David Gemmell 

Dark Moon 


Mass Market Paperback: 416 pages ; Dimensions (in inches): 1.11 x 6.86 x 4.26 
Publisher: Del Rey; (December 2, 2003) ISBN: 0345458370 

The peaceful Eldarin were the last of three ancient races. The mystical Oltor, healers 
and poets, had fallen before the dread power of the cruel and sadistic Daroth. Yet in 
one awesome night the invincible Daroth had vanished from the face of the earth. 
Gone were their cities, their armies, their terror. The Great Northern Desert was their 
only legacy. Not a trace remained for a thousand years... 

The War of the Pearl had raged for seven years and the armies of the four Duchies 
were exhausted and weary of bloodshed. But the foremost of the Dukes, Sirano of 
Romark, possessed the Eldarin Pearl and was determined to unravel its secrets. 

Then, on one unforgetable day, a dark moon rose above the Great Northern Desert, 
and a black tidal wave swept across the land. In moments the desert had vanished 
beneath lush fields and forests and a great city could be seen glittering in the morning 
sunlight. 

From this city re-emerged the blood-hungry Daroth, powerful and immortal, immune 
to spear and sword. They had only one desire: to rid the world of humankind for ever. 

Now the fate of the human race rests on the talents of three heroes: Karis, warrior-
woman and strategist; Tarantio, the deadliest swordsman of the age; and Duvodas the 
Healer, who will learn a terrible truth. 

A new world of myth and magic, love and heroism, from the bestselling author of The 
Legend of Deathwalker. 

DARK MOON A CORGI BOOK : 0 552 14253 0 

Originally published in Great Britain by Bantam Press, 
a division of Transworld Publishers 

PRINTING HISTORY 

Bantam Press edition published 1996 Corgi edition published 1997 
7 9 10 8 6 Copyright © David Gemmell 1996 
The right of David Gemmell to be identified as the author of this 
work has been asserted in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of 
the Copyright Designs and Patents Act 1988. 
All of the characters in this book are fictitious, 
and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, 
is purely coincidental. 


Condition of Sale 

This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, 
by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out or 


otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other 
than that in which it is published and without a similar 
condition including this condition being imposed on the 
subsequent purchaser. 
Set in 10/12.3pt Sabon by Hewer Text Composition Services, 
Edinburgh. 
Corgi Books are published by Transworld Publishers, 
61-63 Uxbridge Road, London W5 5SA, 
a division of The Random House Group Ltd, 
in Australia by Random House Australia (Pty) Ltd, 
20 Alfred Street, Milsons Point, Sydney, NSW 2061, Australia, 
in New Zealand by Random House New Zealand Ltd 
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and in South Africa by Random House (Pty) Ltd, Endulini, 5a Jubilee 
Road, Parktown 2193, South Africa. 
Printed and bound in Great Britain by Mackays of Chatham plc, 
Chatham, Kent. 



Dark Moon is dedicated, with much love, to the memory of Olive 
'Lady' Woodford, who taught me that style is everything. A former 
dancer, she lost her left leg to cancer. The day after the operation 
she ordered a bottle of champagne to 'toast the leg on its way' and 
six months later, with an over-size NHS artificial limb strapped to 
her knee, stepped out onto a dance floor to waltz. 


My thanks as always to my editor Liza Reeves, copy editor Jean 
Maund, and test readers Val Gemmell and Stella Graham. Thanks 
also to Big Oz for the inspiration, and Mary Sanderson for the 
fingers of bone. 
Special thanks to Alan Fisher for his many valuable insights into the 
mysteries of the craft. 


Chapter One 
Tarantio was a warrior. Before that he had been a sailor, a miner, a 
breaker of horses, and an apprentice cleric to an elderly writer. 
Before that a child: quiet and solitary, living with a widowed father 
who drank in the mornings and wept in the afternoons. 
His mother was an acrobat in a travelling group of gypsies, who 
entertained at banquets and public gatherings. It was from her he 
inherited his nimbleness of foot, his speed of hand and his dark, 
swarthy good looks. She had died of the plague when Tarantio was 
six years old. He could hardly remember her now, save for one 
memory of a laughing girl-woman who threw him high in the air. 
From his father he had - he believed - inherited nothing. Save, 
perhaps, for the demon within that was Dace. 
Now Tarantio was a young man and had lived with Dace for most of 
his life. 
A cold wind whispered into the cave. Tarantio's dark, curly hair had 
been shaved close to the scalp to prevent lice, and the draught 
chilled his neck. He lifted the collar of his heavy grey coat and, 
drawing one of his short swords, he laid it close to hand. Outside 
the rain was heavy, and he could hear water cascading down the 
cliff walls. The pursuers would surely have taken shelter 
somewhere. 
'They may be just outside,' whispered the voice of 


Dace in his mind. 'Creeping up on us. Ready to cut our throats.' 
'You'd like that, Dace. More men to kill.' 
'Each to his own,' said Dace amiably. Tarantio was too tired to 
argue further, but Dace's intrusion made him sombre. Seven years 
ago war had descended upon the Duchies like a sentient hurricane, 
sucking men into his angry heart. And in the whirling maelstrom of 
his fury he fed them hatred and filled them with a love of 
destruction. The War Demon had many faces, none of them kind. 
Eyes of death, cloak of plague, mouth of famine and hands of dark 
despair. 
War and Dace were made for each other. Within the beast's hungry 
heart Dace was in ecstasy. Men admired him for his lethal skills, for 
his deadly talents. They sought him out as if he were a talisman. 
Dace was a killer of men. There was a time when Tarantio had 
known how many had died under his blades. Before that, there was 
a time when he had remembered every face. Now only two 
remained firmly in his mind: the first, his eyes bulging, his jaw 
hanging slack, blood seeping over the satin sheets. And the second, 
a slim bearded thief and killer whose swords Tarantio now wore. 
Tarantio added two logs to the fire, watching the flame shadows 
dancing on the walls of the cave. His two companions were 
stretched out on the floor, one sleeping, the other dying. 'Why do 
you still think of the slaughter on the beach?' asked Dace. Tarantio 
shivered as the memories flared again. 
Seven years ago the old ship had been beached against a storm, 
the mast dismantled, the sail wrapped and laid against the cliff wall. 
The crew were sitting around fires talking and laughing, playing 
dice. Against all odds they had survived the storm. They were alive, 
and their relieved 


laughter echoed around the cliffs, the sound drifting into the 
shadow-haunted woods beyond. 
The killers had attacked silently from those woods -appearing like 
demons, the firelight gleaming from raised swords and axes. The 
unarmed sailors had no chance and were hacked down without 
mercy, their blood staining the sand. 
Tarantio, as always, had been sitting away from the others, lying on 
his back in the rocks, staring up at the distant stars. At the first 
screams he had rolled to his knees, and watched the slaughter in 
the moonlight. Unarmed and unskilled, the young sailor had been 
powerless to help his comrades. Crouching down he hid, trembling, 
on the cold stones, the incoming tide lapping at his legs. He could 
hear the thieves plundering the ship, tearing open the hatches and 
unloading the booty. Spices and liquor from the islands, silks from 
the southern continent, and a shipment of silver ingots bound for 
the mint at Loretheli. 
Towards dawn one of the attackers had walked into the rocks to 
relieve himself. Terror filled Tarantio with panic and Dace rose 
within him, flaring like a light within the skull. Dace reared up 
before the astonished reaver, crashing a fist-sized rock against the 
man's head. The thief pitched forward without a sound. Dragging 
him out of sight of his comrades, Dace drew a knife from the man's 
belt and stabbed him to death. 
The dead man wore two short swords, their black hilts tightly bound 
with leather. Dace had unbuckled the sword-belt and swung it 
around his own waist. Relieving the man of his bulging purse, Dace 
had stolen away through the rocks, leaving the scene of the 
massacre far behind. 
Once clear, the panic gone, Tarantio dragged Dace back and 
resumed control. Dace had not objected; without 


the prospect of violence, and the need to kill, he was easily bored. 
Alone and friendless, Tarantio had walked the thirty miles west to 
the Corsair city of Loretheli, looking for a berth on a new ship. 
Instead he had met Sigellus the Swordsman. Tarantio thought of 
him often, and of the perils they had faced together. But the 
thoughts were always tinged with sadness and the velvet claw of 
regret at his death. Sigellus had understood about Dace. During one 
of their training sessions Dace had broken loose, and had tried to 
kill Sigellus. The Swordsman had been too skilled for him then, but 
Dace managed to cut him before Sigellus blocked a thrust and 
hammered his iron fist into Dace's chin, spinning him from his feet. 
'What the Hell is wrong with you, boy?' he had asked, when 
Tarantio regained consciousness. For the second time in his young 
life, he talked about Dace. Sigellus had listened, his grey eyes 
expressionless, blood dripping from a shallow cut to his right cheek 
just below the eye. When at last he had told it all, including the 
murders, Sigellus sat back and let out a deep sigh. 'All men carry 
demons, Chio,' he said. 'At least you have made an effort to control 
yours. May I speak with Dace?' 
'You don't think I am insane?' 
'I do not know what you are, my boy. But let me speak with Dace.' 
'He can hear you, sir,' said Tarantio. 'I do not wish to let him free.' 
'Very well. Hear me, Dace, you fight with great passion, and you are 
uncannily fast. But it will take you time to learn to be half as good 
as I am. So understand this. If you try to kill me again, I will spear 
your belly and gut you like a fish.' He looked into Chio's dark blue 
eyes. 'Did he understand that?' 


'Yes, sir. He understood.' 
'That is good.' Sigellus had smiled then, and, with a silk 
handkerchief he had mopped the trickle of blood from his face. 'Now 
I think that is enough practice for today. I can hear a jug of wine 
calling my name.' 
'I hate him,' said Dace. 'One day I will kill him.' 
'That is a lie,' Tarantio told him. 'You don't hate him at all.' 
For a time Dace was silent. When at last his voice whispered into 
Tarantio's mind it was softer than at any time before. 'He is the first 
person, apart from you, to ever speak to me. To speak to Dace.' 
In that instant Tarantio felt a surge of jealousy. 'He threatened to 
kill you,' he pointed out. 
'He said I was good. Uncannily fast.' 
'He is my friend.' 
'You want me to kill him?' 
'No!' 
'Then you must let him be my friend too.' 


Tarantio shivered and pushed the painful memories from his mind. 
The War of the Pearl had begun, and the Four Duchies were 
recruiting fighting men. Few had even seen the artefact they were 
willing to kill - or die - for. Fewer still understood the importance of 
the Pearl. Rumours were rife: it was a weapon of enormous power; 
it was a healing stone which could grant immortality; it was a 
prophetic jewel which could read the future. No-one really knew. 
After his time with Sigellus, he and Dace had wandered through the 
warring Duchies, taking employment with various mercenary units 
and twice holding commissions in regular forces, taking part in 
sieges, cavalry attacks, minor skirmishes and several pitched 
battles. Mostly they 



had the good fortune to be with the victorious side, but four times 
they had - as now - been among the refugees of a ruined army. 
The camp-fire burned low in the shallow cave and Tarantio sat 
before it, the heat barely reaching his cold hands. By the far wall lay 
Kiriel, his life fading. Belly wounds were always the worst, and this 
one was particularly bad, having severed the intestines. The boy 
moaned and cried out. Tarantio moved to him, laying his fingers 
over the boy's mouth. 'Be strong, Kiriel. Be silent. The enemy are 
close.' Kiriel's fever-bright eyes opened. They were cornflower blue, 
the eyes of a child, frightened and longing for reassurance. 
'I am hurting, Tarantio,' he whispered. 'Am I dying?' 
'Dying? From a little scratch like that? You just rest. By dawn you'll 
feel like wrestling a bear.' 
'Truly?' 
'Truly,' lied Tarantio, knowing that by dawn the boy would be dead. 
Kiriel closed his eyes. Tarantio stroked his blond hair until he slept, 
then returned to the fire. A huge figure stirred by the far wall, then 
rose and sat opposite the warrior. 
'To lie is a kindness sometimes,' said the big man softly, firelight 
reflecting in his twin-forked red beard, his green eyes shining like 
cold jewels. 'I think the thrust must have burst his spleen. The 
wound stinks.' 
Tarantio nodded, then added the last of the fuel to the fire as the 
other man chuckled. 'Thought we were finished back there - until 
you attacked them. I have to be honest, Tarantio, I had heard of 
your skills but never believed the stories. Shem's tits, but I do now! 
Never seen the like. I'm just glad I was close enough to make the 
break with you. You think any of the others survived?' 
Tarantio considered the question. 'Maybe one or two. 


Like us. But it is unlikely. That was a killing party; they weren't 
seeking prisoners.' 
'You think they're still following us?' 
Tarantio shrugged. 'They are or they aren't. We'll know tomorrow.' 
'Which way should we head?' 
'Any way you choose, Forin. But we'll not be travelling together. I'm 
heading over the mountains. Alone.' 
'Something about my company you don't like?' asked the big man, 
anger flaring. 
Tarantio looked up into the man's glittering eyes. Forin was a killer - 
a man on the edge. During the summer he had killed two 
mercenaries with his bare hands after a fight over an unpaid wager. 
To anger him would not be wise. Tarantio was seeking some 
conciliatory comment when he felt Dace flare up inside him. 
Normally he would have fought back, held the demon in check by 
force of will. But he was bone-weary, and Dace flashed through his 
defences. Dace grinned at Forin. 'What is there to like? You're a 
brute. You have no conscience. You'd cut your mother's throat for a 
silver penny.' 
Forin tensed, his hand closing around his sword-hilt. Dace laughed 
at him. 'But bear in mind, you ugly son of a bitch, that I could cut 
you in half without breaking sweat. I could swallow you whole if 
someone buttered your head and pinned your ears back.' 
For a heartbeat the giant sat stock-still, then his laughter boomed 
out. 'By Heaven, you think a lot of yourself, little man! I think I 
would prove a mouthful even for the legendary Tarantio. However, 
such talk is foolishness. We are being hunted and it makes no sense 
to fight amongst ourselves. Now tell me why we should not move 
on together.' 
Within the halls of his own subconscious, Tarantio felt 


Dace's disappointment. In that moment Tarantio surged back into 
control; he blinked, and took a deep breath. 'They will have seen 
our tracks,' he told Forin, 'and know that one of us is wounded. 
They are unlikely therefore to follow us in strength. I would think 
eight to ten men may be on our trail. When we part company, and 
they find the tracks, they will be forced to either split their numbers 
or choose just one of us to follow. Either way the odds will be better 
for all of us.' 
'All of us? The boy will be dead by morning.' 
'I meant both you and I,' said Tarantio swiftly. 
Forin nodded. 'Why did you not give that reason in the first place? 
Why the insults?' 
Tarantio shrugged. 'Gypsy blood. Don't be too offended, Forin. I 
don't like anybody much.' 
Forin relaxed. 'I'm not offended. There was a time when I would 
have paid considerably more than a silver penny for the privilege of 
cutting my mother's throat. I was a child then. All I knew was that 
she had broken my father's heart. And she'd abandoned me. So you 
were not too far wrong.' He gave an embarrassed grin, and idly 
tugged at the braids of his beard. 'He was a good man, my father. A 
great story-teller. All the village children would gather at our home 
to listen to him. He knew history too. All the stories of the ancient 
kingdoms, the Eldarin, the Daroth and the old Empire. He used to 
mix them with myth. Wonderful nights! We would sit with our eyes 
wide open in terror, our jaws hanging. He had a great voice, deep 
and sepulchral.' 
'I frightened him,' said Dace. 'Now he wants to be our friend.' 
'Perhaps,' agreed Tarantio. 'But then you frighten everyone - 
including me.' 

'What happened to your father?' asked Tarantio aloud. 
'He caught the lung sickness and faded away.' Forin 


lapsed into silence and began to brush the mud from his brown 
leather leggings. Tarantio saw that the big man was struggling with 
his emotions. Forin cleared his throat, then drew his hunting-knife. 
From a deep pocket he produced a whetstone and began to sharpen 
the blade with long, smooth strokes. At last satisfied with the edge, 
he took a small, oval, silver-edged mirror from the same pocket and 
began to shave the stubble above the line of his red beard. When 
he had finished he sheathed the blade and returned the mirror to 
his pocket. He glanced at the silent Tarantio. 'My father was a good 
man. He deserved better. He weighed no more than a child when he 
died.' 
'A bad way to go,' agreed Tarantio. 
'No-one's yet told me of a good way,' Forin pointed out. 'You know, 
I saw an Eldarin once. He came to see my father. I was about seven 
years old then. Frightened the life out of me. But he sat quietly by 
the hearth and I peeked at him from behind my father's chair. It 
wasn't the fur on his face and arms that was so disturbing; it was 
the eyes. They were so large. But he spoke softly and my father 
insisted I step forward and shake hands. He was right. Once I was 
close, I lost my fear.' 
Tarantio nodded. 'I was apprenticed to an old man who wrote 
histories. He described the Eldarin. Said they had faces that 
resembled wolves.' 
'That's not exactly right,' said Forin. 'Wolves gives the wrong 
impression. It suggests savagery, and there was nothing savage 
about this one. But then I'm seeing him through the eyes of a 
trusting seven-year-old. He let me touch the white fur on his face 
and brow. It was soft, like rabbit pelt. I fell asleep by the fire as he 
and my father talked. In the morning he was gone.' 
'What did they talk about?' 
'I don't remember much of it. Poetry. Stories. The 


Daroth massacres fascinated my father, but the Eldarin would not 
speak of them.' Forin's green eyes caught Tarantio's steady gaze. 'If 
you don't like people, why did you carry the boy here? You hardly 
knew him. He only joined us a few days ago.' 
'Who knows? Let's get some sleep.' Using his heavy woollen coat as 
a blanket, Tarantio lay down by the dying fire. 
The dream was sharp and clear. Once again he and the other 
mercenaries were surrounded, the enemy rushing in out of the 
darkness with sharp swords in their hands. Caught in a trap, scores 
died within the opening moments of the charge. Tarantio had frozen 
momentarily, but Dace had not. Drawing both his swords, Dace 
scanned the advancing line, and then charged. He did not know that 
Forin and Kiriel had followed him. Nor did he care. His deadly 
swords slashing left and right, he cut a path through the attackers, 
then sprinted for the darkness of the trees. Forin and Kiriel got 
through, though the boy took a terrible stab to the stomach. There 
was little moonlight, but Dace's night vision was good and, eyes 
narrowed, he led them deep into the heart of the forest. Kiriel 
collapsed against a tree, blood soaking his shirt and leggings. Safe 
now, Tarantio resumed control of his body and had half-carried the 
boy on. Then, when Kiriel finally collapsed, Forin had lifted him into 
his arms and brought him to the cave. 
In the dream Tarantio became the boy, fear of death filling him with 
terror. And the faces of the men Dace had killed to break free 
became old friends and comrades of past skirmishes. 
An old man's face floated before him. 'The truth burns, Chio,' it 
said. 'The truth is a bright light, and it hurts so much.' 


Tarantio awoke in the faint light of the pre-dawn. As always he 
came fully awake immediately, senses alert and mind sharp. It was 
the only period of the day when Dace was absent, and Tarantio felt 
at one with himself and the world. He took a slow deep breath, 
revelling in the emotional privacy. 
The sound of cloth scraping on stone came from his left and 
Tarantio sat up. The huge form of the red-bearded warrior Forin 
was kneeling over the body of Kiriel, furtively searching through the 
dead boy's pockets. 
'He has no coin,' said Tarantio softly. 
Forin sat back. 'None of us have coin,' he grunted. 'Three months' 
back pay, and you think we'll get it now - even if we make it back to 
the border?' 
Tarantio rolled to his feet and stepped outside the cave. The sun 
was clearing the eastern mountains, bathing the forest with golden 
light. The harsh cold stone of the cliff, corpse-grey in the twilight of 
the night before, now shone like coral. Tarantio emptied his 
bladder, then returned to the cave. 
'It was that damned woman . . . Karis,' said Forin. 'I'll bet she's a 
witch.' 
'She needs no sorcery,' said Tarantio, swinging his sword-belt 
around his waist. 
'You know her?' 
'Rode with her for two campaigns. Cold she is, and hard, and she 
can out-think and out-plan any general I ever served.' 
'Why did you quit her service?' asked the giant. 
'I didn't. I was with her when she fought for the Duke of Corduin. At 
the end of the season she resigned and joined the army of Romark. 
He was said to have offered her six thousand in gold. I don't doubt 
it is an exaggeration -but not by much, I'd wager.' 


'Six thousand!' whispered Forin, awed by the sum. 
Tarantio moved to Kiriel's body. The boy looked peaceful, his face 
relaxed. He could have been sleeping, save for the statue stillness 
of his features. 'He was a good lad,' said Tarantio, 'but too young 
and too slow.' 
'It was his first campaign,' said Forin. 'He ran away from the farm to 
enlist. Thought it would be safer to be surrounded by soldiers.' The 
big man looked up at Tarantio. 'He was just a farm boy. Not a killer, 
like you - or me.' 
'And now he's a dead farm boy,' said Tarantio. Forin nodded, then 
rose and faced the swordsman. 
'What drives you, man?' he asked suddenly. 'Last night I saw the 
light of madness in your eyes. You wanted to kill me. Why?' 
'It is what we do,' whispered Tarantio. He walked to the mouth of 
the cave and scanned the tree-line. There was no sign of the 
pursuers. Swinging back, he met Forin's gaze. 'Good luck to you,' 
he said. Dipping into his pouch, he produced a small golden coin 
which he tossed to the surprised warrior. 
'What is this for?' asked Forin. 
'I was wrong about you, big man. You're a man to match the 
mountains.' 
Forin looked embarrassed. 'How do you know?' 
Tarantio smiled. 'Instinct. Try to stay alive.' With that he headed off 
towards the west. 
If he could avoid his pursuers for another full day, they would give 
up and return to the main force. Two days was generally all that 
could be allowed for hunting down stragglers. The main purpose of 
such hunting-parties was not merely for the sport, but to prevent 
small groups of mercenaries re-forming behind the advancing line. 
Once 


the following group realized their quarry had separated, they would 
likely turn back, Tarantio reasoned. 
As he walked on through stands of birch and alder and oak, 
Tarantio's mood lightened. He had always liked trees. They were 
restful on the eye, from the slender silver birch to the great oaks, 
gnarled giants impervious to the passing of man's years. As a child - 
in the days before Dace - he had often climbed high trees and sat, 
perched like an eagle, way above the ground. Tarantio shivered. It 
was growing cold here in the high country, and Fall flowers were in 
bloom upon the hillsides. It would be good to rest in Corduin. The 
war had not touched it yet, save for shortages of food and supplies. 
Tarantio had ventured some of his wages there with the merchant, 
Lunder. With luck his investments would pay for a winter of leisure. 
The ground below his feet was muddy from recent heavy rain, and 
his left boot leaked badly, soaking through the thick woollen sock 
which squelched as he walked. For an hour he moved on, leaving a 
trail a blind man could follow, heading always west. Then, as he 
passed beneath a spreading oak he leapt up and drew himself into 
the branches. Traversing the tree, he jumped down on to a wide 
rocky ledge. Mud from his boots stained the stone, and he wiped it 
clear with the hem of his heavy grey coat before moving on more 
carefully over firmer ground. Leaving no tracks, he headed northwest. 
For another hour he travelled, moving with care, always keeping a 
wary eye on his back-trail, and rarely emerging on to open ground 
without first scanning the tree-line. Now, high above the point at 
which he had switched direction, he climbed into the branches of a 
tall beech and settled down to watch the trail. From a pouch on his 
sword-belt he drew the last 


of his dried meat, tore off a chunk and began to chew. 
Before he had finished his meagre meal the pursuers came into 
sight. There were eight of them, armed with bows and spears. At 
this distance they looked insect-sized as they inched their way down 
the hillside, pausing below the oak. For a while they stood still, and 
Tarantio could imagine the argument among them. From the point 
where they now gathered, the distance to any one of four different 
towns or cities was around the same. To the west, beyond the 
mountains, was the lake city of Hlobane. North-east lay Morgallis, 
capital of the Duke of Romark. To the south was Loretheli, a neutral 
port, governed by the Corsairs. And to the north-west — Tarantio's 
destination - the oldest and finest city in the Duchies, Corduin. 
For a little while the men searched the area for sign of Tarantio's 
trail. Finding nothing, they held a hurried meeting, then turned back 
the way they had come. 
Tarantio leaned back against the bole of the beech and allowed 
himself to relax. He had left his helm back at the cave, along with 
the crimson sash that signalled his service with the new Duke of 
The Marches. Now there was nothing that linked him to any of the 
four combatants. Once again he was a free man, ready to offer 
Dace's services to the highest bidder. Dropping down from the tree, 
he continued on his way throughout the afternoon, crossing valleys 
and heading for a distant lake that sparkled in the afternoon 
sunshine. It was long and narrow, widening at the centre and flaring 
at the tip, like the tail of a great fish. There was a small island at 
the centre, on which a stand of pine reared against the backdrop of 
the mountains. The sun was warmer now and Tarantio shrugged off 
his heavy jacket, laying it on a flat rock. 


'When will we eat?' asked Dace. Tarantio had been aware of his 
presence from the moment he sighted the pursuers. 
'Perhaps you would like to catch the fish this time?' he said, aloud. 


'Too boring. And you do it so well!' 

Tarantio removed his shirt, leggings and boots and waded slowly 
out into the cold, clear waters of the lake. Here he stood, staring 
down at the gravel around his feet. 
It was spawning time for the speckled trout and after a while he 
saw a female with red lateral spots upon her body. She swam in 
close to the motionless man and began to make sweeping motions 
with her tail against the loose gravel, scraping out a hole in which to 
lay her eggs. Several males were swimming close by, identified by 
the reddish bands upon their flanks. With his hands below the 
surface Tarantio waited patiently, trying to ignore the fish with his 
conscious mind. The cold water was seeping into his bones, and he 
felt a rise of irritation that the males kept circling away from him. 
Be calm, he told himself. The good hunter is never anxious or hasty. 
A good-sized male, weighing around three pounds, swam by him, 
brushing his leg. Tarantio did not move. The fish glided over his 
hands. With an explosive surge Tarantio reared upright, his right 
hand catching the trout and flicking it out to the bank, where it 
flapped upon the soft earth. The other fish disappeared instantly. 
Tarantio waded from the lake, killed the fish, then gutted it 
expertly. 
'Neatly done,' said Dace. 
Preparing a small fire in the rocks Tarantio sat down, naked, and 
cooked his dinner. The flavour of the trout 


was bland; some would call it delicate. Tarantio wished he had kept 
just a pinch of his salt. 
As the sun sank into the west, the temperature fell. Tarantio 
dressed and settled down by the fire. 
He should have quit last season when Karis joined Romark. The 
Duke of The Marches was a poor general, and a miser to boot. With 
Karis leading the opposition cavalry, the prospects had been none 
too good for the mercenary units patrolling the border. He 
wondered about the 6,000 gold pieces. What would she do with 
such a sum? He grinned in the fading light. Karis was no farmer. 
Nor did she seem to enjoy what men termed the good life. Her 
clothes were always ill-fitting; only her armour showed the glint of 
great expense. Oh, and her horses, he remembered. Three 
geldings, each over sixteen hands. Fine animals, strong, proud and 
fearless in battle. Not one of them cost less than 600 silver pieces. 
But as for Karis herself, she wore no jewellery, sported no brooches 
or bracelets, nor did she yearn to own property. What will you do 
with all that gold, he wondered? 
'You just don't understand her,' said Dace. 
'And you do?' 
'Of course.' 
'Then explain it to me.' 
'She is driven by something in her past - that's what Gatien would 
have said. A traumatic event, or a tragedy. Because of this she is 
not comfortable being a woman, and seeks to hide her femininity in 
a man's armour.' 
'I don't believe Gatien would have made it sound so simple.' 
'Yes,' agreed Dace, 'he was an old windbag.' 
'And a fine foster-father. No-one else offered to take us in.' 


'He got a cleric he didn't have to pay for, and someone to listen to 
his interminable stories.' 
'I don't know why you pretend you did not like him. He was good to 
us.' 
'He was good to you. He would not acknowledge my existence, save 
as an imaginary playmate you had somehow conjured.' 
'Maybe that is all you are, Dace. Have you ever thought of that?' 
'You would be surprised by what I think of,' Dace told him. 
Adding fuel to the fire, Tarantio leaned back, using his coat for a 
pillow. The stars were out now, and he gazed at the constellation of 
the Fire Dancer twinkling high above the crescent moon. 
'It is all mathematically perfect, Chio,' Gatien had told him. 'The 
stars move in their preordained paths, rising and falling to a cosmic 
heartbeat.' Tarantio had listened, awe-struck, to the wisdom of the 
white-bearded old man. 
'My father told me they were the candles of the gods,' he said. 
Gatien ruffled his hair. 'You still miss him, I expect.' 
'No, he was weak and stupid,' said Tarantio. 'He hanged himself.' 
'He was a good man, Chio. Life dealt with him unkindly.' 
'He quit. Gave up!' stormed the boy. 'He did not love me at all. And 
we do not care that he is gone.' 
'Yes, we do,' said Gatien, misunderstanding. 'But we will not argue 
about that. Life can be harsh, and many souls are ill-equipped to 
face it. Your father fell to three curses. Love, which can be the 
greatest gift the Heavens can offer, or worse than black poison. 
Drink, which, 



like a travelling apothecary, offers much and supplies nothing. And 
a little wealth, without which he would not have been able to afford 
the dubious delights of the bottle.' Gatien sighed. 'I liked him, Chio. 
He was a gentle man, with a love of poetry and a fine singing voice. 
However, that is enough maudlin talk. We have work to do.' 
'Why do you write your books, Master Gatien? No-one buys them.' 
Gatien gave an eloquent shrug. 'They are my monument to the 
future. And they are dangerous, Chio, more powerful than spells. 
Do not tell people - any people - what you have read in my home.' 
'What can be more dangerous than spells, Master Gatien?' 
'The truth. Men will blind themselves with hot irons, rather than 
face it.' 
Tarantio looked down into the flickering flames of the camp-fire 
now, and remembered the great, roaring blaze which had engulfed 
the house of Master Gatien. He saw again the soldiers of the Duke 
of The Marches, holding their torches high, and with immense 
sadness he recalled the old man running back into the burning 
building, desperate to save his life's work. His last sight of Master 
Gatien was of a screeching human torch, his beard and clothes 
aflame, staggering past the windows of the upper corridor. 
Up until then Dace had merely been a disembodied voice in his 
mind. He had first heard him when he looked up at his father's 
body, hanging by the neck from the balcony rail, his features 
bloated and purple, his trews stained with urine. 
'We don't care,' said the voice. 'He was weak, and he didn't love us.' 


But when Gatien burned, Dace found a pathway to the world of 
flesh. 'We will avenge him,' he said. 
'We can't!' objected Tarantio. 'He lives in a castle surrounded by 
guards. We ... I . . . am only fifteen. I'm not a soldier, not a killer.' 
'Then let me do it,' said Dace. 'Or are you a coward?' 
Two nights later Dace had crept to the walls of the Duke's castle 
and scaled them, slipping past the sleeping sentries. Then he had 
made his way down the long circular stairwell to the main corridor 
of the castle keep. There were no guards. The Duke's bedroom was 
lit by a single lantern, the Duke himself asleep in his wide four-
poster bed. Dace gently pulled back the satin sheet, exposing the 
Duke's fat chest. Without a moment of hesitation he rammed the 
small knife deep into the man's heart. The Duke surged upright, his 
mouth hanging open; then he sagged back. 
'Gatien was our friend,' said Dace. 'Rot in hell, you miserable 
bastard!' 
The old Duke had died without another sound, but his bowels had 
opened and the stench filled the room. Dace had sat quietly, staring 
down at the corpse. He had drawn Tarantio forward to share the 
scene. Tarantio remembered his father's face, bloated and swollen, 
his tongue protruding from his mouth, the rope tight around his 
neck. Death was always ugly, but this time it had a sweetness 
Tarantio could taste. 
'Never again,' whispered Tarantio. 'I'll never kill again.' 
'You won't have to,' Dace told him. 'I'll do it for you. I enjoyed it.' 
With a surge of willpower Tarantio dragged control from Dace. Then 
he fled the castle, confused and uncertain. He had been raised on 
stories of heroes, of knights and 


chivalry. No hero would have felt as he did now. The soaring, 
ecstatic burst of joy Dace had experienced filled the fifteen-year-old 
with disgust. And yet he had also tasted that joy. 
Now by the lake, with such sombre thoughts in his mind, Tarantio 
found sleep difficult, and when at last he did succumb, he dreamt 
again of the old man. 'The truth burns, Chio,' he said. The truth is a 
bright light, and it hurts so much.' 
It rained in the night, putting out his fire, and he awoke cold and 
shivering. Rolling to his knees he pushed himself upright, slipped, 
and fell face first into the mud. The sound of Dace's laughter drifted 
into his mind. 'Ah, life at one with nature,' mocked Dace. Tarantio 
swore. 'Now, now,' said Dace. 'Always try to keep a sense of 
humour,' 
'You like humour?' said Tarantio. 'Laugh at this, then!' Closing his 
eyes, he opened the inner pathways and fell back into himself. Dace 
tried to stop him, but the move was so sudden and unexpected that 
before he could summon any defences Dace found himself hurtled 
forward into control of the wet shivering body. 
'You whoreson!' spluttered Dace, water pouring down his face. 
'You try being at one with nature,' said Tarantio happily, safe and 
warm within the borders of the mind. Dace tried the same 
manoeuvre, struggling to drag Tarantio from his sanctuary, but it 
did not work. Furious now, Dace looked around, then took shelter 
within the bole of a spreading oak. The huge tree had at one time 
been struck by lightning, splitting the trunk, but amazingly it had 
survived. Dace climbed inside. There was not much room for a full-
grown man, but he removed his sword-belt and wedged his 


back against the dry bark and watched the downpour outside. 
'You've made your point, Chio,' said Dace. 'Now let me back. I'm 
cold and I'm bored.' 
'I like it here: 


Out on the lake the rain sheeted down, and a distant rumble of 
thunder drummed out. Dace swore. If lightning were to strike the 
tree again, he would be fried alive. 
He swore again. Then grinned. All life is chance, he decided. And at 
least, for the moment, he was out of the rain and wind. 
'All right, you can come back,' said Tarantio, failing to keep the fear 
from showing. 
'No, no. I'm just getting used to it,' responded Dace. 
Lightning flashed nearby, illuminating the lake and the island at its 
centre. Dace bared his teeth in a wolf's-head grin. 'Come!' he 
yelled. 'Strike me if you dare!' 
'Do you want us to die?' asked Tarantio. 
'I don't much care,' replied Dace. 'Perhaps that is what makes me 
the best.' 


The storm passed as suddenly as it had come, and the moon shone 
bright in a clear sky. 'Come then, brother,' said Dace. 'Come out 
into the world of mud and mediocrity. I have had my fun.' 


Tarantio took control and eased himself from the tree, then turned 
back to gather dry bark and dead wood from the hole. With this he 
started a new fire. 
'We could have been in a palace,' Dace reminded him. 'In that large 
soft bed with satin sheets, within the room of silvered mirrors.' 
'You would have killed her, Dace. Don't deny it. I could feel the 
desire in you.' 

