Waylander III: Hero In The Shadows

Chapter Ten

Waylander moved to the bedside. Ustarte's golden eyes were open. He sat beside her. 'You were wrong to do that,' she said, her voice almost a whisper.

'I gave her a choice.'

'No, you didn't. She owes you her life. She will feel obliged to do as you ask.'

'I know, but I don't have too many choices,' he admitted.

'You could become a friend to Kuan-Hador,' she reminded him.

He shook his head. 'I would have remained neutral, but they brought death to my house and to my people. I cannot forgive that.'

'It is more than that,' she said.

He laughed then, with genuine good humour. 'I forget for a moment that you can read minds.'

'And speak with spirits,' she reminded him.

His smile faded. On the first night he had tended her Ustarte had woken and told him that the spirit of Orien, the Battle King of the Drenai, had appeared to her. It had shaken Waylander, for the same spirit had appeared to him years before, offering him the chance to redeem himself by finding the Armour of Bronze.*

* From the novel Waylander (1986)

'Has he come to you again?'

'No. He harbours no ill-will towards you. He wanted you to know that.'

'He should. I killed his son.'

'I know,' she said sadly. 'You were a different man then, and almost beyond redemption. But the goodness in you fought back. He has forgiven you.'

'Strangely, that is harder to bear than hate,' he said.

'That is because you cannot forgive yourself.'

'Can you read the minds of spirits?' he asked her.

'No – but I liked him.'

'He was a king,' said Waylander, 'a great king. He saved the Drenai, and forged a nation. When he was old, his sight failing, he abdicated in favour of his son, Niallad.'

'I know this from your own memories,' she said. 'He hid the Armour of Bronze. You found it.'

'He asked me to. How could I refuse?'

'Some men would have. And now he has asked a second favour of you.'

'It makes no sense to me. Finding the Armour of Bronze helped the Drenai overcome a great enemy. But going to a feast? Why would a dead king care about a feast?'

'He did not say. But I think you will be in danger if you go. You know that?'

'I know.'

Keeva moved in from the weapons room. Waylander turned to see her standing in the doorway. She was wearing the dark shirt and leggings and a pair of fringed riding boots. The hunting knife was belted at her waist. Her long dark hair was pulled back from her face and tied in a pony-tail. Waylander rose from the bedside. 'The clothes fit well,' he said. Moving past her he walked to a cabinet on the far wall of the weapons room. Opening it, he withdrew a small double-winged crossbow. Calling out to Keeva he carried the weapon to a bench. Under the light of a lantern he examined the crossbow, lightly oiling the bolt grooves. As Keeva came alongside he passed the weapon to her. 'I had this made for my daughter, Miriel,' he said, 'but she preferred the more traditional hunting bow. It is considerably lighter than my own bow and the killing range is no more than fifteen paces.'

Keeva hefted the bow. It was T-shaped, when viewed either vertically or horizontally, the grip projecting down from the centre of the weapon. The rear of the crossbow was fluted back, and shaped so that it settled snugly over the wrist. There were no bronze triggers. Two black studs had been set into the grip.

Waylander handed the girl two black bolts. 'Load the lower groove first,' he advised. Keeva struggled with the action. The centre of the lower bowstring was hidden inside the mechanism. 'Let me show you,' he said.

On the underside of the bow was a catch. Waylander flicked it open and pulled it down. This engaged the lower bowstring, drawing it back into view. Slipping his fingers into the groove he cocked the weapon, then slid a bolt into place. Snapping the catch, he handed the weapon to Keeva. Extending her arm, she loosed the centre bolt into a nearby target. He watched her reload it. She still struggled with the lower section. 'Do not leave it loaded for too long,' he said, 'for it will weaken the wings. When you get time, practise loading and unloading. It will become easier.'

'I do not want it to become easier,' she told him. 'I will take Ustarte to this place you spoke of, but then you can have this weapon back. I told you once before I do not want to be a killer. That remains true.'

'I understand that, and I am grateful to you,' he said. 'I will be with you late tomorrow. After that you will be free of any obligation to me.'

Finding a stick of charcoal and a section of parchment he drew two diamond shapes, the first with a diagonal line across it running left to right, the second right to left. 'Skirt the ruins of Kuan-Hador to the south-west and head into the mountains. Follow the main road for around a mile. You will come to a fork in the road. Take the left fork and continue until you see a lightning-blasted tree. Ride on, keeping your eyes on the trunks of the trees you pass. Each time you see these symbols change direction according to the line through the diamond, left to right or right to left. You will come to a cliff-face. If you have followed the symbols correctly you will be close to a deep cleft in the rocks. Dismount and lead the horses into that cleft. Inside you will find a deep cave with a freshwater pool. There are supplies there, and grain for the horses.'

Keeva slipped the bolts from the crossbow and loosed the strings. 'I heard the priestess say you would be in danger at the Feast. Why go?'

'Why indeed?' he observed.

'You had best be wary.'

'I am always wary.'

Niallad, son of the mighty Duke Elphons, and blood heir to the vanished throne of Drenan, stood naked before a full-length mirror disliking what he saw. The slender face, with its large blue eyes and full mouth, seemed to him to be that of a girl. There was no real sign yet of facial hair. His shoulders and arms were still skinny, despite the many weeks of hard physical labour he had pushed himself to complete. His chest, also hairless, carried no flesh and his ribs could clearly be seen. He looked nothing like the powerhouse that was his father. And the fears he carried would not go away. When surrounded by crowds he would start to sweat, his palms becoming clammy, his heart beating wildly. His dreams were always of darkness, an unfamiliar maze of corridors, and the stealthy footfalls of an assassin who was never seen.

Turning away from the mirror Niallad went to the chest beneath the window and opened it, pulling forth a grey tunic and dark leggings. Dressing, he pulled on his calf-length riding boots and strapped his dagger-belt to his waist. Then came a light tapping at the door. 'Come in,' he called.

The bodyguard, Gaspir, stepped inside. He pointed at the dagger-belt. 'No weapons, young lord,' he said. 'Your father's orders.'

'Yes, of course. A hall full of enemies and we carry no weapons.'

'Only the friends of the Duke are invited,' said Gaspir.

'Panagyn is no friend, and I do not trust Aric.'

The broad-shouldered bodyguard shrugged. 'Even if Panagyn were an enemy he would be a fool to attempt an assassination in a hall filled with the Duke's supporters. Put your mind at rest. Tonight is a celebration.'

'Are there many people here?' asked Niallad, trying not to show his fear.

'Only about a hundred so far, but they are still arriving.'

'I shall be down presently,' said Niallad. 'Is the food being served?'

'Aye, it looks enticing.'

'Then go down and eat, Gaspir. I will see you in a little while.'

The guard shook his head. 'You are in my charge, young lord. I will wait outside.'

'I thought you said there was no danger.'

The man stood his ground for a moment, then nodded.

