The Twilight herald

CHAPTER 28

At General Gort's signal, the columns of light infantry advanced with flaming torches held high against the darkness, marching down the Bearwalk, the wide avenue that ran almost directly south from the New Barbican. It would take them most of the way to Six Temples. They were exposed and vulnerable on that wide avenue, but Gort was determined to keep a tight grip on his growing fears. That he wasn't exactly sure what was frightening him was making his imagination run riot.

The Knights of the Temples had taken the New Barbican with a minimum of fuss, and since then they had seen none of the mobs the New Barbican's defenders had spoken of with such terror – in fact, they hadn't seen anyone at all. They marched through abandoned streets, watching the shadows nervously and feeling increasingly dis¬concerted.

General Gort felt horribly alone, the only man on horseback at the head of the column and a prime target for even a mediocre archer. Behind him rumbled a dozen carts, guarded by sappers, then General Chotech, his long, curved axe resting on his shoulder, led his ranks of heavy infantry. His men were armed with heavy shields and thrusting spears: at the first sign of the mobs roving the city, they would lock shields and present a spiked wall that even disciplined troops found hard to break through.

The general turned and inspected the troops with him. A legion ol infantry and two hundred lancers stretched out along the Bearwalk. The major of the lancers saw him and gave a theatrical salute, prompt ing a smile. Major Derl was an excellent officer, from Canar Thrit, a city well known for producing line soldiers. He was experienced enough to know any idle gesture would be noticed by the nervous troops, so Gort suppressed his own fears and gave a cheery wave in return, noting a few smiles before he turned his attention back to the road ahead.

'What have I got us into?' he muttered to himself. 'Will a legion be enough?'

His horse twitched its ears at the sound of his voice and he tight ened his grip on the reins. The horses were as skittish as the men. Perhaps they too sensed that this was not a place for the living. It was obvious, and not just in the smashed windows of abandoned buildings, or the shadows lurking at the base of every shattered wall, or even the brutalised corpses strewn across the city. He couldn't decide which was worse, the hellish sight of fire raging unchecked through entire streets and consuming everything in its path, or the broken ruins wrapped in unnatural dark. He felt the sweat trickle freely down his spine. The heat was still a palpable weight on his shoulders, despite the stiff wind that had recently picked up.

General Gort caught Lieutenant Mehar's eye and the aide obedi-ently stepped closer.

'What do you make of this place, Mehar?' he asked. 'It's so hot at night you can hardly bear to wear a shirt, let alone armour. You're a scholar, what are your thoughts?'

Relief flushed Mehar's face for a moment. Gort suppressed a smile, the young man had been worrying that he was being punished for some failure; unusually, he'd been excluded from most of the general's meetings over the last few weeks. Mehar was a good aide, and he had a fine intellect, but his devotion to the order made it hard to tell what he would make of discussions about a deal with the Farlan, or the developing quarrel with the Knight-Cardinal. Right now they couldn't risk finding out.

'It feels like the Land has been turned on its head,' Mehar said hesitantly. He was a shy young man of twenty-five winters whose tem-perament didn't fit with his large, athletic frame. His father had been barely bright enough to swing an axe, but he had been keen to eii.iin his eldest son spent as much time studying as trying to fill his latinVi over-sized shoes. It had paid off: Mehar loved his books.

'A natural order has been upset here, sir. I think that's why the horses were reluctant to pass through the New Barbican gales. What we need to know is whether this discord is the result, or the pur-pose.'

'And we'd need a mage to work that one out?'

Mehar nodded unhappily. Their order vehemently disapproved of magic, of any description. It was their greatest weakness in battle, but it was a belief they all held to: magic was an unnatural art, and the province of Gods, not men. Individuals who had the talent were not blamed for it, but they were encouraged to forsake the magic inside t hem. The order considered magic to be an addiction, one that could be controlled through faith.

'I just hope we don't find it out the hard way, sir.' He took a breath and looked around at the gutted shells of building that lined the avenue. 'The natural order of things is that of the Gods on high and mankind, their servants. If that has been reversed, what are we going to find at Six Temples?'

Gort paused. 'Not a comforting thought, Mehar. Not comforting HI all.'

Neither man spoke again until they reached the far end of the Bearwalk.