The Duke of Corduin had sent a famous courtesan to him: the Lady 
Miriac. Miriac of the golden hair. Her skills 


had been intoxicating. Even without the mirrors the night would 
have been the most memorable of his young life, but with them 
Tarantio had seen himself make love, and be made love to, from 
every angle, giving him memories he would carry for as long as the 
breath of life clung to him. He sighed. 
But at the height of his passion he had felt Dace's anger and 
jealousy. The raw power of the emotions had frightened him. 
And Tarantio had fled the arms of Miriac, and turned his back on the 
promise of riches. 
'I would have been a great Champion,' said Dace. 'We could have 
been rich.' 
'Why did you want to kill her?' 
'She was bad for us. You were falling in love with her, and she with 
you. The courtesan could not resist the young virgin boy with the 
deadly sword. She stroked your face when you wept. How touching! 
How sickening! Is that why we are going to Corduin? To see the 
bitch?' 
Tarantio sighed. 'You don't really exist, Dace. I am insane. One day 
someone will recognize it. Then I'll be locked away, or hanged.' 
'I exist,' said Dace. 'I am here. I will always be here. Sigellus knew 
that. He spoke to me often. He liked me.' 

With the dawn came fresh pangs of hunger. Tarantio spent an hour 
trying to catch another trout, but luck was not with him. He scooped 
a two-pound female, but she wriggled in his grasp, turned a 
graceful somersault in the air and returned to the depths. Drying 
himself, he dressed and strode off towards the higher country. 
The air was thinner here, the wind cold against his face. Autumn 
was closing fast, and within a few short weeks the snow would 
come. Slowly and carefully Tarantio climbed 


a steep slope, moving warily among huge boulders which littered 
the mountainside. He wondered idly how the boulders had come to 
be here, since they were not of the same stone as the surrounding 
cliffs. Many of them had deep grooves along the base, as if 
haphazardly chiselled by a stonemason. 
'Volcanic eruptions,' said Dace, 'way back in the past. Gatien used 
to talk of them, but then you had little interest in geology.' 
'I remember that you liked stories of earthquakes and volcanoes. 
Death and destruction have always fascinated you, Dace.' 
'Death is the only absolute, the only certainty.' 


Finally, with the sun beginning its long, slow fall to the west, 
Tarantio reached level ground and stopped to rest. Several rabbits 
emerged from a grassy knoll and he killed one with a throwing 
knife. Finding a flat rock he skinned the beast, then removed the 
entrails, separating the heart and kidneys. There was a small 
stream nearby, and close to it he found a bed of nettles, and 
beyond it some chives. Further searching brought him the added 
treasure of wild onions. Returning to his camp-site, he prepared a 
fire. Once it had caught well, he drew his knife and cut two large 
square sections of bark from a silver birch. Using a forked stick he 
held one section of bark over the fire, warming it, making it easier 
to fold. Then he scored the bark and expertly folded it into a small 
bowl. Repeating the process with the second square, he grew 
impatient and the bark split. Tarantio swore at himself. 
Painstakingly he selected and cut another section. 
Filling the first bowl with water from the stream, he returned to the 
fire, built a second blaze and fed it steadily with dry wood. When 
the coals were ready, he placed the bowl on the fire and added a 
handful of nettles, chopped 



chives and several onions. On the first fire he skewered and cooked 
the rabbit. The meat was greasy and tender, and he ate half of it 
immediately, tearing the remainder and adding it to his simmering 
bowl. 
At this high altitude the water boiled away swiftly and three times 
Tarantio was forced to fetch more water from the stream to add to 
his stew. Bark bowls would not burn - unless the flames of the fire 
rose above the water line. 
Back at the mercenaries' camp he had left several fine copper 
cooking pots and various utensils gathered over the years. But 
when Karis's lancers had struck there had been no time to think of 
possessions. 
Tarantio lay back, staring up at the sky. It was difficult now to focus 
on a time when there had been no wars. Almost a third of his life 
had been spent marching from one battle site to another, while 
Dace and others fought to hold a town, or take it - charging an 
enemy line, or resisting a charge. 
Up here in the mountains such petty squabbles seemed far away. 
But then so did the charms of beautiful women like the Lady Miriac. 
Dace was right. He had fallen in love with her and he thought of her 
often, remembering the satin softness of her skin and the 
sweetness of her breath. It mattered nothing that she was a 
courtesan, a whore for the nobility. He felt he had seen something 
beyond that, something deeper and more enduring. 

'Such a romantic, you are, brother. At the first glint of gold she 
would hurl herself on her back and open her legs. Your gold or 
someone else's. It would mean nothing to her.' 
'You said she was falling in love with me,' he reminded Dace. 
'In love with the virgin, I said. That's what touched her. After a 
while she would have tired of you.' 



'We'll never know, will we?' 

At dusk Tarantio ate the stew. It was bitter and good, but the 
memory of his last meal with added salt back among the 
mercenaries eroded the pleasure. Dace had fallen silent, for which 
Tarantio was grateful. He could still sense his presence, but the lack 
of conversation was welcome. 
The following morning he continued on his way, across narrow 
valleys full of alder and birch and pine. The weather had cleared and 
the sun shone now in a clear sky, the snow on the distant peaks 
glowing like white flame. 
As he walked, his mind was far from battles and war, recalling 
gentle days with Gatien, researching ancient texts, trying to make 
sense of the tortured history of this fertile continent. If ever these 
wars end, I will become a scholar, Tarantio decided. 
Even as the thought came to him he could hear Dace's mocking 
laughter. 


Chapter Two 
Three hundred miles to the north-east, at the centre of a new 
desert of barren rocks, a slender, blond-haired man climbed to the 
top of what had once been Capritas Hill. His green cloak was torn 
and threadbare, the soles of his shoes worn thin as paper. Duvodas 
the Harp Carrier stood at the summit and fought to hold down a 
rising tide of desolation and despair. His gentle face and soft grey-
green eyes reflected the sorrow he felt. There was no magic left in 
the land. Black and grey mountains bare of earth reared up from 
the plains like rotting teeth, and Duvodas felt as if he was sitting in 
the jaws of death. Where once had been sculpted beauty, amid 
forests and streams and verdant valleys, now nothing remained. 
The flesh of the land had been stripped to the bone, clawed away by 
a hand larger than eternity. The four cities of the Eldarin had 
vanished, and even the whispering wind flowing over the dry rocks 
could find no memory of their existence. Not a trace. Not a broken 
cup, not a tombstone, not a child's toy. 
His grey-green eyes scanned the jagged peaks, pausing at the 
Twins, two pinnacles of rock that for centuries had been an elegant 
backdrop to the city of Eldarisa. Upon reaching the age of majority 
the children of the Eldarin would climb Bizha, the left-hand peak, 
then leap the eight feet to the rugged platform atop the 
neighbouring Puzhac. 


The pinnacles had graced the Enchanted Park, and many and 
glorious were the flowers that grew there. Now all was dead stone. 
Not a single blade of grass grew here now, and even his memories 
could not flower in this barren place. Duvodas rose and unwrapped 
his small harp. 
It seemed almost blasphemous to consider music in such a cold and 
empty landscape, but music was all he had, and his slender fingers 
danced upon the strings, sending out a stream of melancholy notes 
to echo among the rocks. Closing his eyes he sang the Song of 
Elyda, and her love of the Forest King, his voice almost breaking as 
he reached the chorus of farewell, where Elyda stood by the dark 
river watching as her lover's body was borne away to eternity on 
the black barge of the night. 
The music faded away and Duvodas covered the harp and swung it 
to his shoulders. 
Leaving the hillside, he took what once had been the forest road 
and walked swiftly towards the distant plains. Eight years before he 
had travelled this way, striding under the overhanging branches, 
watching sunlight dapple the trail, listening to the ceaseless music 
of stream and river. Bird-song had filled the air then, sweet and 
piping, and the scent of the forest had intoxicated him. Now dry 
dust billowed around his feet, and not a sound disturbed the 
graveyard silence. 
For most of the day he walked, angling his journey to the northeast. 
By dusk he could see the long black line of earth, like a ten-
foot dike thrown up against a threatening sea. It stretched for miles 
across his path. He reached it as night was falling and scrambled up 
its loose banks, pausing at the crest. This was once the 
northernmost border of Eldarin land. Shrouded in mist, protected by 
magic, it was here that Duvodas had crossed during that long-ago 
autumn night. There were still oaks growing 


here, but it was no longer a wood. Many trees had died through lack 
of water. 
He had expected to feel more comfortable with earth once more 
beneath his feet, but it was not so. The smell of grass, wet from the 
recent rain, made a bitter contrast to the desolation he had left 
behind. 
Duvodas trudged on through the trees. Eight years ago he had 
come to a village, a thriving farm community on the banks of the 
River Cruin. Unlike the furry-skinned Eldarin who raised him, 
Duvodas, being human, could walk among the races of Man without 
fear. Even so, without coin he had not been welcomed, nor offered 
a place for the night. Not even a bowl of soup. The villagers had 
viewed him with suspicion, and when he offered to sing for his 
supper had told him they had no need of music. 
Tired and hungry, Duvodas had moved on. 
Now he stood at the edge of the village once more. The houses 
were deserted, the forty-foot-wide river bed dry and cracked. 
Whatever dread force had ripped away the soil of the mountains 
had sucked the river dry. Without water the farmland had been 
robbed of its sustenance. In the moonlight Duvodas could see that 
the villagers had vainly tried to sink wells to feed their crops. 
He sheltered for the night in a deserted barn, then moved on at first 
light to higher country, remembering the kindness of the hunter and 
his family whose long cabin had been built in a fold of land 
bordering the tree-line of the hills. Eight years ago he had arrived 
there wet and miserable, a victim of hunger and desperate 
weariness. When a huge dog had rushed at him, baring its teeth, 
Duvodas had no time to react. One moment he was on his feet, the 
next the dog had leapt, crashing into his chest 


and hurling him to the ground. All air was punched from his lungs 
and he lay gasping under the weight of the mastiff, listening to its 
low, rumbling growl. A man's voice had sounded. The dog 
reluctantly backed away. 
'You must be a stranger to these parts, my friend,' said the voice. A 
powerful hand gripped his arm, hauling him upright. In the 
moonlight the hunter's hair seemed to glint with flecks of steel, and 
his pale grey eyes shone like silver. 
'I am indeed,' Duvodas told him. 'I am a ... minstrel. I would be 
pleased to sing you a song, or tell a story in return ...' 
'You don't need to sing,' said the man. 'Come, we have food and a 
warm cabin.' 
The memory lifted his spirits and he walked on, coming to the cabin 
just after noon. It was as he remembered it, long and low beneath a 
roof of turf, though the second section built for the children had 
now weathered in, losing its newness and blending with the old. The 
door was open. 
Duvodas strode through the vegetable patch and entered the cabin. 
It was dark inside, but he heard a groan and saw the hunter lying 
naked on the floor by the hearth. Moving to him, Duvodas knelt. 
The man's skin was hot and dry, and black plague boils had erupted 
on his neck, armpits and groin; one had split, and the skin was 
stained with pus and blood. Leaving him, Duvodas moved to the 
first of the back rooms. The hunter's wife was unconscious in the 
bed; her face was fleshless, and she too had the plague. Duvodas 
opened the door to the new section. When last he had been here 
the couple had only one child, a boy of nine. There were three 
youngsters in the room, two young girls and an infant boy all in one 
bed. The boy was 


dead, the two girls fading fast. Duvodas pulled back the blanket 
covering them. 
Duvodas unwrapped his harp and returned to the main room. His 
mouth was dry, his heart beating fast. Pulling up a chair he sat in 
the centre of the room, closed his eyes, and sought the inner peace 
from which all magic flowed. His breathing deepened. He had 
learned much in his time among the Eldarin but, being human, 
healing magic had never come easily to him. The power was born of 
tranquillity and harmony, twin skills that Man could never master 
fully. 
'Your veins are full of stimulants to violent activity,' Ranaloth had 
told him, as they sat beneath the shadow of the Great Library. 
'Humans are essentially hunter-killers. They glory in physical 
strength and heroism. This is not in itself evil, you understand, but 
it prepares the soul for potential evil. The human is ejected from the 
mother, and its first instinct is to rage against the violation of its 
resting place in the womb.' 
'We can learn, though, Master Ranaloth. I have learned.' 
'You have learned,' agreed the old man. 'As an individual, and a fine 
one. I do not see great hope for your race, however.' 
'The Eldarin were once hunter-killers,' argued Duvodas. 
'That is not strictly true, Duvo. We had - and we retain - a capacity 
for violence in defence of our lives. But we have no lust for it. At the 
dawn of our time, so our scientists tell us, we hunted in packs. We 
killed our prey and ate it. At no time, however, did we take part in 
random slaughter as the humans do.' 
'If you hold the humans in such low regard, sir, why is it that the 
Eldarin invest the rivers with magic, keeping the humans free of 
disease and plague?' 


'We do it because we love life, Duvo.' 
'And why not tell the humans about the enchantment in the water? 
Would they not then lose their hatred of you?' 
'No, they would not. They would disbelieve us and hate us the 
more. Now, once more, try to reach the purity of Air Magic.' 
Duvodas dragged his mind from the warmth of his memories now 
and gazed down at the hunter. Without the healing waters, plague 
and disease had ripped across the land. Lifting the harp, his fingers 
touched the strings, sending out a series of light, rippling notes. The 
scent of roses in bloom filled the cabin, rich and heady. Duvodas 
continued to play, the music swelling. A golden light radiated from 
his harp, bathing the walls, flowing through doorways, sending 
dancing shadows on the low ceiling. Dust motes gleamed in the air 
like tiny diamonds, and the atmosphere in the cabin - moments 
before pungent with the smell of disease - became fresh, clean and 
sharp as the breeze of spring. 
There was a pitcher of curdled milk on the table beside him. 
Moment by moment it changed. First the fur of mildew on the 
pitcher rim receded, then the texture of the semi-liquid contents 
altered, re-emulsifying, the lumps fading, melting back into the 
creamy richness of fresh milk. 
The music continued, the mood changing from lilting and light to 
the powerful rhythms and the rippling chords of the dance. 
The hunter groaned softly. The black boils were receding now. 
Sweat bathed the face of the singer as he rose from his chair. Still 
playing his harp he opened his grey-green eyes and slowly made his 
way into the back bedroom. The music flowed over the dying 
woman, holding to her, 


soaking into her soul. Duvodas felt a terrible weariness weighing 
down on him like a boulder, but his fingers danced upon the strings, 
never faltering. Moving, on he came to the second bedroom. The 
golden light of his harp shone upon the bed and the faces of the two 
girls, the oldest of them not more than five. 
Almost at the end of his strength, Duvodas changed the rhythm and 
style once more, the notes less complicated and complex, becoming 
a simple lullaby, soft and soothing. He played on for several more 
minutes, then his right hand cramped. The music died, the golden 
light fading. 
Duvodas opened the window wide and took a deep breath. Then 
moving to the bedside, he sat down. The two older children were 
sleeping peacefully. Laying his hand upon the head of the dead 
toddler, he brushed back a wisp of golden hair from the cold brow. 
'I wish I had been here sooner, little one,' he said. 
He found an old blanket and wrapped the body, tying it with two 
lengths of cord. 
Carrying the corpse outside, he laid it gently on the ground beside 
two freshly dug graves a little way from the cabin. There was a 
shovel leaning against a tree. Duvodas dug a shallow grave and 
placed the body inside. 
As he was completing his work, he heard a movement behind him. 
'How is it that we are alive?' asked the hunter. 
'The fever must have passed, my friend,' Duvodas told him. 'I am 
sorry about your son. I should have dug deeper, but I did not have 
the strength.' 
The man's strong face trembled, and tears flowed, but he blinked 
them back. 'The Eldarin did this to us,' he said, the words choking 
him. 'They sent the plague. May they all rot in Hell! I curse them 
all! I wish 


they had but one neck, and I would crush it in my hands.' 

The fist struck the old man full in the face, sending him sprawling to 
the dirt. Bright lights shone before his eyes and, disoriented, 
Browyn tried to rise. Dizziness swamped him and he fell back to the 
soft earth. Through a great buzzing in his ears he heard the sound 
of smashing crockery coming from his cabin, and then an iron hand 
gripped his throat. 'You tell, you old bastard, or I swear I'll cut your 
eyes out!' 
'Maybe it was all just lies,' said another voice. 'Maybe there never 
was any gold.' 
'There was gold,' grunted the first man. 'I know it. He paid Simian 
with it. Small nuggets. Simian wouldn't lie to me. He knows better.' 
Browyn was dragged to his knees. 'Can you hear me, old fool? Can 
you?' 
The old man fought to focus on the flat, brutal face that was now 
inches from his own. In all his life he had enjoyed one great talent: 
he could see the souls of men. In this moment of terror his gift was 
like a curse, for he looked into the face of his tormentor and saw 
only darkness and spite. The image of the man's soul was scaled 
and pitted, the eyes red as blood, the mouth thin, a pointed blue 
tongue licking at grey lips. Browyn knew in that moment that his 
life was over. Nothing would prevent this man from killing him. He 
could see the enjoyment of the torture in the blood-red eyes of the 
naked soul. 
'I can hear you,' he said, tasting blood on his lips. 
'So where is it?' 
He had already told them about the single nugget he had found in 
the stream beyond the cabin. It was with this he had paid Simian 
for last winter's supplies. But he 


had never found more, despite long days of searching. The nugget 
must have been washed down from higher in the mountains, and 
wedged itself in the bend of the stream. 
The third man emerged from the cabin. 'There's nothing there, 
Brys,' he said. 'He's almost out of food. Maybe he's telling the 
truth.' 
'We'll find out,' said Brys, drawing a dagger and pricking it under 
the skin of Browyn's eye. The point was needle-sharp and the old 
man felt a trickle of blood on his cheek. 'Which eye would you like 
to lose first, scum-bucket?' he hissed. 
'Brys!' the third man called out. 'There's someone coming!' 
The mercenary let go of Browyn's throat and the old man fell 
gratefully from his grasp. Blinking, he strained to focus on the 
newcomer. He was a slim young man, with dark, close-cropped 
hair; over his shoulder he carried a heavy woollen coat of storm-
cloud grey, and around his waist was a sword-belt from which hung 
two short swords. Browyn could also see the hilt of a throwing-knife 
in the man's knee-length boot. As the warrior came closer Browyn 
rubbed sweat from his eyes. . . the blows he had taken must have 
blurred his senses. The newcomer had not one soul - but two. The 
first was almost a mirror image of the man himself, darkly 
handsome, but golden light radiated from the face. But the second . 
. . Browyn's heart sank. The second had a face of corpse-grey, and 
a shock of white hair like a lion's mane. The eyes were yellow, and 
slitted like those of a hunting cat. 
'Good morning,' said the newcomer, laying his coat over a tree-
stump. Moving past the three mercenaries, he helped Browyn to his 
feet. 'Is this your cabin, sir?' Browyn nodded dumbly. 'Would you 
object to me resting here for 


a while? It is a long walk from the lowlands, and I would be grateful 
for your hospitality.' 
'Who do you think you are?' shouted Brys, storming forward. The 
newcomer leaned to the left, his right foot slamming into the 
mercenary's stomach, hurling him from his feet. Brys slumped to 
the ground, howling in pain. Dropping his dagger, he gasped for 
breath and continued to groan. 
'You two will need to carry your friend back to his horse,' said the 
young man amiably. 
'Kill him!' grunted Brys. 'Kill the bastard.' The other two men did not 
move or speak. 
The newcomer knelt beside Brys. 'I think your friends are brighter 
than you,' he said, picking up the man's dagger and slipping it back 
into the mercenary's sheath. Rising, he turned back to the old man. 
'Do you have any salt?' he asked. 
Browyn nodded and the newcomer smiled. 'You have no idea what a 
relief that is.' 
'What the hell's the matter with you two?' shouted Brys, struggling 
to his knees. 
'He's Tarantio,' replied one of them. 'I saw him fight that duel in 
Corduin. I'm right, aren't I?' he said, looking at the newcomer. 
'Indeed you are.' 
'There's no gold here,' said the mercenary. 'We would have found 
it.' 
Tarantio shrugged. 'Whatever you say.' 
'Are you going to kill us?' 
'No. I am not in a killing mood.' 
'Well, I am, you scum-sucking bastard!' shouted Brys, drawing his 
sword. 
'Brys! Don't!' shouted his comrades. But he ignored them. 



'You'd better let me take him,' said Dace. 
'No,' answered Tarantio. 'Sigellus trained us both, and I am not 
afraid.' 
'Don't try to disarm him,' warned Dace. 'Just kill the whoreson.' 
The mercenary attacked, his sword slashing towards Tarantio's 
head. The two short swords flashed up to block the stroke, but Brys 
was ready for the move and spun to his left, his elbow slamming 
against Tarantio's cheek. Tarantio staggered back, vision blurring. 
Brys aimed a wild cut at Tarantio's head. The blade slashed high, as 
Tarantio dropped to one knee and then surged upright, the left-
hand blade snaking out. Brys made a desperate block, but the 
weapon pricked his shoulder, tearing the skin of his chest. Brys fell 
back. He grinned. 'You're good, Tarantio,' he said. 'But you are not 
that good. I am better.' 
'He is right, you know,' said Dace. 'He'll wear you down and kill you. 
Let me have him.' 

Brys launched a sudden attack, sword raised high. As Tarantio 
made to block, the voice of Dace hissed at him: 'He's got a knife in 
his left hand!' Tarantio leapt back -then launched himself forward. 
The move caught Brys by surprise and before he could react 
Tarantio's right-hand sword had slashed down on his hand. Three 
fingers were chopped away, the dagger falling clear. 
'You bastard!' screamed Brys, charging forward. Terrible pain 
exploded in the mercenary's body . . . his sword fell from his hand 
and he stared down at the blade embedded in his belly. An agonized 
groan burst from his lips as acid fire filled him. His knees buckled, 
but the jutting sword held him upright, the blade driving deeper. 
'Let me feel the joy!' shouted Dace. 


'There is no joy,' said Tarantio, dragging the sword clear. Brys 
toppled to his right. Take the body with you,' ordered Tarantio, 
turning to the other mercenaries. 'And leave his horse behind.' 
'We don't want to die,' said the first man. 
'No-one wants to die,' Tarantio told him. 
Together the man and his companion lifted the dead man, and 
heaved him over the saddle of a brown mare. Then they mounted. 
As they rode away, Tarantio swung to the old man. 'How badly are 
you hurt?' he asked him. 
'Not half as badly as I would have been. I am grateful to you. What 
they said is true. There is no gold.' 
'No. But there is salt,' said Tarantio wearily. 
'You were lucky,' whispered Dace. 'Where would you have been had 
I not seen the knife? 
'Dead,' answered Tarantio, moving across the open ground to the 
dead man's horse. Just over sixteen hands tall, the gelding stood 
quietly as Tarantio ran his hand over the beast's flanks. The coat 
was flat with a healthy sheen, and the skin below was supple and 
strong. Its front conformation was good, the point of the shoulders 
in line with knee and hoof. At the rear it tended towards a slight 
cow-hocked stance, which in humans was called knock-kneed. This 
was probably why a mercenary could afford such a potentially 
expensive mount. Cow-hocked horses often strain ligaments on the 
inside of the limb. Speaking to it gently Tarantio moved around the 
horse, stroking its long nose and looking into its bright, brown eyes. 
Lastly he checked the legs. They were powerful, with no sign of 
heat or swelling, and the gelding had been recently re-shod. Moving 
to the rear of the horse, Tarantio watched the swelling of its rib-
cage; its breathing was even and slow. 'Well, well,' said Tarantio 
softly, patting the 


gelding's flank, 'he may have been a vile man, but he certainly 
looked after you. I'll try to do the same.' 
Browyn moved alongside him, checking the gelding's nose and 
mouth. 'I'd say around nine years old,' said the old man, 'with 
plenty of speed and strength.' 
Tarantio stood back from the gelding, casting his eye along the line 
of its back, the length of the neck and the shape of the head. 
'Without the cow-hocked stance, he would bring around four 
hundred in silver. As he is, he would fetch less than fifty.' 
'There's no sense in it,' agreed Browyn. 'He is a fine animal.' 
Browyn relaxed. In that moment a great weariness descended upon 
him. The aftershock of the attack caused him to tremble and 
Tarantio took his arm. 'You need to sit down,' said the warrior. 
'Come, I'll help you inside.' 
The cabin was a mess, papers strewn about the floor among shards 
of smashed pottery and two broken shelves. There was a beautifully 
carved bench seat by a large open hearth and Tarantio half carried 
the old man to it. Browyn sank down gratefully, and Tarantio 
fetched him a cup of water. Browyn began to shiver. The fire had 
died down, and Tarantio added logs from a stack in the hearth. 
'Age makes fools of all of us,' said Browyn miserably. 'There was a 
time when I would have fancied my chances of taking all three.' 
'Is that true?' Tarantio asked him. 
'Of course it isn't true,' said Browyn, with a smile. 'But it is the sort 
of thing old people are expected to say. The real truth - if such a 
spectacular beast exists - is that I was a bridge-builder with no 
taste for violence whatever. And I have to admit that it is not a skill 
I ever wished to acquire.' His keen blue eyes stared hard at the 
younger man. 'I hope you don't consider that an offensive remark.' 


'Why would I? I agree with the sentiments. You sit there for a while. 
I'll clear up the mess.' 
Browyn eased his bruised frame back on to the bench seat and 
stared into the fire. Sleep came easily, and he dreamt of youth and 
the race he had run against the three great champions. Five long 
miles. He had finished ninth, but the memory of running alongside 
such athletes remained with him, like a warming fire in the room of 
memories. 
When he awoke, the shutters of the small windows on either side of 
the main door were closed. His two lanterns, hanging in their iron 
brackets on the west wall, were lit, and the cabin was filled with the 
aroma of cooking meat and spicy herbs. Browyn stretched and sat 
up, but he groaned as the pain from his bruises flared. 
'How are you feeling?' asked the young man. Browyn blinked and 
looked around. The cabin was now neat and tidy, only the broken 
shelves giving evidence of the day's savagery. Nervously he opened 
the path to his talent and sought out the image of the young man's 
soul. With relief he saw that there was only one. The beating he had 
taken at the hands of the raiders must have confused him, he 
thought. Tarantio's soul was bright, and as untainted by evil as any 
human spirit could be. Which, Browyn realized sadly, merely meant 
that the darkness was considerably smaller than the light. 
'My name is Browyn. And I am feeling a little better. Welcome to my 
home, Tarantio.' 
'It is good to be here,' the young man told him. 'I took the liberty of 
raiding your food store. I also found some onions growing nearby 
and I have made a thick soup.' 
'Did you see to the horse?' 
'I did,' said Tarantio. 'I fed him some oats, and he is tethered close 
by.' 


They ate in silence, then Browyn slept again for an hour. He was 
embarrassed when he woke. 'Old men do this, you know,' he said. 
'We cat-nap.' 
'How old are you?' 
'Eighty-two. Doesn't seem possible, does it? In a world gone mad, 
one bridge-builder can reach eighty-two, while young men in the 
fullness of their strength rush around with sharp swords and cut 
themselves to pieces. How old are you, Tarantio?' 
'Twenty-one. But sometimes I feel eighty-two.' 
'You are a strange young man - if you don't mind me pointing it 
out?' Tarantio smiled and shook his head. 'You killed that swine very 
expertly, which shows that you are a man accustomed to violence. 
And yet you have cleaned my cabin in a manner which would have 
brought words of praise from my dear wife - a rare thing, I can tell 
you. And you cook better than she did - which sadly is no rare 
thing. Those men were afraid of you. Are you famous?' 
'They were the kind of men to be afraid,' Tarantio said softly, 'and 
reputations have a habit of growing on their own. The deed itself 
can be an acorn, but once men hear of it the tale soon becomes a 
mighty oak.' 
'Even so, I would like to hear of the acorn.' 
'I would like to hear about bridge-building. And since I am the 
guest, and you the host, my wishes should be paramount.' 
'You have been well trained, boy,' said Browyn admiringly. 'I think I 
like you. And I do know something of the acorn. You were the 
student of Sigellus the Swordsman. I knew him, you know.' 
'No-one knew him,' said Tarantio sadly. 
The old man nodded. 'Yes, he was a very enigmatic man. You were 
friends?' 


'I think that we were - for a while. You should rest now, Browyn. 
Give those bruises a chance to heal.' 'Will you be here when I 
wake?' 'I will.' 
In the darkest hour of the night Tarantio sat on the floor by the fire, 
his back against the bench seat. It was wonderfully quiet, and so 
easy to believe that the world he knew, of war and death, was 
merely the memory of another age. He gazed around the room, lit 
now only by the flickering flames of the log fire. With Dace asleep 
there was nothing here that spoke of violence - save for his own 
swords lying on the carved pine table. 
The old man had asked him about the acorn of his legend, but it 
was not a tale Tarantio relished telling. Nor, save for the first hours 
of pleasure with the Lady Miriac, did he like recalling the events of 
the last day. 
'Never give in to hate,' Sigellus had told him. 'Hate blurs the mind. 
Stay cool in combat, no matter what your opponent does. 
Understand this, boy, if he seeks to make you angry he does not do 
it for your benefit. Are you listening, Dace?' 
'He is listening,' Tarantio told him. 
'That's good.' 
Tarantio remembered the bright sunshine in the open courtyard, the 
light glinting from the steel practice blades. Pulling clear his face-
mask, he asked Sigellus, 'Why is Dace so much stronger and faster 
than me? We use the same muscles.' 
'I have given much thought to that, Chio. It is a complex matter. 
Years ago I studied to be a surgeon - before I realized my skills with 
the blade were better suited to the work I do now. Muscles are 
made up of thousands of bands of fibre. The energy they expend is 
used up in 


a heartbeat. Therefore they work economically - several hundred, 
perhaps, at a time.' Sigellus lifted his sword into the air. 'As I do 
this,' he said, 'the muscles are taking it in turn to expend energy. 
That is where the economy comes in. Now Dace, perhaps through a 
greater surge of adrenalin, can make his muscles work harder, 
more bands operating at a single command. That is why you always 
feel so weary after Dace fights. Put simply, he expends more energy 
than you.' 
Tarantio smiled as he remembered the grey-garbed swordsman. As 
the fire slowly died, he recalled their first meeting. After the 
massacre of his shipmates, Tarantio had made his way along the 
coast to the Corsair city of Loretheli, hoping to find employment 
with a merchant ship. There were no berths, and he had worked for 
a month as a labourer on a farm just outside Loretheli, earning the 
few coins he now had in his purse. With the harvest over he was 
back at the docks moving from ship to ship, seeking a crewman's 
wage. But the war fleets of the Duchies were now at sea and the 
port of Loretheli was effectively sealed. No-one was hiring sailors. 
He was heading towards the last ship berthed at the dock when he 
saw Sigellus. The man was obviously drunk. He was swaying as if 
on a ship's deck, and he was using the sabre in his hand as a 
support, the point against the cobbled stones. Facing him were two 
corsairs, gaudily dressed in leggings and shirts of bright yellow silk. 
Both held curved cutlasses. Sigellus was a tall man and slender, 
clean-shaven and thin-faced. His head was shaved above both ears 
in sweeping crescents, yet worn long from the crown like the plume 
of an officer's helm. He was wearing a doublet of grey silk 
embroidered with silver thread, and leggings of a darker grey that 
matched his calf-length boots. Tarantio paused and watched the 
scene. The corsairs were about 


to attack, and surely the drunken man would be cut down. Yet there 
was something about the man that caught Tarantio's attention. The 
swaying stopped and he stood, statue-still. 
'This is not wise,' he told the corsairs, his voice slurred. 
The first of his attackers leapt forward, the cutlass slashing from 
right to left, aiming for the swordsman's neck. As Sigellus dropped 
to one knee, the corsair's blade sliced air above him and his own 
sabre licked out to nick the man's bicep. A flash of crimson bloomed 
on the yellow silk shirt. Off balance, the corsair stumbled and fell. 
Sigellus rose smoothly as the second man lunged. He parried the 
thrust, spun on his heel and hammered his elbow against the man's 
ear. The corsair tumbled to the cobbled stone. 
Both men rose and advanced again. 'You have already shown a lack 
of wisdom, lads,' said Sigellus, his voice now cold and steady. 
'There is no need for you to die.' 
'We don't intend to die, you old whoreson,' said the first man, blood 
dripping from the wound in his upper arm. 
As Tarantio watched he saw a movement behind the swordsman. 
Another corsair stepped silently from the shadows, a curved dagger 
in his hand. 
'Behind you!' yelled Tarantio and Sigellus spun instantly, the sabre 
hissing out, the blade slicing through the corsair's throat, half 
decapitating him. Blood sprayed out as the man fell. The other two 
attackers rushed in. Tarantio watched them both die. The speed of 
the swordsman's movements was dazzling. Wiping his blade on the 
shirt of one of the corpses, Sigellus stepped across to where 
Tarantio stood open-mouthed. 
'My thanks to you, friend,' he said, returning the sabre to its 
scabbard. 'Come, I will repay your kindness with 


a meal and a jug of wine. You look as if you could use one.' 
A jug of wine was always close to Sigellus, recalled Tarantio with a 
touch of sadness. It was wine which killed him, for he had been the 
worse for drink when he had fought the Marches Champion, Carlyn. 
He had been humiliated, and cut several times, before the death 
stroke was administered. Dace had instantly challenged Carlyn, and 
they had fought in the High Hall of Corduin palace the following 
night. As Carlyn fell dead not one cheer was raised, for Dace had 
cruelly and mercilessly toyed with the swordsman, cutting off both 
his ears and slicing open his nose during the duel . . . 
A log fell from the hearth and rolled on to the rug at his feet, 
jerking Tarantio from his memories. Using a set of iron tongs, he 
lifted it back to the fire and then stretched out on the floor. 'When 
you draw your sword, Chio,' Sigellus had warned him, 'always fight 
to kill. There is no other way. A wounded man can still deal a death 
stroke.' 
'You didn't fight to kill against those corsairs. Not at first.' 
'Ah, that's true. But then I'm special. I am - and I say this humbly, 
dear boy - the best there ever was. And, drunk or sober, the best 
there ever will be.' 
He was wrong. For now there was Dace. 

The dream was the same. A child was crying and Tarantio was 
trying to find him. Deep below the earth, down darkened tunnels of 
stone, Tarantio searched. He knew the tunnels well. He had worked 
them for four months as a miner in the mountains near Prentuis, 
digging out the coal, shovelling it to the low-backed wagons. But 
now the tunnels were empty, and a gaping fissure had opened in 
the face. Through this came the thin, piping cries of terror. 


'The demons are coming! The demons are coming!' he heard the 
child cry. 
'I am with you,' he answered. 'Stay where you are!' 
Easing himself through the fissure, he moved on. It should have 
been pitch-dark in here, for there were no torches, and yet the 
walls themselves glowed with a pale green light strong enough to 
throw shadows. As always in his dream he emerged into a wide hall, 
the high ceiling supported by three rows of columns. Ragged men 
moved into sight, grey-skinned, opal-eyed. At first he thought they 
were blind, but they came towards him steadily. In their hands were 
the tools of mining - sharp pickaxes and heavy hammers. 
'Where is the boy?' he demanded. 
'Dead. As you are,' came a new voice in his mind. It was not Dace. 
In that moment Tarantio realized he was truly alone. Dace had 
vanished. 
'I am not dead.' 
'You are dead, Tarantio,' argued the voice. 'Where is your passion? 
Where is your lust for life? Where are your dreams? What is life 
without these things? It is nothing.' 
'I have dreams!' shouted Tarantio. 
'Name one!' 
His mouth opened, but he could think of nothing to say. 'Where is 
the boy?' he screamed. 
'The boy weeps,' said the voice. 