'It will be as you say,' he replied at last, 'but I will watch for you. Do not be too long, sir.'

Alone now in the sanctuary of his rooms, Niallad felt the panic building. It was not even that he expected to be attacked. His mind knew it was entirely improbable. And yet he could not suppress the fear. His uncle had been in his own garden when the assassin, Waylander, shot him in the back. His own garden! With the king murdered, the country in a state of near-anarchy, the Vagrian army had poured across the border, burning towns and cities and butchering thousands.

Niallad sat down on the bed, closed his eyes, and took several deep, calming breaths. I will stand up, he thought, and walk slowly out on to the gallery. I will not look down at the mass of people. I will turn left and descend the stairs . . .

. . . into the heaving mass.

His heartbeat quickened once more. This time it was accompanied by anger. I will not be cowed by this fear, he promised himself. Rising, he marched across the room and pulled open the door. Immediately he heard the noise from below, the chattering, the laughter, the sounds of cutlery on dishes, all mixed together creating a discordant and vaguely threatening hum. Niallad walked to the banister rail at the edge of the gallery and looked down. At least a hundred and fifty people were already present. His father and mother were seated almost exactly below him, their chairs raised on a circular dais. Lord Aric was standing close by, as was the magicker, Eldicar Manushan, and little Beric. The boy looked up and saw him. Niallad smiled and waved. The men around the Duke also glanced up. Niallad nodded to them, and stepped back from the edge. In the far corner he saw the portly priest Chardyn talking to a group of women. And there, by the terrace arch, the Grey Man, standing alone. He was wearing a sleeveless jerkin of brushed grey silk, over a black shirt and leggings. His long black and silver hair was held back from his face by a slender black headband. He wore no ornaments or jewellery. No rings adorned his fingers. As if sensing eyes upon him, the Grey Man glanced up, saw Niallad, and raised his goblet. Niallad walked down the stairs towards him. He did not know the man well, but there was space around him, and the beckoning safety of the terrace beyond.

The bottom of the stairwell had been recently closed off by an archway and two doors. A guard stood inside the porch. He bowed as Niallad approached the door. The porchway blocked much of the sound from the hall and Niallad toyed with the thought of engaging the guard in conversation for a while, putting off the dread moment when he must step through and face the throng. But the man lifted the lock-bar and pushed open the doors. Niallad stepped through and walked across to where the Grey Man stood.

'Good evening to you, sir,' said Niallad politely. 'I trust you are enjoying my father's celebration.'

'It was courteous of him to invite me,' said the Grey Man, extending his hand. Niallad shook it.

Up close he saw that the Grey Man's clothes were not entirely free of adornment. His belt had a beautiful, and unusual, buckle of polished iron, shaped like an arrowhead. The same design had been used on the outer rim of his calf-length boots.

The sound of rasping metal from behind caused Niallad to spin round. At a nearby table a chef was sharpening his carving knife. Niallad felt panic looming. The Grey Man spoke. 'I do not like crowds,' he said softly. 'They make me uneasy.'

Niallad struggled for calm. Was the man mocking him? 'Why is that?' he heard himself say.

'Probably because I've spent too long in my own company, riding the high country. I like the peace I find there. The meaningless chatter of these events grates on my nerves. Would you like to take some air with me on the terrace?'

'Yes, of course,' said Niallad gratefully. They stepped out through the archway and on to the paved stone beyond. The night was cool, the sky clear. Niallad could smell the sea. He felt himself becoming calmer. 'I suppose,' he said, 'that such problems with crowds dissipate after a while as one becomes more accustomed to them.'

'That is mostly the way with problems of this nature,' agreed the Grey Man. 'The trick is to allow oneself to become accustomed.'

'I don't follow you.'

'If you were faced with a snarling dog, what would you do?'

'Stand very still,' said Niallad.

'And if it attacked?'

'If I was armed I would try to kill it. If not I would shout loudly and kick at it.'

'What would happen were you to run from it?'

'It would chase and bite me. That is the way with dogs.'

'That is also the way with fear," said the Grey Man. 'You can't run from it. It will follow, snapping at your heels. Most fears recede if you face them down.'

A servant came out on to the terrace, bearing a tray upon which were crystal goblets filled with watered wine. Niallad took one and thanked the man, who bowed and departed. 'Rare to see a nobleman thank a servant,' said the Grey Man.

'Is that a criticism?'

'No. A compliment. Are you staying long in Carlis?'

'A few weeks only. My father wanted to meet with the lords of the four Houses. He is trying to avert another war.'

'Let us hope he succeeds.'

At that moment Gaspir strode out on to the terrace. He bowed. 'Your father is asking for you, young lord,' he said. Niallad offered his hand to the Grey Man, who shook it.

'Thank you for your company, sir,' said Niallad. The Grey Man bowed.

Niallad strolled away. Somehow the conversation with the Grey Man had settled his nerves, but his heart began to beat faster as he entered the throng. 'Face it down,' he told himself. 'It is merely a growling dog, and you are a man. You only have to be here for a while, then you can return to the sanctuary of your room.'

Niallad walked on, his expression grim and determined.

Waylander watched the youth make his way across the hall. The bodyguard Gaspir was following him closely. Elsewhere he saw Eldicar Manushan moving among the crowds, smiling and chatting to people. Waylander saw that his long robe seemed to shimmer and change colour as he moved. At first sight it was silver grey, but the folds glinted at times with subtle shades of pink and red, lemon yellow and gold. Waylander's gaze flowed over the hall. There had been changes since last he had been here. The stairwells were now closed off, and the arches leading to the library boasted heavy doors of oak. He preferred the previous style. It was more open and inviting.

A servant offered him a drink, but he refused, and strolled into the hall. He could see the boy, Niallad, talking with his father and the tall, slim Lord Ruall. The lad seemed ill at ease once more and Waylander could see the gleam of sweat upon his face.

Reaching the new door to the library, Waylander tried to open it, but it was locked from the other side. Eldicar Manushan strolled over to him. 'Your garb is most elegant, sir,' he said. 'Your lack of adornment makes most men here look like peacocks. Including me,' he added, with a grin.

'An unusual robe,' observed Waylander.

'It is my favourite,' said Eldicar. 'It is woven from the silk of a rare worm. Heat and light bring about changes in colour. In bright sunshine the robe becomes golden. It is a delightful piece.' Stepping in close, the magicker lowered his voice. 'Have you considered what we spoke about?'

'I have thought on it.'

'Will you be a friend to Kuan-Hador?'

'I think not.'

'Ah, that is a shame. But it is also a worry for another day. Enjoy your evening.' The magicker's hand tapped lightly on Waylander's back. In that moment Waylander felt a sudden chill. His senses sharpened, his heartbeat quickened. Eldicar moved away back into the crowd.

The thought came to him that he should leave this place.

Waylander walked back towards the terrace. He saw Niallad, climbing the stairs. He was moving slowly, as if at ease, but Waylander could sense the tension in him. Niallad reached the gallery, then turned to his right, entering his room. Sadness touched Waylander.