Parties of light infantrymen flanked the main column, half carrying torches, the other half with weapons at the ready. The wavering light illuminated the rubble of an old marketplace, the remnants of broken stalls and shattered awnings.

Gort started at a dark shape that flitted behind the furthest stalls, tall and flowing, with a bone-white face – but in a blink it was gone, and the soldiers marched on unhindered. The light from the torches, the general assured himself, the moon catching a pane of glass. To the flicker of doubt in his heart he said nothing.

At the end of the Bearwalk stood a large, ornate fountain, and beyond that six smaller streets fanned out, leading to different parts of the city. The fountain itself was old, though its stone looked scrubbed clean; those statues that remained whole – a scattering of cherubic bodies reaching up from the lower bowl, three pike rising out from corners of a central plinth, and a pair of legs that were all that re¬mained of whatever Aspect had fed the fountain – had been scoured by centuries of wind and rain. The broken fragments in the now-dry bottom of the lower bowl made it clear that someone had vented their rage upon the fountain, stopping when the Aspect's statue had been destroyed.

Gort rode closer to the fountain as his troops spread around it and locked shields, waiting lor the light infantry to regroup. His height afforded him a good view: I heir were not only smashed limbs of stone, but human remains too. The people of this thirsty city had refused whatever succour this Aspect of Vasle might have offered, fouling both fountain and water so no one could drink from it.

Gort lowered his eyes and whispered a short prayer, a lament for the passing. Aspects might be nothing more than local spirits subsumed by a God of the Pantheon, but they remained part of the divine. The waters no longer ran here, so this part of the divine had died.

Mehar appeared at his side, looked inside the fountain then care¬fully stepped away. He swallowed, and said, 'Your fears were justified then, sir.'

'Thank you for your approval,' Gort snapped, irritated by the young man's tone. 'I will be sure to check every other decision I make with you.'

Mehar's mouth dropped open. For a moment Gort thought he was going to retort, then he shut it again with a snap of teeth.

The general looked away; he didn't have to explain himself to his aide, and certainly not when they were in the field, surrounded by enlisted men. He waited in brooding silence for the ranks to form up into companies, tight blocks of fifty soldiers ringed by smaller knots of flickering torches held high in the gloom. He shifted in his saddle. The hot night air was responsible for an infuriating itch that had worked its way under his skin, even to the back of his throat, while the stink of rot from the fountain grew heavier.

The clatter of hooves preceded Major Deri as he led his lancers into the plaza and joined General Gort at the fountain.

'Blood and piss,' the major growled as he looked over the lip, 'let's hope they've treated the temples with more reverence.'

'There's no reason to suppose they have,' Gort said. He gestured at the roads leading off the plaza, all dark bar one, where a burning building had collapsed halfway down the street. 'Which of these takes us to Six Temples?'

Deri looked up at the pedestal where the statue of the Aspect had been. 'We were told the fountain pointed directly towards Six Temples. Could they have torn it down intentionally?'

'They tore it down because they're godless wretches who have for¬saken their sanity,' Gort growled. 'They are animals, not men. They act as their instincts tell them – they do not have the forethought to lead us into a trap.'

'Animals can still possess cunning, sir, Derl said, before he caught sight of Gort's furious expression and added quickly, 'but only the insane desecrate a shrine, of course. Mehar, why have those damned skirmishers not come to report to the general yet?'

Mehar jumped. 'I will summon them at once, sir.'

'Don't bother,' Major Deri said dismissively. 'I wouldn't trust them anyway.' He stood up in his stirrups and turned to look back up the Bearwalk. Gort did likewise. Halfway up they could see the torches of the cavalry company he'd ordered to follow behind, to protect

I heir line of retreat. They would hold there, with another positioned

here, within eyeshot: no great defence, but enough to summon help

if required.

One lancer broke off and made his way over, offering a sloppy salute to the general. Gort glared at the insolent cavalryman, but said nothing. The man was so pale, his face drained of energy and slack with fatigue that he looked about ready to fall from his saddle. The dark rings around his eyes were a strange contrast to the feverish glow within.

'Woren, which road takes us to Six Temples?' Deri asked.