Tarantio awoke with a start, his heart beating fast. 'I do have 
dreams,' he said, aloud. 
'Indeed you do,' said Browyn, 'and that one must have been 
powerful indeed. You were talking in your sleep.' The old man was 
sitting at the table. Tarantio rose from the floor. The fire was almost 
dead. Adding thin pieces 


of kindling he blew the flames to life and Browyn hung a kettle over 
the blaze. 'You are very pale,' he said, leaning forward and 
squinting into Tarantio's face. 'I think it was more of a nightmare.' 
'It was,' agreed Tarantio. 'I have it often.' Rubbing his eyes, he 
moved to the window. The sun was high over the mountains. 'I do 
not usually sleep this late. It must be the mountain air.' 
'Aye,' said Browyn. 'Would you like some rose-hip tea? It is made to 
my own recipe.' 
'Thank you.' 
'Why do you think this nightmare haunts you?' 
Tarantio shrugged. 'I don't know. A long time ago I worked as a 
miner. I hated it. They lowered us into the centre of the earth — or 
so it seemed. The days were black with coal dust, and twice there 
were roof falls that crushed men to pulp.' 
'And you dream of digging coal?' 
'No. But I am back in the mine. I can hear a child calling. He needs 
help but I cannot find him.' 
'It must mean something,' said Browyn, moving to the hearth. 
Wrapping a cloth around his hand he lifted the kettle from its 
bracket and returned to the table, filling two large cups with boiling 
water. To each he added a small muslin bag. A sweet aroma filled 
the room. 'Dreams always have meaning,' continued the old man. 
'I think it is telling me to avoid working in mines,' said Tarantio as, 
rising, he moved to the table. Browyn stirred the contents of the 
cups, then hooked out the bags. Tarantio tasted the brew. 'It is 
good,' he said. 'There is a hint of apple here.' 
'How will the war end?' asked Browyn suddenly. 
Tarantio shrugged. 'When men are tired of fighting.' 
'You know why it began?' Browyn asked. 



'Of course. The Eldarin were planning to enslave us all.' 
Browyn laughed. 'Ah yes, the evil Eldarin. The Demon People. With 
their terrible magic and their arcane weapons. Bloody nonsense! 
Stop and think, Tarantio. The Eldarin were an ancient people. They 
had dwelt in these mountains for millennia. When had they ever 
caused a war? Look to history. They were a scholarly people who 
kept to themselves. Their crime was to appear rich. Greed, envy 
and fear began this war. It will take a hero to end it. Why are you a 
warrior, my boy? Why do you play their game?' 
'What other games are there, Browyn? A man must eat.' 
'And you can see no end to the madness?' 
'I don't think about it. It is hard enough trying to stay alive.' 
Browyn's face showed his disappointment. Refilling the cups and 
adding two more muslin bags, he remained silent for a while. 'I was 
there, you know, seven years ago when the Holy Army marched to 
the Eldarin borders. We had three sorcerers who claimed they knew 
a spell to breach the magical barrier. We were full of righteous 
anger against the Eldarin, and we believed all the lies about their 
preparations for war. We were also in a rage because of the village 
that had been massacred: women and children torn to pieces by 
Eldarin talons. Three years later I spoke to a scout who had been 
the first on the scene. He said there were no talon marks. The 
villagers had been killed by swords and arrows, and they had been 
robbed of all copper and silver coin. But we did not know that then. 
Our leaders fed us with stories of Eldarin brutality. 
'However, I am losing the thread of the story . . . From where I 
stood on that day I could see, above the mist, the 


green mountains of Eldarin, the forests and the woods, the fields 
and the distant spires of a beautiful city. Then an old man came out 
of the mist and stood before our battle-lines. His back was bent, 
and the fur of his face was cloud-white. Like a ghostly wolf. "Why 
are you doing this?" he asked. 
'No one answered him. A young man with a sling moved forward 
and let fly. The stone struck the old man high on the head, he 
staggered, then stepped back into the mist. Soldiers charged 
forward, but they struck the invisible wall that separated the 
mountains of the Eldarin from the valleys of men. The sorcerers 
stepped forward then, and began to chant. Behind them ten 
thousand soldiers waited. Suddenly there was a blinding flash of 
light, and the mist that shielded the barrier disappeared. It was an 
astonishing moment, Tarantio. The sun shone brightly upon a 
barren landscape. Grey rock as far as the eye could see. No grass, 
no forests and woods. No city. To our right there was a river that, 
moments before, had flowed down through the mists to water the 
valleys. Eighty feet wide, and very deep. Now there was no flowing 
water, and we watched the last of the moisture soaking into the 
clay at the river bed. The Eldarin had gone. In an instant. Gone! 
Ahead of us the earth was scored away, and we stood on the edge 
of an earth wall maybe ten feet high. 
'We moved into the mountains, searching for them. There was 
nothing to find. Then a search party came back with the body of a 
single Eldarin. It was the old man. They had caught him hiding in a 
cave. He had with him the Pearl.' Browyn's eyes shone with the 
memory. 'It was so beautiful, the size of a man's fist, and swimming 
with colour - opal grey, dawn pink, holy white .. . You could sense 
its power. But I digress . . . The Demon War was over before it had 
begun, and our army of 


ten thousand had killed one old man. Within weeks the new war had 
begun, the War of the Pearl. How many thousands have died since 
that day? Plagues, starvation, drought and famine. And we are no 
closer to a conclusion. Does it not make you long to change the 
world?' 
'I cannot change it,' said Tarantio. 
They finished their drinks in silence, then Browyn led Tarantio out of 
the cabin and into the sunlight. 'There's something I'd like to show 
you,' said the old man. 'Follow me.' Together they walked up the 
hillside, along an old deer trail flanked by tall pines. At the top was 
a clearing, and at the centre, on a raised scaffold, stood a fishing 
boat, its sides sleek and beautifully crafted. There was a central 
cabin, and a tall mast from which hung no sail. The craft was fully 
forty feet long. Tarantio stood amazed for a moment, then he 
walked to where a ladder rested against the scaffold. Swiftly he 
climbed to the boat's deck, Browyn following. 'What do you think?' 
asked Browyn. 
'She is beautiful,' said Tarantio. 'But we are a mile above the lake. 
How will you float her?' 
'I don't intend to float her. I just wanted to build her.' 
Tarantio laughed. 'I don't believe this,' he said. 'I am standing on a 
boat on a mountain. There is no sense in it.' 
Browyn's smile faded. 'Sense? Why does it have to make sense? I 
always dreamed of building a boat. Now I have achieved it. Can you 
not understand that?' 
'But a boat must have water,' argued Tarantio. 'Only then can it 
fulfil its purpose.' 
Browyn shook his head angrily. 'First we speak of sense, now of 
purpose. You are a warrior, Tarantio. Where is the sense in war? 
What is the purpose of it? This boat is my dream. Mine. Therefore it 
is for me to say what purpose 


it serves.' Stepping forward, Browyn put his hands on the young 
man's shoulders. 'You know,' he said, sadly, 'you do not think like a 
young man. You are old before your time. A young man would 
understand my boat. Come, let us get back to the cabin. I have 
work to do. And you have a journey to make.' 


Chapter Three 
Browyn gave Tarantio an old cooking pot, two plates and a cup cast 
from pewter, a worn-out rucksack and a leather-bound water 
canteen. Tarantio strapped his swords to his waist. 'I thank you,' he 
told the older man. Striding out from the cabin, he approached the 
bay gelding owned by the dead Brys. 
Tarantio saddled him and hooked his rucksack over the pommel. 'I'll 
be on my way. But before I go, tell me why my reaction irritated 
you? What did you expect of me, Browyn?' 
'You know what I like about the young?' countered the old man. 
'Their passion for life, and their ability to see beyond the mundane. 
They don't look at the world and see what can't be done. They try 
to do it. Often they are arrogant, and their ideas fall from the sky 
like weary birds. But they try, Tarantio.' 
'And you judge me unworthy because I fail to see the point to a ship 
on a mountain?' 
'No, no, no! I do not judge you unworthy,' insisted Browyn. 'You are 
a good man, and you risked yourself to save me. And it is not your 
reaction to the boat that depresses me; it is your reaction to life 
itself. God's teeth, man, if the young can't change the world, who 
can?' 
Tarantio felt his anger rise as he looked into the man's earnest grey 
eyes. 'You have known me for a few hours, 


Browyn. You do not know me. You have no idea of who I am, and 
what I am capable of.' 
In that moment Dace awoke and Browyn stepped back, the colour 
draining from his face. Tarantio's soul shimmered and changed, 
separating. To the left now was the face of corpse grey, with the 
shock of white spiky hair. Browyn looked into the yellow slitted eyes 
and blinked nervously. 
'I do not want to die,' he heard himself say, fear making his voice 
tremble. 
'What are you talking about? I wouldn't kill you.' 
'He sees me,' said Dace. 'Is that not true, old man?' 
'I see you,' admitted Browyn. 
Tarantio stood for a moment, stunned. 'You . . . can see Dace? 
Truly?' 
'Yes. It is a talent I have, for seeing souls. It has helped me in my 
life .. . knowing who to trust. Don't kill me, Tarantio. I will tell no-
one.' 


'What do I look like, old man? Am I handsome?' 

'Yes. Very handsome.' 
'I can hardly believe it ... he does exist then,' said Tarantio. 'I am 
not insane.' He walked to a carved bench of oak built around the 
bole of a beech tree and sat down. Browyn stood where he was. 
Tarantio beckoned him over. 'Have you ever seen a man with two 
souls before?' he asked. 
'Once only. He was standing on a scaffold with a rope around his 
neck.' 
'Do you have any idea how this happened to me ... to us?' 
'None. Will you spare me, Tarantio? I am near death anyway.' 
'Sweet Heaven, Browyn! Will you stop this? I have no intention of 
harming you in any way. Why would I?' 



'Not you . . . but him. Dace wants me dead. Ask him.' 

'He knows, Chio. He must die. I will make it quick and painless.' 
'No. There is no need. No danger. And would you really know joy by 
killing a harmless old man?' 
'Yes.' 
'Why?' 
'He lied to me. Said I was handsome. I am ugly, Chio. I could see 
my reflection in his eyes' 


Tarantio felt Dace swelling inside his mind, trying to force a path to 
the world, but Tarantio fought back. 'Curse you!' screamed Dace. 
'Let me out!' 

'No,' said Tarantio, aloud. 

'One day, Chio. One day I will find a way to set myself free.' 
'But not today, brother.' He glanced at Browyn and gave a weary 
smile. 'You are safe, old man. However, I had best be on my way.' 
'It is a shame the Eldarin are gone,' said Browyn, as Tarantio 
stepped into the saddle. 'I think their magic could have helped you 
both.' 
'We need no help. We are - if not happy - then mostly content. 
Dace is not all bad, Browyn. I sense the good in him sometimes.' 
Browyn said nothing. Nor did he wave as Tarantio heeled the 
gelding and rode from the clearing. 
Tarantio rode down into the valley, and once on flat, open ground, 
gave the gelding his head. The horse thundered across the valley 
floor, and Tarantio felt the sheer joy in the animal as it sped across 
the grassland in a mile-eating gallop. After some minutes he 
allowed the horse to slow to a walk. Then he dismounted and 
examined the beast 


again. Satisfied, he stepped into the saddle and continued on his 
way. 
'I have the face of a demon,' said Dace suddenly. 
'I cannot tell,' put in Tarantio. 'I have never seen you.' 
'I have white hair, and a grey face. My eyes are yellow, and slitted 
like a cat. Why should I look like this?' 
'I do not know how souls are supposed to look.' 
'Am I a demon, Chio? Are you a man possessed?' 
Tarantio thought about it for a while. 'I do not know what we are, 
brother. Perhaps it is I who possesses you.' 
'Would you be happier if I were gone?' 
Tarantio laughed. 'Sometimes I think I would. But not often. We are 
brothers, Dace. It is just that we share the same form. And the 
truth is, I am fond of you. And I meant what I said to the old man . 
. . I do see good in you.' 
'Pah! You see what you want to see. As for me, I wish I could be rid 
of you.' 


Tarantio shook his head and smiled. Dace fell silent and Tarantio 
rode on, passing the burned-out remains of two farming villages. 
There were no corpses, but a hastily built cairn showed where the 
bodies had been buried. The fields close by had not been harvested, 
the corn rotting on the stalk. 
On the far side of the meadow he saw some women moving through 
the fields, carrying large wicker baskets. They stood silently as he 
rode by. Further on he came to a wide military road and passed a 
ruined postal station. Ten years ago, so he had been informed, 
there was an efficient postal service that connected all four Duchies. 
A letter written in Corduin, Gatien had told him, could be carried the 
300 miles south-west to Hlobane in just 


four days. From Hlobane to the Duke of The Marches' capital of 
Prentuis - 570 miles east over rough country 

-in ten days. 
No letters were carried now. In fact, any private citizen who 
considered sending one to another Duchy would be arrested and 
probably hanged. The Duchies were engaged in a terrible war, 
composed of pitched battles, guerrilla raids, changing allegiances, 
betrayal and confusion. Mercenaries plied their trade from the 
southern sea at Loretheli to the northern mountains of Morgallis, 
from Hlobane in the west to Prentuis in the east. Few common 
warriors knew who was allied to whom. At the start of this summer 
campaign the Duke of The Marches had been allied with Duke 
Sirano of Romark against Belliese, the Corsair Duke, and Duke 
Albreck of Corduin. Belliese had switched sides early in June, and 
then the Duke of The Marches had quarrelled with Sirano and 
formed a new alliance with Albreck. 
Few could follow the twists and tantrums of the warring nobility. 
Most soldiers did not try. Tarantio had been part of a mercenary 
regiment holding a fort against the besieging troops of Romark and 
The Marches. A herald brought news of his change of allegiance. It 
was laughable. After three weeks of intense fighting the men within 
the walls - some, like Tarantio, serving Belliese, others Corduin - 
found themselves in the ludicrous situation of sharing the inner 
walls with a new enemy, while men who had been trying to kill 
them for weeks were now friends who waited outside with their 
siege engines. The captains arranged a hasty council to debate the 
question of who was now attacking what. Some of the troops 
besieging the fort now wished to defend it, while one group of the 
defenders 
- who should now be attacking it - were already inside it. The 
council meeting went on for five days. 

Since no agreement could be reached, the three captains came up 
with a new solution. All four groups of mercenaries set about 
undermining the walls of the fort, bringing the old stones crashing 
down. Hence there was no longer a fort to defend, and they could 
all march away with honour satisfied. 
Three hundred and twenty-nine men had died during the siege. 
Their bodies were buried in a communal grave. 
Two weeks later, Tarantio and a thousand men were back at the 
fort, rebuilding the walls. 
The awesome follies of war, for which Tarantio received twenty 
silver pieces a month. 
Four miles along the road, with dusk deepening, Tarantio saw the 
glimmer of a camp-fire in the trees to the west. Angling his horse, 
he rode towards the wood. 'Try to be careful,' warned Dace. 'We 
don't have too many friends in this area.' 
'Would you like to ride in?' 
'Thank you, brother,' said Dace. He drew in a deep breath, and felt 
the cool breeze upon his skin. The gelding became suddenly 
skittish, his ears flattening. 
'He senses you,' said Tarantio. 'Best to soothe him, or he'll throw 
you.' Dace stroked the gelding's long neck and, keeping his voice 
low and soothing, said, aloud, 'Throw me, you ugly son of a bitch, 
and I'll cut your eyes out.' Still nervous, the gelding moved forward 
as Dace touched his heels to the beast's flanks. Right hand raised, 
Dace rode slowly towards the wood. 'Hello the fire!' he called. 
'Are you alone?' came a voice. 
'Indeed I am friend. Do I smell beef cooking?' 
'You have a good nose. Ride in.' 
Warily Dace did so. As soon as he came close enough to recognize 
the men he grinned. 'Ride out! Now!' urged Tarantio. 



'Before the fun has started, brother? Surely not.' Before Tarantio 
could wrest back control, Dace leapt from the saddle and led his 
horse towards the fire. 
There were three men seated around a fire-pit above which a leg of 
beef was being turned on a spit by a fourth - the red-bearded 
warrior Forin. Two of the others were the comrades of the dead 
mercenary Brys. Dace tethered his horse to a bush. 
'There's too much for just the four of us,' said the first man, a tall 
and slender swordsman in forester's garb of fringed buckskin. He 
was thin-faced, with an easy smile not echoed in his close-set pale 
eyes. 
'The bowman in the bushes is not eating?' asked Dace, stepping in 
close. 
'You've a sharp eye as well as a sharp nose,' said the other, with a 
wide grin. Turning his head he called, 'Come in, Brune! There's no 
danger here. Now, Tarantio, let me introduce you to my Knights of 
the Cess Pit. The clumsy bowman is Brune. I told him to lie low, but 
he bobs like a rabbit.' A tall, gangly, sandy-haired young man 
stepped from the bushes and shifted uneasily from foot to foot. 
'Useless, he is. I only keep him with me out of pity. The big man by 
the fire is a newcomer to our band. He calls himself Forin.' 
Forin rose, the firelight glinting on his red-forked beard. 'Good to 
meet you,' he said, his face devoid of expression. 
'And I am Latais,' said the leader. 'Welcome to my camp, Tarantio. 
You put the fear of Hell into my last two Knights. Step up, you dung 
beetles!' The two mercenaries rose and edged forward. 'These two, 
who understand when to put wisdom before valour, are Styart and 
Tobin. When the gods sketched out their personalities, they failed to 
place courage high on the list.' 


'Perhaps wisdom is preferable,' said Dace. 
'It is a trap,' said Tarantio. 
'Of course it is,' agreed Dace. 'The question is, which side is Forin 
on? I should have killed him back at the cave. I wonder if he's still 
got our gold coin?' 


'Find yourself a place to sit,' said Latais amiably, 'and I'll bring you 
some food.' 
Dace moved around the fire and sat on a tree-stump. Forin took up 
a wooden plate and cut himself some beef; then he sat away from 
the others. Latais brought Tarantio some meat and flat bread and 
the two men ate in silence. When he had finished, Dace cleaned the 
plate on the grass and returned it to the mercenary leader. 
'So where are you heading?' asked Latais. 
'Corduin. I think I'll winter there.' 
'You have enough funds to sit out the cold season?' 
'No, but I'll survive. What about you?' 
Latais drew his dagger and picked a piece of beef from between his 
teeth. 'There's an army gathering near Hlobane, and Duke Albreck 
is offering thirty pieces of silver for veterans.' 
'I'd hardly call your group veterans — save for the big man.' 
'Yes, he has the look of eagles, as they say.' Styart and Tobin lifted 
the spit from the fire, while the bowman, Brune, added fuel to the 
fire pit, flames flaring up and illuminating the clearing. Dace's gaze 
did not flicker. He sat calmly watching Latais, aware that the man 
still held his dagger. 'You are younger than I expected,' said the 
leader. 'If all your exploits are to be believed you should have been 
at least fifty.' 
'They should all be believed,' Dace told him. 
'Does this mean you really are swifter than a lightning bolt?' 


Dace said nothing for a moment. 'You know,' he said finally, 'the 
resemblance is clear.' 
'Resemblance?' 
'Was Brys not your brother?' 
Latais smiled. The dagger flashed for Dace's chest. 
His left hand shot out, his fingers closing around Latais' wrist. The 
blade stopped inches short. 'Faster than lightning,' said Dace, eyes 
glittering. Latais struggled to pull back from the iron grip. Dace's 
right hand came up, and firelight gleamed on the silver blade of his 
throwing-knife. 'And twice as deadly.' 
His arm snapped forward, the knife slamming into the unprotected 
neck of the mercenary leader. Blood gouted from the severed 
jugular, drenching Dace's hand. Latais's struggles grew weaker, and 
he slumped against the tree. Bright images flashed across Dace's 
mind: his mother lying dead in her bed, the plague boils still 
weeping pus, the child crying for her and calling her name; his 
father hanging from the long branch, his face bloated and black, 
and old Gatien running through the burning house with his hair and 
beard ablaze. The sharpness of his sorrow faded away in the pulsing 
red light that flowed in his brain, eased by the warm red blood that 
bubbled over his knife hand. 
Dace sighed and pulled clear the blade, letting the body of Latais 
fall. Wiping the knife, he returned it to his boot and rose to his feet 
drawing his swords. The flames were six feet high now, and Dace 
could not see who stood beyond the fire. But he guessed that Latais 
had ordered his men to be ready. 
'Come on then, you gutter scum!' he yelled, leaping through the 
flames and across the fire-pit. As he landed, ready for battle, he 
saw the bowman, Brune, lying on the ground, Forin standing above 
him with a 


wooden club in his hand. 'Where are the other two?' demanded 
Dace. 
'You've never seen men run so fast. Didn't even stop to saddle their 
horses. You want to kill this one?' 
The answer was yes, but Dace felt his irritation rise. What right had 
this man to offer him a death? 'Why should I?' he heard himself say. 
Forin shrugged. 'I thought you enjoyed killing.' 
'What I enjoy is none of your damned business. Why did you help 
me?' 
'A whim. They saw you coming. Latais thought Brune could bring 
you down as you entered the camp. But you put the horse between 
you as you dismounted. Smooth move, my friend. You're a canny 
man.' 
Brune groaned and sat up. 'He hit me with a lump of wood,' he 
complained. 
'You were about to shoot through the fire and kill me,' said Dace, 
wishing he had killed the man as he lay unconscious. There was still 
time. 
'That's what I were told to do,' said Brune sullenly. 
Dace looked into the man's face. 'Your leader is dead. You want to 
fight me?' 
'I didn't want to kill you in the first place. He told me to.' Dace could 
feel the longing for blood growing in him, but he looked into the 
hulking young man's plain, open face and saw the absence of malice 
there. A farm boy lost in a world at war. Dace could see him 
lovingly working the fields, caring for stock, raising a family as dull 
and as solid as himself. 
'Gather your gear and move out,' he said. 
'Why do you want me to go? Aren't you the leader now?' Brune 
reached up and rubbed his sandy hair. His fingers came away 
bloody. 'Anyway, my head hurts.' 
Forin chuckled. 'Tell me,' he said to the injured man, 


'is there a lot of in-breeding in your village? You're not the sharpest 
arrow in the quiver, are you?' 
'No, I'm not,' admitted Brune. 'That's why I do what I'm told.' 
'Come back to the world, brother,' said Dace. 'This numbskull is too 
stupid to kill, and if I stay here any longer I'll rip his throat out.' 


Tarantio found it hard to keep the smile from his face as he 
resumed control. 'Let me see that head,' he told Brune. 'Move closer 
to the fire.' Brune obeyed and Tarantio's fingers probed the 
bowman's scalp. 'You've a lump the size of a goose egg, but it 
doesn't need stitching. Go and get some sleep.' 
'You're not sending me away then?' 
'No. Tell me, are you skilled with that bow?' 
'Not really. But I'm worse with a sword.' 
Forin's laughter boomed out. 'Is there anything you're good at?' 
asked the red-bearded warrior. 
'I don't like you,' said Brune. 'And I am good at ... things. I know 
livestock. Pigs and cattle.' 
'A handy talent for a soldier,' said Forin. 'If we're ever attacked by a 
rampaging herd of wild pigs, you'll be the man to plan our strategy.' 
'Go and rest,' Tarantio ordered the young man. Obediently Brune 
stood up, but he swayed and almost fell. Forin caught him and half 
carried him to where his blankets lay. The young man slumped 
down and was asleep within moments. Forin returned to the fire. 
'You mind if I travel with you and your dog to Corduin?' 
'Why would you want to?' countered Tarantio. 
Forin chuckled. 'No-one ever gave me a gold piece before. Is that 
good enough?' 



Tarantio awoke at dawn. He yawned and stretched, enjoying the 
sense of emotional solitude that came when Dace slept. Forin lay 
wrapped in his blankets, snoring quietly, but of Brune there was no 
sign. And the body of Latais was gone. Tarantio rose and followed 
Brune's tracks, finding him some fifty feet from the camp-site. The 
body of the dead leader was wrapped in its cloak, and Brune was 
humming a monotonous tune as he dug a shallow grave in the soft 
earth. Tarantio sat down on a fallen tree and watched in silence. 
With the grave some four feet deep Brune scrambled out, his face 
and upper body streaked with sweat and mud. Carefully, he pulled 
the body to the edge of the hole, climbed in himself, then lowered 
the dead man to his resting place. The act was tender and gentle, 
as if Brune feared bruising the corpse. Slowly, reverently, Brune 
scooped earth over the grave. 
'You must have cared for him,' said Tarantio softly. 
'He looked after me,' said Brune. 'And my dad always said dead 
men should go back to the earth. That's how plagues start, he said 

- when bodies are left to rot in the air.' 
'I suppose there is some good in all men,' said Tarantio. 
'He looked after me,' repeated Brune. 'I didn't have nowhere to go. 
He let me ride with him.' He continued to fill the grave, pressing the 
earth down with his hands. When he had finished he stood and 
slapped his hands together, trying to dislodge the mud clinging to 
his fingers. 
'You should hate me then, for killing him,' suggested Tarantio. 
'I don't hate nobody,' said Brune. 'Never have. Never will, I 'spect.' 
For a moment he stood staring down at the grave. 'When people in 
the village died, there was someone 

to speak for them. Lots of pretty things were said. I don't remember 
them. Does it matter, do you think?' 
'To whom?' asked Tarantio, mystified. 'You think Latais will hear 
them?' 
'I don't know,' admitted Brune. 'I just wish I knew some of the 
pretty words. Do you know any?' 
'None that would suit this occasion. Why not just say what's in your 
heart?' 
Brune nodded. Clasping his hands together, he closed his eyes. 
'Thanks, Lat, for all you done for me,' he said. 'I'm sorry I couldn't 
do what you asked, but they hit me with a lump of wood.' 
'Touching and poetic,' said Dace. 'It certainly brought a lump to my 
throat.' 


Despite the jeering tone, Tarantio sensed an undercurrent of 
emotion in Dace. He thought about it for a moment, but could find 
no reason. Then Dace spoke again. 'Are we taking the idiot with us?' 
The question was asked too casually. 


'By Heaven, Dace. Have you found someone you like?' 
'He amuses me. When he ceases to do so, I will kill him,' said Dace. 
Tarantio heard the lie in his voice, but said nothing. 
Suddenly all the birds in the trees took flight, the leaves thrashing 
under their beating wings. Tarantio felt a quivering sensation under 
his feet. Forin stumbled into the small clearing. 'I think we should 
saddle up and move out,' he said. 'I'm getting a bad feeling. Maybe 
there's a storm coming.' 
The horses were skittish, and Tarantio needed Brune's help to 
saddle the gelding, who tried to buck each time the saddle was 
placed upon his back. 
'What in Hell's name is happening?' asked Forin. 'Nothing feels 
right.' 



The earthquake struck as Tarantio, Forin and Brune moved out onto 
the plain. The ground vibrating beneath them caused the horses to 
panic and rear. Brune, who was leading the three spare mounts, 
was unseated and fell heavily, his horse and the others bolting. A 
section of hillside close by sheared away and a huge crack, 
hundreds of paces long, opened up in the earth ahead of them, 
swallowing the fleeing animals. As suddenly as the crack had 
appeared, it closed, sending up a shower of dust and earth. Tarantio 
leapt from the saddle, holding firm to the bridle. 'Easy, boy! Easy!' 
he said soothingly, stroking the beast's flanks. Forin's horse fell as 
the ground heaved. The big man rolled clear, then scrambled up 
and caught hold of the reins. 
The tremors continued for several minutes, then died away. Dust 
hung in the air in great clouds. Tarantio hobbled his mount and ran 
to the fallen Brune as the young man sat up, blinking rapidly. 'Are 
you hurt?' asked Tarantio. 
'Hit my head again,' said Brune. 'Made it bleed.' 
'Luckily your head is the thickest part of you,' observed Forin. 'You 
lost the horses, you dolt!' 
'He could have done nothing to save them,' put in Tarantio. 'And if 
we had ridden a few yards further we would have all been sucked 
into the abyss.' 
'Have you ever heard of such a thing in Corduin lands?' asked Forin. 
'For I have not. Down by Loretheli the earth moves. But not up 
here.' 
Tarantio stared down at his hands; they were trembling. 'I think we 
all need to rest for a while. The horses are too skittish to ride.' 
Unhobbling the gelding, he led him towards the ruined hill. Above 
and to the left of the sheared mound was a stand of trees. 
Tethering the two horses, Tarantio and Forin sat down 


while Brune wandered away to empty his bursting bladder. 
'I think my heart is beginning to settle down,' said Forin. 'I haven't 
been that scared since my wife - may she rest in peace - caught me 
with her sister.' 
'I have never been that scared,' admitted Tarantio. 'I thought the 
earth was shaking apart. What causes it?' 
Forin shrugged. 'My father used to talk of the giant, Premithon. The 
gods chained him at the centre of the earth, and every once in a 
while he wakes and struggles to be free. Then the mountains 
tremble and the earth shakes.' 
'That sounds altogether reasonable,' said Tarantio, forcing a smile. 
Brune came running up the hill. 'Come see what I've found,' he 
shouted. 'Come see!' Turning round he ambled down the ruined hill. 
Tarantio and Forin followed him to where the hillside had been cut 
in half, exposing two marble pillars and a cracked lintel stone. 
'It is an ancient tomb,' said Forin, scrambling up over the mud 
which half-covered the entrance. 'Maybe there's gold to be found.' 
Tarantio and Brune followed him, sliding over the mud and into the 
entrance. All three men halted before a huge statue, which stood 
guard over a broken stone doorway. 
The sunlight shone down on the marble of the statue and Tarantio 
stood staring at the carving, trying to make sense of it. The statue 
stood almost seven feet high. On its left arm was a triangular 
shield, in its right hand a serrated sword. But Tarantio's attention 
was not taken by the armour but by the face, which was not 
human. The bony ridge of its curved nose extended up and over the 
bald cranium, curving down the thick neck to disappear beneath the 
sculpted armour. The creature's 


eyes were large, protruding, and slanted up towards the thick 
temples. The mouth was lipless and open, showing pointed teeth 
behind a ridge of sharp bone, like the beak of a hunting bird . . . 
'It is a demon,' said Brune fearfully. 
'No,' said Forin. 'It is a Daroth. My father described them perfectly. 
Six-fingered hands, and eyes that can see in a two-hundred-degree 
semi-circle. The neck is heavily ridged with bone and sinew. It does 
not articulate like the human neck, therefore the Daroth needed 
better all-round vision.' 
'You mentioned them back in the cave,' said Tarantio. 'I have heard 
of them. But they are just myths, surely?' 
'No, not myths. They existed before man came to this land. They 
were great enemies of the Eldarin, who destroyed them utterly. 
They came from the Northern Desert. Have you ever travelled 
there?' 
'No.' 
'Barely an ounce of soil over twenty thousand square miles. 
According to the legend, the Eldarin used great magic to annihilate 
the seven cities of the Daroth. Fire from the sky, and all that. The 
same magic that later destroyed the Eldarin themselves, searing the 
earth away.' 
'They look very fierce,' said Brune. 
'They were all mighty warriors,' Forin continued. 'They had two 
hearts and two sets of lungs. The bones of their chest and backs 
were twice as thick as ours, and no sword, nor arrow, could pierce 
their vital organs. A heavy spear could injure them, but it would 
need a strong man to plunge it home.' He paused and looked up at 
the cruel, beaked face. 'Hell's teeth, would you want to fight 
anything that ugly?' he asked Tarantio. 
'I would,' said Dace. 


'I dread to think what the females looked like,' said Tarantio to 
Forin. 
'From what my father said, this could be one of the females. There 
was little difference between them; they bred like insects and 
reptiles, laying eggs, or pods. There was no physical union between 
mating pairs - and little apparent physical difference between the 
sexes.' 
'Why would anyone want a statue of a Daroth guarding their grave?' 
asked Tarantio. 
Easing past the statue, they pushed their way into the main burial 
chamber. The sunlight was weaker here, but they could see a 
massive lidless coffin set by the far wall. The answer to Tarantio's 
question lay within. The coffin contained a massive skeleton, taller 
even than the statue guarding the tomb. Shocked, Tarantio gazed 
down on the colossal bones of the chest and back. The body had 
been laid on its side and the immense ridge of the spine could 
clearly be seen extending up the neck and over the cranium. 
Reaching inside, Tarantio lifted clear the immense skull. Dust and 
grit trickled from it. More than ever, the ridge of bone above the 
mouth looked like the beak of a hunting bird. 'Incredible,' whispered 
Tarantio. 'He must have been awesome in life.' 
'He's pretty awesome dead,' muttered Forin, reaching out and 
taking the skull. 'And this is a rare find. The Daroth were virtually 
immortal, reborn through the eggs. At the time of rebirth the body 
of the dying adult would shrivel away, bones and all, then the same 
Daroth would emerge from the pod.' 
'Well, this one didn't shrivel away,' said Tarantio. 
'Indeed he didn't. I wonder why. Perhaps he chose not to mate, and 
there was no pod for him to return to.' 
'I can feel the evil here,' said Dace. 'Like a cold flame waiting for 
life.' 


Symbols had been carved into the walls, but Tarantio could not 
decipher them. There were no paintings, no boxes, no possessions 
of any kind - with the exception of three bizarre pieces of furniture 
set against the wall. They resembled chairs, save that the seating 
area was in fact two curved, horsehair-padded slats set six inches 
apart and crafted at a rising angle from just above the floor. The 
back of the chair was low; this was also padded, but only along the 
top of the back-rest. 
Brune tried to sit down on one and he looked ludicrous - too low to 
the ground, his legs splayed, his back bent. 'No, no,' said Forin. 'Let 
me show you.' Striding to the chair, he pulled Brune upright and 
then knelt on the slats, leaning forward to rest his massive forearms 
on the top of the back-rest. 'The Daroth spine was not suited to 
conventional chairs.' Rising, he tucked the skull under his arm. 
'In times of peace,' he said, his voice echoing eerily inside the 
enclosed chamber, 'the bones here would have been worth a sack of 
gold, and the statue outside would have fetched a fortune. Now 
we'll be lucky to get the price of a meal for the skull.' 
'You keep it,' said Tarantio. 'I'm sure there will still be people 
interested in acquiring it.' 
He swung on his heel and walked from the chamber, clambering up 
over the mud and out into the sunlight. Forin and Brune followed 
him. In the bright light of earthly reality the skull looked somehow 
even more eerie, out of place, out of time. 
'The Eldarin must have possessed great magic indeed to wipe out a 
people so formidable,' said Tarantio. 
Forin nodded. 'According to legend they annihilated them in the 
space of a single hour. Perhaps that is what the Eldarin were trying 
to do to our army, and their magic betrayed them.' 


'Perhaps,' Tarantio agreed. 
'I wonder what they ate,' said Brune. 
Forin chuckled and lifted the skull. 'Beneath this beak there are 
sharp teeth, the front canines pointed like spikes. At the rear . . . 
here, look . . .' he said to Brune, beckoning the young man forward, 
'are the molars . . . the grinding teeth. They were like us, meat and 
plant eaters.' 
Once more the ground beneath their feet trembled. Forin swore, but 
the tremor died away swiftly. The three men stood nervously for a 
few seconds. Then a second quake hit, hurling them from their feet. 
The skull flew from Forin's hand and struck a boulder, shattering 
into a hundred pieces. 
Tarantio lay hugging the earth, nausea swamping him. For several 
minutes the rumbling continued, then silence settled on the land 
and he rose shakily. Forin rolled to his knees and looked down at 
the shattered skull. 'Who'd have my luck?' he said, then pushed 
himself to his feet. 
By mid-morning the following day they sighted the spires of 
Corduin. Tarantio found that he knew the guard on the main gate, 
and there was no problem entering the city. At the first cross-roads 
within, he bade farewell to Forin. They clasped hands. 'Good luck to 
you, big man.' 
'I hope fortune favours you, Tarantio,' answered Forin with a wide 
smile. 'Look after the simpleton. If you cut him loose, he'll starve to 
death within a week.' 
As he rode away Brune, who was holding onto Tarantio's stirrup, 
looked up and asked: 'Where are we going now?' 
'To a merchant who will give us money.' 
'Why would he do that?' 
'It is my money,' said Tarantio. 
'What will we do then?' 