'Such a grim face for so lively an evening,' said the priest Chardyn.

'I was thinking of the past,' Waylander told him.

'Not a pleasant past, it seems.'

Waylander shrugged. 'If a man lives long enough he will gather bad memories among the good.'

'That is true, my friend. Though some are worse than others. It is worth remembering that the Source is ever forgiving.'

Waylander laughed. 'We are alone here, priest. No one else can hear us. You do not believe in the Source.'

'What makes you think that?' asked Chardyn, dropping his voice.

'You stood your ground against the demons – and that makes you a brave man, but you had no spells, no belief that your god was stronger than the evil to come. I knew a Source priest once. He had faith. I know it when I see it.'

'And you, sir?' queried Chardyn. 'Do you have faith?'

'Oh, I believe, priest. I do not want to, but I believe.'

'Then why did the Source not strike down the demons as I prayed he would?'

Waylander smiled. 'Who is to say he did not?'

'Eldicar Manushan destroyed them, and though I may not be holy myself I also know holiness when I see it.'

'You think the Source only uses good men for his purposes? I have seen differently. I knew a man once, a killer and a robber. He had, to all intents and purposes, the morals of a gutter rat. This man gave his life for me, and before that had helped to save a nation.'

Chardyn smiled. 'Who can say for certain that it was the Source who inspired him? Where were the miracles, the light in the sky, the glowing angels?'

Waylander shrugged. 'My father told me a story once, about a man who lived in a valley. A great storm rose up and the river overflowed. The valley began to flood. A horseman rode by the man's small house and said to him, "Come, ride with me, for your house will soon be under water." The man told him that he needed no help, for the Source would save him. As the waters rose the man took refuge on his roof. Two swimmers came by and called out to him, "Jump into the water. We will help you reach dry land." Again he waved them away, saying that the Source would protect him. As he sat perched on his chimney, thunder filling the sky, a boat came by. "Jump in," called the boatman. Again the man refused. Moments later the water swept him away and he drowned.'

'What is the point of this story?' asked Chardyn.

'The man's spirit appeared before the Source. The man was angry. "I believed in you," he said, "and you failed me." The Source looked at him and said, "But, my son, I sent a rider, two swimmers and a boat. What more did you want?"'

Chardyn smiled. 'I like that. I shall use it in one of my sermons.' Then he fell silent.

Within the hall Eldicar Manushan, Lord Aric and Lord Panagyn had moved to the stair doors. A guard opened them and they moved through. Elsewhere Waylander saw other guests quietly leaving the hall. Most were followers of Panagyn. His expression hardened. His heart began to beat faster and a sense of danger rose in him. Moving to the terrace doors he saw a squad of soldiers marching through the gardens.

The five-man squad climbed the steps to the terrace. Waylander took the priest by the arm and drew the surprised man out into the night. The guards ignored them, and pushed shut the heavy doors, dropping a crossbar into place before marching off.

'What are you doing?' asked Chardyn. 'How will we get back in?'

'Trust me, priest, you do not want to go back in.' Waylander leant in close. 'I don't often offer advice,' he said, 'but were I you I would leave this place now.'

'I don't understand.'

'All exits from the hall have been blocked. The stairs are sealed off. That is no longer a banqueting hall, priest. It is a killing ground.'

Without another word Waylander walked away into the night.

Reaching the western postern gate he paused and glanced back at the palace, silhouetted against the night sky. Anger flared in him, but he quelled it. Everyone in that lower hall was destined for death. They would be slaughtered like cattle.

Is that why you wanted me there, Orien? he wondered. So that I could die for killing your son?

He dismissed the thought even as it came to him. There had been no malice in the old king. Waylander had murdered his son, and yet the old man had given him the chance to find the Armour of Bronze and, at least in part, redeem himself for his past sins. So why had he come to Ustarte? There was no mystical armour to find, no great and perilous quest to undertake. Waylander had attended the gathering, which was all that had been asked of him.

Then why did you want me here?

Into his mind came the face of a frightened youth, a boy who feared crowds and lived in terror of assassination. Orien's grandson.

With a soft curse Waylander turned and ran back towards the palace.

Within the hall a trumpet sounded, and all conversation ceased. Lord Aric and Eldicar Manushan appeared at the North Gallery rail above the throng.

'My dear friends,' said Aric. 'Now comes a moment you have all anticipated with great relish – as indeed have I. Our friend Eldicar Manushan will entertain you with wonders beyond description.' Thunderous applause broke out, and the magicker raised his hands.

With all the doors closed the temperature in the great room began to rise. As he had at Waylander's palace, the magicker created small swirling globes of white mist, which floated and danced above the spectators, cooling the air and bringing applause.

A huge, black-maned lion appeared in the centre of the hall, and rushed towards the revellers. Several screams sounded – followed by a rush of relieved laughter as the lion became a flock of small blue songbirds, which rose up towards the rafters. The audience clapped wildly. The birds circled the hall, then gathered together, merging into the form of a small flying dragon, with golden scales and a long snout with flaring nostrils. It swooped upon the crowd, sending out a roaring blaze of fire, which engulfed the spectators by the western wall. Once more screams were followed by laughter and applause as the victims saw that not a single scorch had blemished the beauty of their satin robes and silken jackets.

On the dais the Duke Elphons clapped politely, then reached out and took the hand of his wife, Aldania, sitting beside him. A tall, slim man to the Duke's left leant in to his lord and whispered something. Elphons smiled and nodded.

At that moment Eldicar Manushan's voice boomed, 'Dear friends, I thank you for your gracious applause, and now offer a climax to the evening's entertainment, which I am sure will make what has gone before seem trivial in the extreme.'

Dark plumes of smoke began to form in the centre of the hall, twisting and snaking, braiding together like copulating serpents. The braid broke in a dozen places, and huge dark hounds leapt out, snarling, their massive fangs dripping venom. The last of the smoke floated close to the seats of the Duke and his lady. It rose up before them, forming a dark doorway, through which stepped a swordsman. He wore an ornate helm, created from layered strips of black metal, and a black silk, ankle-length tunic, split at the waist. He carried two swords, long and curved, the blades so dark they seemed to have been carved from the night sky. A third sword, scabbarded, was thrust into the black silk sash around his waistv

Stepping forward he bowed to the Duke – then flung one of his swords into the air. The second followed it. Swiftly he drew the third, and this, too, he sent spinning into the air, just as the first blade returned to his hand. He began to leap and twirl, while juggling the blades. Meanwhile the twelve black hounds moved stealthily towards the spectators.

Faster and faster the swordsman spun the blades.

What happened next was so swift that few registered the act. The swordsman's hand flicked out. One of the swords flew straight into the chest of Lord Ruall. Instantly the second lanced through the throat of Elphons, Duke of Kydor. The third plunged through the heart of Lady Aldania.