The lancer looked around at his surroundings as though astonished at being there. Slowly, he raised a finger and indicated two of the streets, wavering between the two. He opened his mouth to speak, but managed nothing more than an exhausted sigh.

Strange, thought Gort, the man must be a native of Scree, but is he the only one we could find? He looks touched by fever, or madness, maybe – is this what has happened to the rest of the city?

'Well?' Deri demanded.

'That way curves round to the east,' Woren said dully, indicating the Ieft-hand road. 'The other goes straight, leave it at the Corn House and past that to the north edge.'

'Right.' Deri turned to his commander. 'Sir, I suggest we head for the east, since the road is better; we don't want to be confined if we are attacked.'

Gort nodded. 'Send the skirmishers off, lancers behind.' He leaned lorward in his saddle, staring intently at the street they were about to take. Did he see a movement in the darkness there, a flash of skin even whiter than Woren's? Or was that just his own fear?

'Mehar, as soon as we're within the outer ring of Six Temples, block as much oi the south and west as you can so our hacks aren't exposed; use everything you can find, unless it's been blessed, and everything we've brought in the carts.' He didn't notice his left hand going to the hilt of his sword and tightening around the grip.

He spoke up so all the men nearby could hear, hoping conviction would swell into courage. 'This whole city may have turned against the Gods, but while there are still temples here, our oath to defend them binds us.'

Isak took the lead as they ran back through the corridors of the palace. The handful of soldiers they met were dispatched without breaking stride. The sounds of destruction echoed in their wake: men dying, the distant crashes of the fire Vesna had set raging out of control. Isak didn't care how much noise they made now.

When they reached the postern gate there were no guards waiting, and when they checked, they could see the remaining guards on the wall were leaving their posts and fleeing for the far side of the palace. They could hear the roar of flames echoing through the passageways they had run through. Outside, orange shards were leaping higher and higher into the night sky.

Without further delay, Isak charged through the open gate and down the stepped gardens until he was once again in the lee of the building where he'd left Major Jachen and the ranger, Jeil.

The troops he'd left behind were already mounted and formed up, ready to leave at a moment's notice. Only Jachen, Jeil and Suzerain Saroc were on foot, and as soon as Isak rounded the corner they ran forward, leading their horses.

'My Lord, we have to hurry,' Saroc said, his voice muffled by a black'iron helm with a red chalice painted on the left cheek. The plate armour accentuated his short stature; he would have appeared comical had it not been for the massive axe resting easily in the crook of his arm.

'What's happened?' Isak asked, sheathing his sword and swinging up into Toramin's saddle. His huge charger danced on the spot, the emerald dragons on its flanks rippling as he did so.

'Jeil went to check on the decoy troops. The mobs have found them. We need to get you away to safety before they move further this way.'

Isak didn't move. 'And what about the decoy troops?'

Jachen stepped forward. 'They're surrounded, my Lord. There's nothing we can do for them.'

'And that's it?' Isak asked in astonishment. 'You're happy to leave them to it?'

'There is nothing we can do, my Lord,' Jachen repeated. 'There are thousands attacking them. We're not enough to help – and the sight of you will drive them into a greater frenzy.'

'So you suggest we abandon them? Leave men you've fought along¬side to be torn apart by a mob?' Isak roared. 'Or is it simply that you're as much a coward as I've been told?'

'My Lord,' exclaimed Suzerain Saroc, 'it is not a question of coward¬ice; Major Jachen has a duty to the tribe, and that must come first.'

'Come before the lives of five hundred men and the most loyal suzerain in the tribe?' Isak turned to Count Vesna, but he remained silent. 'Vesna, have you got nothing to say about this?'

'My Lord…' His voice tailed off.

His face-plate was up, and Isak could see the helplessness on his lace. At last he realised what the count had been talking about in Tor Milist: good men were dying when they shouldn't have had to. To Isak's surprise, Count Vesna said nothing more. 'You can't agree with them,' Isak gasped, almost pleading. He felt a clammy horror sweeping over him. He'd had a change of heart in Tor Milist; was he now going to leave these men to die, without even a word?

'1- Lord Isak, duty must come first,' Vesna said eventually.

'Duty? Will even you not follow my orders? Isak growled, his shock t urning now to anger.