Tarantio sighed. 'I will teach you how to use a bow and a sword. 
When I have done that, you will join a mercenary unit.' 
Brune thought about this for a moment. 'I'm not a fast learner,' he 
said, with a wide grin. 
'That isn't a surprise, Brune.' 



Chapter Four 
Sirano, the fifth Duke of Romark, was the image of the man who 
had sired him - tall, athletic, handsome, his hair black and his eyes 
a deep ocean blue. It was for this reason that his father, a short, 
burly, blond-haired man, hated him. The fourth Duke of Romark 
was a bitter man, who had married for love only to find that his 
feelings were one-sided. His wife betrayed him with the captain of 
his Guards, and fell pregnant by him in the third year of their 
unhappy marriage. 
The captain died in mysterious circumstances, stabbed to death in 
what appeared to be a drunken brawl. The wife was said to have 
fainted and drowned in her bath three days after giving birth to 
Sirano. Everyone agreed it was a tragedy, and there was great 
sympathy for the fourth Duke. 
The child was raised by a series of nurses. Quick and alert, he was 
always desperate for his father's affection, which was never 
forthcoming. He never knew why. At school Sirano was the best in 
his year, and swiftly grew to understand the intricacies of language 
and the arts. By the age of twelve he could lead discussions on the 
merits of the great sculptors, debate the philosophical attitudes of 
the Three Teachers, and had written a thesis on the life and work of 
the soldier-king, Pardark. 
Those who knew him as a young man claimed his 


father's coldness finally turned the boy's heart to ice on his fifteenth 
birthday. On the night of the celebrations he was heard to have a 
terrible row with the fourth Duke, who was heavily drunk. 
It was after this that Sirano became fascinated by the wonders of 
sorcery. He studied day and night, forsaking the normal noble 
pursuits of hunting and whoring, and gathered to himself books and 
scrolls. His first spell, involving the sacrifice of a pet rabbit, went 
awry, the headless creature running down the long corridor of the 
east wing, spraying blood onto the hanging velvet drapes. His 
second spell was more successful and ultimately damning. 
In a bid to discover why his father loathed him, the sixteen-year-old 
Sirano wrought the ancient spell of summoning, and called upon the 
spirit of his dead mother. He conducted this rite in the marble 
bathroom in which she had died. No spirit came, but what did occur 
changed the young man's life. 
Somewhere during the spell he made a small mistake and instead of 
summoning a spirit, his spell became one of revelation. In an 
instant the room grew cold, and Sirano felt a curious sensation of 
dizziness and weightlessness. Bright colours shone in his eyes, and 
his body fell to the floor. His spirit, however, floated free and he 
found himself staring down at a beautiful woman taking her bath. 
Her eyes were sad, her cheeks tear-stained, and Sirano noted that 
her belly was still stretched and slack, evidence of a recent birth. 
The door opened and his father stepped inside. He was slimmer and 
younger, his hair thicker, and his face was white and angry. 
'Did you think I would not find out?' he said. 
'You have killed him,' she answered. 'What more can you do to me?' 


'Much more!' he hissed. Without another word he punched her full 
in the face, then thrust her down below the water. 
The spirit of Sirano recoiled from the sight. Her legs kicked out, 
thrashing water over the floor, but the fourth Duke maintained his 
grip until all struggles ceased. 
The room spun and Sirano opened his eyes. He was lying on the 
floor of the empty bathroom, a small cut on his temple from where 
his head had struck the edge of a marble sink. 
Slowly he rose. 
For two years he continued to study, mastering all that he could of 
spell-making. On the night of his eighteenth birthday he lit the black 
candles in his room and placing a grass snake in a round glass jar 
along with a lock of his father's hair, he painstakingly worked 
through the Five Levels of Aveas. There was no feeling in him, no 
anger, no sorrow. When at last he had completed the spell, he rose 
from his knees and, carrying the snake in the jar, walked slowly 
along the corridor to his father's apartment. 
There were two young serving maids in his bed. Sirano whispered 
two Words of Power and touched each of them on the forehead. 
Both rose silently, eyes flickering, and deep in a trance returned to 
their own beds. Drawing up a chair, Sirano gestured towards the 
lanterns set in brackets on the walls. They flared into life, casting 
flickering light on the sleeping man. His face was fat now, bloated 
with rich living, and a vein throbbed at his temple. 
'Wake up, Father,' commanded Sirano. The Duke jerked as if 
slapped. 
'What in Hell's name?' He glanced to his left and right. 'Where are 
... ?' 
'Gone. Tell me why you killed my mother.' 


'Get out! Get out before I fetch my whip!' 
'No more whips,' said Sirano softly. 'No more beatings or cold 
words. Just answer my question.' 
'Are you mad?' 
'As in insanity, you mean? I do believe that I am. It is not an 
unpleasant feeling. In fact there is some comfort in it. But let us get 
back to the question at hand. When you walked into that bathroom 
she said, "You have killed him. What more can you do to me?" You 
said, "Much more." Then you drowned her. Why?' 
Colour drained from the Duke's face as his mouth opened, then 
closed. 'How . . . ?' he whispered at last. 
'It doesn't matter, Father. Nothing matters except your answer. 
Speak.' 
'I ... she ... I loved her,' he said. 'Truly. But ... it wasn't enough for 
her. She took a man to her bed. One of my Guards. They were 
planning, I think, to have me killed. Yes, to kill me. I found out.' 
Anguish twisted his face. 'Why do you want to hear this?' 
'The man you killed. Was he tall and dark, with blue eyes?' 
'Yes. Yes, he was.' 
'I see,' said Sirano. 'I have often wondered why your mistresses 
never swell with child. Now I know. Your seed is not strong. And 
you are not my father.' 
'No, I am not!' shouted the older man. 'But you will be the Duke 
when I am dead. I raised you as my own. You owe me for that!' 
Sirano smiled. 'I think not. That was just ego on your part. You 
robbed me of the love of a mother and a father. You have made my 
life miserable. But I am eighteen now, and a man. I am ready for a 
man's duties. Goodbye, Father. May your soul burn!' 
Rising, Sirano spoke a single word. The snake in the 


glass shimmered, then was gone. The old Duke made to speak, but 
something swelled in his windpipe. He scrabbled at his throat and 
his body writhed; his hand lashed out, striking the wall with a dull 
thump. His legs thrashed below the sheets, a low gurgling choke 
came from him. Sirano watched him die, then reached down and 
opened the old man's mouth. 
The head of the snake was just visible. Wrenching open the Duke's 
jaws, Sirano pressed his fingers down into the throat, drawing out 
the serpent. It flapped and writhed around his wrist. Moving to the 
window, he flung the creature out into the garden. 
After the official seven days of mourning, Sirano took the Blessing 
and donned the mantle of the Duke of Romark. The ceremony over, 
he took his advisors to the ramparts of the high west wall and 
pointed at the mountains of the Eldarin. 
'There is great danger there, my friends,' he said. They are 
sorcerers and shape-shifters. What are they planning, do you 
think?' 
Eight years later the twenty-six-year-old Sirano sat listening as his 
captains made their reports. The forces of the Duke of Corduin had 
been repulsed, with heavy losses on both sides, on the western 
border. The renegade corsair, Belliese, had savaged a Romarkian 
supply fleet in the southern seas, and captured two war galleons. 
Elsewhere there was only one victory that could be described as 
anything but pyrrhic. Karis and her lancers had smashed a 
mercenary force heading to relieve a small fortress town eighty 
miles north of Loretheli. Two hundred and forty enemy soldiers 
were killed for the loss of fifteen dead and thirty-one wounded. The 
town had surrendered to Karis a day later, its treasury of 12,000 
gold coins now swelling the 


Romark coffers. As the officers discussed tactics, Romark found his 
mind wandering, his gaze focusing on Karis. Tall and slim, her long 
dark hair held in place by a silver circlet, she radiated a martial 
beauty that Sirano found intoxicating. She was not classically 
beautiful, for her nose was long, and her face somewhat angular. 
Yet there was something about this warrior woman that stirred his 
blood as no other could. 
Dismissing the captains, Sirano gestured for Karis to remain. Rising 
from the table, he moved to a beautifully crafted cabinet at the 
window wall of the large study, removing a cut-glass decanter. Half 
filling two crystal globe glasses he passed one to Karis. 
'My congratulations, Karis. Your raid was an exemplary lesson in 
tactics.' 
Karis gave a short bow, her large dark eyes holding to his own. 
'This is what you wished to discuss?' she asked him. 
'I have nothing to discuss,' he said, 'but I enjoy your company. Sit 
for a while.' Karis stretched out on a couch, leaving no room for the 
Duke to join her. But she lay back with one foot on the floor, the 
other leg straight, and Sirano did not try to stop his gaze from 
dwelling on her open legs and the cut of her blue silk leggings. 
Resisting the urge to run his hand along her thigh, he drew up a 
chair close to her and sat, sipping his brandy. Karis smiled at him, 
her expression cat-like. 
'I hear you have a new mistress,' said Karis. 'Is she sweet?' 
'Indeed she is,' he told her. 'She even tells me she loves me.' 
'And does she?' 
'Who can say? I am rich, and I am powerful. Many women would 
find that attractive in itself.' 


'So modest, Saro,' she chided him. 'You are also handsome and 
witty. I don't doubt that you provide your partners with great 
physical joy.' 
'How kind,' he said. 'Are you still cavorting with that mercenary 
lieutenant . . . Giriak?' 
She nodded, then sat up and drained her brandy. 'He is young and 
strong.' 
'And has he fallen in love with you?' 
She shrugged. 'He uses the words wonderfully, with exquisite 
timing. I think that might be the same thing, don't you?' 
'It certainly is for me,' he conceded. 'But then I am not entirely sure 
I know what love is. Neither do you, dear heart. . . unless of course 
we are talking of your first love, battle.' 
Her eyes narrowed. 'You misread me, Sirano.' 
He chuckled with genuine humour. 'I do not believe that I do. There 
are many in all the Duchies who wish for this war to be ended, but 
you are not among them. War is life to you. The day peace comes - 
and come it will one day when I win - you will know panic.' 
'I think not. Panic is alien to me. However, this conversation is 
entirely hypothetical. The forces are too even for there to be a 
decisive end to the conflict. Added to which there are the mercenary 
armies; they follow only gold. When you Dukes seek to end the 
battles, what do you think will become of them? Will they lay down 
their arms and return to the land? No, Saro. You and your noble 
friends and enemies have loosed the wolves. You will not round 
them up easily.' 
He shrugged. 'These are problems for another day.' His gaze 
returned to her silk-clad limbs. 'You really are very attractive,' he 
said. 'One day we should get to know one another a little better.' 


'One day,' she agreed. For a moment neither of them spoke, then 
Karis rose and refilled her brandy glass. 'Have you unlocked the 
secrets of the Pearl?' she asked him. 
'I think we are close,' he said. 'I believe it to be a power source of 
some kind.' 
'You said the same thing two months ago,' she reminded him. 
'Patience is one of my virtues,' he replied. 'So far we have tried 
probe spells of increasing power. Nothing pierces the Pearl. Yet 
even as we speak my sorcerers are preparing themselves for the 
ritual of Aveas. I think we will have answers today. It is one of the 
reasons I asked you to wait with me.' 
Karis sipped her brandy, then returned to the couch. This time she 
did not stretch herself out, but sat on the edge of the seat. 'I am 
not a magicker, Saro, but do the spells of Aveas not require a 
death?' 
'I am afraid that they do. But needs must when demons threaten, 
as they say.' 
'And what will it achieve, this murder?' she asked him. 
'That is hard to say. I tend to think that when wizards talk of human 
sacrifice they are at their wits' end. But I have studied enough to 
know that great magic can be conjured from terror. And there is 
nothing more terrifying than to be chained to an altar, with a knife 
raised above your heart.' 
Before she could answer, there came a knock at the study door. 
'Enter!' he called. 
A tall, thin man wearing long robes of blue velvet entered and 
bowed. He was bald, the skin of his face stretched tight around a 
large skull. 'It would be good,' Sirano told him, 'if you have brought 
me welcome news.' 
'Something of interest has occurred, lord,' answered the 


man, his voice low and deep. 'It is something I think you should 
witness for yourself.' 
'We will join you presently,' said Sirano, waving his hand and 
dismissing the wizard. After he had left, Karis rose to leave. 'Wait!' 
Sirano ordered. 
'I do not wish to see it,' she said. 'Human sacrifice does not interest 
me.' 
'Nor me,' he agreed. 'Come with me anyway.' 
'Do you order it, lord?' she asked him, her tone faintly mocking. 
'Indeed I do, Captain,' he said, moving alongside her and laying his 
hand on her shoulder. Leaning towards her he tenderly kissed her 
cheek. 'I adore the perfume of your hair,' he whispered. 
Together they walked the long corridor, descending the circular 
stairs to the lower levels. Torches shone on the bare stone walls 
and a sleek, fat rat ran across their path as they moved towards 
two double doors. Sirano paused. That rat was altogether too well-
fed for my liking,' he said. 'Remind me to send for the 
quartermaster when we are finished here.' 
'Perhaps the rat is a pet,' she said, with a grin. 
'Perhaps. More likely the vermin have found a way into the grain 
store, which I ordered sealed tight.' 
Sirano pushed open the double doors and they entered a large 
circular room, ablaze with the light of twenty lanterns. Three 
sorcerers in robes of velvet stood around a flat table to which a 
naked young girl was strapped by her arms and legs. Just beyond 
the altar, set on an upturned eagle's claw of bronze, rested the 
Eldarin Pearl. Karis had never seen the jewel, and was stunned by 
its beauty. It seemed to pulse with living colour, and she could feel 
warmth emanating from it. 
'Oh, please, my lord, save me!' wailed the girl tied to 


the altar table. Karis swung to look at her. She was no more than 
fourteen. 
'Be silent, child,' ordered Sirano. Swinging to the tall bald sorcerer, 
he asked, 'Why has the ritual not yet been completed?' 
'It has, my lord. That is, what is of interest.' 
'Spare me the riddles, Calizar.' 
'Observe, lord.' The tall man raised his left hand and began to 
chant. Red smoke flowed from his fingers, oozing out towards the 
milky beauty of the Pearl. As it came closer the smoke shifted, 
forming what appeared to Karis to be a large four-taloned claw 
which descended towards the Pearl. Just as the red smoke was 
about to touch the globe, a jagged spark of lightning lanced up. 
Blue fire exploded within the smoke, flaring in an intricate web of 
light. The red claw disappeared. 
As the smoke faded, the sorcerer raised his right hand. The curved 
dagger he held flashed down, plunging into the young girl's heart. 
Her slender body arched up, and a strangled cry was torn from her 
lips. Calizar dragged the knife clear. A white cloud billowed from the 
Pearl and swept out over the murdered girl, masking her 
completely. The huge room filled with the scent of roses. Sirano 
watched with interest. Karis stood by, her distaste for the 
attempted sacrifice washed away by a sudden feeling of prescience 
as she stared intently at the child on the altar. 
After several seconds, the white cloud rose from the girl and flowed 
back into the Pearl. 
'No more, please!' wailed the child. Sirano stepped in close, his 
hand pressing down on the white flesh of her small breasts. There 
was not a mark, nor a speck of blood to show where the knife tore 
into her heart. 
'How many times has this happened?' asked Sirano. 


This was the fourth, my lord. The Pearl will not, it seems, allow a 
human sacrifice.' 
'Fascinating! What do you make of it, Calizar?' 
'It is quite beyond me, Lord Sirano.' 
'Give me the dagger and cast the talon-smoke.' Calizar handed him 
the blade, then began to chant. The girl on the altar started to cry. 
Sirano smiled at her, and stroked her hair. 
'Don't hurt me!' she begged him. 
He did not reply. The red smoke closed around the Pearl, lightning 
and blue sparks came out once more in response. 
'Now!' whispered Calizar. 
Sirano turned . . . and slammed the dagger into the wizard's chest, 
driving in the blade up to the hilt. Calizar staggered back and then 
fell to his knees, his long upper body slumping forward until his 
brow thudded against the cold stone of the floor. 
The white cloud issued from the Pearl, sweeping over the wizard. 
But as it touched him it recoiled and returned instantly to the globe, 
seeping through the multicoloured outer layer. 
Sirano knelt by the corpse and pushed it to its back. 'I have no 
time', he said, 'for wizards who find new magic beyond them.' 
Rising, he turned to the other two sorcerers. 'Do you find this 
utterly beyond you?' 
'Not at all, my lord. But it will require a great deal of study,' replied 
the first. His colleague nodded agreement. 
'Good,' said Sirano. 'So what have we learned today?' 
'The Pearl is sentient,' said the first sorcerer, a small man with 
close-set eyes and a long pointed beard. 
'What else?' 
'That we can establish some kind of control over it. 



We made it heal the child. But if you will forgive me for saying so, 
lord, I do not - yet,' he added swiftly, 'understand why it brought 
the girl back to life and not my brother Calizar.' 
'Ah, but I do,' said Sirano. 'Continue your work.' 
'What about the girl, lord?' 
'No more sacrifices for the moment. Give her ten gold crowns and 
send her home.' 
Swinging away from them he led Karis back to the upper study. 
'Well?' she asked him. 'Are you going to tell me why it saved the 
girl.' 
'She was innocent,' he said. 
'How does that help you unlock the Pearl's secrets?' 
'It made a choice, my beauty. Don't you see? It is sentient. So we 
will offer it more choices. And very soon I will have more power 
than any man who ever walked this land.' 
For six days Karis saw no sign of Sirano. At midnight on the seventh 
day a tremor ran through the castle. Karis, who was lying in bed 
nursing a goblet of wine in her hands, leapt to her feet and ran to 
the balcony. Bright lights were blazing from the highest rooms of 
the keep, and lightning forked up from the top turret. Blocks of 
stone cascaded down to the courtyard below, some smashing 
through the stable roof. 
The naked man who moments before had been lying alongside Karis 
moved out onto the balcony. 'His magic will kill us all,' he said, 
gripping the bronze balcony rail. Darkly handsome, his strong face 
now showed signs of fear. It was not an attractive sight, thought 
Karis. 
'He says he is close to the secrets of the Pearl,' Karis told him. 



Giriak swore. 'You told me that a week ago. Yesterday a section of 
the main wall came crashing down - killed three of my men. He'll 
wreck the entire city if this goes on much longer. Have you seen the 
columns of refugees? They're leaving the city in droves.' 
Karis shrugged. 'What do you care?' she asked him. 'He gives you 
gold.' 
'I'd like to live to spend it.' 
Another tremor struck, and a small crack appeared on the facing 
wall of the balcony. 'Son of a whore!' hissed Giriak, leaping back 
into the main room. Karis grinned as she turned to face him. 
Holding out her arms, she gestured to him. 
'Come!' she called. 'Make love to me on the balcony, before it falls.' 
'Don't be foolish,' he urged her. Karis let fall the green robe she 
wore, her naked body glistening in the moonlight. Another tremor 
struck and the crack in the stone opened wider, tracing a thick black 
line all the way to the wall. 'Come in!' yelled Giriak. 
'Come out,' she taunted. 'Show me you are a man.' 
'You are mad, woman! Do you want to die?' 
'Collect your clothes and get out,' she said, contemptuously turning 
from him and climbing to the bronze rail. Balanced delicately, she 
walked along it, feeling the cold, smooth metal beneath her feet. 
One more tremor and she would fall. She knew it, and a delicious 
sense of excitement swept through her. This was life! For some 
moments she stood there with arms raised. 
Lightning swept up from the turret, followed by a clap of thunder 
that shook the foundations of the building. Karis lost her balance, 
then spun and launched herself back into the bedchamber, landing 
on her shoulder and 


rolling to her feet. Behind her the balcony sheared away and 
crashed to the courtyard below. 
Karis shivered, then glanced around the room. Giriak had gone. 
Gathering the wine jug and a goblet, she sat down on the round 
embroidered rug at the centre of the room. Giriak was a 
disappointment. Like all the men she had known. Is it a fault in men 
themselves, she wondered, or merely a flaw in the kind of men I 
find exciting? Indeed, is the flaw in me? 
Her father had maintained that it was. He claimed she was devil-
possessed, and tried for years to thrash the devil from her. He 
would drag her from the cabin and tie her to a post in the barn. The 
words that followed were always the same. 'Recant! Open your 
heart to the Source. Beg for forgiveness.' Karis had tried all that, 
but it made no difference. If she proclaimed her innocence, he 
would beat her. If she admitted guilt and called upon the Source to 
forgive her, her father's rage would grow incandescent. 'You lie and 
mock me!' he would shout. Then he would beat her legs and 
buttocks with the birch until she bled. So she learned to stay silent 
through it all, head twisted, her deep brown eyes holding to his 
insane gaze. 
There was no knight at hand to rescue the child, no hero to stride 
through the forest and pluck her away. Just her and her world-
weary mother, a woman old before her time, beaten down by the 
years and the cold fists of her husband. 
'One day I will go back and kill him,' she thought, swilling down the 
last of the wine. Lying on her back, she stared up at the ornate, 
painted ceiling. Cracks were showing here too. Giriak was right, 
Sirano was destroying his own city. 'It is nothing to me,' she said. 
Does anything matter to you? she asked herself. Or does 


life have nothing more to offer than a stunning victory in battle or a 
sweaty rut with a powerful man? 
'Both are one and the same thing,' she said aloud. The ceiling 
shifted and swam. At first she thought it was another tremor, but 
then, as her stomach lurched, she realized it was the effect of the 
wine. Rolling to her knees, she forced herself upright. Taking a deep 
drink from a pitcher of water, she moved to the bed and sat down. 
As always her powerful constitution began to override the alcohol in 
her system. 
Weariness flowed over her, and she wished now that she had not 
sent Giriak away. It would have been pleasant to lie close, feeling 
the warmth of his body as she drifted into sleep. 
The bedroom door opened and she felt the touch of a cool breeze. 
Opening her eyes, she sat up. But it was not Giriak who entered. 
Sirano stood in the doorway, and Karis was surprised by the change 
in the man. His handsome face was thin and drawn, his cheeks 
covered by black stubble, his eyes dark-rimmed and weary. His 
clothes, so beautifully fashioned from black silk, were sweat-stained 
and creased, and his black hair was lank and dark with sweat. 
Moving to the bedside, he gave a tired smile. 
'You are beautiful naked, Karis,' he said. The words were forced, no 
more than echoes of what would only a few days before have been 
genuine emotion. 
'You look dreadful,' she told him. 'How long since you slept?' 
'Days. I swear I am close though. The Pearl's defences are thin. If I 
had the energy, I would have stayed for the breakthrough tonight. 
The Spell of Seven almost made it. It could not save all the victims. 
That's when I knew.' 
'How many did you kill, Saro?' 


'Kill? Oh, the girls . . . two. Five survived. But I am almost there, 
Karis.' 
'You will ruin your city and destroy yourself in the process. Do you 
know the quakes are spreading further? A rider came in today. He 
said Corduin was struck three times in the last month. Is this your 
doing?' 
He nodded. 'Do not concern yourself. With the power of the Pearl, I 
can rebuild and Morgallis will be a hundred times more beautiful 
than before. And we will have eternity to make it even better. 
Immortality lies within that sphere.' 
'We?' she countered. 
'Why not, Karis? You and I. Young for ever.' 
'Perhaps I do not want to be young for ever,' she told him. 
'You say that only because you have not yet felt the winter fingers 
of the grave upon your skin.' His eyes were bright and feverish. 
Karis rose from the bed and filled a goblet with water, which she 
offered to him. 'Wine,' he said. 'Give me wine.' 
Hurling the water to the floor, she poured the last of the wine into 
the goblet. He took it from her with a trembling hand and drank 
deeply. 'I am so tired.' 
'Then go to your room and sleep.' 
For a moment he was silent, his expression thoughtful. 'I am not a 
vain man,' he said at last. 'I know that you find me attractive. And I 
truly believe you are the most divine of women. Why then do we 
never sleep together?' 
'This is not the time to talk of it, Saro,' she told him. 
He smiled. 'I know the answer - but I wanted to hear you say it. 
You are a mercenary. When your contract is finished, you move to 
the highest bidder. It would complicate matters if you were 
emotionally involved with one of the four Dukes. Not so?' 



'Exactly so,' she agreed. 'Knowing this, why do you persist?' 
'I yearn for the unattainable,' he said. His expression softened. 'Do 
you trust my word, Karis?' 
'I have no reason to doubt it.' 
'Then grant me permission to stay until dawn. I have the need to 
feel the warmth of human skin against my own. I shall not make 
any attempt to seduce you - that I swear.' 
'What of your mistress? Is her skin not soft and warm?' 
'May I stay?' he said. 
She looked at him, then sighed. 'You may stay -until dawn.' 
Sirano rose and slowly stripped away his clothes before stumbling 
to the bed. When Karis pulled back the coverlet and slipped in 
beside him his body was cold to the touch. Putting her arms around 
him, she drew him close. 
'She is dead, Karis,' he whispered. 'Her body is no longer soft and 
warm.' 
'You sacrificed her?' 
'With my own hand.' 
Karis did not speak. His breathing deepened and soon he was 
asleep in her arms. But no sleep came to Karis. The girl had been 
no more than eighteen, and was besotted with Sirano, her doe-eyes 
never leaving his face. She lived to please him. Now she had died to 
please him. 
Karis lay still for some time, then eased herself away from the 
sleeping man. Rising silently, she moved to where her clothes lay 
discarded on the floor. Slipping her dagger from its sheath, she 
returned to the bed. One thrust was all it would take. 
In the lantern light his face looked very young, boyish 


and innocent. You are not innocent, she thought. You are a killer, 
succumbing to evil. 
A brilliant light shone down upon the bed, illuminating his face, and 
Karis swung round. The western wall was glowing bright, as if lit 
from within. A tall figure emerged from it; his face was slender, and 
framed with white fur save around the eyes and nose. Karis flipped 
the dagger, then hurled it. It sailed through the figure and clattered 
against the far wall. 
'You have nothing to fear, child,' whispered a voice inside her head. 
'Who are you?' she asked, aloud. Beside her Sirano stirred and 
woke. 
'I am Ranaloth,' said the apparition. 
'The spirit of the Pearl,' said Sirano. 'Are you ready to give me what 
I want?' 
'I cannot. Nor should you make any more attempts to steal it.' 
'I will beat you, Eldarin. Just as I destroyed your people. You cannot 
stop me.' 
'You are not quite correct. I could stop you. I could kill you, child. 
Instead I appeal to you, Sirano, not to continue. The Pearl is more 
important than your ambition. And should you succeed, you will 
unleash a terror you cannot control.' 
'Empty words,' sneered Sirano. 
'The Eldarin do not lie, Duke of Romark; we put that behind us a 
thousand years ago. You see the Pearl as a weapon, as an aid to 
your dreams of conquest and immortality. But it is not a weapon. 
And it will not, even if pierced, give you what you desire.' 
'Do not seek to fool me, old man,' said Sirano. 'I am a Master of 
Spells. I can feel the power within the Pearl, and soon I will draw it 
to me.' 



The figure stood silently for a moment, then Ranaloth spoke again. 
'A long time ago the Eldarin faced another evil,' he said. 'We 
contained it, removed it from the world. The Pearl holds that evil at 
bay. Do not . . .' Suddenly the light around the apparition flickered 
and the old man staggered. 'Your sorcerers continue to attack us,' 
he said. His shoulders slumped, and he spread his hands in a 
gesture of hopelessness. 'Now,' he said, an infinite sadness in his 
voice, 'it is too late.' Turning to Karis, he told her, 'Leave this city 
and take to the high places. Your world is finished. Desolation and 
horror await you.' 
The light dimmed and the figure disappeared. The two humans sat 
in silence for several moments, then Karis rose from the bed. 'What 
have you done, Saro? What has your evil brought us to?' 
'Evil?' he sneered. 'What is evil? All men of power are called evil by 
their enemies. It means nothing, it is just a word.' 
'The Eldarin said our world is finished. He promised desolation and 
horror.' 
'He lied!' 
'Why would he lie? What would be his purpose?' Karis shook her 
head. 'No, Sirano, his words rang with the truth. You destroyed the 
Eldarin. You plunged the world into war. And now you have 
unleashed an evil force that might destroy us all.' 
'What evil force? I tell you he lied, and I'll tell you why. It was 
because he knew I had him! And I will have his power!' 
'I don't think so,' said Karis. 'And you no longer have me.' 
'We have a contract!' 
'The unearned monies will be returned to you. My men and I will 
leave with the dawn.' 


'As you will,' he said. 'Perhaps when you come back to me on 
bended knee I will forgive you, Karis.' 
She laughed at him. 'You will need to be immortal, Saro, to live long 
enough to see that day. Now be so kind as to leave me in peace. I 
need some sleep.' 
The door closed behind Sirano and Karis stood silently, listening as 
the sound of his footsteps receded. Once sure he was not coming 
back, she moved swiftly to the large wardrobe and took from it her 
riding clothes: breeches of brown oiled leather and a shirt of thick, 
cream-coloured wool, knee-length boots with a two-inch heel, and a 
sleeveless leather jerkin, the shoulders and upper back reinforced 
by a delicately wrought cape and hood of tiny mail rings. Moving to 
the mirror by the bedside she brushed back her shoulder-length 
black hair, drawing it tightly into a ponytail which she tied at the 
nape of her neck. Without the softening effect of her hair hanging 
loose Karis looked older, and she stared hard at her reflection. The 
dark eyes had seen too much pain, and it showed in the guarded 
gaze. Leaning forward, she lifted her hand to her temple. A single 
grey hair shone there. Angrily she plucked it out. Twenty-eight is 
not so old, she reminded herself. 
'Move yourself,' she said, aloud. 'You don't have time to stare into 
mirrors.' 
Once the shock of her defection had worn off, Sirano would take 
steps to stop her. Of all the mercenary leaders Karis was, quite 
simply, the best. She knew it. He knew it. He would not allow her to 
join one of his enemies, and Karis had no wish to be strapped to an 
altar and sacrificed to the Pearl. 
Looping her sword-belt around her slender waist and twirling her 
sheepskin riding cloak about her shoulders, 


she took a last look around the room. The dagger she had hurled at 
the Eldarin ghost lay against the far wall. She sheathed it in the 
hidden scabbard of her right boot. Lastly she opened the small 
chest by the far wall and took from it a heavy pouch containing 
forty gold pieces, which she thrust deep into a hidden pocket inside 
her jerkin. Gathering her hunting-bow and quiver, she walked from 
the room, moving silently along the corridor and down the winding 
stairs to the courtyard door. 
At the stables she bridled and saddled Warain, the strongest and 
fastest of her geldings. It irked her to leave behind the other two, 
but they were stabled at the barracks and fetching them would add 
an hour she could not afford. Warain's great grey head nuzzled her, 
and she rubbed his broad brow with her knuckles and then led him 
from the stall. 
A bleary-eyed stableboy rose from his bed of straw. 'Can I help you, 
sir?' he asked. 
Karis loomed over the child, then took his chin in her hand. 'Do I 
look like a man to you, boy?' she asked him. 
He blinked nervously. 'I'm sorry, ma'am. I was half asleep.' 
Karis shook her head, annoyed at the irritation she felt. The boy 
was probably not yet past puberty, but even so ... 'Go and fill me a 
small sack of grain,' she ordered him. He ran off to the far end of 
the stable, returning with the feed-sack moments later. Looping it 
over the high pommel of the saddle, Karis ruffled the boy's hair. 'Do 
not mind me, child. It has been a long and exhausting day.' 
'I saw only the boots and the sword, ma'am. You are very 
beautiful,' he said gallantly. 
'Tell me that in ten years, and I'll promise you a night to 
remember!' Karis swung into the saddle as the boy 


opened the stable door. She ducked down into Warain's neck and 
steered the gelding through the open doorway. Warain was over 
sixteen hands tall and the lintel stone above the door brushed her 
shoulders. 
Sitting up, she heeled Warain forward and rode slowly down Long 
Avenue towards the Western Gate. She had left behind all of her 
clothes, and various gifts and souvenirs that others would have 
considered of sentimental value. But Karis was not a sentimental 
woman. She had only one regret - not being able to say goodbye to 
the veteran warrior, Necklen. The old man had become a friend and 
friendship with a man was rare for Karis. He loved her like a 
man should love a daughter. Anger flared as old memories burst to 
life. If she had known a father like Necklen, maybe now she would 
be happy. 
Tugging on the reins, she halted Warain. There was still time to find 
Necklen and urge him to ride with her. He would come willingly. 
Karis was torn. His company always lifted her spirits, but the perils 
would be great and she had no wish to lead the old man to his 
death. 'I will send for you,' she whispered, 'when I have a new 
command.' 
The streets were deserted as she rode, but everywhere there were 
signs of Sirano's obsessive desire to open the secrets of the Pearl. 
Huge cracks showed on the sides of buildings and several walls had 
fallen. The road ahead was buckled, sharp paving stones twisted up 
from the surface like broken teeth. She could see the main gates 
now, and the two sentries standing below the tall arch. She had 
timed her departure well, and the dawn light was just creeping 
above the eastern mountains. No-one was allowed out of Morgallis 
at night without a pass. 
'Good morning,' she said, as she drew abreast of the men. 


'Good day to you, Karis,' said the first guard amiably. He gave her a 
wide smile. His face was familiar, and she struggled for a link. The 
name came first. 
'You are looking well, Gorl. Perhaps too well,' she added, pointing at 
the man's paunch. 'How long since you marched on a campaign?' 
'Almost a year - and I don't miss it. Got me a wife now, and two 
nippers.' 
'A wife? And you swore no one woman could satisfy you.' 
He shook his head, and grinned. 'That was afore I knew you, lady. 
You taught me different.' Then she remembered: Gorl had been one 
of her many lovers. Was it on the Mountain Campaign, she 
wondered? No, that was the slim bowman who had died near 
Loretheli. 'Where are you riding to, this chilly morning?' asked Gorl, 
the question cutting through her thoughts. 
'I quit Sirano's service last night. I think I'll ride for the sea. Rest up 
with a few sailors.' 
Gorl chuckled. 'By the Gods, you're a wonder, Karis! Live like a 
whore, fight like a tiger, look like an angel. It was two years before 
I got you out of my blood. Or thought I had.' 
'I think of you fondly too,' she said. 'Now open the gate.' 
Stepping back, he winched the bar out of its broad sockets while the 
other guard pushed open the gate of oak and bronze. 'You stay 
healthy, you hear?' shouted Gorl as she heeled Warain into a 
canter. Karis waved and rode out into the hills. 
Maybe it was after the siege of that garrison fort near Hlobane . . . 
No. A fleeting memory touched her, and she recalled making love to 
Gorl in the shade of a willow tree beside a fast-flowing stream. 
There were no willows near 


the garrison. Oh well, she thought. It will come to me or it won't. 
Once out of sight of the city, she swung to the west, and by midday 
had ridden almost a complete semi-circle, the city now south-east 
of her. It would not fool any pursuers for long, but by the time they 
figured out her true direction she would be long gone. How far 
would Sirano go to see her captured or slain, she wondered? A long, 
long way, she decided. Then she laughed aloud. 'You arrogant 
strumpet,' she told herself. 'Maybe he has forgotten you already.' 
To the best of her recollection it was around 240 miles to Corduin, 
much of it over rough country. The fastest route would be north and 
west, skirting the line of the Great North Desert. She smiled at the 
memory of her mother's stories. The desert was a place of myth 
and magic, a haunted land. Tribes of giants had once wandered 
there, eaters of human flesh, violaters of young girls. But with the 
memories came the sadness of reality, and she remembered her 
mother's bruised face, the blackened eyes, and the terrible sorrow 
that rules when love is replaced by fear. 
'Just you and I, Warain,' she said, with a sigh. 'Come, let us work 
some of that fat from you.' The big grey bunched his muscles and 
broke into a run. 