For a moment only, there was silence in the hall.

Then the first of the hounds leapt, its great fangs ripping out the throat of a reveller.

'Enjoy a taste of true magic!' bellowed Lord Aric.

More smoke billowed, and a score of Kraloth rushed from it. The crowd panicked and tried to beat their way through the barred doors. Again the smoke came. Now there were some fifty demonic hounds.

They rushed into the crowd, their long fangs ripping and tearing at the silk– and satin-clad nobles. Aric watched from the gallery, his eyes gleaming. It was incredible! He saw one young man run across the hall and try to jump to the stair rail. A Kraloth leapt at him, jaws closing on his leg. Trie noble clung desperately to the rail. The Kraloth fell back to the hall floor, taking the lower part of the man's leg with him. Aric tapped Lord Panagyn on the shoulder, pointing out the scene. Blood gouting from the severed limb, the noble had almost managed to haul himself on to the stairs. Aric gestured to the bodyguard Gaspir, who was standing close by. The man ran along the gallery, and down the stairs. Just as the noble believed he had reached safety Gaspir came alongside. The young man reached out to Gaspir, seeking help. The black-bearded bodyguard grabbed him, tipping him back into the hall. As his body struck the floor a Kraloth leapt upon him, ripping away his face.

All across the hall there were similar scenes. Aric gloried in them. He swung to make a comment to Eldicar Manushan, and saw that the magicker had withdrawn from the gallery rail and was sitting on a bench with his page. He seemed lost in thought.

Aric stared down at the dead Duke. His one complaint was that the man had died too swiftly. Pompous bastard! He should have been made to watch all his followers scream and die.

At that moment Aric saw movement on the East Gallery. The youth, Niallad, had emerged from his room and was standing at the rail, staring in horror at the blood-letting below.

Aric looked around for Gaspir. The bodyguard was standing with one of Panagyn's men. They, too, had seen the boy. Gaspir glanced towards Aric for confirmation.

Aric nodded. Gaspir drew his dagger.

Niallad's mind reeled at the sights before him. The sound of screaming filled his ears. The hall was awash with blood and corpses. A severed arm was draped over one of the food tables, dripping gore on to bone-white plates. Huge black hounds were leaping on the terrified survivors. Niallad saw a man hammering at one of the doors, shouting to be let out. One hound leapt upon his back, massive teeth crunching down on his skull.

Niallad gazed down and saw his parents, slain where they sat. A black-garbed swordsman approached his father's body, reached out, then pulled a sword from his father's body. The corpse of Duke Elphons toppled sideways.

'Murderer!' screamed Niallad. The warrior looked up, then transferred his gaze to Eldicar Manushan, who was now leaning on the North Gallery banister rail, watching the carnage below. Beside him stood Lords Aric and Panagyn.

Niallad could not, at that moment, comprehend why these men were standing idly by. He felt giddy and sick and began to lose all sense of reality. Then he saw Gaspir and another man moving towards him.

'They have killed my father, Gaspir,' he said.

'They have killed you too,' said his bodyguard.

Niallad saw the knives in their hands. He backed away into his room. His legs were trembling. All his young life he had feared just such a moment as this. And now it was upon him. Curiously the terror faded away, replaced by a cold anger. His limbs ceased to tremble and he ran to his bed, where he had discarded his dagger-belt. His fingers curled around the carved ebony hilt, pulling the weapon clear. Then he swung to face the men.

'I thought you were my friend, Gaspir,' he said, and felt a surge of pride that there was no fear in his voice.

'I was your friend,' said Gaspir, 'but I serve Lord Aric. I will kill you swiftly, boy. I'll not throw you to the beasts.'

Gaspir stepped closer. The other man edged away to the right.

'Why are you doing this?' asked Niallad.

'There's little point in such a question,' said the Grey Man, stepping through the balcony doorway. 'You might just as well ask a rat why it spreads disease. It does it because it is a rat. It knows no other way.'

The two assassins hesitated. Gaspir glanced at the Grey Man, who was standing unarmed, his thumbs resting in his belt. 'Kill the boy,' he ordered the second man, then advanced on the Grey Man. His intended victim did not back away. His right hand moved to his ornate belt buckle. In that fraction of a heartbeat Gaspir saw the arrowhead-shaped centre of the buckle slide clear. The Grey Man's hand flicked out. Blinding white light exploded in Gaspir's right eye-socket, lancing fire through his skull. He fell back.

Niallad saw the Grey Man step in swiftly, grab Gaspir's knife arm and twist it savagely. The long blade fell clear. The Grey Man caught the falling blade by the hilt, and flipped it. His arm rose and fell. There was a grunt from Niallad's left. The second assassin staggered, Gaspir's blade lodged in his neck. Even so he raised his own knife and lunged at Niallad. The youth sidestepped and, without thinking, slammed his own dagger through the man's chest, piercing the heart. He dropped without a sound.

Gaspir was on his knees groaning, one hand over the bleeding wound in his eye. The Grey Man slapped his hand away, and tore the throwing knife clear. Gaspir gave a cry of pain and fell back. The Grey Man coolly sliced his blade across Gaspir's throat. Ignoring the dying man, who continued to writhe on the floor, he walked across to Niallad.

'My parents are dead,' said Niallad.

I know,' said the Grey Man, moving past the boy and making for the door. Gently he pushed it shut. He swung back to Niallad. 'Breathe slowly,' he said, 'and look into my eyes.'

Niallad did so. 'Now, listen to me. If you are going to survive you must understand your position. You are no longer the son of the mightiest man in the realm. You are, from this moment, an outlaw. They will hunt you and try to kill you. You are a man alone. You must learn to think like one. Strap on that dagger-belt, and follow me.'

Lord Shastar of House Bakard, his shirt torn away, blood seeping from the clawmarks on his naked back, sat huddled against the western wall, watching the black hounds ripping flesh from the bodies – some of which were still living.

Shastar sat very still, aware that the slightest movement could alert the creatures to his presence. Across from him he could see the bodies of the Duke and his wife, the dead Ruall lying beside them.

The black-garbed warrior who had killed them was standing silently, arms folded across his chest.

A massive hound padded across to where Shastar sat. He did not move. The beast's nostrils flared, its huge head so close to Shastar's own that he could smell the beast's foetid breath. Shastar closed his eyes, waiting for the fangs to rip away at him. Just then a dying woman close by let out a groan. The hound leapt upon her, and Shastar heard the sound of crunching bones.

Voices sounded close by. Opening his eyes he saw the magicker, Eldicar Manushan, strolling among the corpses. As he reached each hound he lightly touched it. With each touch one of the creatures disappeared, until at last the hall was eerily silent.

'Gods, what a mess,' he heard someone say. Shastar glanced to his right to see Lord Aric, picking his way across the marble floor, careful to avoid the pools of blood and severed limbs. Shastar watched, as if in a dream. He could hardly believe this was happening. How could a cultured man like Aric have been responsible for such a massacre? He had known Aric for years. They had hunted together, discussed art and poetry. There had been no indication of the monster dwelling within him.

