towards the abbot and the soldiers of the Greengate; now they would spread the flames throughout Scree as well.

He heard footsteps behind him, Flitter hurrying to catch up, calling out as she did, 'Rojak, they've seen us! Not all went that way, there are some behind us.'

He could hear the panic in her voice, which was understandable; they'd watched the common folk of Scree tear each other apart with a frenzy even Rojak could scarcely believe. The cruelty in the hearts of men, he thought to himself. How we underestimate it. Master, you are the only one who sees them for what they truly are.

'Do not be afraid,' he said as clearly as he could. 'I am the herald of their saviour; they will not harm us.'

Flitter appeared in front of him again, forcing Rojak to stop abruptly. 'Are you sure? They're coming after us,' she said anxiously, looking over his shoulder.

'Foolish girl,' Rojak said, 'why are you afraid? None of them could catch you, and I have already told you that I am safe.'

With difficultly he turned. Twenty yards down the street a pack of a dozen or so people were scrabbling towards them with savage intent, some on all fours, like the animals they had become. They closed the distance quickly. Rojak could see the twisted face of the leader, a large man with a gross hanging belly, criss-crossed with scratches, rattling a long club on the ground before him as though it was a blind man's cane. Part of his lip was torn away to expose the bloodied teeth underneath, but his eyes never left Rojak as he advanced. The minstrel recognised avarice there. Greed and envy were his favourite of man's weaknesses.

Even after all this, Rojak marvelled, even after the curses I have placed upon these people, the vestiges of humanity remain; the arrogance, the envy, the foolish desires – curses of the Gods that they do not recognise in the faces of all those around them. Oh, how their weaknesses rule them.

As the group neared, they faltered. The Hound supporting Rojak snarled furiously; not yet letting go of the minstrel's arm but tensing under him, readying for the fight. Rojak stared at the big man, daring the mad-eyed wretch to come closer – and astonishingly, he did, shuf¬fling nearer until Rojak could smell his foetid breath.

The man's eyes darted between Rojak's face and his chest – the augury chain, Rojak realised. He was careful not to break the man's gaze. His body was too frail to chance anything. One hasty swipe could pitch him to the ground, never to rise again. Soon, soon he could allow that, but to come so close and be undone by nothing more than a bold animal- He took a calming breath. That could not be permitted.

The leader of the pack sniffed nervously, as if unnerved by the odour of decay that overlaid his own base stench, and reached out a tentative hand. The fingernails were torn and bloody, one ripped off entirely, and the man's fingers twitched and trembled uncertainly. The minstrel summoned enough strength to squeeze the Hound's arm, keeping the creature still.

At last he broke eye contact and looked down. The man was brush¬ing a wondering finger against Death's coin, then his hand began to close about it. He didn't even notice the shadow falling over them, the deepening dark of night that enveloped Rojak. He chuckled and the man froze, arm poised to grip the coin and wrench the chain off him.

'If it is death you want,' he began.

'Then death you shall have,' finished a cruel voice from all about them.

The man let the coin fall from his fingers and staggered back, fall¬ing fearfully to his knees.

'To touch my herald is to ask to share in his blessings,' the shadow continued, and a note of pleasure crept in to its voice. 'So you shall.'

The man gave a distressed wheeze and fell down, his legs sprawled out before him and a look of horror on his face. He raised his hand and a desperate keening rose in his throat. Rojak smelled the familiar corruption on the air as he watched the man's finger start to fester. Fat blisters of pus grew and burst all over his hand. The man howled and swatted frantically at his hand as the pustules swiftly worked their way down towards his blackening elbow, but he succeeded only in spreading the contagion onto his left hand.

He fell onto his back, limbs spasming as the blisters popped and hissed on his skin, spattering a foul paste of blood-streaked pus over his belly that began to distend and strain at the skin. His companions were almost yelping in fear; screaming, they fled into the side streets, leaving the man to his unnatural fate.

Rojak hardly noticed, for his bright eyes were fixed on the crumbling figure before him. Fingers curled and fell to the floor like fat maggots tossed into a fire; the man gurgled in terror as he writhed at Rojak's feet. Distantly, he heard Flitter spewing onto the street and the sound sparked a laugh in his belly.