High on a hillside overlooking the city of Corduin, a beautiful raven-
haired girl beside him, Duvodas sat on a broken wall beside a 
trickling stream. His harp glinted in the sunlight as it lay on the 
green silk shirt he had removed to allow the sun's autumn warmth 
to his skin. 'What are you thinking, Song-man?' asked Shira. Her 
crippled leg was hidden by the folds of her rust-coloured skirt, and 
her beauty was now unsullied. Duvodas slid off the wall to sit beside 
her on the grass. 


'I was thinking of far-off days and gentle music, Shira. Of sunshine 
on meadows, of laughter and song. There was magic there - a 
magic born of love and caring. Where I grew up, they would have 
healed your leg. Then you would have been able to run across these 
hills.' 
'Sometimes I try to forget about my leg,' she said, sadly. 'Especially 
when I am sitting down.' 
He was instantly contrite, reaching out and stroking her cheek. 'I 
am sorry,' he said. 'That was thoughtless. Forgive me?' 
She smiled, and he was lost in wonder at the beauty of it. Joy 
radiated from her, as powerfully as any music from his harp. Her 
hair was dark and long, her skin ivory fair. But the magic of her was 
in that radiant smile; it was both enchanting and contagious. Taking 
her hand, he lifted it to his lips. 'You are a beautiful woman, Shira.' 
'And you are a rogue, Song-man,' she chided him. 
'How can you say that?' he asked her, genuinely puzzled. 
'A woman can tell. How many other girls have you complimented so 
prettily?' 
'None,' he said. 'I have never met one with a smile like yours.' She 
wagged her finger at him, but he knew she was pleased. Twisting 
round, she opened the picnic hamper and produced two plates, 
some fresh-baked bread and two sealed pottery jars, one containing 
butter and the other a strawberry preserve. 
'Customers have been asking Father where he purchased his new 
ale and wines. They say they have never tasted finer.' 
'Music has that effect on appetites,' he said. 'How is your father's 
gout?' 
'You are changing the subject again. You do that 


every time I talk about the effect of your music. Are you 
embarrassed by your talent?' 
He smiled and shook his head. 'I love my music. It is just.. . when I 
am with you, I don't want to think about taverns and customers. I 
want to enjoy the freshness of the fields, the smell of the flowers, 
and - most of all - your company.' It was astonishing to Duvo that 
Shira, soon to be nineteen, was unmarried. He had understood the 
words when one of the tavern regulars told him: 'Shame about the 
leg. She's a wonderful girl, but she'll get no man.' How, he 
wondered, could a physical injury to a limb have such an effect? It 
was a mystery to Duvo. It was true that she walked clumsily, but 
her spirit was a delight and her personality extraordinary. She was 
kind and caring. What was it then that she now lacked in the eyes 
of suitors? 
They ate in pleasant silence, finishing the meal with a jug of apple 
juice. Replete, Duvodas lay back on the grass, staring up at the sky. 
There was a fight outside the tavern last night,' she told him. 
'People were queuing to get in. Father cannot believe his luck. And, 
to answer your question, his gout seems to have disappeared.' 
'That is good news.' 
'Where are you from, Duvo? Where is this land where my leg could 
be straightened?' 
'It is in a far place,' he said softly, sitting up. 'A place we can no 
longer journey to. It exists only in here,' he said, tapping his 
temple. 'But I remember the joy of it. I will always treasure those 
memories.' 
'Where was it?' 
'It is better not to speak of it.' 
She leaned in close to him, so close he could smell the perfume of 
her hair. The effect was disconcertingly pleasant. 'You lived with the 
Eldarin, didn't you?' 


He sighed. 'Yes. With the gentle Eldarin.' 
'They were going to destroy us all - that's what our schoolteacher 
told us.' 
He shook his head. 'The Eldarin were peaceful; they had no wish to 
dominate others. But truth counts for nothing against the evil lies of 
men like Sirano. What I will never understand is the reason behind 
it all. What did Sirano and the others hope to achieve by destroying 
the Eldarin? The world has been at war ever since. Thousands have 
died. And for what? Did they envy the Eldarin their civilization, their 
knowledge? Was it just greed? I don't know. Hate seems so much 
stronger than love. A sculptor can spend years fashioning a statue 
from a single piece of marble. Another man can wreck it in a 
heartbeat with a heavy hammer. Love and hate.' 
'I am sorry,' she said. 'Now I have saddened you.' 
'You must not mention the Eldarin to anyone. I like my life as it is. 
Quiet.' 
'Your secret is safe with me. All your secrets are safe with me.' 
Leaning in he kissed her cheek. 'So chaste, Song-man,' she 
whispered. 'Is that all you wish for?' 
'I wish for many things,' he told her, drawing her close. 'Most of 
them I cannot have.' 
'You could have me,' she told him. He looked into her eyes and saw 
the fear of rejection there. 
'Please do not fall in love with me, Shira,' he said. 'Soon I will be 
moving on.' 
'Why must you go? Are you not happy here?' 
'It is not a question of happiness.' 
She pulled away from him, but as she did so she raised her hand 
and ran her fingers through his long blond hair. 'You cannot ask 
someone not to love you,' she said. 'It lessens love if you believe it 
can be controlled by mere 


will. I have loved you from the moment I saw you. You remember 
when you came into the tavern? Father said he had no need of a 
singer, and you told him that you would double his takings in the 
first week?' 
'I do. I didn't know you were there.' 
'I was in the kitchen doorway. When you came in the sun was at 
your back, and your hair shone like gold. I'll never forget that day.' 
Drawing her down to the grass, he kissed her gently on the lips. 
Then he sat up. 'There is no deceit in me, Shira. I love you as I 
have loved no other. That is the truth. But there is another truth.' 
'You have a wife?' 
'No! That is something I cannot have. What I mean is that it will not 
be long before someone - as you have - begins to question my 
music and the spells it weaves. Then I will be forced to flee into the 
night.' 
'I would go with you.' 
Tenderly he took her hand. 'What kind of life could I offer you? I am 
a wanderer with no home and no people.' 
She sat in silence for a moment. 'Would you have taken me with 
you had I been able to run across these hills?' she asked. 
'No, never that. I love you, Shira. I love you for everything you are; 
for your sweetness and your love of life, for your caring and your 
courage.' 
'You speak of courage, Duvo. Where is yours? I know how hard life 
can be. Two of my brothers have died in this senseless war, and I 
have spent my life in constant pain. From the day the wagon wheel 
crushed my leg -until you played for me - I have rarely known a 
moment when I could not feel the scraping of bone as I moved. But 
I go on, Duvo. We all go on. Life is harsh, life is cruel, life 


is uncaring. But we go on. I could take it with better heart if you did 
not love me. You could say farewell then, and I would be sad for a 
long while. But I would recover, I would take the wound and let it 
heal. Yet to love me, and still leave me ... that is hard to bear.' 
Duvodas sat very still, staring into her large, dark eyes. All tension 
flowed from him, and he raised her hand to his lips and kissed her 
palm. Then he sighed. 'None of us can help the way we are, Shira.' 
They returned the plates and cups to the hamper and Duvodas lifted 
it to his shoulder. Shira gathered up his green shirt and his harp 
and took his arm. Her twisted left leg, several inches shorter than 
the right, made her movements ungainly and clumsy. Slowly they 
made their way down the hillside and on to the path towards the 
gates. Several children ran by and two of them stopped and 
laughed at Shira. She did not seem to mind, but the sound cut 
through Duvodas. 
'Why do they laugh?' he asked her. 
'My walk is comical,' she said. 
'Would you laugh at another's misfortune?' 
'Last winter the merchant Lunder, a large man and very pompous, 
came to collect a debt from Father. As he left, his foot slipped on 
the ice. He struggled to stay upright, then his legs flew up in the air 
and he fell into a ditch. I laughed so much there were tears running 
down my face.' 
'I don't understand where the humour lies,' he told her. 
'Did the Eldarin not laugh?' 
'Yes. They knew great joy. But it was never as a result of brutality 
or derision.' 
They fell silent and walked on. Outside the gates they turned on to 
the main street and on through the 


square. There were four fresh corpses hanging from the gibbet 
there. Three had placards around their necks proclaiming the single 
word: THIEF; the fourth placard said DESERTER. Several women 
were standing in front of the gibbet. Two were weeping. 
'So much pain in the world,' said Shira. Duvodas did not reply. Few 
were the days when the gibbet went unused. 
They moved on, reaching the tavern just before dusk. Shira's father 
stepped out to meet them. Fat, tall and bald, Ceofrin was every inch 
the tavern-keeper, his face ruddy with good health, his smile swift 
and reassuring. Duvodas sensed that Ceofrin was hoping for good 
news, and his heart sank. 
'Did you two have a good picnic?' he asked. 
'Aye, Father,' said Shira, letting go of Duvo's arm. 'It was very 
pleasant.' Slipping past him she limped into the tavern. 
Ceofrin took the picnic hamper from Duvo. 'You two make a fine 
couple,' he said. 'I've never seen her so happy.' 
'She is a wonderful girl,' Duvo agreed. 
'And she'll make a fine wife. With a handsome dowry!' 
'With or without the dowry,' said Duvo. Shira had placed his harp on 
a nearby table. Now he gathered it up and began to walk towards 
the stairs. 
'Wait,' said Ceofrin. 'I'd like a word with you, lad - if you don't 
mind.' 
Duvo took a deep breath and turned back, his grey-green eyes 
focusing on Ceofrin's blunt, honest face. There was no hiding his 
emotions; the innkeeper was worried, and it showed. He sat down 
at a table by the leaded glass window and gestured to Duvo to sit 
opposite. 'This is not easy for me, Duvodas.' He licked his lips, then 
rubbed the back of 


his hand across his mouth. 'I'm not a fool. I know the world is a 
harsh, cruel place. Two of my sons are buried in unmarked graves 
somewhere south of Morgallis. My daughter - the most beautiful 
child you ever saw - was crippled beneath a wagon. My wife died of 
the Eldarin Plague - as did nearly a quarter of the people in Corduin 
five years ago. You understand what I'm saying? I don't see life like 
one of your songs.' 
'I understand,' said Duvo, softly, waiting for the man to get to the 
point. 
'But Shira now . . . she's different. Never complained about the leg, 
did you know that? Just took the hurt and got on with her life. 
Everyone loves her. She's like a ... a living embodiment of your 
music. When she is around people smile. They feel good. She's 
nineteen now, an old maid. All of her school friends are married; 
some with babes. But not many suitors will consider a crippled wife. 
Shira understood this, yet still she fell in love. Not with a baker, or a 
tailor's clerk, but with a handsome musician. I am a plain man, and 
not good with the ladies. I can tell those who are, though. You could 
have your pick. You understand what I'm saying? She loves you, 
man, and that means you have it in your power to destroy her.' 
Ceofrin rubbed his hand across his mouth, as if trying to wipe a bad 
taste from his lips. 'So where do you stand?' he said at last. 
'I love her,' said Duvo simply. 'But she and I have spoken of this. I 
cannot wed. There is much that I cannot speak of, Ceofrin. I would 
be a danger to her.' 
'You are a spy?' Ceofrin's voice dropped to a husky whisper, fear 
shone in his eyes. 
Duvo shook his head. 'No. This . . . petty war means nothing to me.' 
He leaned forward. 'Listen to me, Ceofrin, I would never willingly do 
anything to harm her. And I 


have not . . . nor will I ... take advantage of her love. You 
understand that? I'll not be leaving her with a swollen belly. But I 
will be leaving come the spring.' 
Ceofrin was silent for a moment. When at last he spoke his voice 
was edged with bitterness. 'A curse on love!' he said. 'Like life, it 
always ends in unhappiness.' Pushing himself to his feet, he strode 
away towards the kitchens. Duvo hefted his harp and lightly ran his 
fingers over the twenty-five strings. Light notes echoed around the 
room and a host of dust motes, lit by a sudden shaft of sunlight, 
seemed to dance in rhythm to the sweetness of the sound. 
'No man should curse love,' said Duvo. 'Ultimately, love is all there 
is.' 

Brune had never been in a city as large as Corduin, and as he 
walked along beside Tarantio's horse he tried to remember 
landmarks. There were scores of roads and alleys, crossing and recrossing 
wide avenues, lines of shops and stalls, and beyond them 
workplaces and factories. There were, it seemed to Brune, hundreds 
of statues, most of them portraying lions - some with wings, some 
with two heads, some wearing crowns. 
They had journeyed less than a mile and Brune was hopelessly 
confused. Confusion was a major fact of Brune's life, and it scared 
him. He glanced nervously up at Tarantio. 'Do you know where we 
are?' he asked. 
'Of course.' 
The answer reassured Brune, and his panic vanished. 'There are lots 
of lion statues,' he said. 
'It is the symbol of Corduin's ruling house.' Tarantio swung the 
horse to the right, down a narrow cobbled street. Brune's boots 
were thin, and the cobbles dug into the soles of his feet. 


'Are we nearly there?' 
'Nearly,' agreed Tarantio, turning left into an even narrower alley 
which opened out into a circular stable-yard. Several horses were in 
their stalls: others were being exercised in a field nearby. A short, 
wiry, elderly man with a drooping grey moustache approached the 
two men. Tarantio swung down from the saddle. 
'A fine beast,' said the newcomer, eyeing the horse. 'Just a small 
cow-hock short of greatness. My name is Chase. What can I do for 
you?' 
'I'd like to winter him here,' said Tarantio. 
'There are cheaper places, my friend,' said Chase amiably. 
'The best rarely comes cheap,' said Tarantio. 'What down payment 
do you require?' 
'Who recommended you to me?' 
'The merchant, Lunder. I came here last year to view his prize 
mares. Liked what I saw.' 
'Will he guarantee your payment?' 
'I need no guarantees. My word is iron.' 
Chase looked hard at him, his flinty eyes raking Tarantio's lean face. 
'I think that's probably true, warrior. Therefore, from you, I'll take 
two gold pieces. That will keep him in grain and grass for two 
months. Then I shall require a further five to last until the spring.' 
Tarantio opened his coat and reached inside, producing a small 
pouch from which he took seven small gold coins. Each was 
embossed with two crossed swords on the face, the reverse 
showing a spreading oak. He passed the coins to Chase. 
'You are a trusting man, I see,' said Chase. 
'Indeed I am. But not blindly so. You say your name is Chase. Once 
you were called Persial, the Fleet One. For twenty-five years you 
were the finest horse-racer in the 



Duchies. Your career ended when you were fifty. Someone offered 
you a fortune to lose a race, but you refused. Your hands and feet 
were broken with hammers. Now you are Chase, the horse-trainer.' 
Chase smiled grimly. 'Men change, stranger. Perhaps now I am 
wiser.' 
Tarantio shook his head. 'Men don't change. They just learn to 
disguise the lack of change. I'd like him grain-fed, and I shall be 
visiting regularly.' 
'Whenever you like.' 
'Can you recommend a place to stay for a few nights?' 
'There's a tavern close by. They have rooms, and the finest food 
you'll ever eat. They also have a musician who plays the sweetest 
music I ever heard. The place is called the Wise Owl. Turn south 
outside the entrance and it's in the third street on the left. You'll not 
find better. Mention my name to Ceofrin, the owner.' 
'Thank you,' said Tarantio, turning to lift his saddlebags and 
blankets from the gelding. 
'Do you have a name, son?' asked Chase. 
'I am Tarantio.' 
Chase grinned. 'I'll have the gelding's saddle close by him, day and 
night.' 
Hefting his saddlebags to his shoulder, Tarantio strolled away, 
Brune following. 'That was a lot of money,' said Brune. 'I have 
never seen seven gold pieces together before. I saw one once. Lat 
had one; he let me hold it. It was heavier than I thought it would 
be.' 
'Gold is a heavy metal,' said Tarantio. 
They reached the Wise Owl just before dusk and tapped on the 
main doors. 'We open in an hour,' a tall, burly man shouted from an 
upper window. 


'We are seeking a room for a few days,' Tarantio told him. 
'I'm not letting rooms at the moment.' 
'Chase sent us to you,' said Tarantio. 
'Well, why didn't you say that in the first place? Wait there and I'll 
be down.' 
Two log fires had been recently lit, one at each end of the wide 
dining area inside, and two serving girls were cleaning the wicks on 
the wall lanterns. There was a raised dais to the right of the long 
bar, upon which a blond young man, dressed in a shirt of green silk 
and leggings of brown wool, was tuning the strings of a hand harp. 
'I have just the one room,' said Ceofrin, ushering the two men 
inside. 'Two beds and a good fireplace. It overlooks the main 
square. The price is a quarter silver a night, but that also buys you 
breakfast and an evening meal. Wine or ale is extra. How many 
nights are you staying?' 
'Probably no more than four. I'm looking to rent a small house for 
the winter.' 
'There's lots empty in the North Quarter. That's where the Eldarin 
Plague hit hardest.' Suddenly a series of shimmering notes filled the 
room and Tarantio jerked as if stung. Brune looked at him 
quizzically, but nothing was said, and the two men followed Ceofrin 
up the wide staircase. 'Do you want to book a table for tonight? It'll 
be busy and if you don't book you'll miss the music.' 
'Have some food brought to the room,' said Tarantio. 'I am not in 
the mood for music.' 
'I am,' said Brune. 'He sounds very good.' 
'You'll not believe it until you hear it,' said Ceofrin confidently. 
As they moved along an upper corridor, a beautiful, dark-haired girl 
stepped out of a room and walked towards them, limping heavily. 
'My daughter, Shira,' 


said Ceofrin, pride in his voice. 'She will be cooking tonight.' 
Tarantio bowed. Brune stood, mouth open, as Shira smiled at him. 
His mouth was dry, his mind reeling. In that moment he realized his 
hands were dirty, his clothes travel-stained, his hair a tangled, 
greasy mop. 'Hello,' she said, holding out her hand. Brune looked at 
it, then realized with a jerk that he was supposed to shake it. He 
glanced down at his own grubby palm, and wiped it quickly down 
the side of his leggings. Then he took her hand and gently squeezed 
it. 'And you are?' she prompted. 
'Yes,' he said. 'I am.' 
'He is Brune,' said Tarantio, with a wide smile. 
'Yes . . .' he said. 'I am Brune. Pleased to meet you.' 
'And I am Tarantio,' said the swordsman, taking her outstretched 
hand and raising it to his lips. With another dazzling smile she 
eased past them and made her slow, ungainly way down the 
corridor. 
'This way,' said Ceofrin, leading them into a wide room with two 
well-crafted beds of pine. The ceiling was white and low, supported 
by long oak beams, and there was a stone-built fireplace set against 
the northern wall. The wide windows were leaded and Tarantio 
moved over to them, glancing out and down on the cobbled square. 
'It is cold now, but I'll get a maid up to light the fire. Then it'll be 
cosy, you mark my words.' 
'It is fine,' said Tarantio, reaching into his pouch and producing his 
last gold coin. He flipped it to Ceofrin and the tavern-keeper hefted 
the coin. 'This will leave you with nineteen silvers,' he said. 'I will 
have a servant bring the remainder to you.' 
'Is there a bath here?' asked Tarantio. 
'Aye. I'll get the water heated - it will take around half 


an hour. It's on the ground floor - the door behind where the 
harpist is practising.' 
As Ceofrin left the room Brune walked to the first of the beds and 
sat down. 'Oh,' he said, 'wasn't she beautiful?' 
Tarantio dropped his saddlebags by the far wall. 'A vision,' he 
agreed. 'Shame about the leg.' 
'Did I seem very stupid to her, do you think?' 
'A man who suddenly can't remember his own name is very rarely 
considered a genius,' said Tarantio. 'But I think she was pleased by 
your reaction to her beauty.' 
'You really think so?' 
Tarantio did not reply. Shucking off his coat and tugging off his 
boots, he lay down on the second bed. 
Brune lay back, picturing Shira's smile. Life was suddenly full of 
sunlight. 


One hundred and twelve miles north-east, above the flanks of the 
highest mountain of the Great Northern Desert, a black vulture 
banked on the thermals, gliding towards the south, its keen eyes 
scanning the desert for signs of movement. It banked again, this 
time towards the west. The vulture did not hear the low, rumbling 
sounds from the peak of the mountain, but it saw boulders shiver 
and tremble. One huge stone rolled clear, bouncing down the red 
slope, dislodging hundreds of smaller stones and sending up a cloud 
of crimson dust. The vulture dipped its wings and flew closer. 
A fissure opened, and the bird saw a small, dark object exposed to 
the light. 
It was the last sight the vulture would ever experience. . . 
A fierce wave of freezing air erupted from the mountain-top, 
striking the bird and ripping away its feathers. Dead in an instant, 
the vulture fell from the sky. 



On the mountain-top a black pearl shimmered in the sunlight. The 
spell holding it wavered and shrank, then fell away like a broken 
chain. 
In the warmth of the sun the black pearl swelled to the size of a 
large boulder. Blue flames crackled around it, hugging to the 
surface, flaring into lightning bolts that blazed in every direction. 
Sixty miles away a young shepherd boy, named Goran, watched the 
display from the green hills south of the desert. He had seen dry 
storms before, but never one such as this. The sky was not dark but 
brilliantly blue and clear, and the lightning seemed to be radiating 
from a mountain-top like a spiked crown of blue-white light. He 
climbed to a high vantage point and sat down. As far as the eye 
could see, the dead stone of the desert filled his vision. 
The lightning continued for some time, without thunder or rain. The 
boy became bored with the lights, and was about to descend to his 
flock of sheep when a dark cloud rose up from the distant mountain. 
From here the cloud looked no larger than a man's head but, 
considering the distance, Goran guessed it to be colossal. He wished 
his father were here to see it, and perhaps explain the 
phenomenon. As the cloud continued to rise, swelling and growing, 
filling the sky, Goran realized that it could not possibly be a cloud. It 
was perfectly round, the perimeter sharp and clearly defined. Like 
the moon. Like a black moon - only twenty times the size. 
No-one back at the village was going to believe this, and Goran 
could feel his irritation rising. If he told them they would laugh at 
him. Yet, if he said nothing, he might never learn the reason for the 
phenomenon. He was only thirteen. Perhaps colossal black moons 
had been seen before in the desert. How could he find out without 
risking derision? 


These thoughts vanished as the black moon suddenly fell from the 
sky, striking the point of the seemingly tiny mountain peak like a 
boulder crushing an anthill. But the black moon did not crush the 
mountain. Instead it burst upon the stone. 
Goran scrambled to his feet, fear causing his heart to pound. No 
longer solid, the moon had become a gigantic tidal wave, hundreds 
of feet high, roaring across the desert, sweeping towards the 
hillside on which he stood. Too frightened to run, Goran stood 
petrified as the black wall advanced, engulfing the red rocks of the 
desert. On the hillside the flock of sheep panicked, and ran. Goran 
just stood there. 
As the tidal wave devoured the miles between them Goran saw that 
it was shrinking, and from his high vantage point he found he could 
see beyond the advancing black wall. Behind the wave, the land 
was no longer dead rock and shimmering heat hazes; there was the 
pale green of pastures and meadows, the deeper hues of forests 
and woods. And more incredible yet, as the shrinking black wave 
grew closer he saw a strange city appear behind it, a city of dark 
domes like thousands of black moons wedged together. 
The tidal wave shrank and slowed as it neared him, until at last it 
gently lapped at the foot of the hills, seamlessly joining to the grass 
where his sheep fed. 
Goran sat silently, jaw agape. There was no desert now, no hint of 
the gloomy, depressing stone. Verdant hills and valleys greeted his 
gaze, and away to the right a glistening stream rippled down over 
white rocks, joining to a river that vanished into deep woods. 
Leaving his sheep to feed on the new grass he ran back down the 
hills and up along the deer trail, his heart thumping. Cresting the 
last rise before the village, he ran 


down to the main street and found his father, the farmer Barin, 
taking lunch with the blacksmith, Yordis, outside the forge. 
Swiftly the boy told the men what he had seen. At first his father 
laughed and, leaning forward, smelt his son's breath. 'Well, it is not 
wine you've been drinking,' he said, ruffling Goran's hair. 
'Perhaps he fell asleep, Barin,' offered the blacksmith, 'and dreamt 
the whole affair.' 
'No, sir,' insisted the boy. 'But even if I had, I would have had to be 
awake to run back and tell you about it. I swear the desert is gone, 
and there is a city no more than five miles from our hills.' 
'It is a dull day,' said Barin, 'and a ride will make it more 
interesting. But be warned, Goran, if there is no city I shall take off 
my belt and flay your buttocks till they bleed!' Swinging to the 
blacksmith, he said, 'You wish to see this city, my friend?' 
'I wouldn't miss it for the world,' said Yordis. The two men saddled 
their mounts and, the boy riding behind his father, set out for the 
hills. 
Once there, the good humour vanished, and the two men sat their 
horses and gazed silently at the distant city. 
'What in Hell's name is going on?' asked the smith. 
'I don't know,' Barin replied. 'Ride back and fetch the others. The 
boy and I will wait.' 
The smith rode off as father and son dismounted. 'It is a magical 
city,' said the boy. 'Perhaps the Eldarin have come back.' 
'Perhaps,' his father agreed. 
Yordis returned with some twenty villagers, and the group rode 
down to the rich grassland. Dismounting, they walked around in 
silence for a while, then gathered together and sat in a circle. 
'Someone should ride to the 


garrison; they could send a rider to Corduin to let Lord Albreck 
know what has occurred,' said Barin. 
'Who would be believed?' asked a village elder. 'I have seen it and I 
still do not believe it.' 
'Should we go to the domed city and make ourselves known to 
them?' asked another. 
'That will not be necessary,' said Barin. 'It seems they are coming 
to us.' 
The men rose and turned to see a hundred horsemen galloping 
across the grassland. The horses were huge, taller by six hands 
than anything the villagers had ever seen, and the riders were 
large, powerful warriors, seemingly wearing helms of white bone. 
But as they came closer, Barin realized that they were not helms at 
all. The riders were not human. Fear rose in him and, grabbing his 
son, he lifted him to the saddle. 'Get to the Duke Albreck,' he 
hissed. Then he slapped his hand hard on to the rump of the horse, 
which half-reared and then bolted towards the south. 
The riders ignored the fleeing boy and formed a circle around the 
villagers. One of them dismounted and walked up to Barin. The 
warrior was more than seven feet tall, huge across the shoulder. His 
face was flat, the bone of his ridged nose flowing up over his 
hairless cranium. The eyes were huge and black, showing no 
evidence of a pupil, and the beaked mouth was a curious M-shape, 
curving downward, lipless and cruel. 
The creature loomed over the farmer, and a series of guttural clicks 
came from its mouth. Barin blinked and licked his lips nervously. 
'I... I do not understand you,' he said. The creature paused, then 
made a motion with his hand, touching his own lipless mouth and 
then pointing to Barin. 'What is it you want?' asked Barin. The 
creature nodded vigorously, then gestured him to continue. 


'I do not know what to say, nor whether you can understand my 
words. I fear you cannot. We are all villagers here, and we came to 
see the miracle of the desert. We mean no harm to anyone. We are 
peaceful people. The reason we came so far north was to avoid the 
wars that plague our lands.' Barin spoke on for some time, his eyes 
shifting nervously from the monster before him to the other riders 
who sat motionless. After some time the creature before him lifted 
his hand. He spoke, but the words were strange and - largely - 
meaningless. But there were some familiar sounds now. He seemed 
to be asking Barin a question. Barin shook his head. The monster 
motioned him to speak again and he did so, telling them of 
problems with crops, of raising buildings on marsh land, of the 
plague that stopped short of their village but almost obliterated 
three others. Just as he was running out of things to say, the 
monster spoke again. 
'What are you?' it asked, the voice deep and harsh, the dialect 
perfectly pronounced. 
'We are villagers from the south. We mean no harm, sir.' 
'You serve the Eldarin?' 
'No, sir. We serve the Duke of Corduin. The Eldarin are no more; 
there was a war and they . . . disappeared. Their lands became a 
desert, like this one . ..' He tailed off lamely. 
'A desert, you say? What is the desert?' 
'Barren .. . empty . . . devoid of life. No water or earth. No grass or 
trees. That is a desert. Until this very morning the desert was all 
around here. Red stone, not a handful of earth for thousands of 
square miles. But today - and my son saw this - a great black cloud 
rose up and everything . . . the city, the trees, flowed from it. That's 
why we came here.' 


The huge warrior stood silently for a moment. 'There is much here 
to think on,' he said at last. 'And our mastery of your language is ... 
not good. This morning the sun rose .. . wrong. I think you . . . 
truth speak. Eldarin did this to us with ... magic.' 
'You are mastering the language wonderfully, sir,' said Barin. 'And 
with such speed . . . swiftness. In my judgement that is amazing.' 
'We have talent for tongues,' said the creature. 'Your ... people . . . 
killed Eldarin?' 
'Yes. Well ... no one knows what happened to them. Their land was 
destroyed. Our army was there to fight them, but what happened 
there was the . . . opposite of what happened here. The grass and 
trees and water disappeared. So did their cities.' 
'You and I will . . . discuss . . . this further. But let us deal first with 
matters we can make judgement upon. Which of you here is the 
strongest?' 
There was silence as the villagers stood by, frightened. 'I am,' said 
the smith at last, stepping forward. 
The leader approached him, towering over Yordis by more than a 
foot. 'What is your race called?' he asked. 
'We are just . . . men,' the smith answered. 
The leader called to one of his riders, who dismounted and 
approached. 'Fight him,' the leader ordered Yordis. 
'We are not here to fight, sir,' put in Barin. 'We are none of us 
warriors.' 
'Be silent. I wish to see your man fight against a Daroth warrior.' 
Drawing his sword the leader tossed it to the smith, who caught it 
expertly by the hilt but then sagged under the weight of the 
weapon. Instantly his opponent drew his own sword and attacked. 
Yordis blocked the first blow, and sent a two-handed sweep that 
hammered against the 



warrior's shoulder, cutting deep into the white flesh. A milky fluid 
began to stream from the wound. The smith attacked again, but the 
warrior ducked under a slashing cut and rammed his own blade 
deep into the smith's belly, wrenching it up through the heart. Blood 
and air hissed from Yordis's open lungs, and his body fell to the 
earth. The wounded warrior sheathed his sword and drew a curved 
dagger; with this he cut a strip of flesh from the smith's forearm, 
and ate it. Blood staining his ghost-white face, the warrior turned to 
his leader. 'They taste of salt,' he said. A hissing staccato sound 
came from the other warriors, which Barin took to be a form of 
laughter. Yordis had been a dear friend, but the farmer was too 
shocked and frightened to feel despair at his parting. In that 
moment all he felt was relief that it was not him lying on the soft 
earth, with blood pooling beneath him. 
The leader took Barin by the arm. 'Mount your pony and follow us,' 
he said. 'We need to speak further.' 
'What of my friends?' he asked. 
The leader barked out an order, whereupon the warriors drew their 
serrated swords and closed in. The villagers tried to run, but the 
circle of horsemen hemmed them in and they died screaming. 
Within the space of a few heartbeats all the villagers were slain, the 
grass stained red by their blood. 
Barin stood by, mesmerized by the slaughter. 'We meant you no 
harm,' he said. 'They are . . . were . . . peaceful people.' 
The leader loomed above him, his huge dark eyes staring down 
unblinking. 'They were nothing, for they were not strong.' 
It took Barin three attempts to mount his gelding, his limbs were 
trembling uncontrollably. The leader stepped into the saddle of his 
enormous stallion. Around him the 


Daroth warriors were dismounting; they ran to the bodies and 
began to strip away the clothes. 
'Your friends' lives will not be completely wasted,' said the leader. 
'Salt flesh is a great delicacy.' 



Chapter Five 
Duvodas was troubled. Eyes closed, he stroked the harp strings, 
sending out a fluted ripple of notes. 'That is very pretty,' said Shira. 
'It is wrong,' he said, opening his eyes and looking at the girl. 
Dressed in a skirt of russet brown and a blouse of cream-coloured 
wool, she was sitting on the round wall of the well. Putting aside his 
harp, Duvodas walked to her and kissed her cheek. 'I am not good 
company today,' he told her. 
'You are always good company, Duvo. And what do you mean, it is 
wrong? What is wrong?' 
'I don't know - exactly. I saw a painting once of three women on a 
castle wall, staring down over the sea. I remembered it for years. 
But when I saw it again one of the women was wearing a green 
dress, though I had remembered it as blue. Suddenly the picture 
looked wrong to me, as if an artist had changed it.' He paused, then 
returned to his harp. Balancing it to his hip, he played the chorus 
notes of the Love Song of Bual. When he had finished, Shira 
clapped her hands. 'I love that,' she said. 'You played it the first 
night you were here.' 
'Not like that,' he told her. 'The music has changed.' 
'How can music change?' 
He smiled. 'I draw my music from the magic of the land. Either the 
magic has changed, or my ability to 


channel it has altered. The first time you heard the love song you 
wept. Tears of happiness. That is the magic of Bual. But you did not 
weep today. The magic touched you differently. Your reaction is 
more of the mind than the heart.' 
'Perhaps that is because it is no longer new to me,' she suggested. 
'No. The magic should have brought tears. Something is wrong, 
Shira.' 
'You are very tired. You performed for over two hours last night.' 
'You have put the cart before the horse, pretty one. I performed for 
two hours because something had changed. You remember the 
group who complained about the pies? Said they were tasteless? 
The food should have tasted exquisite. I know my skills remain, and 
I trust my abilities. I have eaten no meat, drunk no wine. It is a 
mystery. I have long understood that magic does not swell brightly 
within cities. The stone walls, streets, roads and foundations close 
us off from the land and its power. The murders, the hangings, the 
robberies, the violence -these also taint the purity. But I know how 
to deal with that, Shira. I make myself immune to the pettiness of 
the world, to its dark side.' He fell silent for a moment, then he took 
her by the arm. 'Will you walk with me to the hillside? Perhaps I can 
find the answer with grass below my feet.' 
'I cannot today. Two of the cooks have fallen ill and Father needs 
me.' 
'Were the cooks here last night?' he asked. 
'Yes.' 
'Then they should not be ill. They heard the music.' Without another 
word he strode from the yard and out into the streets of Corduin. 
Back in Eldarisa he would have 


sought out one of the many seers, and received his answer within 
moments. Here, in this giant sarcophagus of a city, there were no 
seers of worth. There was no magic, save his own. There was 
sorcery. Sometimes he could feel its emanations coming from the 
palace of the Duke. But it was small sorcery, childishly malevolent. 
His music was stronger. 
What then, he wondered, was drawing the life from his songs? 
Duvo wandered on through the streets. The gates of the park were 
open and he strolled through, following the path to the High Hill, 
then leaving it and walking upon the grass. He lay down on his 
back, stretching out his arms and closing his eyes, feeling the power 
of the land like a gentle voice whispering to his soul. Yet even here 
it was changed in an - as yet - indefinable way. 
His upbringing in Eldarisa had taught Duvo never to worry at a 
problem, but to let his mind float around it. Master Ranaloth had 
told him many times that lack of focus was the key. 
'That does not seem to make sense, sir,' the ten-year-old Duvo had 
told him, as they strolled through the scented gardens of the Oltor 
Temple. 
'Focus is only required, young human, when the core of the problem 
is identified. You are angry because of what Peltra said to you this 
morning. You are focusing now on what made her say it, and this 
might help you. But lose your focus, and let your mind free, and 
you will find yourself asking why the words hurt you, and what it is 
in you that drew the words from her.' 
'She hates me because I am human. She calls me an animal, says 
that I smell.' 
'That is still your anger speaking. Lose it. Float above it.' 