Shastar watched as the magicker walked around the hall, staring down at the bodies. He saw him reach the East Gallery stairs. Aric moved across to the body of Duke Elphons, dragging it from the ornate, high-backed chair. The lord of House Kilraith then tore the cape from the Duke's shoulders and wiped blood from the chair before sitting down and surveying the hall. Eldicar Manushan joined him. 'There is no sign of the Grey Man,' he said.

'What? He must be here.'

At that moment a shadow fell across Shastar. He looked up to see the black-garbed warrior who had killed the Duke looming over him. The man's features were Chiatze, though his eyes were golden. He leaned in close. Shastar saw that his pupils were elongated, like those of a cat.

'This one lives,' said the warrior. Reaching down he grabbed Shastar by the arm and hauled him to his feet. The strength in the man's grip surprised Shastar. The warrior was slim and not tall, yet the heavy-set lord of House Bakard was dragged upright in an instant.

'Well, well,' said Eldicar Manushan, striding forward, 'I never cease to be surprised by the vagaries of war.' He looked into Shastar's face. 'Have you any idea of the odds against surviving an attack by so many Kraloth? Millions to one.' Stepping in close he looked at the wounds on Shastar's back. 'Hardly a scratch, though the wounds will still be fatal if left untreated.'

'Why have you done this?' asked Shastar.

'I can assure you it wasn't for pleasure,' said Eldicar Manushan. 'I take no joy in such enterprises. But, you see, there are only two ways to deal with potential enemies: make them allies or kill them. I just did not have the time to make so many alliances. However, since you have so luckily escaped death, I feel obliged to give you the opportunity of serving my cause. I can heal your wounds, give you back your youth, and promise you centuries of life.'

'We don't need him!' shouted Aric.

'I say who we need, mortal,' hissed Eldicar Manushan. 'What say you, Lord Shastar?'

'If an alliance with you means joining forces with a worm like Aric I'll have to decline,' said Shastar.

'You really should reconsider,' said Eldicar gently. 'Death is terribly final.'

Shastar smiled – then lunged at the magicker. His right hand curled around Eldicar Manushan's dagger, dragging it from its sheath and ramming the blade into the magicker's chest. Eldicar Manushan staggered back, then righted himself. Taking hold of the hilt he slowly pulled the weapon clear. Blood dripped from the blade. Eldicar Manushan held the dagger out before him and released it. Instead of falling to the floor it hovered in the air. 'That really hurt,' he said, aggrieved. 'But I understand your anger. Rest in peace.'

The blade spun and swept into Shastar's chest, slipping between the ribs and plunging into his heart.

Shastar grunted then fell to his knees. He too tried to pull the dagger clear, but then pitched face first to the floor. 'Such a shame,' said the magicker. 'I liked the man. He had honour and courage. Now . . . where were we? Ah, yes, the Grey Man.' He glanced up at the East Gallery. 'Your men are taking rather a long time to complete a simple task, Aric.'

Lord Aric rose from the Duke's chair and ordered two of the guards to fetch Gaspir. Moments later one of the men called from the gallery, 'My lord, Gaspir and Valik are dead. There is no sign of the boy. They must have escaped to the gardens and the beach.'

'Find them!' roared Aric.

'Good advice,' muttered Eldicar Manushan. 'It would be greatly advisable to find him – before he finds you.'

Eldicar Manushan crouched down by the body of the dead Shastar and pulled his dagger clear, wiping the blade on the dead man's leggings. Sheathing the dagger, he noted that the hem of his shimmering robe was stained with blood. With a sigh he picked his way through the corpse-strewn hall and opened the stair door. Climbing to the gallery he found Beric still sitting on the bench. Taking the boy's hand he led him back through to their own suite of rooms.

'It is time for the communion,' said Beric.

'I know.'

Eldicar sat down on a wide couch, the boy beside him. The magicker, still holding the boy's hand, closed his eyes and tried to relax. Communion did not come easily, for first he had to mask his feelings. He had not wanted this massacre, believing it unnecessary. Most of the people present would not have been a threat to the plans of Kuan-Hador. He could have engineered it so that only the Duke and his closest allies were killed. He did not want such thoughts in his mind once communion was established. Deresh Karany did not tolerate criticism.

Eldicar concentrated on thoughts of his childhood, and the small sailboat his father had built for him on the lake. Good days, when the Talent was imprecise and unskilled, and he had dreamed of becoming a healer.

He felt the first sharp tug in his mind. It was most painful, as if the flesh of his brain was being teased by a talon.

'Not a great success, Eldicar Manushan,' came the voice of Deresh Karany.

'Nor yet a failure, Lord. The Duke and his allies are dead.'

'The Grey Man lives, as do the two sword-bearers.'

'I have sent eight Kriaz-nor to intercept the sword-bearers. Two squads, one led by Three-swords, the other by Striped-claw.'

'Commune with both squads. Tell them they have three days.'

'Yes, Lord.'

'And what of the traitor, Ustarte?'

'I believe her to be alive and hidden in the palace of the Grey Man. A troop of Lord Aric's soldiers are already on their way.'

'I would appreciate her being taken alive.'

'That is the instruction they have. I would be happier if more Kriaz-nor could be sent.'

'More will come when the gateway finally collapses. Until then you must use Anharat's creatures. Tell me, why did you offer the man Shastar his life?'

'He had courage.'

'He was a potential enemy. You have a soft heart, Eldicar. Do not allow it to interfere with the orders you have been given. We are great because we obey. We do not question.'

'I understand, Lord.'

'I hope that you do. I risked my reputation to speak up for you following the debacle at Parsha-noor. It would hurt me if you proved unworthy of my trust. When you have found the priestess commune again.'

'Yes, Lord.'

Eldicar groaned as the link was severed. 'Your nose is bleeding,' said Beric. Eldicar pulled a handkerchief from the pocket of his robe, and dabbed at it. His head was pounding.

'You should lie down,' said Beric.

'I shall,' said Eldicar, pushing himself to his feet and walking through to his bedroom.

Lying back on the satin coverlet of his bed, his head upon the soft pillow, he thought of the debacle at Parsha-noor.

Eldicar had given the enemy an extra day to consider surrender. An extra day! They had refused, and Deresh Karany had arrived at the battlefield. He sent a First Level demon to rip out the heart of the enemy king, and a host of Kraloth to terrorize the city-dwellers. Oh, they had surrendered fast enough then, Eldicar recalled. When they finally opened the gates to their conquerors Deresh Karany ordered twenty-six thousand of the citizens – one in three of the city-dwellers – to be put to death. Another ten thousand had been shipped back to Kuan-Hador to be Joined.

The extra day had seen Eldicar censured before the Seven. Only the mitigating plea from Deresh Karany had saved him from impalement.

The bleeding stopped.