At last, the decaying shape before him stopped squirming as what remained of the man's life fled under Azaer's touch. He watched the remains a little longer, then, with a fastidious sniff, he turned and let the Hound support him as he set off once more on his final mission.

Up ahead, somewhere in the streets where they were heading, Rojak felt the pulse of a colossal surge of magic arc through the air. It shook the very ground under his feet, and was followed by a bright while flash, then a crash of thunder, like a raging giant – then a sud¬den, terrible silence.

Rojak shuffled on, eyes half closed as he felt the enormous swell of luffering ring out through the city that was so closely linked to his own hotly.

'Abbot Doren, little black-winged bird snug in your nest, so glad you could make your presence felt,' he said softly, as though whispering

into the ear of a beloved child. Against the dark swathe of sky lit by bloody flickering spots, the first screams began. Rojak's tongue flashed out to taste the air, as though he found some lascivious delight in the mingled corruption and rising stench of fear.

In the distance, coal-black clouds obeyed his summons and drew closer.

'Our sheep have gone to fold and the night has no more need of its herald; let the final act begin,' he murmured.

'So tell me about Azaer.'

'Azaer.' The word came back no louder than a whisper, fomenting a buzz of fear that rippled from Aryn Bwr, through Isak's body and out into the city beyond.

'You do not know what you ask.'

'I'm asking for knowledge – and surely I need not remind you that I'm all that stands between you and Death's final judgment.'

'Threats, from a whelp?1 the last king replied with scorn. 'I had legions burning under my hand, Gods screaming their last at my feet.'

'And for that, the deepest pit of the Dark Place has your name carved above its entrance,' Isak said. He had heard there were daemons that restlessly walked the Land searching for the soul of Aryn Bwr, trailing the chains with which they would bind him, if ever they found the enemy of the Gods. He hoped that was just a myth – his own enemies were plentiful enough without vengeful daemons joining their ranks.

'I hear them,' Aryn Bwr said, as if in answer to Isak's thought, until Isak realised he meant only the creatures of the Dark Place. 'I hear them singing my name in the twilight'

'Even here? Amidst all this?'

'They are with me always, and still I fear to know more of Azaer.'

'And yet you won't tell me what you do know about Azaer – what does the shadow hold over you?' Isak asked in amazement.

'Morghien knows. That scarred wanderer was broken when his soul fell under the shadow. To look Azaer in the face is to allow the shadow to see your soul, to look right through you. Your threats are merely of pain and the emptiness of death.'

Suddenly Isak understood. His breath caught as the heat of Scree fell away from his awareness. 'Not just to be faced with the void, but to have the void stare back at you.'

'Azaer is no daemon, no God, no mortal. Look Azaer in the face and you see a horror no daemon could imagine, the part of you that exists in the void.'

'But what is Azaer?' Isak insisted, disturbed as much by the horrific reverence in Aryn Bwr's voice as his words. The most accomplished, the most highly blessed – no matter what he had done with those blessings – of mortals, and Aryn Bwr was in awe of a shadow?

'I have no answers for you there.'

'You must know something. You've stayed hidden all the time I've been in Scree; you're afraid of something in this city. I think your paths have crossed before.'

For a moment there was complete silence. Then-

'Whispers… Shadows speaking to me from a cloudless sky while the stars watched and the moons hid. Long in the night, deep in the night, in the height of summer during the Wars of the Houses, and I, barely adult, yet leading my House's armies, I walked the pickets when 1 could not sleep and found 1 was alone in that. Even the sentries were beyond rousing, though they stood still at their posts. 1 could see dawn lightening the sky on the horizon, but the Land was still dark, so dark that even the shadows had voices.'

Azaer spoke to you?' Isak spoke softly, hesitating to interrupt.

'Perhaps it was a dream, but what figment of the living mind would reveal such truths? These were terrible truths, truths that would change the face of the Land for ever, leading me down paths 1 had feared to tread, and showing me my own soul, its true shape and shine.'

'Paths within you, or hidden places?' Isak asked. 'Why did the shadow come to you? What made you special?'

'Why do shadows do what they do, go where they go? Shadows follow the living, witness to our deepest secrets. The shadow found me because I was the one to be found – even so young, my genius was lauded by all. What use to tell secrets to fools? Even in darkness, the shadows will follow.