The other suzerains, Nelbove and Fordan, had dismounted and come to add their voices to the argument, hut Isak''. obvious fury kept them silent.

'Well? What about it, my loyal subjects? Ate you going to follow me, or does one of you want to be the first to try to forct me to run?" Isak's voice was tight with fury. Eolis remained In Its scabbard, hut that meant little; they all knew he could draw n In the blink 1)1 an eye.

'My Lord,' said Major Jachen, moving a hall step forward.

Isak whirled to meet the man and saw naked feai in Jachen's eyes, yet the former mercenary refused to buckle. A spark ol defiance re-mained and he forced himself to stand tall and match Isak's relentless gaze. 'My Lord, they are loyal to death. They will follow you.'

'Well, what are we waiting for then?' Isak snapped.

'You'll have to cut me down first, my lord.'

Isak faltered, surprise overriding anger momentarily. 'What?'

'They'll follow you to death if you ask them to-'

'And you won't?' Isak cut in angrily. 'Last time I looked, you were also under my command.'

'Do you remember the first time we met?' Jachen said with fatalistic calm. 'You asked me if I'd have the guts to face you down if I thought you were wrong.'

Isak thought for a moment. 'So this is you clouting me round the head, is it? You've picked a bloody stupid time to grow a spine, Major Ansayl.'

Jachen ignored the jibe. 'I am in command of your personal guard. My first duty is to the tribe – and that is to keep you safe. You said it yourself: you're a white-eye, and you don't always make the best decisions, and you need a commander who'll tell you when you're plain wrong.'

Jachen could see the men behind Isak standing open-mouthed, but he didn't dare change tack now. The massive white-eye was as surprised as any of them, but at least it had deflected Lord Isak's anger for a moment, and made him think. Oh Gods, am I putting my life on a white-eye thinking rationally? he thought, surprised at how calm he felt.

'You think it's wrong to think our comrades worth saving?'

'Right now, yes,' Jachen said firmly, sensing his lord was wavering. 'The mobs number in their thousands, many thousands. Whether those men are torn apart or not, my duty is to keep you safe. Their loss would be a tragedy, something to pray over when the time is appropriate. Your loss would be a catastrophe, for the entire Farlan nation, maybe even the entire Land. The loss of five hundred soldiers means almost nothing to the future of the tribe, while the loss of the Lord of the Farlan is a disaster that puts us all in danger. There is no Krann to replace you. We would be adrift and at each other's throats before winter.'

'Do you think I don't know that?' Isak said, more reasonable now. 'But what use is a lord who runs from danger and leaves his men to die?'

'One that knows his own value to the tribe,' Jachen said softly. 'Most of those men are going to die, and only the Gods could change that, but as soon as the rabid folk of Scree see you, they'll want your blood first. You're a white-eye lord, and Chosen oi Gods they have come suddenly to hate. For all your strength, my Lord, you cannot kill them all'

Isak stared at the major, mouth half-open to retort, but unable to find anything to say. He couldn't fault anything Jachen had said… but to so lightly condemn a division of men to death? What did that make him?

Is this what it is to be lord? To carelessly choose who lives and who dies? He felt sick at the thought.

'It is,' rang out a powerful voice in his head. Isak jumped at the unexpected contribution from Aryn Bwr. 'To be mortal is to be afraid of what comes after; to be afraid of consequences. They make kings as they worship Gods, because they are too weak to make choices themselves. Offer them a shining figure they can pretend is better than they are and they will embrace you as their saviour.'

Isak kept silent, trying to come to terms with what he had to do. An image of Lord Bahl appeared in his mind, the blunt lines of his lace and his usual grim, inscrutable expression: a face to trust, a man to rely upon, no matter what. And inside he was wracked with loss and guilt, but as long as his people didn't know that, they would have stormed the gates of the Dark Place at his side.

Slowly, Isak nodded; Lord Bahl would have made this decision. It would have pained him, and their deaths would have weighed on his soul, but only his closest friends would have ever seen that pain. The needs of the tribe would always come first. Isak hated himself for it, but he had to do the right thing.

'Fine,' he said in a muted voice. 'We make for the rest of the army.' He didn't look at anyone.