Eldicar closed his eyes and dreamed of sailboats.

'All in all a fine night's work,' said Lord Panagyn, peeling away the silver eye-patch and staring around the blood-drenched hall. 'Ruall, Shastar and Elphons are dead, with most of their captains and supporters.' He stared at the dead Aldania. 'Shame about the woman. I always admired her.'

Aric summoned two of his guards and ordered them to gather work parties to clear the bodies. He was not a happy man. Panagyn clapped him on the shoulder. 'Why so glum, cousin? So the boy got away. He won't get far.'

'It is not the boy who concerns me,' said Aric. 'It is the Grey Man.'

'I've heard of him. A rich merchant, and your largest creditor.' Panagyn chuckled. 'You always did love to live above your means, cousin.'

'He is a deadly man. He killed Vanis. Came into his house while it was surrounded by guards and cut his throat.'

'I heard it was suicide.'

'You heard wrong.'

'Well, you have fifty men scouring the town for him. So relax. Enjoy the victory.'

Aric stalked across the hall, past the silent, black-garbed warrior who had killed the Duke. The man was sitting quietly by the stairs, arms folded, eyes closed. He did not look up as Aric passed. Climbing the stairs, Aric moved to Niallad's room. Panagyn came in behind him. Aric knelt by the body of Gaspir. 'Stabbed through the eye, then had his throat cut,' said Panagyn.

Aric could not have cared less. He walked through to the balcony. He gazed out over the moonlit garden towards the wrought-iron gate leading to the private beach. From here he could see the blazing torches and lanterns of the searchers. There had been no boats upon the beach, which meant that the fugitives would have to swim the bay. There was no other escape route. The front of the palace had been swarming with guards.

The Grey Man had not been seen there.

'Take a look at this,' said Panagyn. Aric turned to see the Lord of House Rishell kneeling by the second body. He pointed at the knife jutting from the man's neck. It had an ornate handle of carved ivory. 'Wasn't this Gaspir's knife?'

'Aye,' said Aric, puzzled.

Panagyn glanced back at the other body. 'So the Grey Man killed Gaspir, took away his knife and stabbed my nephew through the neck before he could kill the boy. No, that would have taken too long. He took the knife and threw it.' Panagyn smiled. 'I see what you mean by deadly. Have to admire skill like that, though.'

'You are taking the death of your relative very well,' snapped Aric. 'I commend the manner in which you are hiding your grief.'

Panagyn ruffled the dead man's hair. 'He was a good lad. Not very bright, though.' Rising, he moved to a nearby table and poured a goblet of wine. 'And it is hard to be sad on a night when almost all of one's enemies have been killed.'

'Well, all of mine are not yet dead,' said Aric.

'All of them never will be, cousin. That is the penalty for being a ruler.' Panagyn drained the wine. 'I think I shall take to my bed. It has been a long – and rewarding – night. You should get some rest. There is much to do tomorrow.'

'I will rest – when they have found the Grey Man,' said Aric.

Back in the hall the bodies were being cleared away. Aric descended the stairs and walked out into the night. A line of men bearing torches was climbing up from the beach. Aric waited. His captain, a thin, hatchet-faced man named Shad, approached. He gave a brief bow. 'No sign of them on the beach, Lord. I have sent out boats to search the water, and riders to scour the opposite shoreline. We are also organizing a house-to-house search through the town.'

'They could not have made it to the White Palace in this time,' said Aric. 'Are you certain no unauthorized guest left the hall?'

'There was one, Lord. The priest Chardyn. The guards assumed his name had been mistakenly omitted from the list.'

'I don't care about the priest.'

'There was no one else, Lord. The second squad reported that there was another man with the priest when they closed the western doors. From the description it was the Grey Man. He must have walked around to the rear of the palace and scaled the wall to the boy's room.'

'That much we already know,' said Aric. 'What happened then is what we must find out.'

'They must have gone to the beach, Lord. The tide was in so they could not have skirted the cliffs. We will find them. It will be light soon. If they are swimming in the bay the boatmen will catch them. Do you wish for them to be taken alive?'

'No, just kill them. But bring me the heads.'

'Yes, Lord.'

Aric strode back into the palace. There was a growing stench in the hall, but it faded as he climbed the stairs. Pausing at the top, he looked down, remembering the screams and cries of the dying. The pleasure he experienced had quite surprised him. Thinking back now, he found his previous joy disconcerting. He had never seen himself as a cruel man. As a child he had even hated hunting. It was most puzzling.

Panagyn had mentioned the death of Aldania. Ark paused. He had always liked the Duke's wife. She had been most kind to him. Why, then, did he feel nothing at her passing? Not the tiniest touch of guilt or regret. You are just tired, he told himself. There is nothing wrong with you.

Aric opened the door to his apartments. It was dark inside. The servants had not lit his lanterns. He was momentarily irritated – until he recalled that the servants had been ordered to leave the hall for Eldicar's performance. After that, in the chaos that had followed the slaughter, it was not surprising that they had forgotten their duties.

Moving through the main room, he walked to the balcony and stared out once more over the gardens and the distant beach. There were many boats drawn up now on the sand, and he could see the commandeered fishing boats heading back towards their moorings. Obviously the Grey Man and the boy had not chosen to swim the bay. Where, then, were they?

In that moment he heard a whisper of sound from behind. As he turned he saw a dark figure loom out of the shadows. Something glittering and bright flashed for his face. Aric hurled himself backwards. His legs thudded against the balcony balustrade and he toppled over it, striking his head on a jutting stone.

Darkness swamped him.

Aric became aware of the taste of blood in his mouth. He tried to move, but something was pulling at his arm. He opened his eyes. His face was resting against bare earth, his left arm wedged into the branches of a flowering bush. He dragged it clear, and groaned as pain shot through his side. Lying still for a moment he gathered his thoughts.

Someone had been in his room. He had been attacked and had fallen twenty feet from the balcony. The bush had broken his fall, but it felt as if he had snapped a rib. Pushing himself to his knees he saw that blood had stained the earth beneath him. Panicked now, Aric searched for signs of a wound. A drop of blood dripped to his hand. It was coming from his face. Gingerly he lifted his fingers to his jaw. It was wet and sore. He remembered the flashing blade. It had cut him along the jawline from just below the ear all the way to the chin.

With a grunt of pain Aric levered himself to his feet and staggered along the path, emerging at the front of the palace. Two guards were standing nearby. Seeing him, they ran forward and helped him back into the palace.

Within minutes he was in his rooms once more. Eldicar Manushan came to him there and examined his wounds. 'You have two cracked ribs, and your left wrist is sprained,' he said.

'What about my face? Will it be badly scarred?'

'I shall deal with that presently. What happened?'

'I was attacked. Here, in this very room.' Eldicar moved out on to the balcony, then returned. 'There is a narrow ledge from your balcony to that of the Duke's son,' he said. 'The Grey Man did not flee the palace. He merely climbed along to your apartments and waited for the hunt to die down.'