'The blinkers were taken from my eyes. Azaer does not lie – Azaer can¬not lie, for if you draw the shadows back, you reveal what is hidden. The shadows illuminate the path, they do not force one to take it, and certainly not one such as I, born to change all and leave Gods broken in my wake. Fools forge weapons to their own devices, I learned that before my tenth season, when my uncle showed me the mysteries of fire and metal. This you already know to be true: iron and stone have their shapes within them, and those shapes should never be denied. Not all steel should become a sword.'

Sudden laughter rang through Isak's head, so fleeting that he wondered if the last vestiges of sanity Aryn Bwr had retained were gone forever.

Then the voice returned with a chilling clarity. 'You above all know this to be true: you, the weapon both men and Gods tried to forge to their own ends, resulting in – well, not what was wanted. Azaer does not forge, but Azaer can see the shape within, because it itself lacks mortal flesh.'

'Where did the shadow lead you?' Isak asked.

'Deep, deep into darkness, down paths that had not been there under Tsatach's fiery eye.'

'Where?' Isak insisted, desperate for concrete information. This mystical litany was beginning to try his patience.

'No place mere mortals could find,' the dead spirit said, oblivious now to everything except his memories, 'no place to be found, except at twilight, where one world meets the next; between the edges of what we know and what we fear. We were three days' ride from where 1 would build Keriabral, on lands my House controlled, though I never found that barrow again. It was outside of time, the link between this life and what lies past Death's final judgment.'

'A barrow,' Isak said, sensing they were getting somewhere useful, 'so you were underground?'

'Down into darkness, into the bowels of the Land, the heart of the Land, a point of balance, a place of harmony and standing stones. Deep; so deep I feared going further would bring me to the six ivory gates of Ghenna itself

'And what did you find?'

'Gifts, links in a chain, twelve means to a thousand ends.'

'Twelve gifts… and there was no price for these gifts?' Isak asked hoarsely. He could guess what they were now, for this was a scrap of history that made sense at last. Aryn Bwr had been a mage-smith of great power, but weapons that struck fear in the Gods themselves? The ballads and stories of that age told how Aryn Bwr had forged the twelve Crystal Skulls and made gifts of them to his allies. Nowhere did it say how he had managed this, nor from what he had forged them.

'A fool's price, a fool's soul. I paid nothing, but I knew I would not wit¬ness the Land I re-forged. I strove for a legacy and it was that they tore from me. I was never driven down the path, only shown the one 1 would choose. My actions were predicted, anticipated, by hateful shadows that whisper and laugh in the night… they knew they would have me one day. They were always watching, always waiting, ever-patient for their prize.' He broke off suddenly and Isak felt a chill breeze run through his head.

'In a moment of desperation, 1 gave it, in return for petty revenge,' Aryn Bwr said at last.

'Revenge?'

A memory stirred, one Isak recognised from his dreams. A great fortress crowned by towers as massive as the one he had come to know so well in Tirah: Castle Keriabral, Aryn Bwr's fortress, where he should have died – until, in a last desperate act, he'd called out a name and secured a completely different fate.

'I remember,' Isak said, subdued. Pain and grief flowed from the dead king's spirit now. It took Isak a moment to shake off the anguish and pursue his original line of questioning.

'What does Azaer want? What links the Skulls to the destruction of Scree?'

'Deeds done openly betray little; done in the shadows, they speak the truth.'

Isak hesitated. All this could be misdirection? Thousands of people are going to die – have already died. It cannot be so simple. If Azaer has had only a light hand in events, then it most likely hasn't the strength to become more involved – this change in tactics means either it's growing stronger, or it's taking a risk.'

He tailed off as he tried to understand it all. For the hundredth time since his elevation, first to Krann and then to Lord of the Farlan, he cursed his own ignorance. He'd stolen time whenever he could to struggle his way through impenetrable scrolls and ancient books. He was not one who found pleasure in reading, but he knew the worth of knowledge. He had begun to associate the scent of leather bindings with a yearning for the breeze in his hair, and the feel of the rough parchment under his fingers brought on a sense of dread, a precursor to the stilted, ritualistic style of writing that invariably fogged his mind.

'It can't be,' Isak muttered, more to himself than Aryn Bwr.