From the streets south of the Red Palace came the clamour of voices, and the sound of hundreds of feet thumping on the cobbled ground. Without delay Isak remounted, gesturing to everyone to do likewise.

'And we go quickly,' he said in a louder voice as he drew his sword.

IS here anything else I can get for you, my Lady?' the soldier asked, hovering in the guardroom doorway.

Tila looked up, her face blank for a moment until she returned to the present. 'No, thank you,' she said eventually.

'Are you sure?' The guard's face was half concealed by shadow, but he looked concerned. 'Lady Tila, when did you last eat?'

'A while ago,' she said, not really sure when that had been.

'Shall I fetch you something? You're not looking your best.'

Tila sighed, her fingers twisting the citrine ring on her left hand. 'I'm not hungry, and I'm not ill, I'm just worried.'

He tried to look relieved, but Tila couldn't tell if it was genuine. 'Lady Tila, I don't care how mad the people of Scree are, they couldn't hurt Lord Isak. All he needs to fear are the Gods themselves!'

'I'm afraid you are wrong, Cavalryman,' Tila said wearily. 'Lord Isak is stronger and faster than any man, but he is flesh and blood. After the battle in Narkang I bound his wounds. He has as much to fear from battle as you or I. Is there any news from the city at all? Do we not have scouts or mages reporting back?'

'Of course,' he said, wondering how much he should say. 'There's no word of Lord Isak. I heard one of the mages tell General Lahk that some of the Knights of the Temples were on the move. There's talk they're going to ambush Lord Isak, but the general says he was expecting them to move.'

'General Lahk is correct,' Tila said firmly. 'The Devoted will not harm Lord Isak – they will head straight for Six Temples and protect it against the mobs, nothing more.'

The soldier nodded and Tila thought she saw a fleeting glimpse of surprise on his face, though it was obvious enough to anyone who knew anything of the Devoted.

Behind her the narrow guardroom window was open to the city. Bars made it secure against intruders but they did nothing against the ebb and flow of sounds from outside, voices, the clatter of hooves, and behind them, further away, noises she couldn't identify. The newly returned wind rustled through, bringing no relief from the sticky heat within.

The soldier bobbed his head, trying to catch Tila's attention as she stared pensively at nothing. Are you sure there's nothing I can get you?' he repeated doggedly.

Tila nodded. 'I'm sure. I left my books in Tirah and that's all I want right now.'

'Your books?'

'Oh, everything: history and diplomacy, journals, treatises on prophecy – in times such as these, who knows what scrap of informa¬tion – a past allegiance, a war long-past – might prove crucial to us now. I feel so useless sitting here; surrounded by people moving with a purpose, while I have none. If I had my books, I could at least pretend to be something more than a liability.' She sighed again.

The soldier shifted his weight, deeply uncomfortable. He was there

to bring the lady a pot of tea, not to tell a noblewoman how to make herself useful. He knew men who'd been flogged for expressing opin-ions on the subject, so he kept his mouth firmly shut. As expected, she didn't seem to be looking for a contribution from his corner anyway.

'If you change your mind,' he ventured after what he thought was an appropriate pause, 'if you do need anything, just call. I'll be down the corridor.'

Tila looked up, bleary-eyed. 'I'm sorry; I didn't mean to keep you. Thank you for the tea; please tell me when Lord Isak returns.'

The soldier bobbed his head and ducked out of the room, leaving the door ajar.

Tila listened to the half-dozen heavy footsteps that took him to his station at the entrance to the guard tower, then returned to her thoughts, and a creeping fatigue. She tried to count the hours since she'd slept properly and gave up. The heat had reduced a full night's sleep to restless hours punctuated by snatched moments of rest.

She looked around the guardroom. She'd come in here because there was a pair of massive armchairs in the centre of the room, pre-sumably liberated from some officers' mess, and each one was easily large enough to contain her small, exhausted frame. Between them was a battered leather-bound chest held shut by mouldering buckles that she was using as a footstool. She curled up again and let her

thoughts blur and drift. The clatter outside began to slowly recede into the background.