'He could have killed me,' whispered Aric.

'He almost did. Had that cut been a hair's breadth lower it would have opened your jugular. A formidable opponent. He hides where no one would think of looking, in the very heart of his enemy's fortress.' Eldicar sighed. 'Such a shame he would not join us.'

Aric lay quietly on the bed, feeling nauseous. Eldicar spoke again: 'You were very lucky, Aric. The enhancements to your body enabled you to react with far greater speed than the average human. That allowed you – just – to avoid your throat being cut. It also helped your body absorb the impact of the fall.'

'What else do these . . . enhancements do, Eldicar?'

'What do you mean?'

'I seem to have . . . changed in other ways. To have lost . . . something.'

'You have lost nothing you will need as a servant of Kuan-Hador. Now, let me seal that cut.'

As the ride progressed Keeva's tension grew. From the start she had realized this was not going to be an easy task. Most of the horses shied away from Ustarte, nostrils flaring, ears flat against their skulls. There was something about her scent that frightened them. Finally Emrin had brought out an old, sway-backed mare. She was almost blind, and allowed Ustarte to approach. Emrin lifted a saddle from a nearby rail. 'I cannot ride in the usual fashion,' said Ustarte. Emrin stood still, confused. 'My legs are . . . deformed,' she told him. His expression changed to one of embarrassment.

'Perhaps a shabraque would be more suitable,' he said. 'We have several, though they are not comfortable for a long ride. But you will be able to sit sideways upon old Grimtail. Will that suit, Lady?'

'You are very kind. I am sorry to put you to this trouble.'

'No trouble, I assure you.' Emrin moved to the back of the stable and returned with a leopardskin shabraque which he fastened around the pony's neck and belly. He swung to Keeva, who was already sitting upon a tall chestnut gelding. 'I have packed supplies for around three days, and two sacks of grain for the mounts.'

'We must be swift,' said Ustarte suddenly. 'There are riders heading up from the town.'

Emrin tried to lift Ustarte to the pony. He failed. 'Your . . . robes must be very heavy,' he said. The soldier searched around the barn, returning with a three-legged stool. Ustarte stepped on to it, then carefully sat down on the mare's back.

'Keep hold of her mane, Lady. Keeva will take the reins. And you had better carry the stool with you for when you want to mount again.'

Keeva heeled the chestnut forward. Leaning down, she took up the reins of the pony. It did not move. Emrin slapped the beast lightly on the rump and the two mounts walked out into the moonlit yard. In the distance Keeva caught sight of a troop of riders cresting a hill some half a mile away.

Now, an hour later, the two women had covered very little ground. The pony kept stopping and standing stubbornly in place for several minutes at a time, breathing heavily. Its dark flanks were already wet with sweat. Ustarte seemed untroubled. 'They are not following yet,' she said. 'They are searching the palace.'

'If we were being chased by a cripple with a crutch he would have overtaken us by now,' said Keeva.

'The pony is old and tired. I think I shall walk for a while.' Ustarte slipped from the mare's back. Keeva dismounted alongside her, and the two women moved off into the darkness of the trees.

They walked in silence for another hour, then Ustarte stopped. Keeva heard her sigh. She saw tears on the face of the priestess. 'What is wrong?' she asked.

'The killing has begun.'

'At the palace?'

'No, at the Duke's Feast. The Ipsissimus has summoned demons into the hall. The people there are being slaughtered. It is vile!'

'The Grey Man?' asked Keeva, fear swelling.

'He is not there. But he is close by.' Ustarte placed the stool she was carrying on the ground and sat down. 'He is scaling the wall behind the palace, and climbing into a room. Now he waits.'

'What of the riders who came looking for you?'

'They are gathering their mounts and preparing to follow. One of the servants said they had seen us at the stables.'

'Then we must ride. On fast horses they could be upon us in less than an hour.'

Using the stool, Ustarte mounted the pony and they set off once more. The old mare seemed to have gathered strength, and for a little while they made good time. But as they reached the scree slopes above the ruins of Kuan-Hador the beast stumbled. Ustarte climbed down and placed her ear against the pony's flanks. 'Her heart is labouring. She cannot go any further carrying me.'

'We cannot escape on foot,' said Keeva. 'There is still too far to go.'

'I know,' answered Ustarte softly.

Tossing aside the stool the priestess removed her grey gloves. Slowly she undressed, the moonlight gleaming upon the striped fur of her back and flanks. Passing the robe, gloves and soft leather shoes to Keeva she said, 'You ride on. I will meet you where the trail forks on the mountain road.'

'I cannot leave you here,' objected Keeva. 'I made a promise to the Grey Man.'

'You must,' said Ustarte. 'I will deal with the men following, and I will be at the road to meet you. Now go swiftly, for I must prepare. Go!'

Keeva leaned over to take the reins of the pony. 'Leave her,' said Ustarte. 'There is one more service she must provide.' Keeva was about to argue when Ustarte leapt towards the chestnut. Panicked by her scent the big gelding reared, then sprang away down the slope.

Ustarte moved to the old pony. 'I am sorry, my dear,' she said. 'You deserve better than this.' Her talons slashed through the pony's throat. Blood spurted. The mare tried to rear but Ustarte was holding the reins. As the blood pumped out through the severed artery the pony's front legs buckled. Ustarte lay down alongside her, pushing her face into the gaping wound. Swiftly she drank.

Her body writhed and twisted, muscles swelling.

Though not an expert horsewoman Keeva did not panic as the gelding raced down the slope. With one hand on the reins, the other grasping the saddle pommel, she held on grimly. The gelding, only momentarily panicked by the scent of Ustarte's fur, calmed down swiftly, and by the time they reached the first bend in the trail he was moving at a trot Keeva gently tugged on the reins, halting the animal. She stroked the long sleek neck, and whispered soothing words, then swung in the saddle to stare back up the slope.

She was angry now. The Grey Man had asked her to see Ustarte safely away from danger, and now the priestess was going back alone to face the enemy. Keeva swung the gelding and began the long ride back to where she had last seen Ustarte.

It took some time, for the slope was steep. When finally she came upon the scene there was no sign of the beast-woman. The little pony lay dead upon the trail, her throat torn out, blood pooling on the stones. From some distance away Keeva heard a fearful roar. The gelding tensed. Keeva patted his neck. The distant roar came again, accompanied by the screams of terrified horses.

Keeva sat very still, and fear was strong upon her. A part of her wanted to ride on and aid the priestess, but the greater part desired nothing more than to flee, putting as great a distance as possible between herself and the dreadful sounds. In that moment she knew there was no right answer to the problem. If she rode to what she thought was Ustarte's rescue, and was captured, she would not be able to keep her promise to the Grey Man. If she followed Ustarte's orders and rode on, leaving the priestess to her fate, she would also be betraying the Grey Man's trust. Struggling for calm Keeva recalled the last words Ustarte had used. 'I will deal with the men following, and I will be at the road to meet you. Now, go swiftly, for I must prepare. Go!'