'All deeds serve a purpose,' the dead king replied solemnly, 'but what use can shadows have of grand gestures!'

In short, careful phases they came within sight of the barricade. They were all listening hard for voices: signs of panic, sudden shouts, anything that might signal the order to attack. Doranei looked at the half-dozen wooden houses blazing away on his left, casting long

shadows over King Emin's painfully small company. The men made their way down the middle of the street in three neat columns. They marched smartly, keeping in formation, their best defence against the barricade's defenders. Even so, every one of the Brotherhood had an ear cocked for that first whistle of an arrow shaft.

'Your Majesty.'

Doranei didn't need to turn his head to know it was Beyn, on their right flank, who'd spoken. The street was silent aside from their quiet footsteps and his voice carried easily.

'Something in the shadows,' Beyn said.

'Something?' the king echoed.

'Figure; too quick to see properly, but tall, not a citizen.'

'Hooded and cloaked in white? Watching us?'

'Yes, all in white. Looking towards the barricade, but he saw us too. Moving alone, not frightened to be seen.'

'Tell me if it gets any closer,' King Emin said. 'We don't want to get caught up in someone else's problem.'

'What is it?' Endine whispered, unable to keep quiet.

Doranei looked at his king, who looked perturbed by the news, however calm he sounded.

'Scree's end is near, then,' he said quietly, sadly. 'When the Saljin Man ventures inside a city's boundary, it's because it is no longer a city.'

'The Saljin Man?' Now Endine sounded afraid. 'The curse of the Vukotic?'

'The very same. The daemon can follow any member of that tribe. No doubt it can sense the death hanging around Zhia. We should move faster.'

They picked up their pace, no one needing to be told twice. They'd all heard about the daemon that plagued the Vukotic tribe, and not even Coran wanted to try his arm against it.

The ground by the barricade was littered with corpses, most un¬armed and many painfully thin, and those arrows the defenders had not bothered to recover after beating off however many assaults they'd endured. Doranei tried not to look at any of the bodies too closely as he carefully stabbed every one within range, in case one of the rabid creatures was only injured. They'd been lucky so far, encountering no more than a dozen stragglers between Autumn's Arch, where they'd left the Farlan Army, and the Greengate.

Lord Isak hadn't bothered trying to talk King Emin out of the expe¬dition – he was busy organising his own fool's errand, though Lord Isak had more soldiers to accompany him to the Red Palace, where they believed the necromancer was holed up. The white-eye had grasped the king's wrist in friendship and saluted the rest of the small band, just as any Farlan soldier would, kissing his bow-fingers and touch¬ing them to his forehead. The other Farlan had followed suit, and Doranei felt a flush of foolish pride that Lord Isak had spared them the moment of respect, before the Brotherhood had dropped over the barricade and marched south, heading for the spot where their mages, Endine and Cetarn, had sensed a Crystal Skull being used.

'That's far enough,' called a voice from the barricade. Doranei froze as he tried to see who'd spoken; it was the local dialect, but not spoken by a local. As if bidden, a man clambered up the barricade and removed his steel helm to reveal a cropped mess of black hair and a mass of cuts and bruises.

Doranei had seen that battered head watching him from the floor of Zhia's study: the Menin soldier who had so reminded him of Ilumene for a moment, though there was hardly a passing likeness. Amber? he thought Zhia had called him when they'd attended the theatre with Koezh. Was it a proper nickname or one she'd bestowed that night on a whim? In the flickering firelight, the Menin hooked the spike of his axe into his belt, though Doranei could clearly see the crossbow in the man's other hand.

'I wish to speak to your mistress; does she still live?' Doranei called after hurriedly clearly his throat. He told himself it was the heat and dust in the air that had dried his throat, nothing more, and certainly not the fear of attracting attention to himself when they were so exposed out on the street.

'Does she still live?' The Menin gave a cough that Doranei realised was a surprised laugh. 'Aye, she lives,' Amber said in a wry tone, 'and I'm sure she'll be glad to see another of her pets is still alive. Is that the whole of your company?'