Tila's eyelids sank inexorably down as her head filled with the stuffy air of the guardroom that smelled of dust, dried mud and old wood shavings. There was an empty grate beside her, where shadows danced over the cold ashes. She tried to focus on the blackened hearthstone, attempting to pick out the worn, sooty lines of the image cut into. She expected to see Grepel of the Hearths, Tsatach's most domesti-cated Aspect, with her burning tongue hanging out like a dog's, but Tila's brow contracted into a frown as she realised the undulating lines bore no relation to Grepel. Her mind tried to frame the shapes around oilier Aspects of Tsatach, but the effort proved too much as her ilioughts floundered like a deer in a tar-pit. A sense of weight built relentlessly, dragging on limbs already weakened by fatigue. Her breath grew shallower. All the while the flame of the oil lamp gut¬tered, flickered and grew ever dimmer.

Unable to resist, Tila submitted and felt herself drift down into the shadowy embrace of sleep. Sliding up the walls of the guardroom, the darkness rose until the feeble light from the oil lamp was nothing more than a distant glimmer, subsumed by creeping fingers of darkness that flowed over her skin, soothing and lulling away the weariness. Enveloped in that comforting touch, Tila skirted the boundaries of sleep for a time, her awareness dulled as she listened only to the sound of her own breath, in and out, in and out… until that too was lost to the quiet of the night.

Then there was only the darkness.

A sudden breath surged through her body, forcing her eyelids open a crack and rushing with a tingle from her lungs out to her fingers and toes. Tila stared ahead in surprise at the unfamiliar room smelling of dust and mould, and the oil lamp in front of her faded almost to nothing, down to vapours. The guardroom, the Autumn's Arch gate. Images and faces returned: the door left ajar, the small cylindrical cup in her hands coming back into focus.

A chair where she sat so snug and warm, another opposite her, fac¬ing away from the lamp. The shadows looked longer now, lying thick within the other chair, so it looked almost like a man sat there, the worn, scratched leather supporting a shoulder there, and an arm…

What am I doing here? she thought bitterly. Why did I make sure they brought me, when all I could do was to slow them down?

'Because they are men without families,' the shadow answered her. 'You bring order to their lives, and a balance, that reminds them of who they are.'

Is balance what they really need? she found herself thinking, as if the shadow had actually spoken to her. A good soldier is one who can cast off who he is, put aside everything of him except instinct and training.

'And you remind them of their fears,' the darkness in the empty chair continued. 'By your vulnerability you demonstrate what price they might have to pay, you wear the faces of those they might lose. What use are you now to your lord?'

I am his advisor, she told herself. J have taught him about history and prophecy-

The shadowy figure laughed. 'And yet you cannot even see when it is on the cusp of being fulfilled. You failed to recognise the danger of the lust king on Silvernight, you ignored all the signs while you pursued your own desires.'

How was 1 to know? 1 couldn't have known-

'You failed him when his life was in the greatest of dangers and now once more your inadequacies prove a burden.'

A burden? Tila asked herself. What now? What have I done so wrong? She felt tears welling in her eyes as dread stole over her.

'This task you appointed to yourself, yet cannot fulfil. The role so crucial to the fortunes of your lord given to a foolish slip of a girl with a head full of gossip and some childish notions of scholarly work, playing the minister and guardian of her lord's person.'

She could not control her deep, juddering sobs now. What have I missed?

' "Twilight heralded by theatre and flame, the scion and sire kill in the place of death-'"

''Treasure and loss from the darkness, from holy hands to a lady of ashes. A shadow rising from the faithful," she continued with mounting hor-ror, uhis twilight reign to begin amid the slain." Oh merciful Nartis – his father! His father is missing!

'And he meets his allies at the Temple of Death,' the voice in her head finished triumphantly. 'And thus once more you fail him.'

Swathed in a cloak of night, Aracnan watched the Farlan soldiers below, raising their barricades ever higher as they prepared for assault. Three legions were camped outside the city gate, lines of tents and cooking fires huddled close to the wall. A rampart of earth studded with sharpened stakes had been thrown up in a crescent around them. Pickets lined the rampart and most of the soldiers had been formed into regiments, ready for the general's command – but still dozens of men were preparing food, irrespective of what violence might be occurring soon.

'A statement to those of us watching,' said a voice beside him. He knew better than to turn. Shadows were best seen out of the corner of an eye.

I don't think we need take note of any such statement. Leave that to the cattle out there.'