Duvo sighed. 'I don't think I can do what you require of me, Master 
Ranaloth. I am not Eldarin.' 
'But Peltra is, and she cannot do it either . . . yet.' 
'I do not know why she is angry with me. I have never harmed her. 
Equally, I cannot say why her words hurt me. I am a human. I am 
an animal - as we all are. Perhaps I even smell.' He laughed. 'Why 
did it hurt me, sir?' 
'Because it was intended to. And because you care about what 
Peltra thinks of you.' 
'I do care. She is normally a sweet person. I thought she was fond 
of me.' 
'Your essay on the healing powers of mountain herbs was very fine, 
Duvo. Well researched.' 
'Thank you, sir. The library is wonderfully well equipped.' 
'And what led you to the Book of Sorius?' 
Duvo thought about it. 'It was Peltra. We were walking on the 
hillsides and she was telling me about it.' He reddened. 'I won the 
prize, but I wouldn't have won if she hadn't told me about the 
Book.' 
'There is no shame in that,' said Ranaloth softly. 
'I think perhaps there is, sir. I didn't think. She was so proud of 
discovering the mystery you set that she bragged to me of it. Then 
I too studied the text - and won the prize.' 
'Your perception, then, is that you were at fault?' 
'I believe that I was. But it was not intended, it was merely 
thoughtlessness.' 
Now on the hillside Duvo tried to float free of the problem, letting 
his mind wander. Many things could alter the flow of magic from the 
land: death, violence, disease, fear - even joy. Equally, the mind or 
body of the musician could be out of harmony with the magic. 
Calmly and carefully Duvo examined his thoughts. His mind was 



sharp, and attuned to the flow. Likewise his body had been fed no 
flesh, consumed no alcohol. Nor had he succumbed to his physical 
desire for Shira. Confident that he was not the problem, Duvo 
relaxed and took up his harp, playing the ancient lay of the Far 
Time, and the Dying of the Light. As he played he felt the power of 
the land flowing through him, filling his veins and drawing him in. 
He was at one with the grass and the earth, with the trees and 
flowers, feeling the heartbeat of life swelling around him. 
The land welcomed his music. As the lay ended, Duvo took a deep 
breath. 
At eighteen Master Ranaloth had taken him to a glade at the centre 
of Oltor Forest, where together they had sat upon a flat boulder. 
'What music would you play here?' asked Ranaloth. 
'That is simple, sir. There are three. Each would be apposite. A 
forest song, a river song, or a mountain song.' He shrugged. 'Is 
there more to the question than I can see? Is it a riddle of some 
kind?' 
'You will not know until you play, Duvo.' 
Taking up his harp, Duvo reached out for the forest music. There 
was nothing. Rising he glanced down at the boulder. Perhaps the 
stone was blocking the flow. He took two steps, then reached out 
again. Nothing. He glanced at Ranaloth, and saw the sorrow in his 
golden eyes. 'Am I doing something wrong, sir?' 
Ranaloth shook his head. 'You know the history of Oltor Forest?' 
'This is where they all died.' 
'Yes,' said the Eldarin sadly. 'This is where a race was obliterated. 
The Oltor were a gentle, independent people, but they could not 
stand against the Daroth. Their cities were systematically destroyed 
and the last remnants of their people fled here, to this forest. A 
Daroth army 


surrounded it - sixty thousand strong - and the slaughter began. 
The last Oltor, twenty women and more than a hundred children, 
managed to reach this glade. They went no further.' 
'And now there is no magic in the glade?' whispered Duvo. 
'No magic,' agreed Ranaloth. 'Bring it back, Duvo.' 
The elderly Eldarin rose, patted the young man's shoulder and 
walked away. Duvo sat down. A race died here, he thought. Not just 
a tribe, or a clan, or even a nation. But a race. He shivered, and felt 
the enormity of the task he had been set. How does a man restore 
magic after such an act? 
Holding his harp to his hip, Duvo tried to play, but there was no 
music to be found. For several hours he sat in the glade. The sun 
fell, and the moon rose; still the young man waited for inspiration. 
An hour before the dawn he rose and moved across the glade, 
reaching the edge of the trees. Here he could feel the tiniest tremor 
of magic, like the breeze from a butterfly's wing. Slowly he circled 
the glade; then he began to play as he walked, the softly lilting 
Song of Birth. As the music swelled he edged away from the magic, 
towards the centre of the glade. Three steps he made before the 
music died away. Again and again Duvo returned to the trees, 
drawing the magic forward, letting it flow through him into the earth 
below his feet. Inch by weary inch, he slowly created a magical web 
that criss-crossed the glade. 
The dawn came, the sun rising towards noon. Exhausted now, Duvo 
played on. Moving to the centre of his web, he calmed himself for 
the Creation Hymn. He stood silently for several minutes, breathing 
deeply, calming his mind. Then his fingers danced upon the strings 
and his strong clear voice sang out. Sunlight shone down 


upon the glade, and several birds flew into the branches of nearby 
trees. Duvo walked as he sang, and not once did the music waver. 
The magic was back! 
He slumped down upon the boulder and laid his harp beside him, 
his fingers cramped and trembling. 
Master Ranaloth emerged from the tree-line, sunlight shining on his 
snow-white fur. His own harp was slung across his shoulder. 
'You did well, Duvo,' he said, pride in his voice. 'You are a human 
beyond compare. And in you I see hope for your race.' 
'Thank you, sir. It was harder than I could have believed. Tell me, 
though, why only this glade? Is it because the end came here?' 
'It was not just this glade,' said Ranaloth. 'It was the whole forest. 
The glade was the last point of emptiness.' 
Duvo stared at him. 'The forest covers hundreds of square miles. 
And you . . . ?' 
'It took many centuries, Duvo. But it was necessary.' 
'But you could not have done it alone?' 
'It is my gift. And now it is yours. Without magic the land dies. Oh, 
you can still grow crops upon it, but it is spiritually dead 
nonetheless. The evil of the Daroth is that they live to kill - and they 
destroy not only races, but also the soul of the lands they inhabit. 
That is a crime beyond comprehension. You humans do it also. 
Though you do it more slowly, with your cities of stone, your lusts 
and your greed. But among you are those who care. Among the 
Daroth there are none.' 
'You speak as if the Daroth still live. But the Eldarin destroyed them 
centuries ago.' 
'The Eldarin do not destroy, Duvo. The Daroth live.' 
'Where?' 



'Where they can do no harm.' 
Duvo had asked many questions, but Ranaloth would say no more. 
'But what if they return?' Duvo asked. 
'As long as the Eldarin survive, they will not return.' 
Now, on the grass of the hillside above Corduin, Duvo rose and 
stared towards the north. His throat was dry, his heart hammering. 
He knew now why the magic of the land was changed. He could feel 
it; the slow, almost imperceptible pull towards the north, the power 
seeping away like water through a cracked jug. 
The Eldarin had not survived. 
And the Daroth were back ... 


Tarantio sat at a corner table, his back to the wall, and finished the 
last of the meat pie. The gravy was thick and rich, the meat tender. 
The atmosphere in the Wise Owl was tense, for the musician had 
not appeared this evening and many of the guests were 
complaining. Ceofrin moved among the tables, making his apologies 
and assuring his customers that the harpist would appear 
momentarily. One group of four young nobles rounded on the 
innkeeper, claiming that the food tasted like dung and they had no 
intention of paying. Shira moved to the table and spoke to them, 
and they settled down, explaining they had travelled across the city 
to hear Duvodas play. Then they apologized for the outburst. 
Tarantio was impressed by the harmony she radiated, and he 
glanced across at Brune, who was staring at her with undisguised 
admiration. Ceofrin backed away from the table, relief showing on 
his round, fat face. Shira refilled the wine goblets and then, with a 
last dazzling smile, returned to the kitchen. 
'I hope the harpist does appear,' said Brune. 
'I don't think he is in the building,' Tarantio told him. Brune's 
disappointment showed. 



Dace, however, was delighted. 'How do people listen to that 
dreadful screeching?' he asked. 
'Because it is beautiful,' Tarantio told him. It was impossible to lie to 
Dace, and he could feel his confusion at the answer. 'Explain it to 
me,' Dace insisted. 
'I don't think that I can, brother. I hear it and it moves me to tears. 
Yet I can feel your discomfort.' 
'Well, he's not here now, for which I am thankful. And tell the idiot 
he has gravy on his chin.' 


'Wipe your chin, Brune.' The young man grinned at Tarantio and 
rubbed his hand across his face, licking the gravy from his palm. 
'It's good food here. Shira cooked it, you know. Ah, but she's a 
wonder.' He glanced towards the kitchen, hoping for a glimpse of 
the girl, but the door was now closed. 'Did you see that man about 
your money?' he asked in a loud voice. 
'Perhaps you should speak a little louder,' advised Tarantio. 'I don't 
think all the people in the tavern could hear you.' Brune swung 
round. 'Why would they want to?' 
'It doesn't matter. It was sarcasm, Brune. I was trying to point out 
that it is not wise to talk so loudly about money; it could be that 
there are robbers close by.' 
'You don't need to tell me twice,' said Brune, tapping his nose. 'So, 
did you see him?' 
'Yes. We have done rather well. My investments have brought me 
almost two thousand silver pieces.' 
'Two thousand!' exclaimed Brune. 'In silver?' Several people close 
by turned to look at the two men. Dace's laughter echoed inside 
Tarantio's mind. 'I am so glad we brought him with us,' said Dace. 
'What will you do with all that money?' Brune asked. 


'Let's talk about something else,' Tarantio told the sandy-haired 
youngster. 'Anything you like.' 
Brune thought long and hard. 'Shame about the harp-man,' he said, 
at last. 'You should have been here last night. He was amazing. Can 
I fetch you some more ale?' 
Tarantio nodded. 'Let me enjoy this one,' said Dace. 'It is a long 
time since I tasted good ale.' 
'No. I don't want to see bloodshed here.' 
'I promise, brother. No blades. Just a jug of ale, and then I shall 
sleep.' 


Tarantio relaxed and faded back as Dace stretched and finished the 
last of the pie. Brune was on his way back to the table when a tall 
man, one of the troublesome nobles, turned suddenly, colliding with 
him. Ale swished from the two jugs Brune was carrying, splashing 
the man's black silk shirt. 
'You clumsy dolt!' he shouted. 
'Sorry,' said Brune amiably, trying to move past the man. 'But you 
did bump me.' 
As Brune walked on the tall man's fist struck him behind the ear, 
punching him from his feet. Brune fell against a table, striking his 
head on the back of a chair before pitching unconscious to the floor. 
Dace vaulted the table and reached the scene just as the tall man 
was unleashing a kick against Brune's body. Dace's foot lashed out 
to hook under the man's leg; then with a flick he sent the tall man 
crashing to the floor. The man rolled to his knees and drew a 
dagger. Dace grinned and reached for his own; then he stopped. 
'You are a bore, brother,' he said aloud. 
The tall man rose, eyes narrowed. 'I'll gut you for that, you 
whoreson!' 
'Don't tell me, show me,' said Dace contemptuously. The man 
lunged. Dace side-stepped, grabbing the knife 



wrist with his left hand, his right arm moving under the man's 
elbow. Dace slammed down with his left and up with his right. A 
sickening crack echoed around the room as the tall man's arm 
snapped at the elbow; the victim's scream was awful. The tall man 
fell back as Dace released him, the knife falling from his fingers. 
White bone was jutting through the sleeve of his black shirt, which 
was now stained with blood. He screamed again. 'Oh, shut up!' 
snapped Dace, ramming the heel of his palm into the man's nose 
and following up with a right uppercut that lifted him to his toes. 
Stepping back, Dace let the man fall and then walked to Brune, who 
was groaning and trying to rise. 
A movement from behind caused Dace to spin. Three men were 
approaching, knives in their hands. Dace laughed at them, then he 
walked towards them. 
'Happily for you, I promised a friend I'd kill no-one tonight. 
However, that does not mean I cannot cripple you - like your friend 
on the floor, who will be lucky to use that arm again. So who is 
first? I think I'll smash a knee-cap next time!' 
He advanced again and the men fell back, confused. 'What is the 
problem, children? Can't make up your minds about who will be the 
first? What about you?' he asked, stepping in close to a lean, 
bearded man. The knife-man jumped back so suddenly he fell over 
a chair. The other two sheathed their knives and backed away. Dace 
laughed at them. 'What a trio of buttercups,' he said. 'Pick up your 
friend and get him to a surgeon.' Swinging towards the bar, he 
called out, 'Two more jugs of ale, if you please.' 
The men carried the unconscious attacker from the tavern and Dace 
helped Brune to his feet. 'How are you feeling?' he asked. 


'My head hurts,' said Brune. 
'Ah well, you're used to that,' said Dace happily. Ceofrin brought the 
jugs, and leaned in to Dace. 
'I think you had better move on, my friend. The man you . . . 
injured ... is highly connected.' 
'His arm isn't,' said Dace, with a wide smile. 
'I mean it, Tarantio. He is a cousin of the Duke and a close friend of 
Vint, the Duke's Champion.' 
'Champion, you say? Is he any good?' 
'It is said he has killed thirty men. That makes him good - to my 
reckoning, anyway.' 
Dace lifted his jug and half drained it. 'It makes him interesting,' he 
agreed. Ceofrin shook his head and moved away. 
'You promised,' said Tarantio. 
'I kept my promise. I didn't know someone was going to punch the 
idiot. And I didn't kill him, brother.' 
'You crippled him!' 
'You said nothing about crippling people. Did you hear what he said 
about Vint?' 
'Yes. And we are going to avoid him.' 
'There is no sense of adventure in you.' The door opened and 
Duvodas stepped in. The crowd saw him, and began to cheer. 
'Damn!' said Dace. 'Just when I was beginning to enjoy myself. I 
think I'll sleep now.' 


Tarantio took a deep breath. 'Where is the man who hit me?' asked 
Brune. 
'He's gone,' replied Tarantio. 
'Did you hurt him?' asked Brune. 
'I think I did,' said Tarantio. 


Goran, the shepherd boy, was forced to wait at the garrison for a 
full day as he tried to make his report. As night fell he sat shivering 
beneath an archway at the 



main gate. A kindly sentry shared his supper ration with the boy, 
and found him an old blanket to wrap around his slender frame. 
Even so the cold autumn winds chilled him. Finally another soldier 
came to fetch him, and he was taken to a small office inside the 
garrison where the soldier ordered him to sit down and wait. 
Moments later a slender, middle-aged officer entered and sat down 
at a narrow desk. He looked tired, thought Goran, and bored. The 
officer looked at him long and hard. 'I am Capel,' he said. 'For my 
sins I am the second in command of this ... outpost. So tell me, 
child, your important news.' Goran did so, and Capel listened 
without expression until the boy concluded his tale of black moons 
and monster warriors on monster horses. 
'You understand, child,' he said, 'that such a fanciful tale is likely to 
see you strapped to the post for twenty lashes?' 
'It's true, sir. I swear it on my mother's grave.' 
The officer rose wearily to his feet. 'I'll take you to the captain. But 
this is your last chance, boy. He is not a forgiving man, and 
certainly not noted for having a sense of humour.' 
'I must see him,' said Goran. 
Together they walked through the corridors of the garrison keep, 
and up a flight of winding stairs. Capel tapped on a door and 
entered, bidding the boy to wait. After several minutes, the door 
opened and Goran was called inside. There he told his story again to 
a young, fat man with dyed blond hair and soft eyes. 
The fat man questioned him at even greater length than the older 
officer. Goran answered every question to the best of his ability. 
Finally the captain rose and poured himself a goblet of wine. 'I 
would like to see this miracle,' he said. 'You will ride with me, boy. 
And if it proves - as 


I think it will - a grand nonsense, I shall hang you from a tree. How 
does that sound?' 
Goran said nothing and was taken to the barracks and allowed to 
sleep on a pallet bed within a cold cell. The door was locked behind 
him. At dawn Capel woke him and they walked to the courtyard 
stables where a troop of forty lancers were standing beside their 
mounts. They waited for an hour before the fat captain appeared; a 
young soldier helped him mount a fine grey stallion, and the troop 
cantered out of the garrison, Goran riding beside Capel. 
'Tell me again about these monsters,' said the soldier. 
'They were huge, sir. White hairless heads, and strange mouths. 
Their horses were giants.' 
'You describe their mouths as strange. Like a bird's, perhaps?' 
'Yes, sir. Like a hawk's beak of bone beneath the nose, sharp and 
pointed.' 
The troop stopped at mid-morning to rest the horses, and the men 
took bread and cheese from their saddlebags. Capel shared his 
breakfast with Goran. The fat captain drank wine from a flask to 
wash down a whole, cooked chicken; then a soldier brought water 
from a stream for him to wash his hands, which he dried with a 
white linen towel. 
After half an hour they continued on their way, reaching Goran's 
village an hour after noon. It was deserted. 
Capel dismounted and searched the area, then he moved alongside 
the captain's mount. 'Hoof prints everywhere, sir. Huge. Just as the 
boy said.' The captain looked around nervously. 
'How many in the raiding party?' he asked, sweat breaking out on 
his plump face. 
'No more than thirty, sir. But there are also footprints larger than 
any I've seen.' 


'I think we should go back, don't you?' said the captain. 
'We could do that, sir, but what report would we then make to the 
Duke?' 
'Yes, yes. Quite right, Capel. Well . . . perhaps you should take the 
men on. I have much to do back at the garrison.' 
'I do understand how busy you are, sir. One thought strikes me, 
however. What if this raiding party has moved south? It could now 
be between us and the garrison.' 
The fat man's eyes widened and he glanced back nervously. 'Yes, of 
course. You think then we should .. . push on?' 
'With care, sir.' 
The troop moved off into the higher hills, the fat captain positioning 
himself at the centre of the troop. Goran edged his mount alongside 
Capel. 'The captain doesn't seem much like a soldier,' he said. 
'He's a nobleman, lad. They're a different breed - born to be 
officers.' He winked at the boy. They rode for almost an hour, finally 
cresting the rise before what had been the Great Northern Desert. 
The men sat their horses in silence, staring out over verdant hills 
and valleys, woods and plains. 
The fat officer moved alongside Capel. 'It is like a dream,' he said. 
'What can it mean?' 
'When I was a lad our village storyteller told tales of ancient days. 
The Three Races - you remember, sir? The Oltor, the Eldarin and 
the Daroth?' 
'What of it?' 
'Our storyteller's description of the Daroth matches what the boy 
saw. Huge, powerful heads of white, ridged bone. A beak of a 
mouth.' 



'It cannot be,' said the captain. 'The Daroth were destroyed by the 
Eldarin centuries ago.' 
'And a few days ago this was the Great Northern Desert,' pointed 
out Capel. Around them the thirty men were sitting their horses 
nervously. There was no conversation, but Goran could feel the 
tension. 
'And that looks like no human settlement I have ever heard of,' 
went on Capel, gesturing towards the distant city of black domes. 
'Should we send a delegation?' 
'No! We are not politicians. I think we have seen enough. Now we 
will ride back.' 
One of the soldiers pointed to a small hollow at the foot of the hills, 
where the remains of a fire-pit could clearly be seen. 
'Go down and check it,' the captain ordered Capel. 'Then we'll 
leave.' 
The officer beckoned three men to follow him and rode down the 
slope. Goran heeled his horse forward and followed them. 
At the foot of the hill Capel dismounted. Bones were scattered 
around the pit, and a small pile of skulls had been carelessly kicked 
into the ashes. A little way to the right was a mound of torn and 
bloody clothing. Goran jumped from his horse and began to search 
through the clothes. His father's tunic was not among them. 
'Riders!' shouted one of the three soldiers. Goran saw some twenty 
monsters approaching from the south. Running to his horse, he 
vaulted to the saddle. 
'Let's get out of here,' said Capel. Turning his mount towards the 
slope, he glanced up to see, far above them, the captain's horse 
rear suddenly, pitching him to the ground. The sound of screaming 
horses filled the air. One gelding toppled head-first over the crest 
with a long black spear through its neck. Capel dragged on the reins 


of his mount, his mind racing. Above him now he could see scores 
of white-faced warriors moving out onto the slope - behind him 
twenty more riders were bearing down. With three men he could 
make no difference to the battle being waged above, and if he tried 
he would be caught between two forces. To be forced to run from a 
fight was galling, but to stay would be certain death. Death did not 
frighten Capel, but if no-one escaped there would be no-one to raise 
the alarm back in Corduin. 
Capel swung his horse towards the east. 'Follow me!' he shouted. 
The three soldiers and Goran obeyed instantly, and they galloped 
back down the slope to the level ground of the plain. The huge 
horses of the enemy could not match the speed of the Corduin 
mounts. They did not try. Capel glanced back to see the Daroth 
riding slowly up the slope. 
And just for a moment he glimpsed the fat captain running witlessly 
along the crest. But then he was gone. 

The dream was subtly different. The child was still crying and 
Tarantio was trying to find him - deep below the earth, down 
darkened tunnels of stone, he searched. He knew the tunnels well; 
he had worked them for four months as a miner in the mountains 
near Prentuis, digging out the coal, shovelling it to the low-backed 
wagons. But now the tunnels were empty, and a gaping fissure had 
opened in the face; through this came the thin, piping cries of 
terror. 
'The demons are coming! The demons are coming!' he heard the 
child cry. 
'I am with you,' he answered. 'Stay where you are!' 
Easing himself through the fissure, he moved on. It 
should have been pitch-dark in here, for there were no 
torches, yet the walls themselves glowed with a pale 
green light, strong enough to throw shadows. As always 


he emerged into a wide hall, the high ceiling supported by three 
rows of columns. The ragged men with opal eyes advanced through 
the gloom, hammers and pickaxes in their hands. 
'Where is the boy?' he demanded, drawing his swords. 
'Dead. As you are,' came the voice in his mind. 
'I am not dead.' 
'You are dead, Tarantio,' argued the voice. 'Where is your passion? 
Where is your lust for life? Where are your dreams? What is life 
without these things? It is nothing.' 
'I have dreams!' shouted Tarantio. 
'Name one!' 
His mouth opened, but he could think of nothing to say. 'Where is 
the boy?' he screamed. 
The voice fell silent and Tarantio moved forward. The line of ragged 
men parted, and beyond them he saw a swordsman waiting for him. 
The man was lean, his face grey, his eyes golden and slitted like 
those of a hunting cat. His hair was white and spiky, standing out 
from his head like a lion's mane. In his hands were two swords, 
'Where is the child?' asked Tarantio. 
'Will you die to find out?' the demon asked in return. 


Tarantio awoke and swung his legs from the bed. The sound of 
Brune's soft snoring filled the room. Tarantio took a deep, calming 
breath. Dawn light was shining through the leaded glass of the 
windows, making geometric patterns on the floor of the room. 
Tarantio dressed swiftly and went downstairs. One of the two fires 
in the dining hall had died, but the other was still flickering. Adding 
two thin logs to it, he blew the blaze to life and sat quietly before 
the flames. 


'You look troubled,' said Shira, limping in from the kitchen. 
'Bad dreams,' he said, forcing a smile. 
'I used to have bad dreams,' she said. 'Would you like some 
breakfast? We have eggs today.' 
'Thank you.' 
She left him with his thoughts, and he pictured the dream again and 
again. Still there was no sense to it. Tarantio shivered, and added 
more fuel to the growing fire. 
Shira returned with a plate of fried eggs and a slab of steak. 
Tarantio thanked her and devoured the meal. She sat down beside 
him when he had finished, and handed him a mug of hot, sweet 
tisane. 
Tarantio relaxed. 'This is good,' he said. 'I don't recognize the 
flavour.' 
'Rose-petal, lemon mint, and a hint of camomile, sweetened with 
honey.' 
Tarantio sighed. 'The best time of the day,' he said, trying to make 
conversation. 'Quiet and uncluttered.' 
'I have always liked the dawn. A new day, fresh and virgin.' 
The use of the word 'virgin' unsettled Tarantio, and he looked away 
into the fire. 'You were very frightening last night,' she said. 
'I am sorry you witnessed it.' 
'I thought someone was going to die. It was horrible.' 
'Violence is never pleasant,' he agreed. 'However, the man brought 
it upon himself. He should not have struck Brune, nor should he 
have attempted to kick him thereafter. It was the act of a coward. 
Though he will, I think, be regretting his actions now.' 
'Will you be taking Father's advice, and leaving us?' 
'I have not yet found a dwelling that suits me.' 



'This tavern never made any money,' she said suddenly, 'not until 
Duvo came with his music. Father worked hard, and we scraped by. 
Now he is on the verge of success, and that means a lot to him.' 
'I am sure that it does,' agreed Tarantio, waiting for her to 
continue. 
'But taverns with a reputation for violence tend to lose their 
customers.' 
He looked into her wide, beautiful eyes. 'You would like me to 
leave?' 
'I think it would be wise. Father didn't sleep last night. I heard him 
pacing the room.' 
'I will find another tavern,' he promised her. 
She made to rise, then winced and sat back. 
'You are in pain?' he asked. 
'My leg often troubles me - especially when it is going to rain. I shall 
be all right in a moment. I am sorry for having to ask you to leave. 
I know that what happened was not your fault.' 
He shrugged, and forced a smile. 'Do not concern yourself. There 
are many taverns. And I will not need more than a few days to find 
a place of my own.' 
Taking his empty plate, she limped back to the kitchen. 
'Such a sweet child,' said Dace. 'And you fell for it, brother.' 
'What she said was no more than the truth. Vint will come here 
looking for you . . . me.' 
'I'll kill him,' said Dace confidently. 
'What is the point, Dace? How many deaths do you need?' asked 
Tarantio wearily. 
'I don't need deaths,' objected Dace. 'I need amusement. And this 
conversation is becoming boring.' With that Dace faded back, 
leaving Tarantio mercifully alone. 
Returning to his room, he filled a pewter bowl and 



washed his face and hands. Brune yawned and stretched. 'I had a 
lovely dream,' he said, sitting up and scratching his thick fingers 
through his sandy hair. 
'Lucky you,' said Tarantio. 'Pack your gear. Today we look at 
houses.' 
'I'd like to stay here and talk to Shira.' 
'I can see the attraction. However, the man I fought last night is 
likely to come back with a large number of friends - including a 
sword-killer named Vint. They'll be looking for you and me. You're 
welcome to stay here, of course. But keep your dagger close by.' 
'No,' said Brune. 'I think I'd like to look at houses. I don't want to 
meet any sword-killers.' 
'Wise choice,' Tarantio told him. 
'Boring - but wise,' added Dace. 


The twelve targets were circles of hard-packed straw, four feet in 
diameter, placed against a wall of sacks filled with sand. The 
archers stood some sixty paces from the targets, their arrows thrust 
into the earth. 
Tarantio and Brune had waited for almost an hour for a place to 
become free, and stood now on the extreme right of the line. 'Let 
me see you strike the gold,' said Tarantio. 
Brune squinted at the circle. It was painted in a series of rings, 
yellow on the outer, followed by red, blue, green, and lastly a gold 
centre. 'I don't think I can,' he said. 
'Just cock the bow, and we'll make judgements later.' Brune pulled 
an arrow from the earth and notched it to the string. 'Wait,' said 
Tarantio. 'You did not check the cock feather.' 
'The what?' 
'Put down the bow,' ordered Tarantio and Brune obeyed. Tarantio 
lifted an arrow and showed the flights 



to the bewildered young man. 'See how feathers are set into the 
shaft. Like a Y. Two sets of feathers are set close together, the third 
stands alone. This is the cock feather. When archers are told to cock 
their bow, this means that the cock feather should point away from 
the bow. Otherwise, it will strike the bow as it is loosed and deflect 
the arrow.' 
'I see,' said Brune, taking up his bow again. Drawing the string back 
to his chin, the young man let fly. The shaft soared high over the 
target, striking the top of the sand-sack wall. 'Was that good?' he 
asked. 
'Had your opponent been fifteen feet tall, it would have scared him,' 
said Tarantio. 'Let me see the bow.' 
It was cheaply made from a single piece of wood some four feet 
long. The best bows were constructed of elm or yew, and often 
skilled bowyers would create bonded versions incorporating both 
woods. Tarantio cocked an arrow and drew back the string. The pull 
was no more than twenty pounds. Loosing the shaft, he watched it 
punch weakly home in the blue inner ring. 
'You're very good,' said Brune admiringly. 
'No, I'm not,' said Tarantio, 'but even a master archer would have 
difficulty with this bow. You'd probably be better off throwing a 
stone at an advancing enemy. This does not have the power to 
punch through armour.' 
'I made it myself,' said Brune. 'I like it.' 
'Have you ever hit anything with it?' 
'Not yet,' admitted the young man. 
'Trust me, Brune. If you are ever hunting deer with it, just run up 
and use it like a club.' 
Several men approached them. The first, a tall slim bowman in a 
tunic of fine leather, bowed to Tarantio. 'Are you planning to 
practise further, sir?' he enquired. 'I have little time myself and was 
hoping to loose a few 


shafts.' His dark hair was close-cropped, his head shaved in two 
crescents above the ears, and he sported a thin trident beard. His 
clothes were expensive, and he was obviously a nobleman. Knowing 
how arrogant the nobility could be, Tarantio was impressed by the 
courteous way he phrased his question. 
'No, you may have the target,' said Tarantio amiably. 'My friend and 
I are finished here. Where can I purchase a good bow?' 
'For you, or your friend?' enquired the man. 
'For him.' 
'Have you considered a crossbow? I saw your friend shoot, and — 
with all respect - he does not have an eye for it.' 
'I fear you are right,' agreed Tarantio. The slim bowman turned to 
one of his companions, calling him forward. The man held a black 
crossbow, its stock engraved with silver, which the bowman took 
and offered to Tarantio. 
'Let him try a shot or two with this,' he suggested. 
'You are most kind.' 
'It is very pretty,' said Brune. 'How does it work?' 
Tarantio touched the top of the crossbow to the ground, placing his 
foot inside the iron stirrup at the head, then drew back the string. 
Taking a small black bolt from the bowman he slid it home. 'Aim it 
towards the target, then squeeze this lever under the stock,' he told 
Brune. Brune lifted the crossbow and squeezed. The bolt vanished 
into the sand-sacks some eight feet to the left of the target. 
'That was closer,' said Brune. 'Wasn't it?' 
The men with the bowman laughed. The bowman himself moved to 
stand before the sandy-haired Brune, looking closely into his eyes. 
'Which is your bad eye?' he asked. 
'This one,' said Brune, tapping his right cheek. 



'Can you see out of it at all?' 
'I can see colours with it, but it doesn't work very well.' 
'Have you always had this problem?' 
'No. Only since someone hit me with a lump of wood.' 
'Your friend is almost blind in the right eye,' he told Tarantio. Take 
him to Nagellis, in the North Quarter. There is a magicker there 
named Ardlin, who has a house beside the Three Heads fountain. 
You can't miss it - it has a huge stained-glass window showing the 
naked form of the Goddess Irutha.' The man smiled. 'It is a fine 
window. Ardlin is a healer of great talent.' 
'Thank you,' said Tarantio. 'You are most kind.' 
'Think nothing of it, my friend.' The bowman offered his hand. 'My 
name is Vint.' 
Tarantio looked into the man's smoke-grey eyes. 'And I am 
Tarantio,' he told him, accepting the handshake. 
Vint's face hardened. 'That is a pity,' he said. 'I was rather hoping 
that when we finally met I would dislike you.' 
'There is much to dislike,' said Tarantio. 'You just don't know me 
well enough yet.' 
'Let us hope that is true,' said Vint. 'Where may I call upon you?' 
'I have rented a house not far from here. I believe the street is 
called Nevir North. The house has red tiles and two chimneys. The 
owners placed a stone wolf to the right of the gate.' 
'This afternoon then, an hour before dusk?' offered Vint. 
'That is suitable,' agreed Tarantio. 
'Sabres?' asked Vint. 



'Bring two,' said Tarantio. 'I prefer short swords, but I'll gladly 
borrow one of yours.' 
'No, no. Short swords it is. Would you object if I brought some of 
my younger students?' 
'Not at all.' 
'They can carry his body back,' said Dace. 
Tarantio turned away. Brune handed back the crossbow and hurried 
after him. 'What is happening?' he asked. 
'Let's find this magicker, Brune,' said Tarantio. 'I can't teach the 
bow to a half-blind archer.' 
'Why is that man going to fight you?' 
'It is what he does,' Tarantio told him. 