Doranei looked back at his companions. All but five were men of the Brotherhood. With King Emin were his white-eye bodyguard Coran, the mages, Endine and Cetarn, and the Jester acolyte Zhia had given them to guide them to where Rojak and Ilumene were hiding. They didn't need the masked man now, but Zhia had assured the king that the acolyte would remain loyal, and an extra sword was always welcome, even if Coran kept between the king and the acolyte at all times. They were less than a full company, though every man there was too valuable for the regiments. 'This is all,' Doranei called.

Amber waved them over. 'Shift yourselves, then; our friends are coming back for another try.'

Doranei didn't even bother to look back. He and his Brothers raced for the rough barricade surrounding the Greengate and scrambled up it, Amber helping by grabbing the scruff of Doranei's collar and hauling him up while the raggedly armoured mercenaries beside him reached out hands to help the others. The Menin officer turned to do the same for the next man, and hesitated when he looked King Emin in the eyes and was caught by his icy-blue glittery stare.

'Gods, if your eyes were darker I'd have thought you one of her brothers,' Amber said gruffly to cover his hesitation.

'There would be worse companions to have this night,' Emin replied as he climbed the barricade of overturned carts, barrels and broken furniture as nimbly as a goat.

'Bloody hope so,' Amber said with a slight grin, wrapping his thick fingers around Torl Endine's arm and lifting the scrawny mage up onto the top of the barricade. 'Otherwise my night's only going to get worse.'

Endine gave a small squawk, but the constant state of terror and the effort of running through the city had drained any real feeling from it. As Amber put him down, Endine sagged into a small heap of bones and worn rags, like a horse recognising the knacker's yard. Amber gave the mage a jab with his toe that almost sent him sprawl¬ing backwards. 'Don't see why you're sitting down for a breather! I know a mage when I see one, and you lot are a damn sight better at scaring off those poor bastards behind you than arrows are.'

Endine started to riposte, but all that came out was a weak wheeze.

'You'll have to excuse my feeble colleague,' Cetarn declaimed. He didn't look hampered by his paunch as he set about clambering up the barricade with all the gusto of a schoolboy. None of Scree's dangers seemed to have affected the oversized mage in the slightest, something Doranei put down to a noble upbringing, and the blind determination of the noble-born that every danger was nothing more than a game to be enjoyed with almost childish enthusiasm. What really annoyed him was that most of the time the approach worked.

'Endine cannot help himself,' Cetarn continued when he reached Amber.

Doranei could tell that the Menin soldier got a surprise when he realised the mage was both taller and wider than he was. There you go, bet you've not seen that from a normal so often, he thought in a moment of petulance.

'I have grown used to carrying him under my wing. Once he's recovered his breath, Endine will find some clever way to prove his worth.'

Amber looked from one mage to the other as the rest of the Brotherhood slipped past him. 'It's not a wing, it's a paw, if you ask me,' he muttered under his breath, then, louder, 'If that's how you want it, then fine; just do something about that lot.' He pointed to¬wards a small crowd behind them, skirting the edges of the buildings as they approached, as though the light from the fires further down the street might burn them.

'Certainly, what would you like?' Cetarn replied brightly, point-lessly pushing the wide sleeves of his robe up to reveal pale skin marked with delicate tattoos and neat scars. Any high-ranking soldier would recognise the summary of Cetarn's skill and experience; the Menin battle-mages would have something similar. Major Amber looked sharp enough to understand what the scars and tattoos signified.

'Makes no difference to me,' Amber said, reaching down to retrieve his crossbow. 'Zhia says there's no chance for them, their minds are broken. Best you can do is make it quick.'

He ignored the windlass mechanism and cocked it in Chetse fash¬ion, leather pads protecting his fingers as he pulled the string back by hand; a crude attempt to impress, but no doubt worthwhile if Major Amber was trying to keep a disparate band of militiamen, city guards and mercenaries together.

'My dear boy, I'm not a white-eye,' Cetarn said, ignoring the look he received from Coran. 'Mass slaughter isn't really my speciality; it requires too much raw magic and not enough subtlety. If you could use those bows to buy us a little time? Thank you.' The fat mage gave an extravagant flourish of the hands, like a street conjurer. 'Now, I've always said a good mage must adapt to his surroundings-'

'No you don't,' Endine coughed from near their feet, determined to find His voice if it meant an opportunity to annoy his colleague. 'You

always say, "What's the point of having all this power if I can't bend the very fabric of the Land to my will?'" He gave a very poor imitation of Cetarn's deep voice.