Their voices were strangely similar; more than once Aracnan had wondered whether there was anything to read into that.

'I prefer to observe it all nonetheless,' the shadow said with the breath of a chuckle.

Despite himself, Aracnan felt a chill run down his spine. Laden with malevolence, the shadow's laughter cut to the bone in a way Aracnan had never experienced before. Having trembled at the rage of Gods and lived more years than he cared to count, he had never been so unsettled by so simple a noise. And that is why I've joined him, Aracnan thought. Alt my life I've been forced to adapt and survive, I recognise my better here, and in turn he knows I'm no mere mortal plaything.

He shifted the bow and quiver over his shoulder to a more comfort¬able position as he looked out into the dark streets of the city. In the south an awful orange glow consumed the air. The bow was one he'd taken from Koezh Vukotic's armoury. It epitomised the quality of the methodical Vukotic craftsmen. It wasn't yet time for him to take a hand in events – he wasn't yet past the point of no return, however much he could taste it on the coming wind – but there was something refreshingly direct about a well-placed arrow, and events might yet need a helping hand. Magic would leave no trace, while craftsman¬ship could be identified and hasty conclusions drawn. Aracnan had learned over the centuries that a little misdirection was often worth the effort.

Aracnan saw the vast destruction already inflicted on the southern districts, filtered through swirling sooty clouds. The slum districts were the worst affected; some were already obliterated because of the close wooden houses – and the inferno was growing. It had driven the mad¬dened, mindless people further north, and they lingered on the fringes of the light from the Farlan lines inside the city. Had they noticed the soldiers there, they would have attacked without a moment's thought, blind to their own lack of weapons and driven by a compulsion that was all-consuming.

He felt little towards them; certainly he took no pleasure in the senselessness forced on them by Rojak, but they were not his kind and the life of an immortal was ruled by pragmatism. If Azaer could give him what he wanted, then he would follow the shadow's orders. Neither of them was so foolish as to ask for trust. He was not even worried by the thought that Azaer might use him to lure Isak to the right place – such was life. As it was, Aracnan had only to guide the wandering mobs to where they were required, currently held hack from the Farlan lines by a simple enchantment of his.

Aracnan had found himself impressed at the magic wrought by Rojak. Rarely had he seen such accomplished magic worked by a mortal, let alone such devotion. Few believed so fervently as to bind their own soul to a spell, but Rojak had done that at his master's bidding. While the minstrel was failing fast, Aracnan had a suspicion tonight wouldn't be the last time he suddenly smelled peach-blossom on the breeze and turned to see that mocking smile. Death might only be the beginning for Azaer's greatest servant.

'Have you delivered your message?' he asked, letting his gaze wander slowly from the wavering figures hiding in dark corners to the barred guardroom window where the girl dozed.

'It is done.''

'Will you now explain it? I assume declaring your intention through prophecy is not merely conceit.'

'Forewarned is forearmed.1

Aracnan thought for a moment, the skin of his gaunt, hairless head contorting strangely until realisation dawned. 'Ah, I understand; the bidden face of covenant theory, the perversity of magic. To achieve grand deeds you must first sow the seeds of your own destruction.'

'Now that would be a little foolish,' said the shadow, 'but it is nonethe¬less necessary to allow for the possibility of those seeds to exist. No magic is unstoppable, no spell irreversible. Without that element of the unknown, nothing could be achieved, but perhaps it is possible to guide the unknown in a certain direction.'

'The girl has been warned that her lord is just a player in your game so you can predict their reaction?'

'Exactly so. Even now she is trying to find General Lahk to explain the danger. Better that than to gamble on what someone is thinking and leave it to chance.'

Aracnan made a sweeping gesture, as though gathering up the threads of a fishing net and drawing them towards him. 'Well then, let us make sure we know what General Lahk will be thinking about.'

The movement ended as his hand reached a pouch sewn onto his black stiffened-leather armour. He pushed one bony finger inside and smiled as the energies comprising his spell danced up his arm, prick-ling; the skin as they dissipated into the black clouds above him and vanished.

Almost immediately the first howls of animal rage rang out from the streets below. They were joined by hundreds more, merging into a great roar of wordless voices and running feet that drowned out the warning shouts from the FarIan pickets.