She did not say she would try to deal with the men, but that she would deal with them. Keeva gazed down at the dead pony. Ustarte had said she must prepare, and part of that preparation had been to kill the beast. Keeva dismounted and knelt by the body. Blood had spread out across the trail. Just beyond it Keeva saw a blood print on the stone. It was of a huge padded paw. Moving to it, she recognized it as that of a great cat.

All was silence now. There were no more screams in the distance, no echoes of terror.

Keeva backed away to the gelding and stepped into the saddle. She guided her mount down the slope and on to the plain, skirting the moonlit ruins of Kuan-Hador and the shimmering lake beyond.

Two hours later, with the dawn approaching, she halted at a fork on the mountain road and dismounted, leading the gelding into the trees. Tethering the horse, she walked back on to the slope and sat down on a rock. From here she could see the shadow-haunted plain below. A few clouds were drifting across the night sky, casting fast-moving shadows over the land. Keeva saw a movement on the plain, and tried to focus upon it. Something was moving at speed. A wolf, perhaps?

She had only seen it for an instant, but she knew it was no wolf. Clouds obscured the moonlight and Keeva sat quietly waiting for them to pass. She heard sounds upon the trail below her and, for a fraction of a heartbeat, saw a huge striped beast leave the path and enter the trees. The gelding whinnied in fear as the wind blew the scent of the creature across its nostrils. Keeva ran back to the horse, and lifted the small crossbow from the saddle pommel. Swiftly she loaded it.

A low growl came from the undergrowth, a rumbling, deep-throated sound that spoke of massive lungs. Keeva levelled the crossbow towards the sound. Then there was silence.

The dawn light filtered through the trees. The undergrowth parted.

And Ustarte stepped out. Blood was smeared across her face and arms. Pointing the crossbow to the ground Keeva released both bolts, then ran to Ustarte. 'Are you hurt?' she asked.

'Only my soul,' said Ustarte sadly. 'Do not fear, Keeva, the blood is not mine.'

Staying downwind of the frightened gelding, Ustarte made her way deeper into the trees, following the sound of running water. Keeva stayed with her, and saw there were tears on Ustarte's face. Reaching the water, the priestess crouched down and eased her crooked body into the stream. When all the blood was washed away she climbed once more to the bank. She stared down at her deformed hands and began to weep. Keeva sat beside her saying nothing.

'I wanted,' said Ustarte, at last, 'to keep this world free from the evil of Kuan-Hador. Now I have added to it. My people are dead – and I have killed.'

'They were hunting us,' said Keeva.

'They were obeying the orders of their lord. How good it would be to believe that those who died under my claws were evil men. But I felt their thoughts as I leapt among them. There were husbands there, thinking of wives and children they would never see again. Such is the nature of evil, Keeva. It corrupts us all. We cannot fight it and stay pure.'

Keeva returned to her horse and fetched Ustarte's red silk gown. She helped the priestess to dress. 'We must get to the cave,' said Keeva. Leading the gelding, Ustarte following some ten paces behind, she made her way through the trees watching for the carved signs left by the Grey Man.

They climbed for just under an hour, reaching the cliff-face and finding the cleft just as the Grey Man had described it. Inside there was a large chamber. A number of boxes had been piled there. Two lanterns were set atop the boxes. They were not needed yet, for light was streaming in from above, through a crack in the upper wall.

Keeva removed the saddle from the gelding and brushed him down. Then she fed him with the grain Emrin had supplied. At the rear of the cave, running water trickled down, forming a small pool at the base before flowing on down through a fissure in the floor. When the gelding had finished the grain she tethered him close to the pool, so that he could drink when he chose.

Ustarte had stretched herself out on the floor and was sleeping.

Keeva walked out into the morning sunlight. The trail outside was rocky scree, and she could see no sign of their passing. She sat back against the cliff-face and watched the branches of nearby oaks rustling in the breeze. A pair of wood pigeons flew by, their wings making a slapping sound. She looked up and smiled, feeling some of the tension drain from her body.

A red hawk swooped down from the skies, its long talons ripping into one of the pigeons. The wings folded and it dropped to the rocks. The hawk landed alongside the still-twitching body. Talons gripped it, the curved beak ripping into the living flesh.

Weariness flowed over Keeva, and she leant back and closed her eyes. She dozed for a while in the sunshine, and dreamt of her uncle. She was nine again, and the townspeople had dragged the old witch to a stake in the marketplace. Keeva had been out buying apples, which her uncle intended to use for a pie. She had watched the crowd baying at the witch, spitting at her and striking her with sticks. There was blood on the woman's face.

They had hauled her to the stake, tied her securely, then placed bundles of dry kindling all around her. After dousing her with oil they set fire to the kindling. Her screams were terrible.

Keeva had dropped the apples and run all the way home. Her uncle had hugged her, stroking her hair. 'She was an evil woman,' he said. 'She poisoned her entire family to gain an inheritance.'

'But they were laughing as she burned.'

'Aye, I expect they were. That's the nature of evil, Keeva. It breeds. It is born in every hateful thought, every spiteful word, every greedy deed. The crowd hated her, and in hating her they drew just a touch of evil into themselves. In some it will fade away. In others it will find a place to seed.'

The child Keeva had not understood. But she had remembered.

Keeva opened her eyes. The sun was almost at noon, and she rose and stretched.

Inside the cave Ustarte was awake, sitting quietly in the shadows.

'Are they still following?' asked Keeva.

'No, some returned to Carlis with their dead and wounded. Others are waiting at the White Palace to arrest the Grey Man. But they will come again.'

'Does the Grey Man know they are at the palace?'

'Yes.'

Keeva sighed. 'Good. Then he will avoid them.'

'No, he won't,' said Ustarte. 'He is already there. His anger is very great, but his mind is cool.' Ustarte closed her golden eyes. 'The hunters are closing in on the sword-bearers,' she said.

'You mean Yu Yu and his friend?'

'Yes. They are being pursued by two squads of Kriaz-nor, one from the south, one from the north.'

'What are Kriaz-nor?' asked Keeva.

'They are meld-creatures like myself. Faster, stronger and more deadly than almost any human.'

'Almost?'

Ustarte gave a wan smile. 'Nothing that walks or breathes is more deadly than the Grey Man.'

Keeva saw tears once more upon the face of the priestess. 'And that saddens you?'

'Of course. Within the darkness of the Grey Man's soul a small light flickers, all that remains of a good and kindly man. I asked him to fight for us, and fight he will. If that light goes out it will be my fault.'

'It will not go out,' said Keeva, putting her hand on Ustarte's shoulder. 'He is a hero. My uncle told me that heroes have special souls that are blessed by the Source. He was a wise man, my uncle.'

Ustarte smiled. 'I pray that your uncle was right.'