'Oh honestly, I say that once-'

'Gentlemen,' growled King Emin, 'not the time.'

'Of course, your Majesty,' Cetarn said with a quick bow, 'I have let myself be distracted.' He dropped to one knee, his head bowed as though in prayer and his right hand outstretched with his fingers splayed. 'This city has an overabundance of shadows. I'm sure it can spare some for us to employ.'

Doranei turned to see the king's reaction, but he could read nothing. Emin's face was as blank as a Harlequin's mask, lit with daemonic light as he held the wick of a bottle up to a torch and handed that to Goran to hurl at the approaching figures. Doranei followed the path of the bottle until it reached the ground and shattered to spread a pool of flame across the centre of the street. More guards arrived on the barricade, muttering to each other in grim, low tones, but the only sounds Doranei focused on were the hiss of fire and the hushed drone of Cetarn's voice.

Doranei was glad he could not understand Cetarn's spell when he saw the shadows all along the street twist and writhe. The mage's hand jerked in response to the movements, until he gained control over the dark shapes littering the floor and began to move and shape them, the deft strokes of a conductor leading his orchestra, coaxing them up, tugging them out of their hollows and cracks until they rose up through the air.

Doranei could see figures through the shadows, as if looking at them through a wall of smoky glass across the entire street. They moved backwards and forwards, peering at the dark curtain but clearly not seeing through it as Doranei could.

They paced with frustration as their prey was swallowed by the night, before giving up and turning back down the road the Narkang men had used, heading north towards the Farlan. The spell look less than a minute to complete, but by the end, Cetarn was sweating with the effort, and the soldiers were shivering at what he'd accomplished. Endine hammered his palms against Cetarn's fat bicep, a strange look of jubilation on his face.

How long will that bold.'' King Emin asked coolly.

'I wouldn't like to estimate,' Cetarn replied breathlessly.

The king nodded; he knew his mages well enough to recognise 'You should be impressed I managed it at alV

'Will you be able to continue with us?'

Cetarn summoned the strength to look offended at the suggestion. 'I am not the feeble one here, your Majesty. I shall continue as far as these hired thugs you keep as bodyguard.' He clapped Doranei on the shoulder and managed to look defiant once the younger warrior had stiffened his back to take some of Cetarn's weight.

'Ah, sweetness; not war nor famine can raise mountains between us,' purred a voice that sent a prickle down Doranei's spine. Beside him, Cetarn's cheerful expression collapsed. Doranei's nostrils flared automatically, craving the scent of Zhia's heady perfume as though it were a drug. He flinched at the sudden touch of soft fingers on his cheek, but his alarm melted under the force of her smile.

'This is hardly the time for quoting poetry at the boy,' said King Emin as he inclined his head respectfully to Zhia. He was wearing his favourite wide-brimmed hat, instead of the steel helm hanging from his belt. Strangely, he had pushed a tawny owl's feather into the band, rather than something grander, but the significance was lost on Doranei. 'And I've always rather thought Galasara was a self-impor¬tant bore, except for his last laments.'

Zhia raised an eyebrow. '"Poets and kings raise monuments to their own glory,'" she said.

Doranei recognised the quotation by Verliq, the most skilled human mage in history, whose only record was scores of treatises on magic and the nature of the Land.

The king conceded the point with a small smile. 'But for some reason I find myself footing the bill for both.'

Now they were behind the barricade and safe for the moment at least, Doranei took a moment to take in details. The barricade was longer than they had expected, encompassing a large area around the Greengate, including an entire street of houses, the contents doubtless stripped out to be used as building material. The reason for the size became obvious when he looked over towards the Greengate itself, where a great crowd of people huddled, thousands of terrified faces turning to watch the newcomers.

'Refugees?' the king asked, pointing towards the mass.

'Certainly, you didn't think the entire city had gone insane, did you?' Zhia said. 'These are what's left of Scree's population, the ones

untouched by madness. Many are not natives, which tells us some¬thing of the spell used, but not all of them, and I've not exactly had the time to work out the fine detail. Once my brother wipes out the remaining armies outside the gate, we can get these people away. They are innocents in this game, and I intend to deny Azaer as many of their lives as possible.'