Karis was not easily shocked. Her early life of pain, betrayal and 
brutality at the hands of her father had birthed in her a cynicism 
that allowed her to accept the outrageous as if it were 
commonplace. But when she crested the last rise before the Great 
Northern Desert, she was stunned. Expecting a vista of bare rock 
and drifting sand, she was met by a landscape of verdant green 
dotted with woods and streams. 
She knew this area well, having fought two skirmishes here last 
year. There was no way she could have lost her bearings. To her 
left, the sun was low in the sky. Ahead, therefore, was north. No 
question of it. 
Guiding the great grey gelding down the slope, she rode to the 
grasslands and into a grove of trees beside a rippling stream. 
Dismounting, she loosened Warain's saddle-girth, but did not 
remove the saddle. Then she let him wander and graze. Warain was 
well trained, and would come to her fast at a single whistle. Sitting 
beside the stream, Karis drank deeply, then emptied her water 
canteen and refilled it. 
Perhaps the Eldarin have come back, she thought. What 



had happened here was the very opposite of the disaster that had 
struck Eldarin lands during the short-lived war. But the instant the 
thought came she dismissed it, recalling the words of the Eldarin 
spirit which had appeared in her room. 'A long time ago the Eldarin 
faced another evil,' he said. 'We contained it, removed it from the 
world. The Pearl holds that evil at bay.' 
This place does not feel evil, thought Karis. The water is sweet and 
good, the grass rich and green. What evil, then? 
Karis was tired. She had been riding for three days, and had eaten 
little. Yesterday all she had found was a bush of sweet berries, but 
these had given her a sour stomach. The day before that she had 
brought down a pheasant, and cooked it in clay. But there was little 
meat on the bird. 
Allowing Warain to graze for an hour she slept briefly, then 
summoned the gelding, tightened the saddle and rode back into the 
dry hills. Ordinarily she would have camped by the stream, but her 
mind was troubled. 
She built a small fire and lay down beside it. It was not cold enough 
to require a camp-fire, but the flames comforted her, inducing a 
feeling of safety. 
What was the evil the Eldarin had contained? 
Karis wished she remembered more of her mother's stories. The 
flesh-eating tribes of giants had a name, but she could not recall it. 
She awoke in the night as Warain's front hoof pawed at the ground. 
Rising, she pulled her bow from the back of the saddle and strung 
it. 'What is it you hear, grey one?' she whispered, notching an arrow 
to the bow. In the distance a wolf howled. Warain's head swung 
towards the sound. 
In the bright moonlight Karis scanned the area. There was no sign 
of movement. 'The wolves will not trouble 


us, my friend,' she said, moving to the horse and patting its long, 
sleek neck. Warain nuzzled her shoulder. 'You are the most 
beautiful male in my life,' she whispered. 'Strong, and true. When 
we get to Corduin, I'll winter you with Chase. You remember Chase, 
don't you? The crippled rider.' She scratched the grey's broad brow. 
'Now settle down and rest.' 
The fire had died and she lay down beside the embers, wrapping 
her cloak about her. 
Just before dawn she woke, and sat up, hungry and irritable. 
Yesterday she had spotted a deer, but had not killed it. It seemed a 
great waste of life and beauty to slay such a magnificent beast for 
the sake of a meal or two. Now she regretted it. Drinking deeply 
from the canteen, she rose and saddled the gelding. 'If we see a 
deer today,' she told the horse, 'it dies. I swear my stomach has 
wrapped itself around my backbone.' 
Stepping into the saddle, she rode down once more into the new 
grassland, heading for Corduin. 
The memory of the guard back at the gate was beginning to irritate 
her. She remembered he was a ten-heartbeat lover - grunt, thrust, 
sweat and collapse. But where? What had he said - fight like a tiger, 
live like a whore, look like an angel? He meant it as a compliment, 
but the word whore did not sit right with Karis. She used men as 
she used food: to satisfy a hunger, a need she could not -would not 

- rationalize. Unlike food, however, the men rarely satisfied her. 
Even as the thought came to her she remembered Vint, the pale-
eyed swordsman. He knew how to satisfy a woman's hunger. His 
body was lean and hard, his caresses soft and gentle. And, as an 
added bonus, there was no emotion in him - no fear of love, or 
jealousy. She had heard that he became the Duke of Corduin's 
Champion 

after Tarantio had refused the post. So far he had killed five men in 
duels. If he was still in Corduin . .. 
The sun was high, the sky cloudless as she rode through the green 
hills. To her right she saw a red hawk swoop down on a luckless 
rabbit. Hauling on the reins, she scanned the area for a falconer. 
Hawks, she knew, preferred feather to fur; they had to be wedded 
to it. But there was no man in sight. The hawk struck the rabbit, 
sending it tumbling, then settled down to feed as Karis rode on. 
Then she remembered the night she had seduced the sentry, Gorl. 
She and her mercenaries had struck a wagon convoy sixty miles 
south of Hlobane, when she was under contract to Belliese. That's 
where the willows were, and she had chosen Gorl because of the 
lustre of his beard and his deep, soft eyes. Her spirits lifted. Having 
remembered, she filed him away to be forgotten once more. 
'I hope you find a good man,' her mother had said, as Karis 
prepared to run away into the night. Her father was stretched out 
on the floor in a drunken stupor. 
'You should come with me,' she urged the tired woman. 
'Where would I go? Who would have me now?' 
'Then let me kill him where he lies. We'll drag the body out and 
bury it.' 
'Don't say that! Please. He. . . was a good man once. He truly was. 
You just go, my dear. You can find employment in Prentuis - you're 
a good girl, with a fine body. You'll find a good man there.' 
Karis had walked away without a backward glance. Find a good 
man? She had found scores. Some who made love tenderly, 
whispering words of endearment, and others who had been rough 
and primal. Never had she considered wedding any of them. Never 
had she made the mistake of 


loving any of them. No, the men who made her stomach tremble 
she avoided. Sirano had been one. 
Tarantio another ... 
'You I will never forget,' she said aloud. She had first seen him 
swimming in a lake with twenty or so soldiers. It had been a long, 
dry, dusty march, and when they camped by the lake the men 
threw off their armour and clothes and ran into the water, splashing 
each other like children. Karis had dismounted and sat at the 
lakeside watching them whoop and dive and laugh. But one slim 
young man did not join in the revelry. He swam away from the 
group, then walked naked into the undergrowth, emerging 
moments later with handfuls of lemon mint which he rubbed across 
his skin. His face and arms were tanned gold, but his chest and legs 
were white. He was lean, and beautifully muscled, the dark hair on 
his chest tapering down to a fine line pointing like an arrow to his 
loins. 
'I will have you,' Karis had decided. She had called him over, and he 
waded to where she sat. 
'What is your name, soldier?' 
'I am Tarantio.' 
'My captain spoke of you.' His eyes were a deep, dark blue, his hair 
thick and tightly curled. 'He said you were a ferocious fighter. With 
a thousand like you, he says he could conquer the world.' 
He had smiled then and turned from her to swim away. The smile 
had been dazzling, and in that moment Karis knew she would never 
take him to her bed. 
Warain pulled up now, his ears pricked and his nostrils flaring. Karis 
looked around, but could see nothing untoward. But she trusted 
Warain. Angling to the right through the trees she came to a rise 
and looked down upon the green plain. In the distance four riders 


were heading towards the hills where she waited. They were being 
pursued by a score of warriors wearing huge white helms. Karis 
shaded her eyes. 
Below her, hidden in a gully, was another group. These were closer, 
and she saw the reality - not helms at all, but heads of stark white 
bone. They were armed with serrated swords, and the fleeing riders 
were heading straight for them. 
Karis pulled her bow clear, strung it, and notched an arrow. Then 
she heeled Warain into a run down the slope. 
The pounding of the gelding's hooves alerted the warriors below and 
they swung as she thundered towards them. Her arrow slammed 
into a white neck, then Warain leapt the gully and galloped on 
towards the riders. Karis pointed to the hills. 'You are in a trap!' she 
shouted. 'Follow me!' Swinging Warain, she rode hard for the high 
ground. The riders turned after her, and together they made the 
long, slow climb. 
The pursuing enemy angled up the slope to cut off the escape. Heat 
flared inside Karis's head, and she felt the onset of a terrible fear. 
The horses were affected also, and Warain almost stumbled. The 
grey gelding righted himself, but he slowed almost to a stop and 
Karis could feel him trembling with terror. 'It is sorcery,' she 
thought. 'On, Great One!' she shouted, touching her heels to 
Warain's flanks. At the sound of her voice, his muscles bunched and 
he surged forward. Three of the enemy riders had cut across the 
line of escape, and their huge mounts bore down on the fleeing 
group. 
Warain galloped on. Karis angled him towards the first of the 
massive horses. He needed no urging; he could see the enemy 
mounts - they were larger and more powerful than he - but Warain 
was a war-horse of enormous pride. 


Striding out even faster, the great grey charged at the enemy, his 
mighty shoulder striking the first horse with tremendous power. 
With a whinny of pain and terror the enemy horse toppled, pinning 
its rider beneath it. Warain surged through the gap, and on to open 
ground, the four smaller horses coming through in his wake. 
Karis swung to see the warriors scrambling out of the gully. One still 
had her arrow in his neck, and she watched him tear it clear and 
throw it aside. 
Then she was over the crest and out of sight of the pursuing 
horsemen. Outpacing their pursuers, the group rode on for an hour 
heading south-west. At the top of a high hill Karis pulled up and 
looked back. From here she could see for miles; the pursuit had 
been abandoned. Leaning over Warain's neck, she stroked her 
fingers through his white mane. 'I am proud of you,' she whispered. 
A middle-aged man, wearing the armour of a Corduin lancer, 
approached her. 'My thanks to you, Karis,' he said. 'The Gods alone 
know what would have become of us had you not been to hand.' 
She remembered him from her time in the Duke's service - a good 
man, sound and cautious, but not lacking in courage. 'What were 
they, Capel?' she asked him. 
'They are Daroth. And I fear the world has changed.' 


Chapter Six 
Ardlin stood at his high balcony window, gazing out towards the 
north. The trembling had stopped now, but the fear remained. The 
dream had been vivid, rich with colour: the colour of blood, red and 
angry. Ardlin had found himself floating above the scene, watching 
a group of soldiers attacked by Daroth warriors. There was a fat 
officer, who fell from his horse and tried to run. The Daroth caught 
him and stripped him naked; then they dug a fire-pit. What followed 
was stomach-wrenchingly awful. Ardlin had jerked awake, his face 
and body sweat-drenched. 
At first he had felt an overpowering sense of relief. It was a dream. 
Just a dream - born of his fascination with the ancient races. But as 
the morning wore on his concern grew. He was a magicker with a 
talent for healing; he knew spells, and could concoct potions. Above 
it all, however, he was a mystic. A Sensitive, as the Elders would 
have said. 
Ardlin had tried to put the dream behind him, but it nagged and 
tugged at his thoughts. 
At last, around mid-morning, he sat on the floor of his sanctum and 
induced the Separation Trance. Floating free of his body he flew to 
the north, across the rich hills and valleys towards the mountains of 
the desert. He did not consciously direct his flight, 


but allowed the memory of the dream to draw him on. 
In the hills he found the fire-pit, and the remains of several corpses. 
The head of the fat officer lay beneath a bush, dead eyes staring up 
at the sky, flies crawling across the bloody stump that lay exposed 
beneath the chin. 
Ardlin fled for the sanctuary of his body. 
The Daroth were back. 
For thirty years Ardlin had been a collector of ancient tomes and 
artefacts, and had spent many long, delightful hours studying the 
clues of the past. His main fascination had been with the Oltor. No-
one now living had any idea how their society had been structured, 
nor how their culture had flourished. Ancient writings merely stated 
that they were a gentle golden-skinned race, tall and slender, and 
gifted with an extraordinary talent for music. It was said they could 
make crops grow through the magic of their harps. According to one 
tome, it was with this magic that they inadvertently opened two 
gateways - one to the desolate world of the Daroth, the other to the 
world of the Eldarin. 
Ardlin remembered the story well. The Oltor had welcomed the new 
races, holding the barrier open so that great numbers of Daroth 
could move through. Their own land had become a desert, and the 
Daroth were dying in their multitudes. 
The Oltor granted them a huge tract of land in the north, so that 
they could grow crops and build cattle-herds, in order to send the 
food back to their own world. But more and more Daroth came 
through the gateway, demanding ever more land. Being gentle and 
trusting, the Oltor allowed the migration to continue. 
Several hundred Eldarin also came through, and built a city in the 
southern mountains, near the sea. 


As the years passed the Daroth grew in numbers, and the land they 
had been granted became less fertile. Forests had been ruthlessly 
cut away, exposing the earth to the full force of the hot summer 
winds which seared the grass and blew away the topsoil. Overgrazed 
and badly used, the grassland began to fail. Then the Daroth 
dammed the three major rivers, bringing drought to the Oltor. 
They sent representatives to the Daroth, urging them to reconsider 
their methods. In return the Daroth demanded more fertile land. 
The Oltor refused. And died . . . 
Huge and powerful Daroth warriors had sacked the cities of the 
Oltor, destroying them utterly. Ardlin remembered the chilling line 
from the Book of Desolation. Invincible and almost invulnerable, the 
Daroth could not be slain by arrow or sword. 

Now he stood on the balcony, wondering how he could escape the 
holocaust that would follow. Most men who knew him assumed him 
to be rich and, indeed, he had been. Fortunes had been paid for his 
skills, enabling him to build this fine house and to keep three 
mistresses. The fortunes had also funded his other great pleasure: 
gambling. There was no greater thrill than to wager on the roll of 
the dice, watching the cubes bounce across the ivory-inlaid walnut 
table - seeing the twin green eyes of the leopard and the staff of 
the Master appear as the dice came to rest. The ecstasy of that 
moment left a taste in the heart that was stronger than any opiate - 
better than the joys in the arms of his mistresses. It seemed to 
Ardlin that it was the very taste of life itself. 
Unfortunately the eyes and the staff appeared all too infrequently 
when Ardlin threw. And he had wagered greater and greater sums. 
Now he had nothing left to wager, and instead of possessing 
fortunes he owed them. 


On the balcony, he ran his slender hand through his thinning hair 
and sighed. Fortunes meant nothing now. What he needed was a 
good horse, some supplies, and enough gold to purchase passage 
on a ship from Loretheli to one of the larger, settled islands. 
Heavy and huge, the Daroth were said to fear crossing water and on 
an island he might be safe. At least he would be a lot safer than 
here, in this doomed city. 
The problem was that he had no horse, nor money to purchase one. 
The great house was now empty of all valuables, and all of the 
friends he had made during his stay in Corduin had been sucked 
dry. He could think of no-one who would advance him a single 
copper piece. 
How long, he wondered, until the Daroth army reaches the gates of 
Corduin? Two days? Five? Ten? Panic caused him to tremble once 
more. In the old days he would have gone to his medicine store and 
chewed on the Lorassium leaf. That would have calmed him. But 
there were no leaves now, and no money to buy them. 
Leaving the balcony, Ardlin walked down to the kitchen and pumped 
water into a jug. Then he filled a goblet and drank. The water only 
highlighted his hunger . . . and there was nothing to eat. 
A loud knock came at his front door, causing him to jump. Silently 
he made his way to the observation panel and slid it open. 
There were two men standing outside, one lean and slim, his hair 
dark and short-cropped to the skull; he was dressed in a black 
leather jerkin, dark leggings and boots. Beside him was a gangling 
young man carrying a longbow. They were not creditors . .. but they 
could be collectors. The dark one looked like a collector - hard and 
lean. On the other hand they might be in need of his services, which 
meant money. Ardlin bit his thin lower lip. What to do? 


'There's no-one here,' he heard the hulking young man say. 'Maybe 
we should come back later? Anyway, I'm not sure I want someone 
poking around in my eye. Maybe it will get better on its own.' 
Ardlin ran to the front door, took a deep breath to compose himself, 
then smoothed down his silver hair. He opened the door. 'Good day, 
my friends,' he said, his voice deep and resonant. 'How may I be of 
service to you?' 
The dark-haired young man had eyes of the deepest blue. 'My 
friend here has an injury to his eye. We were recommended to you.' 
'Indeed? By whom?' 
'Vint.' 
'A charming fellow. Do come in, my friends. Despite this being my 
day of rest, I will see you - as a mark of respect to the noble Vint.' 
He led them through to his sanctum and seated Brune on a low 
chair by the window. From a mahogany box he took a thick piece of 
blue glass which he held over Brune's right eye, peering through it 
for some moments. 'The injury was caused by a blow to the head, 
yes?' he said. 
'With a lump of wood,' said Brune. 
'Tell me, do you experience stabbing pains behind the eye?' 
'In the mornings,' admitted Brune. 'But they go away quick.' 
Ardlin returned the glass to its box, then sat down behind an 
elaborately carved desk of oak. 'The damage to the eye is 
extensive,' he said. 'I cannot make this any easier for you. You will 
lose the sight in that eye completely.' 
'Got the other one, though, eh?' said Brune, his voice shaking. 



'Yes. You will have the other one.' 
'There is nothing to be done?' asked the dark-haired young man. 
'Not with the eye in its present condition. I could ...' Ardlin paused 
for effect. 'But no, such a solution would be far too costly, I fear.' 
'What is the solution?' asked the man. Ardlin's heart leapt. 
'I have in my possession an orb, a magical orb. I could replace the 
eye. But the orb is an ancient piece, and its worth incalculable.' 
The young man rose and stood facing Ardlin. In the light from the 
window it seemed to the magicker that the man's eyes had changed 
from dark blue to arctic grey. 'My name is ... Tarantio,' he said. 
'Have you heard the name?' 
'Sadly, no.' Ardlin felt a touch of fear as he gazed into those eyes. 
'Like Vint, I am a swordsman.' 
'Each to his own,' said Ardlin smoothly. 
'Now you name a price, magicker, and then we will dicker over it.' 
'A hundred gold pieces.' 
Tarantio shook his head. 'I do not think so. Ten.' 
Ardlin forced a laugh. 'That is ridiculous.' 
'Then we will trouble you no further. Let's go, Brune.' 
Ardlin waited until they had reached the door. 'My friends, my 
friends,' he called, 'this is no way to behave. Come back and sit 
down. Let us discuss the matter further.' 
In his heart he knew he had lost. 
But ten gold pieces would get him to a safe island ... and that was 
worth a dozen fortunes. 



'Will it hurt?' asked Brune. 
'There will be no pain,' Ardlin assured him. 
'How long will this take?' asked Tarantio. 'I am meeting Vint later 
today.' 
'The process will take around two hours. Do you have the gold with 
you?' 
'Yes. I'll pay you when I have seen the results.' 
'Not a trusting man, then? Very well, you can wait here. Follow me, 
young man,' said Ardlin. 
'You're sure this isn't going to hurt?' asked Brune, rising. 
'I'm sure.' Ardlin took him through to a back room and bade him lie 
down on the narrow bed by the window. Brune did so. Ardlin 
touched the young man on the brow, and instantly Brune fell into a 
deep sleep. 
The magicker moved to the wall, opening a secret panel and 
removing a pouch. Opening the drawstrings, he tipped out the 
contents into the palm of his hand. There was a silver ring, a copper 
locket, a lock of golden hair wrapped in silver wire, and a small 
round piece of blood-red coral. Each of the items was of great value 
to his profession. The ring aided him in the Five Spells of Aveas; the 
locket kept him free of the diseases which afflicted many of his 
clients, and the lock of hair boosted his mystic insight into the cause 
and cure of most ailments. The Oltor coral, however, was the 
masterpiece in his collection. It could rebuild ruined tissue, muscle 
and bone. When first he had acquired it, the coral had been the size 
of a man's head. But each time it was used it shrank. Now it was no 
larger than a pebble. 
The damage to the eye would make no perceptible difference to the 
coral, he knew, for though extensive in human terms, the injury 
covered only a small area of tissue. Holding the coral above the 
sleeping Brune's right eye, Ardlin focused his concentration, feeling 
the 


coral grow warm in his hand. Lifting the eyelid, he took the round 
glass magnifier and examined the eye. All the damage had been 
repaired. However, he had promised them a magical orb in place of 
an eye, and it would take but a small spell to recolour the iris. 
Green would be pleasant, he thought. Holding the coral once more 
over Brune's face he began to speak one of the Five Spells of 
Aveas: the Spell of Changing. As he was almost finished he heard 
footsteps outside the room, and the creak of the door opening. In a 
rush he finished the spell, his whispered words tumbling out. The 
heat of the coral surged in his hand. 
Ardlin's jaw dropped. Opening his hand, he stared down at the pink 
skin of his palm. 
The coral had vanished. 
It was impossible! There was enough power left to heal the wounds 
of twenty, perhaps thirty men. How could it have exhausted itself 
with such a simple transformation? He heard Tarantio speak, but 
was too stunned to understand the words. The swordsman repeated 
them. 
'Is he cured, magicker?' 
'What? Oh, yes.' Ardlin lifted Brune's eyelid. His right eye was now 
covered with a golden sheen, the pupil hidden beneath it. Ardlin 
was both surprised and relieved. How had he made the mistake? 
And would the young man be able to see? Sweat broke out on 
Ardlin's face. 
'What is troubling you?' 
'What troubles me? You have witnessed the end to my career as a 
healer. I had a magic stone, but now it is used up, the power gone. 
Ten gold pieces!' He gave a wry laugh and shook his head. 'A man 
once paid a thousand pieces of gold to heal a crooked arm. It took 
less power than your friend's eye.' Ardlin sighed and fell silent as 
Tarantio counted out the coins and dropped them into his 
outstretched palm. 'Tell me, swordsman, 


why were you so confident that I would take such a paltry sum?' 
'Look around you, magicker,' answered Tarantio. This grand house 
is empty of ornament. There are indentations in the rugs where 
furniture once stood. You are poorer than a blind beggar, and in no 
situation to haggle.' 
'Sadly true,' admitted Ardlin. 'But at such times is it not cruel to 
take advantage of a man's misfortunes? The work I have done for 
your friend is worth far more than ten coins. He has the eye of an 
eagle now.' 
'Aye, maybe it is,' admitted Tarantio. 'But that was the bargain. And 
I have honoured it.' 
Ardlin's thin face sagged. 'I need to get out of the city, Tarantio. 
These coins will book me passage on a ship from Loretheli. But I 
have no means to purchase a horse to get there. I beg you to 
reconsider. My life depends upon it.' 
Brune awoke and sat up, blinking. 'I can see everything,' he cried 
happily. 'Better than ever before!' He moved to the window and 
stared at the trees outside. 'I can see the leaves, one by one.' 
'That is good,' said Tarantio. 'Very good.' Turning to the magicker, 
he stood for a moment in silence. Then his face relaxed and he 
smiled. 'Go to the merchant, Lunder. Tell him I sent you. Tell him 
Tarantio says to supply you with funds for a good horse and 
supplies.' 
'Thank you,' said Ardlin humbly. 'In return, let me offer you this 
advice: Leave the city. It is doomed.' 
'The armies of Remark won't lay siege to Corduin,' said Tarantio. 
'Too costly.' 
'I am not talking about the wars of men, swordsman. The Daroth 
have returned.' 

Karis, Capel and the boy, Goran, were led into the Duke's private 
rooms. The ruler of Corduin looked older than 


Karis remembered; his thin beard, closely shaved to his chin, was 
salt and pepper now, but his dark hooded eyes were as coldly alert 
and intelligent as ever. He sat on his high-backed chair, leaning 
forward, his slender arms resting on his knees as Capel gave his 
report. Then he turned his hawk eyes on Karis. 
'You saw all this?' he asked her. 
'I did not see the attack on his men, nor the dark moon rising. But I 
saw the Daroth. He speaks the truth, my lord.' 
'And how was it that you were riding into my lands, Karis? Do you 
not serve Sirano?' He almost spat out the name. 
'I did, my lord.' Swiftly Karis told him of the experiments with the 
Pearl, and of the ghostly vision of the Eldarin. 'He warned Sirano 
that a great evil would be unleashed. Sirano did not listen. I believe 
the Daroth were the evil he spoke of.' 
Turning to a manservant standing close by, the Duke ordered his 
Council to be gathered. The man ran from the room. 'I have studied 
history all my life,' said the Duke. 'History and myth. Often have I 
wondered where the two meet. Now, thanks to the insane ambition 
of Romark, I am to find out.' Rising from his chair he walked to the 
bookshelves lining the far wall, and selected a thick leather-bound 
tome. 'Come with me to the Meeting Hall,' he said. With the book 
under his arm he made for the door, where he stopped and waited; 
just for a moment the ruler of Corduin seemed lost and confused. 
Karis suppressed a smile, wondering how long it had been since he 
had been forced to open a door for himself. Then she moved 
forward to open it for him. The Duke strode out into the hallway 
beyond and led them deep into the palace. There was a huge, 
rectangular table in the Meeting Hall, and 


seats for thirty councillors. The Duke sat at the head of the table 
and opened the book, tracing the words with his fingers as he read. 
Karis, Capel and the boy, Goran, stood silently beside him. 
The first of the councillors arrived within minutes, but they did not 
disturb the Duke; they merely sat quietly in their places. Gradually 
the chairs began to fill. The last to arrive was the swordsman, Vint, 
the Duke's Champion. Dressed in a stylish tunic of oiled leather 
embossed with silver swirls, he looked just as cruelly handsome as 
Karis remembered. He had not sported the shaved crescents above 
his ears when last she had seen him, nor the two silver earrings in 
his left ear. But then fashions among the nobility changed faster 
than the seasons. He flashed her a broad smile, and gave an 
extravagant bow. 'Always a pleasure to see you, my lady,' he said. 
The Duke looked up. 'You are late, Vint.' 
'My apologies, my lord. I was on my way to a duel, but I got here as 
fast as I could.' 

 'I don't like you fighting for anyone but me,' said the Duke. 
'However, that is a small matter. I hope the man you killed was not 
a friend of mine?' 
'Happily no, my lord. And there was no duel. Your servant found me 
as I was on my way to his home. I have, of course, sent a message 
to him, apologizing for the necessity of postponing our meeting.' 
'Well, sit you down,' said the Duke. 'I think you will find the duel 
postponed indefinitely.' He glanced up and scanned the faces of his 
councillors. 'All of you listen well to what you are about to hear. 
Understand that this is no jest. The decisions made here today will 
affect us all for the rest of our lives. Those lives, I should add, 
might not be very long-lived.' Turning his head, he glanced at 
Goran. 'You speak first, boy. Tell it all as you told me.' 


Nervous and trembling in such company, Goran began to speak at 
speed, his words tumbling out. Karis stopped him. 'Slowly, boy. 
Take it from the beginning. You were looking after your sheep, and 
then you saw something. Go from there.' 
Goran took a deep breath, then told of what he had seen. Then 
Capel addressed them, outlining the tragedy that had befallen his 
captain and most of the men. Lastly Karis spoke, describing the 
actions of Sirano and the words of the Eldarin ghost. 
Then there was silence. It was Vint who broke it. 'I know nothing of 
these Daroth,' he said, 'but if they can bleed I can kill them.' 
'Do not be too sure,' warned Karis. 'When my horse leapt the gully I 
put an arrow into the throat of one of them. It was a lucky shot, but 
it struck true. Not only did it not kill him, but he clambered out of 
the gully, tore the arrow loose and threw it aside. They are huge, 
these Daroth, and mightily muscled.' 
'Karis is quite correct,' said the Duke. 'No arrow or sword can kill 
them. That's what it says here, in this ancient book. In war they are 
sublime killers, impervious to pain. Their strength is prodigious. 
Many of the stories here are -in essence - myths. But all myths 
contain a grain of truth. According to this source there were. . .are?. 
. .seven cities of the Daroth. Twenty thousand or so Daroth live in 
each city. There is a map here. Five of the Daroth cities are too far 
away to trouble us now. One other is more than two months' ride 
from Corduin. That leaves only the last; it has no name, but we will 
call it Daroth One. Let us assume that there are twenty thousand 
Daroth living there. What size of army could they muster? And what 
must we do to combat them?' His dark eyes scanned the assembly. 
'Let us begin with reaction to what we have heard.' 


One by one the councillors spoke, asking questions of Capel, Goran 
and Karis. The warrior woman coolly read the mood of the 
councillors: they were stumbling in the dark, confused and 
uncertain. After the meeting had been in progress for an hour, she 
stepped up to the Duke. 'If I may, my lord?' she said, with a bow. 'I 
do have a suggestion.' 
'I would be glad to hear it,' he told her. 
'There is little we can do to plan until we know the intentions of the 
Daroth. This we cannot ascertain until we have sent a delegation to 
them. I propose that a small group should be selected to ride north 
and meet with their leaders.' 
'We do not even know the language they speak,' objected Vint. 'And 
from the way they attacked Capel and his men, one would surmise 
they are in no mood to negotiate.' 
'Even so,' said Karis, 'there is really no alternative. We need to 
know their numbers, their fighting style, their weaponry, their 
strategies. Do they have siege-engines? If not, no matter how 
strong they are they will not breach the walls of Corduin. Language 
is not the greatest problem here. Lack of knowledge is what could 
destroy us.' 
'Would you lead this group, Karis?' asked the Duke. 
'I would, my lord - for a thousand in silver.' 
Vint's laughter boomed out. 'Ever the mercenary, Karis!' 

Albreck, Duke of Corduin, entered his private apartments and sat 
down on a richly embroidered couch. One of his manservants knelt 
before him, pulling off the Duke's boots. Another brought him a 
crystal goblet filled with cooled apple juice; Albreck sipped the 
drink, and handed the goblet to the servant. 


'Your bath is prepared, my lord,' said the man. 
'Thank you. Is my wife in her apartments?' 
'No, my lord, she is dining with the Lady Peria. She has ordered her 
carriage to be ready for her return at dusk.' 
Albreck stood. The two servants undressed him and removed his 
rings; then he strode naked to the rear rooms and slowly descended 
the steps into the sunken bath. Servants scurried around him, 
bringing buckets of warmed, perfumed water which they added to 
the bath, but the Duke was oblivious to them. 
The War of the Pearl was a costly nonsense, which Albreck had tried 
hard to avoid. But there was no escape from Sirano's ambition, and 
the army of Hlobane had been drawn into the conflict. Now, his 
army depleted and supplies short, he faced an enemy of unknown 
power. 
'Close your eyes, my lord, and I will wash your hair,' said a servant. 
Albreck did so, momentarily gaining enjoyment from the rush of 
warm water to his crown. Nimble fingers massaged his scalp. 
All the ancient stories told of the horrors of the Daroth, their 
ferocity, their malevolence and their cruelty. Not one spoke of art, 
or love. Was it possible that an entire race could be devoid of such 
feelings? Albreck doubted it -and in that doubt there was a seed of 
hope. Perhaps a war could be avoided? Perhaps the old stories were 
exaggerated. 
The servant rinsed his hair, then dried it with a warmed towel. 
Albreck rose from the bath and donned an ankle-length white robe 
held out for him. Then he returned to his room and sat beside the 
fire. 
Even if the stories were exaggerated, the truth came through like a 
searing flame. The Oltor had been wiped out, their race annihilated, 
their cities rendered to dust. No-one now knew for sure what the 
Oltor had looked 


like, nor what kind of race they were. They had saved the Daroth, 
and in return the Daroth had destroyed them. There was not a great 
deal of hope to be found in such deeds. 
A burning log fell to the hearth. A servant stepped forward swiftly, 
taking up a pair of brass tongs and lifting it back to the flames. 
Albreck glanced up. 'Fetch the Chief Armourer,' he told the man. 
'Yes, my lord.' 
'And bring me the Red Book from my study.' 
'At once, my lord.' 
Albreck sighed. All his life he had loved the arts: music, painting, 
poetry. But he also had a passion for history, and would have liked 
nothing better than to spend his days in study. Instead he had been 
born to this title, with all its concomitant burdens. 
The servant returned within moments, carrying a large book bound 
with red leather. Albreck thanked him and opened it, scanning the 
pages which were filled with a neat, flowing script. Each page bore a 
date, and Albreck found the entry he was looking for. The Chief 
Armourer had introduced a Weapon Maker to him last summer. The 
man had designed a new siege engine, which he claimed would help 
Albreck win the war. 
Albreck had long since decided the situation would be resolved - 
once men realized the true futility of the exercise of war - around a 
negotiating table, and had no desire to invest in new weapons of 
destruction. He recalled the Weapon Maker as a large man, brilliant 
of mind, with a pompous turn of phrase. The pomposity he could 
ignore, the brilliance was what was required. 
The Chief Armourer arrived, breathless and red from 


running. Albreck thanked him for arriving so swiftly, and asked him 
if the Weapon Maker was still resident in Corduin. 
'Indeed he is, my lord. He is currently working on a new sabre for 
the swordsman, Vint.' 
'I would like to see him. Bring him to my apartments this evening.' 
'Yes, my lord. Are we then to build the new siege-engines?' 
The Duke ignored him and returned to his reading. He did not see 
the man bow, nor hear the door click shut behind him. 


Karis was given a suite of apartments on the first floor of the 
palace. At her command, servants prepared a perfumed bath for 
her; then she dismissed them. Vint arrived soon after, just as Karis 
was undressing. 
'May I join you?' he asked. 
'Why not?' she answered, lowering her lean frame into the water. 
Vint chuckled, then doffed his boots, leggings and shirt. 
'By Heaven, Karis, you are still the most desirable woman I've ever 
known.' 
'Beautiful sounds better,' she admonished him. 
He paused and stared at her critically. 'Well. .. you're not a great 
beauty, my dove. Your nose is too long, and your features too 
sharp. Also - to be frank - you are a little too lean. However, that 
said, I never knew a better bed partner.' 
'How coy,' she said, with a smile. 'As I recall, we have not yet 
rutted in a bed. The back of a wagon, the bank of a river, and ... oh 
yes, the hay-loft of a barn. No bed that I can recall.' 
'Nakedness and pedantry do not go together,' he said, 



sliding into the water beside her. 'And now it is your turn to 
compliment me.' 
Reaching out, she stroked the skin of his shaved temples. 'I 
preferred it when it was long and braided,' she told him. 
'One has to remain in style, Karis. It shows the populace where true 
wealth lies. Now play the game and offer me a compliment.' 
'You are among the top fifty lovers I have known.' 
His laughter pealed out. 'Ah, but I have missed you, lady. You help 
to remind me that I am - despite my talents - merely mortal. But 
you do not fool me. I am in the top ten.' 
'Arrogant man,' she said, allowing him to move closer to her. 
'Arrogance is one of my many virtues. Will you allow me to 
accompany you on your mission?' 
'Yes. I would have requested you.' 
'How pleasing.' Leaning in, he kissed her lips, gently at first and 
then with increasing ardour. His hand caressed her breast, then his 
arm circled her waist, lifting her on to him. They made love slowly, 
and Karis allowed her mind to relax. He was right; he was high on 
the list of good lovers. But, as enjoyable as it was, there was no 
time to fully appreciate his skills. Karis increased the rhythm, then 
began to moan, her breath coming in sharp gasps. Vint's hands 
gripped her hips, and he too began to move with greater urgency. 
He sighed as he climaxed. Satisfied that she had fooled him, Karis 
kissed his cheek, then moved away. 
'I needed that,' he said, with a smile. 'I was prepared for a duel, 
and the blood was up. Sex is certainly a fine substitute for fighting. 
Not perfect, mind, but close.' 
'Who was the lucky opponent?' 



'A man named Tarantio. Said to be something of a swordsman.' 
Karis laughed aloud. 'Ah my dear, dear Vint. You are the lucky man. 
Tarantio would have cut your ears off.' 
His face hardened, and no sign of humour remained. 'Don't mock 
me, darling. There is not a man alive to best me with any kind of 
blade.' 
'Trust me, Vint,' she said, her face serious. 'I have seen you both 
fight and there is in you a quality of greatness with the blade. But 
Tarantio . .. ? He is inhuman. You were not here when he fought 
Carlyn; it was awesome.' 
'I remember the story,' said Vint. 'Carlyn killed the legendary 
Sigellus and was challenged by one of his pupils. It was said to have 
been some fight.' 
'It wasn't a fight, Vint, not even close. Tarantio cut him to pieces; 
he sliced off both the man's ears, cut his nose, then criss-crossed 
his face with deep cuts. Each one could have been a death stroke, 
but Tarantio was playing with him. And Carlyn was almost as good 
as you, my dear.' 
'I think you underestimate me, Karis. I am not without a few tricks 
of my own.' 
'I wouldn't want you to be killed. Where would I go for good lovemaking?' 
'I take it Tarantio is also among the top ten of your lovers?' 
Karis forced a laugh. 'You will never know. Now tell me where I can 
find him.' 
'You will invite him on to our quest?' 
'Yes. And pay him anything for the privilege.' 
Vint rose from the bath. Robes had been left draped across a bench 
seat. Donning one, he passed the other to Karis. 'Are you doing this 
to stop me from carrying out my duel?' 
'Not at all,' she assured him. 'I do not interfere in the 



lives of my men. If you wish to die young, then make good on your 
challenge - but not until we return.' 
Vint smiled. 'Who could deny you anything, Karis?' 
There was a discreet tap at the door. When Karis opened it, the 
dark-haired boy Goran stood outside. Karis ushered him in and he 
stood on the threshold looking nervous and ill at ease. 'What did 
you want?' she asked him. 
'Can I come with you tomorrow?' 
'I do not think that would be wise, boy. Our chances of returning 
alive are not great.' 
'They took my father. I ... I need to find out whether he lives.' 
'You were close?' she asked. 
'He is the finest man who ever walked,' said Goran, his voice 
thickening and tears forming in his eyes. 'Please let me come.' 
'Oh, let him come, Karis,' said Vint. 'The boy has spirit, and 
wouldn't you want to look for your own father?' 
Karis's eyes were cold as she turned to Vint. 'If it was my father,' 
she said, 'I'd help the Daroth skin him!' 