She was dressed as Doranei had seen her last, that strange com¬bination of white patterned skirts and armour. Doubtless the White Circle had strict views on women fighting with the men, but he remembered Lord Isak saying that their queen had been a white-eye, and, as King Emin delighted in proving, folk imitated their monarch's habits as closely as they could. Strangely, Zhia still wore the shawl of the White Circle clasped about her neck and hanging down over her pearl-detailed cuirass.

Slung across her back was her oddly proportioned sword, a favourite weapon among the Vukotic, he finally recalled his swordmaster saying. Lessons felt like a lifetime ago. Like most of the Brotherhood, Doranei was a soldier's orphan. They were taught basic weapons-skills at the orphanage, and those who showed promise were handed over to the street-gang King Emin had adopted as a training ground for his young bodyguards. It was a strange double-life, mornings of petty theft and running errands in the gambling dens followed by afternoons with noble-born fencing masters or heroes from the army.

Doranei smiled. How much has really changed? Consorting with thieves and murderers one day, kings and princesses the next. The trick is to be able to tell the difference.

'I assume you're chasing the Skull,' Zhia said suddenly, 'but why? You have no ability yourself; why risk so much for a trinket that can, at best, only act as an unpredictable shield for you.'

The king didn't bother to deny the reason he was going south; he knew every mage in the city would have felt the artefact being used in such a reckless manner. 'Others will be seeking it out, others I would deny ownership of such a weapon. I suspect the minstrel will want it lor himself, and right now there are few men in the Land I would like to kill more, quite aside from the power that Skull would give him.'

'You know which it is?' Zhia's expression grew sharp.

'Lord Isak suspects it is Ruling, and I'm inclined to agree; it is the greatest of them and i(the shadow desires any, it would be that one.'

'And it is worth the risk? Holding a barricade against the mobs is one thing. If they catch you out in the open they'll tear you apart.' Zhia pointed to the south, where an orange glow lit the sky. 'They're being driven by those fires, and however skilled your bodyguards are, they cannot hope to survive against maddened hordes of thousands.'

'Then come with us,' King Emin said plainly. 'You could see us there safely and stop Rojak, whether he has found the Skull or not. Doranei tells me you're determined to see these people to safety?'

Zhia nodded, her shining sapphire eyes briefly finding Doranei, who found himself unable to meet them. 'I see no reason why they should all die just because some malevolent shadow intends to use their deaths to announce its presence in the Land. I've seen the ones wandering out there; they have lost all sense of reason or safety, and when fire spreads throughout the city it will take them all. Azaer will have the blood it craves, but my soldiers are protecting thousands who do not have to die.'

'And then what? What do you intend at dawn, when you're in a makeshift camp somewhere out there? These people won't follow you then.'

'Perhaps I overestimated you,' Zhia said scornfully. 'I am not like you; I do not yearn for the adoring crowds. Once they are out of the city and safe, my role in this play is over. I will go my own way. Haipar is a more caring woman than I, so I'm sure they will reach Helrect unmolested.'

'So you will not come with us after the Skull?'

'I already possess one, remember?' Zhia's eyes flashed, but she kept any sign of irritation out of her voice. For all the emotion she betrayed, she could have been discussing the price of fish at a dockside market. 'Ruling does not interest me in the slightest. The longer Velere Nostil owned that Skull, the more I disliked and feared him.'

'What do you mean?'

Zhia gave a cold laugh. 'Be careful what you wish for,' she said, staring King Emin directly in the eye. 'It may not prove the blessing you think.'

'The Skull is not what I seek.'

Doranei felt a flicker of pride in his king, a man who had created a nation and commissioned his own state crown. What leader, con¬queror or king by birth, would be able to resist the lure of the Skull of Ruling? It was said that it Would confer an aura oi power on even those wilbonl the ability to wield if as a weapon. There was only one thing stopping King Emin becoming a tyrant: he knew perfectly well which desires drove him.

'Of course it is.' There was the hint of a smile on Zhia's face now. 'Whoever you want to kill – whoever's plans you intend to frustrate – don't pretend it has no lure for you.'

She turned to survey her own men, nervously gathered at the bar¬ricade, staring into the darkness. The vampire wore no helm and her long hair was loose, and every time she moved her head, locks of gleaming black hair danced in the growing breeze.

'I don't think I'll really be needed here,' she said after a moment. 'I've been keeping myself in check to avoid the inevitable irritations that would otherwise follow. You need me more than you're willing to admit.' She closed her eyes for a moment and placed her palm flat against her chest; Doranei saw her mouth what looked like Come before she looked up at the king again.

'Amber,' she called to the big Menin soldier who'd stood far enough to one side for courtesy, though close enough to watch everything that had been going on. He gave a grunt in reply and straightened up.

'Major Amber, I think it's time I took my leave,' Zhia told him. 'You've no real need of me now, and as a man I knew once said, "When companions appear, a journey should begin." Stay with Haipar and you'll be safe enough. I'll be visiting her once this business is concluded, so I will find out if anything unfortunate happens to you.' She fixed King Emin with a grim look as she said this.

Doranei saw that had cheered Amber up greatly. No doubt he had been taking bets with himself on which Brother would be sent after him. Denying Kastan Styrax, Lord of the Menin, any intelligence might prove crucial over the next few years. Doranei knew they'd still try, but if they had to wait until the mercenary army was well clear of Scree, it would be far harder.

A fearful keening rose from the huddled masses at the foot of the city wall as the ragged refugees shifted like the parting seas to form a corridor down which marched the other Menin soldier currently in the city. Mikiss as a vampire looked completely different from the confused and bloodied messenger Doranei had first seen on the floor of Zhia's study. He stalked towards them, his face in shadow, as though the flames refused to light it. He wore a long, richly embroidered cerulean'blue coat, and pushed through his crimson belt were two long axes, the handle-butts a whisker from dragging along the floor and the spike tips brushing his ribs. Mikiss wore no armour except for the thick brass vambraces strapped on over the sleeves of his coat. Doranei had no idea why. He was keeping a careful eye on Mikiss; the change affected people in different ways. Sometimes a mild spirit could be corrupted overnight into a deranged monster, and there was no way of knowing until it was too late.

'Ah, my protege arrives,' Zhia said brightly. 'I think Mikiss is start¬ing to enjoy my gift.'

A growl escaped Amber's throat. His face darkened, and Doranei realised that Amber, the only one of them who knew Mikiss before, was less than happy with the change. Doranei had to sympathise: if one of the Brotherhood had been turned, Doranei would have killed him in an instant, to spare him from the horrors to come. The juxta¬position of that fact and his reaction to Zhia's perfume grew more troubling every day. It was true that the Vukotic family were apart from most vampires, but there was still a monster inside every one – even if Doranei could think of her only as the victim, caught on the losing side in a war.

More figures drifted towards them. Two Jester acolytes trotted from the far end of the barricade, their white masks bobbing like ghosts through the gloom, and four shapes detached themselves from a knot of soldiers standing in the lee of the largest building, resolving into Haipar the shapeshifter, the Farlan woman Legana, still in her White Circle armour, the necromancer's assistant Nai and a tall, bulky figure Doranei remembered glowering from darkened doorways at Zhia's home.

When her small entourage had gathered, Zhia began to speak. 'I've played the stateswoman long enough, and events have taken a strange turn these past few weeks. Haipar, every soldier here will follow either you or Amber; take these people to Helrect and decide what you want there. There's no army to protect it, so you can take control, or you can take what pay you're owed and get out-'

'I'll be coming with you,' Haipar growled, 'Erizol and Matak are both dead; I'm going to see this through to the end.'

Zhia paused for a moment, on the point of speaking before she abruptly shrugged. As you wish.' She gave an almost wistful sigh. 'You Raylin are a curious breed. Legana, you should come with us too. Panro, collect my personal belongings and meet me at the far side of the barricade.'

King Emin coughed. 'Lady, we cannot be encumbered by baggage; it will slow us down.'

The vampire, a small smile on her face, said, 'Your Majesty, they are only a few personal items, nothing that will get in your way.' Her hand went to her neck and from underneath her cuirass she pulled three chains. She smiled, her long teeth shining bright. Each chain was strung with cut gems, a fortune in fat, glittering stones. 'When you live as I have, you learn the value of travelling light, but there are certain little luxuries no lady in my condition should be without, and gems are good currency wherever one finds oneself. Now, shall we be off?'