Brune sat quietly in the garden behind the house, watching a line of 
ants moving up a rose-bush. They filed slowly up the stem of a late-
flowering bud, then down again. Brune focused on the bud, which 
was covered with greenfly. The ants were moving up, one at a time, 
behind the greenfly, and appeared to be stroking the aphids. This 
puzzled Brune: it was as if the tiny black insects were paying 
homage to their larger green cousins. But that was ridiculous. 
Narrowing his eyes, Brune looked closer. Then he smiled. The ants 
were feeding. Stroking the greenfly caused the aphids to produce a 
viscous discharge. Brune clapped his hands and laughed aloud. 
'What is so amusing?' asked Tarantio, stepping out into 



the sunshine. He was carrying a black crossbow with a slim stock 
and wings of iron, and a quiver of stiffened leather containing 
twenty short black quarrels. 
'The ants are milking the greenfly,' Brune told him. 'I didn't know 
they did that.' 
'What are you talking about?' Tarantio laid bow and quiver on the 
stone table beside the bench on which Brune was sitting. 
'The rose-bush. Look at the ants.' 
Tarantio walked the length of the garden, some sixty paces, and 
knelt down by the bush for a few moments. Then he returned to the 
seated Brune. 'I see they are swarming near the greenfly, but what 
makes you believe they are milking them?' he asked. 
'You can see it. Look, there's one feeding now; he's filling his food 
sac.' 
'Are you mocking me, Brune? I can hardly see the bud from here.' 
'It's my new eye,' said Brune proudly. 'I can see all sorts of things 
with it, if I try hard. I was watching the ants earlier. They swap 
food. Did you know that? They rear up in front of each other, then 
one vomits . . .' 
'I am sure it is fascinating,' said the swordsman swiftly. 'However, 
we have work to do. I have purchased this crossbow and I'd like to 
see how your new eye affects your aim.' 
Tarantio showed Brune how to cock the weapon, then bade him 
shoot at the trunk of a thick oak some twenty paces away. 
'Which part of the trunk?' asked Brune. Tarantio laughed and moved 
to the tree, scanning the bark. There was a small knot no more than 
an inch in diameter. Tarantio touched it with his index finger. 
'Just here,' he said. As he spoke, Brune hefted the 


weapon. 'Wait!' cried Tarantio. The black bolt slammed into the 
knot, barely inches from Tarantio's outstretched hand. Furious, he 
stormed back to where Brune stood. 'You idiot! You could have 
killed me.' 
'I hit the knot,' said Brune gleefully. 
'But the bolt might have ricocheted. It happens, Brune.' 
'I'm sorry. It was just so easy. Don't be angry.' 
Tarantio took a deep breath, then sighed. 'Well,' he said at last, 'we 
know the gold was well spent. The magicker did a fine job. Perhaps 
a little too fine.' Leaning in close to Brune he stared into the young 
man's eyes. 
'What are you looking at?' asked Brune nervously. 
'Your left eye. I could have sworn it was blue.' 
'It is blue,' said Brune. 
'Not any more. It is a kind of golden brown. Ah well, maybe it is just 
part of the magic from the golden orb.' 
'He wasn't supposed to change the colour,' objected Brune, worried 
now. 'He wasn't, was he?' 
'I don't suppose that it matters,' replied Tarantio, with a smile. 'Not 
if you can see ants feeding. Anyway, it is a good colour. And it 
better matches the gold of your right eye.' 
'You think so?' 
'Yes.' 
They heard the sound of horses on the road outside. Tarantio's face 
hardened as Vint came riding to the gate. The Corduin swordsman 
gave a broad smile and waved as he dismounted. He opened the 
gate wide, and a second rider came through. Tarantio watched as 
Karis dismounted, tethering her grey to the gatepost. 
'Good to see you again, Chio,' she said. 
'And you, Karis. Come to see him die?' he asked. 
'Not today. What brings you to Corduin?' 
'I grew tired of war,' he told her. 'Added to which I was 



with the mercenaries your lancers destroyed. I barely got away. Did 
life prove too dull with Sirano?' 
'Something like that,' she agreed. Karis glanced at Brune. 'What is 
the matter with his eye?' 
'Nothing. He sees better than any man alive. What is it you want?' 
Karis smiled. 'A little hospitality would be pleasant. A drink perhaps? 
Then we can talk.' 
Tarantio sent Brune inside to fetch wine. Vint sat perched on the 
edge of the stone table, while Karis sat down opposite Tarantio. She 
told him of the return of the Daroth, and the murder of the villagers 
and the soldiers from the northern garrison. Tarantio listened, 
astonished. Brune returned with a pitcher of wine and four clay 
cups, but no-one touched the drink. 
'You saw them yourself?' asked Tarantio. 
'I did, Chio. Horses of eighteen hands or more, huge warriors with 
white, naked skulls and twisted faces. And the desert is no more. 
Trust me. The Daroth are back.' She told him of Sirano's assault on 
the Pearl, and of the ghostly Eldarin. Lastly she outlined the 
decision of the Council to send a group of riders to meet with the 
Daroth. 'I will be leading the group,' she said. 'I want you with me.' 
'Who else have you chosen?' 
'Vint, the boy Goran, and a politician called Pooris. But it must be a 
small group.' 
'Forin is in Corduin,' he told her. 'He is a good man -and he knows 
many stories of the Daroth. He could be useful.' 
'I will have him found. Will you come?' 
'You have not mentioned a price,' he pointed out. 
Karis grinned. 'One hundred in silver.' 
'That is agreeable. And what about him?' he asked, gesturing at the 
green-clad swordsman. 



'What about him?' countered Karis. 
'He wants to kill me. I do not relish being stabbed to death as I 
sleep.' 
'How dare you?' snapped Vint. 'I never murdered a man in my life. 
You have my word that our duel will wait until we return. Or is my 
word not good enough for you?' 
'Is his word good, Karis?' asked Tarantio. 
'Yes.' 
'Then I agree. I won't kill him until we return.' 
Vint's handsome face lost its colour. 'You are an arrogant man, 
Tarantio,' he said, 'but it would be wise to remember the old adage 


- never a horse that couldn't be rode, never a man that couldn't be 
throwed.' 
'I'll remember that when I find a horse I can't ride.' 
'Would either of you mind,' put in Karis, 'if I enquired as to what 
caused this enmity?' 
'A friend of his attacked Brune. Hit him from behind, then tried to 
kick him while he was unconscious. I stopped him. He drew a knife 
on me and I broke his arm. Should have killed him, but I didn't.' 
'That is not how it happened,' said Vint to Karis. 'My friend was 
dining when this . . . drunken savage ... attacked him for no 
reason.' 
'For what it is worth, Vint, I have never known Tarantio to lie. Nor 
have I ever seen him drunk. But that is beside the point. You are 
both strong men, the kind I would want with me on this mission. I 
will not however take either of you if you do not grip hands now, 
and swear to be sword brothers until we return. I cannot afford 
such hatred. While we are in Daroth lands, you must each be willing 
to risk your life for the other. You understand me?' 
'Why would he need a sword brother?' asked Vint. 'Surely he could 
master the Daroth on his own.' 

'That is enough!' snapped Karis. 'Shake hands and swear your oath. 
Both of you.' 
For a moment the two men sat in stony silence, then Tarantio rose 
and offered his hand. Vint stared at it for several heartbeats, then 
thrust out his own, and the two men clasped each other wrist to 
wrist. 'I will defend your life as my own,' said Tarantio. 
'And I likewise,' hissed Vint. 
'We will depart at dawn,' said Karis. 'If your man Forin has not been 
found by then, we will leave without him.' 
'I would like to bring my . . . friend . . . Brune,' put in Tarantio, as 
Karis moved towards her horse. 
She swung back. 'Can he fight?' 
Tarantio shrugged. 'No, General, but he has the eyes of an eagle. 
Trust me on this.' 
'As you wish,' she said. 



Chapter Seven 
Of all the joys Duvodas had ever known, this was the most intense, 
the most beautiful. In his young life he had summoned the music of 
the earth, and watched its magic flow across the land. He had 
healed the sick, and felt the lifeblood of the universe flowing in his 
veins. But here and now, as he lay beside his new bride, he felt 
complete and utterly happy. He stroked her long dark hair as she 
slept, and stared down at her beautiful face lit by the virgin light of 
a new dawn. Duvo sighed. 
The wedding had been joyous and raucous. Ceofrin had opened his 
tavern to friends, family and loyal customers. The food and drink 
were free, and Duvo had played for them. The priest had arrived at 
noon, the guests pushing back the tables so that he could lay the 
ceremonial sword and sheaf of corn upon the freshly swept floor. 
Duvo had put aside his harp and led Shira to the centre of the 
room. The words were simple. 
'Do you, Duvodas of the Harp, agree to this binding of soul and 
flesh?' 
'I do.' 
'Do you swear to value the life of this, your beloved, as you value 
your own?' 
'I do.' 
'Will you honour her with the truth, and bless her with love for all 
the days of your life?' 


'I will.' 
'Then take up the sword.' 
Duvo had never before held a blade, and he was loath to touch it. 
But it was a ceremonial piece, representing defence of the family, 
that had never been used in combat, and he knelt and lifted it by 
the hilt. The crowd cheered and Shira's father, Ceofrin, stood by 
misty-eyed as he did so. 
'Do you, Shira, agree to this binding of soul and flesh?' asked the 
priest. 
'I do.' 
'Do you swear to value the life of this, your beloved, as you value 
your own?' 
'Always.' 
'Will you honour him with the truth, and bless him with love for all 
the days of your life?' 
'I will.' 
'Then take up the sheaf, which represents life and the continuation 
of life.' 
She did so, then turned to Duvo, offering it to him. He took it from 
her hand, then drew her to him, kissing her. The crowd roared their 
approval, and the revelry began again. 
Now it was dawn, and Shira slept on. Dipping his head, he kissed 
her brow. Sorrow slipped through his joy like a cold breeze, and he 
shivered. 
The Daroth were coming. 
That was why he had changed his mind about marrying the girl 
beside him, for only thus could he guarantee her safety. Now when 
he left Corduin, she would be beside him, and he would take her far 
from the threat of war and violence. 
Rising from the bed, he took up his harp and sat by the window. 
Nervously he stroked the strings, reaching out 



for the harmony. He quite expected to feel nothing, and 
remembered a walk with Ranaloth through the gardens of the 
Temple of the Oltor. 
'Why did you raise me, Master Ranaloth?' he had asked. 'You do not 
like humans.' 
'I do not dislike them,' answered the Eldarin. 'I dislike no-one.' 
'I understand that. But you have said that we are like the Daroth, 
natural destroyers.' 
Ranaloth had nodded agreement. 'This is true, Duvo, and many 
among the Eldarin did not want to see a child of your race among 
us. But you were lost and alone, an abandoned babe on a winter 
hillside. I had always wondered if a human could learn to be 
civilized - if you could put aside the violence of your nature and the 
evils of your heart. So I brought you here. You have proved it 
possible, and made me happy and proud. The triumph of will over 
the pull of the flesh - this is what the Eldarin achieved many aeons 
ago. We learned the value of harmony. Now you understand it also, 
and perhaps you can carry this gift back to your race.' 
'What must I beware of, sir?' he had asked. 
'Anger and hatred - these are the weapons of evil. And love, Duvo. 
Love is both wondrous and yet full of peril. Love is a gateway 
through which hatred - disguised and unrecognized - can pass.' 
'How can that be so? Is not love the greatest of the emotions?' 
'Indeed it is. But it breaches all defences, and lays us open to 
feelings of great depth. You humans suffer this more than most 
races I have known. Love among your people can lead to jealousy, 
envy, lust and greed, revenge and murder. The purest emotion 
carries with it the seeds of corruption; they are hard to detect.' 


'You think I should avoid love?' 
Ranaloth gave a dry chuckle. 'No-one can avoid love, Duvo. But 
when it happens you may find that your music is changed. Perhaps 
even lost.' 
'Then I will never love,' said the young man. 
'I hope that is not true. Come, let us walk into the Temple and pay 
homage to the Oltor.' Together they had strolled through the 
entrance. The vast circular building housed hundreds of thousands 
of bones, laid upon black velvet cloths. Every niche was filled with 
them - skulls, thigh-bones, tiny metatarsals, fragments and 
splinters. There was little else here, no statues, no paintings, no 
seats. On a high table, laid upon a sheet of satin, were a dozen red 
stones. 'The blood of the Oltor Prime,' said Ranaloth. 'One of the 
last to die. His lifeblood stained the rocks below him.' 
'Why did the Eldarin gather all these bones?' Duvo had asked. 
Ranaloth gave a sad smile. 'They were a fine people, who knew the 
songs of the earth. We learned their songs; you now sing many of 
them. But the Oltor will sing no more. It is fitting that we can walk 
here and see the result of evil. This is what it means to confront the 
Daroth. How many hopes and dreams are trapped within these 
bones? How many wonders lie never to be discovered? This is what 
war is, Duvo. Desolation, despair and loss. There are no victors.' 
Now, in the quiet of the dawn, Duvo began the Song of Vornay - 
sweet and lilting, soft as the feather of a dove, gentle as a mother's 
kiss. The music filled the room, and Duvo was amazed to find that 
not only was the magic still there, but it had changed for the better. 
Where the power had been passive and impersonal, it was now 
vibrant and fertile. He was hard pressed to contain it, 


and found himself playing the Creation Hymn. As his fingers danced 
upon the strings he became aware of a nest upon the roof outside 
the window, and the young chicks within it. And below, from the 
alley, he felt the tiny, irrepressible music in the heartbeat of three 
new pups, born in the night. Duvo smiled and continued his song. 
Suddenly he faltered. 
The sense of magic was strong upon him and he realized, with both 
dread and longing, that new life was closer still .. . within the room. 
Putting aside his harp, he returned to the bed and lay down beside 
the still sleeping Shira. As the magic faded from his mind, he 
reached out one last time, and felt the tiny spark of what in nine 
months would be his child. 
His son ... or daughter. A sense of wonder flowed through him, and 
an awesome feeling of humility linked with mortality filled his mind. 
Shira awoke and smiled sleepily. 'I had such wonderful dreams,' she 
said. 

Sixty miles north-east of Corduin, in a moonlit hollow, Karis studied 
the ancient map. According to the coordinates they were less than 
twenty miles from Daroth One. They had seen no Daroth warriors in 
the four days since they left Corduin, but everywhere there were 
signs of panic: small villages deserted, columns of refugees fleeing 
for what they perceived as the safety of the city. 
The others were still asleep as the dawn sun rose. Karis added dry 
wood to the embers of last night's fire and gently blew it to fresh 
life. Autumn was fast becoming winter, and a chill breeze was 
blowing down from the mountains. 
The politician, Pooris, rose from his blankets, saw Karis by the fire 
and moved across to her. He was a small, thin man, bald - save for 
a thin circlet of silver hair above 


his ears. 'Good morning to you, Karis,' he said, his voice smooth as 
winter syrup. 
'Let us hope it proves so,' she said. He smiled, but the action did 
not reach his button-bright blue eyes. 
'May we speak - privately?' he asked her. 
'It does not get much more private than this, Pooris,' she pointed 
out. 
He nodded, then swung a glance to the sleeping warriors. Satisfied 
they could not hear him he turned again to the warrior woman. 'I 
am not blessed with physical bravery,' he said. 'I have always been 
frightened of pain - suffering of any kind. I fear the Daroth.' He 
sighed. 'Fear is not a strong enough word. I cannot sleep for 
worrying.' 
'Why tell me this?' 
'I don't know. To share, perhaps? Is there some secret to your 
courage? Is there something I can do to bolster my own?' 
'Nothing that I know of, Pooris. If trouble comes, stay close to me. 
Follow my lead. No hesitation.' She looked at him and smiled. 'Bear 
this in mind also, councillor -not many cowards would volunteer for 
a mission such as this.' 
'Are you frightened, Karis?' 
'Of course. We are all riding into the unknown.' 
'But you think we will survive?' 
She shrugged. 'I hope that we will.' 
'I have often wondered what constitutes heroism,' he said. 'Tarantio 
and Vint are sword-killers. Most people would call them heroes. But 
does heroism come naturally to swordsmen?' 
Karis shook her head. 'Heroes are people who face down their fears. 
It is that simple. A child afraid of the dark who one day blows out 
the candle; a woman terrified of the pain of childbirth who says, "It 
is time to 


become a mother." Heroism does not always live on the battlefield, 
Pooris.' 
The little councillor smiled. 'Thank you, lady,' he said. 
'For what?' 
'For listening to my fears.' He rose and walked away through the 
trees and Karis returned to studying the map. While the Duke's men 
searched for Forin she had spent her time in the library, reading 
everything she could find about the Daroth. It wasn't much. She 
had widened the scope, investigating stories - myths mainly — of a 
race of giant warriors said to have inhabited the north country. 
Perhaps these tales were also of the Daroth. 
None of the research material she had found had supplied a clue as 
to what action she should take when they approached the Daroth 
city. Pooris had suggested riding with a flag of truce. Why should 
the Daroth recognize this convention? she had asked him. 
Forin - who, as Tarantio had told her, knew many stories of the 
Daroth - had only one suggestion. 'Take salt as a gift,' he said. 
'According to my father, who heard it from the Eldarin, the Daroth 
adore the taste. It works on their system like wine does with us.' 
Karis had taken heed. But in order to offer salt to the Daroth, they 
must first agree to speak. They had not spoken with Capel's men, 
but had attacked swiftly and without mercy. 
Pooris returned from the woods and began to neatly fold and roll his 
blanket. Forin awoke, belched loudly and sat up. He yawned and 
stretched; rising, he thrust his hand down the front of his leather 
leggings and scratched at his genitals. Then he saw Karis, and gave 
a sheepish grin. 'I like to check that the old soldier is still alive,' he 
said. Then he too strolled from the camp. He did not go as 


far as Pooris had done, and Karis could hear him noisily urinating 
against a nearby tree-trunk. 
Pooris reddened, but Karis merely chuckled. 'Do not be 
embarrassed, councillor,' she advised him. 'You are not among the 
nobility now.' 
'I rather guessed that,' he said. 


Tarantio and Brune joined her, then Goran and Vint. They 
breakfasted on oats they had found in an abandoned village. Goran 
and Vint sweetened theirs with honey; Tarantio ate his with salt; 
Pooris was not hungry. And Forin refused the oats, chewing instead 
upon his ration of dried meat. Brune ate his portion, scraping the 
last of the porridge from the bowl with his fingers. 
'I think we will see the Daroth today,' said Vint. 'They must have 
outriders. Have you come up with a plan yet, Karis?' 
Ignoring the question, she finished her meal, then cleaned her plate 
upon the grass. 'When we do see them, not one of you must draw a 
weapon,' she said at last. 'You will sit quietly while I ride forward.' 
'And if they attack?' asked Pooris. 
'We scatter and meet again here.' 
'It has the merits of simplicity,' observed Vint. Drawing his knife, he 
began to scrape away the bristles on his cheeks and chin. 
'Why bother to shave?' asked the red-bearded Forin. 
'One must observe certain standards,' pointed out Vint, with a self-
mocking grin. 'And naturally,' he continued, 'I want the Daroth to 
see me in the full bloom of my beauty. They will be so over-awed 
they will immediately surrender to us and swear fealty!' 
'Exactly my plan,' said Karis drily. 
She kicked earth over the fire, extinguishing it, then they saddled 
their horses and rode north. The boy, Goran, 



heeled his mount alongside Warain. 'Do you think my father is still 
alive?' he asked Karis. 
'There is no way to know,' she said, 'but let us pray so. You are a 
brave lad. You deserve to find him.' 
'Father says we don't always get what we deserve,' he pointed out. 
'He is a wise man,' said Karis. 
They rode on for more than two hours, cresting the low hills before 
the mountains and heading down through a narrow pass on to the 
broad grasslands. From here they could see the distant city. There 
were no walls around it, and the buildings were round, squat and 
ugly to the human eye. 
'Like a huge mound of horse droppings,' observed Forin. 
Karis heeled Warain forward and the small troop cantered on. 
As they approached the city, a line of twenty horsemen rode from it 
to intercept them. Karis felt a tightness in her belly. The horses 
upon which they rode were huge, eighteen hands, dwarfing even 
the giant Warain. She felt Warain tense beneath her. 'Steady, now,' 
she said, patting his sleek grey neck. 
The leading Daroth warrior drew his long serrated sword and rode 
at Karis. Untying the pouch at her belt, she rode to meet him with 
hand outstretched. His sword was raised, his oval jet-black eyes 
staring hard at her as she came abreast of him. Smoothly she 
extended her arm and offered him the pouch. Letting go of the 
reins, he took it from her and clumsily opened it. Salt spilled out. 
Placing a large finger into his beaked mouth, his swollen purple 
tongue licked out, wetting the tip. He dipped it into the salt pouch 
and tasted it. 
Re-tying the pouch, he slipped it into a pocket in his 


black jerkin, then returned his gaze to Karis. 'Why are you here?' he 
asked, his voice cold, sepulchral. 
'We come to speak with your leader,' she told him. 
'He can hear you. All Daroth can hear you.' 
'It is our custom to speak face to face.' 
'You have more salt?' 
'Much more. And we can deliver many convoys of it, fresh from the 
sea.' 
'Follow me,' said the rider, sheathing his sword. 
The city was unlike anything Tarantio had ever seen. The buildings 
were all spherical and black, unadorned and dull to the eye, built in 
a seemingly haphazard manner, yet all linked and joined by covered 
walkways. There were many levels of them, one atop the other. 
'It's like a huge bunch of grapes,' said Forin. 'How do they live in 
them?' 
Tarantio did not answer. As they rode on every building disgorged 
more Daroth, who stood silently watching the small cavalcade. The 
road was paved and smooth, the sound of the horses' hooves loud 
in the silence. 
'They are an ugly people,' said Dace. 
'Perhaps we look ugly to them,' observed Tarantio. 
Ahead were two tall spires. Black smoke drifted lazily from the top 
of both, forming a pall above the city. Tarantio sniffed the air. There 
was an odd smell about the place, sweet, sickly and unpleasant. 
The roadway widened and the group rode between two black pillars, 
heading towards a huge grey dome; the smoking spires were 
situated behind it. The Daroth riders peeled away, leaving only the 
leader, who dismounted before the round open entrance to the 
dome. 
'Stay with the horses,' Karis told Goran, as the group dismounted. 



'I want to find my father,' objected the boy. 
'If he is here, I will find him,' she promised. 
The Daroth entered the dome; Karis and the others followed. The 
councillor Pooris kept close to the warrior woman; his face was pale, 
his hands trembling. Tarantio and Forin were just behind them, 
followed by Vint and Brune. 
The huge building was lit by globed lanterns set into the walls, and 
Karis was amazed to find that no pillars supported the colossal 
domed ceiling. There were no statues or adornments. At the far end 
of the circular hall was an enormous table shaped like a sickle 
blade. Around it were some fifty Daroth warriors, kneeling on the 
weirdly carved chairs Tarantio had first seen in the Daroth tomb. 
'My father would have liked to see this,' said Forin. Tarantio could 
hear the fear in his voice, but the big man was controlling it well. 
Karis moved forward. 'Who is the leader here?' she asked, her voice 
echoing strangely. A series of clicks sounded from the Daroth, then 
a warrior at the centre of the table rose. 
'I am what you humans would call the Duke Daroth,' he said. 
'I am Karis.' 
'What is your purpose here?' 
'A delegation such as this is our way of showing our peaceful 
intentions. Let me introduce the councillor Pooris, who has a 
message from our Duke.' Turning, she gestured Pooris forward. The 
little man took a nervous step towards the table and bowed low. 
'My Duke wishes it to be known that he welcomes the return of the 
Daroth people, and hopes that this new era will bring trade and 
prosperity to both our peoples. He 


wishes to know if there is anything you desire from us, in the way 
of trade.' 
'We only desire that you die,' said the Daroth. 'We will not coexist. 
This is now a Daroth world. Only the Daroth will survive. But tell me 
more of the salt you offer.' 
Karis watched as Pooris faltered, feeling sympathy for the little 
politician. The Daroth's words were certainly not honey-coated, and 
left little room for further negotiation. 'Might I ask, sir,' said Pooris, 
'that you expand upon your decision? War is never without cost. 
And peace can bring riches and plenty.' 
'I have said what I have said,' the Daroth told him. 'Now I wish to 
hear of the salt you will send.' 
Pooris stepped forward. His hands were no longer trembling. 'The 
salt was offered in the spirit of peace. Why would we send it to an 
enemy?' 
'Trade,' said the Daroth Duke, simply. 'We understand that when 
you humans desire something that you cannot take by force, you 
trade for it. We will take the salt as trade.' 
'In return for what, sir?' asked Pooris. 
'We have more than a hundred of your older humans. We have no 
use for them; we will trade them for their weight in salt.' 
'Do you have a man here named . . .' Pooris swung to Karis and 
gave her a questioning look. 
'Barin,' she said. 
'He is here,' said the Daroth Duke. 'He is important to you?' 
'His son is with us. That is how we know he was captured by you. 
We would like him returned.' 
'He is owned by one of my captains. He does not wish to trade him; 
he will, however, allow you to fight for him.' The clicking sound 
came again from the gathered 



group. Karis took it to be laughter. All her adult life Karis had been 
skilled in the reading of men. The skull-faced Daroth were not men, 
but even so she could sense their contempt for the human 
embassy. In that moment she realized that their chances of leaving 
alive were slender at best. Under normal circumstances Karis was a 
cautious leader, but sometimes, she knew, recklessness could carry 
the day. Calmly she stepped forward, laying her hand on the 
shoulder of the councillor and drawing him back. 
'We did not come here to kill Daroth,' she said coolly. 'But if 
necessary we will do this. How does one challenge your captain?' 
'You already have,' said the Duke. 'He says he will fight the largest 
of you - the red-bearded one.' 
'I choose who fights,' said Karis, 'and I will not use my strongest 
warrior. It would be beneath him to fight a single Daroth. Before 
this duel takes place, however, Lord Duke, what are the rules? 
When my chosen fighter has killed your captain, do we then have 
possession of the man Barin?' 
'If you kill my captain you own all his possessions, for he is pod-lost 
and cannot live again.' 
'And we will be allowed to leave the city?' 
'Why would we keep you here? We know all we need to know of 
your puny race. Your young ones are sweet and tender, your old 
ones stringy. Who will you choose to fight for the human?' 
'Where is the captain?' she demanded. 
A Daroth rose from beside the Duke and Karis looked hard at him. 
The warrior was huge, barrel-chested and powerful. She swung to 
Tarantio and he nodded acceptance. 'I think your captain looks old 
and fat,' she said. 'I will therefore use my smallest warrior.' 
'When he dies,' said the captain, 'you will become mine. 


I will feast on you tonight, female. I will swallow your eyes whole.' 
Karis ignored him and walked back to Tarantio. 'Can you take him?' 
she asked, her voice just a whisper. 
'I can take anything that lives,' Dace told her. Drawing his short 
swords, he stepped out to meet the captain. The Daroth was 
carrying a long, serrated broadsword. As Dace took up his fighting 
stance he felt a hot stab of pain in his mind, like a flame searing up 
from his neck and into his cranium. He staggered back. 
'They are telepaths,' came the voice of Tarantio. 'Fight through the 
pain. I will try to block the fire.' 


Dace's anger swelled. Huge as the Daroth was, still he felt he 
needed the advantage of magic. You may be big, thought Dace, but 
you are a coward! The pain flared once more. 
'He is in here with us,' whispered Tarantio. 'He can hear us.' 
'I think I'll kill him now,' said Dace. He darted forward, ducking 
under a ferocious cut to slam his sword-blade into the Daroth's 
belly. The blade did not penetrate more than half an inch. Dace 
leapt back, swaying away from a slashing blow that would have 
opened him from shoulder to belly. 
'The armpit,' said Tarantio. 'Remember the tomb. They have no 
bone protection there.' 


The Daroth backed away, his elbows dropping protectively to his 
sides. 'Yes, I had remembered, brother,' snapped Dace. 'So good of 
you to remind our opponent.' The Daroth, now holding his blade 
double-handed, ran forward and sent a wicked sweeping cut which 
Dace parried. Such was the power of the blow that the smaller 
warrior was sent hurtling to the floor. As Dace rolled to his knees, 
the Daroth leapt towards him with 



sword raised. Dace switched his grip on his right-hand sword, 
holding it now like a dagger. He waited until the last moment, then 
surged upright, dancing aside as the serrated sword came down. As 
his sword slammed into the Daroth's armpit, plunging through 
muscle and tissue, a hideous croaking scream came from the 
captain, who stumbled and fell to his knees. Dace plunged his 
second sword into the Daroth's body, alongside the first blade, then 
levered it up and down. Milk-coloured liquid sprayed from the 
wound, drenching Dace. Dragging his swords clear he threw himself 
upon the dying Daroth's back and smashed again and again at the 
nape of the giant neck and the raised vertebrae showing there. The 
white skin peeled away, exposing bone. One of the vertebrae 
cracked, a second suddenly dislodging. The Daroth's head fell 
sideways. Dace delivered a tremendous blow to the neck, which 
snapped with a sound that echoed around the hall. The Daroth 
captain pitched forward from his knees, his face striking the stone 
floor. The fiery pain in his mind faded away, but still Dace continued 
to hack at the neck, his blows frenzied and powerful. The head 
rolled clear. 
'That is enough,' he heard Karis say. Dace blinked. He had an urge 
to rip out the Daroth's dark eyes and swallow them whole. Tarantio 
surged back into control. 
Karis walked to the sickle table and stood silently for a moment. 'As 
I thought, old and fat,' she said. 'I would like the man, Barin, 
brought out now. I will trade the rest of his possessions for the 
prisoners you hold. Added to this - upon my return to Corduin - I 
will also arrange a wagon of salt to be brought to the edge of your 
lands.' 
'I accept your trade, female,' said the Duke. 'You have entertained 
us well today. Come the spring - when the 


Daroth army descends upon your city - you will entertain 
us more.' 
'We will surprise you, my lord, I think.' 
'I do not believe so. The human who fought for 
you is unique. You do not have enough like him to 
trouble us.' Karis smiled. 'That remains to be seen. I look forward 
to your visit.' 

There were 107 captives, all of them past middle age, and several 
white-haired elders. They were herded out to the open ground 
before the dome, where Karis greeted them. The last to arrive was 
Goran's father, a burly man with dark curly hair and beard. Goran 
ran to him, and hugged him. Barin ruffled his son's hair, then 
looked up at Karis. 'We must leave quickly,' he said, his voice low. 
'There is no honour among these monsters. And their word is not 
iron.' 
Karis nodded, and led the refugees back along the main street of 
the city of domes. Daroth came from every doorway to stare at 
them as they made their way towards the grasslands. Karis noticed 
that all the Daroth eyes were fixed upon the lean figure of Tarantio. 
He had killed one of them in single combat, and all had felt the 
blows of his swords. 
They reached the outskirts of the city without incident and headed 
south. 'You must beware of warmth and pain in your mind,' said 
Barin. 'This will indicate they are reading your thoughts.' 
Karis passed the warning back to the others. 'What do you think 
they will do?' she asked the man. 
'The blood relatives of the Daroth cut down by your swordsman will 
follow you. They will try to take you alive, and keep you until the 
entombing. Then you will 


be fed to the wife of the Daroth your man fought - save for your 
heart, which will be placed in the coffin with the body of her 
husband.' 
'What did the Duke mean about pod-lost?' asked Karis. 
'The Daroth are virtually immortal. They exist in a single body for 
no more than ten years. Then, when the pods are ripe and a new 
form emerges, the old body is shed. Your man ended the life of the 
Daroth captain. Under normal circumstances he would have been 
born again, but his pod was either flawed in some way, or diseased. 
Whatever the answer, his immortality ended in that hall. Now his 
relatives will seek to avenge his passing.' 
'But why me?' she asked. 'Why not Tarantio who actually killed 
him?' 
'You are the leader. It was you who instigated the duel.' 
'What do you suggest?' 
'Head for high ground where the air is thin and cold. It affects the 
Daroth far more than us; they are heavy, and they do not like the 
cold.' 
'You know of such a place?' 
'There is a pass through the mountains - some twelve miles east of 
here. It is very high.' 
Once out of sight of the city, Karis led the column down into a deep 
gully, then changed the direction of travel from south to east. Vint 
rode alongside her. 'Where are we going?' he asked. 
Karis told him of Barin's warning. 'If they do come after us, I do not 
see how we can fight,' said Vint. 
'There is always a way to fight,' snapped Karis. 'My father had a pet 
python; he used to feed it with live mice. The python was around 
six feet in length. He made me watch the snake feed. It was . . . 
nauseating.' 


'What has this to do with the Daroth?' asked Vint. 
'One day a mouse killed the snake.' 
'I don't believe it!' 
'Neither did my father; he accused me of poisoning it. But it was 
true. I freed the mouse. I hope she had a long life, and gave rise to 
many legends among her kind.' 
Heeling Warain into a run, Karis circled the column and galloped 
back along the line of refugees where she swung into place between 
Tarantio and Brune. 'You fought well, my friend,' she said with a 
smile. 'You will become a legend. The Daroth Slayer, they will call 
you.' 
'Their Duke was right,' said Tarantio. 'We will not stop them in the 
spring. Shemak's Balls, Karis, they are tough to kill! I cannot see 
how men can defeat them. Their skin is like toughened leather, 
their bones stronger than teak.' 
'Yet you killed one.' 
Tarantio smiled. 'There are not many like me,' he said. 'For which I 
have - up to now - always been grateful.' When Karis told him of 
Barin's warning, Tarantio ordered Brune to ride to the crest of a 
nearby hill and watch for signs of pursuit. 
By late afternoon the refugees were exhausted, and the line was 
stretched out over several hundred yards. Brune had returned with 
good news, that the pursuing Daroth had headed off into the north. 
So far the ruse had worked. But they were still several miles from 
the pass, and Karis was loath to allow a rest stop. Forin and Vint 
gave up their horses to two old men and the convoy moved on, 
ever more slowly. 
At dusk they came to the foothills of the mountains, where Karis 
allowed the refugees to rest. Dismounting she walked among them. 
'I want you all to listen to me,' she said. 'The Daroth are following 
us and they are intent on slaughter. Ahead of us is a long climb, but 
it is a climb 


to life. I know you are all tired, but let fear add strength to your 
limbs.' 
The fear was there; she could see it in their eyes. One by one they 
pushed themselves to their feet, and moved out onto the slopes. 
Brune galloped his horse from the hills. 'They are three - maybe 
four - miles away,' he said. 'There are twenty of them.' 
Hearing this, the refugees began to run. 
Karis rode ahead of them, Tarantio, Brune and Pooris with her. At 
the top of the steepest part of the rise, she reined in and scanned 
the shadow-haunted pass. For the first 200 yards it rose gently, but 
then inclined sharply for another 200. Then the walls narrowed to 
less than fifteen feet apart. She rode Warain up the sharp incline, 
then dismounted. Huge boulders were strewn across the trail. 
Glancing up, she saw there were scores more precariously balanced 
on both walls of rock. With more time she could have set up an 
avalanche. But was there time? 
The first of the refugees staggered by her. Karis called out to them 
to help, then put her shoulder to a massive boulder some seven feet 
in diameter. Ten men sprang to help her, and slowly the huge stone 
began to move. 'Carefully now,' said Karis. 'We do not want to send 
it down on our own people.' Slowly they rolled the boulder to the 
edge of the rise. The refugees were streaming up the narrow 
incline; behind them, less than half a mile distant, came the Daroth. 
More than two-thirds of the refugees were behind her now, but 
around twenty were still struggling up the slope. Tarantio, Vint and 
Forin ran down to help the stragglers. Brune rode his horse down 
and lifted one old man across his saddle, galloping him back to 
safety. 
Bunched tightly, the Daroth charged. Eight people had still not 
reached the incline, as the Daroth bore down on 


them. A spear smashed through the back of the last man, tearing 
out his lungs. Karis swore. The surviving seven were doomed, and if 
she did not act swiftly the Daroth would reach the crest. 
'Now!' she cried, and the men beside her threw their weight against 
the boulder. For a moment only it refused to move, then it slowly 
rolled clear. Gathering speed, the enormous stone crashed against 
the right hand wall of the pass, careering off to thunder down the 
slope. 
The first to die was a refugee, his body crushed to pulp. Half-way 
up the slope, the Daroth saw the threat and tried to turn - but 
close-packed as they were, there was no escape. The boulder 
crashed into their ranks, smashing bones and killing horses and 
riders. Then it hammered against the wall of the pass, dislodging 
yet more rocks and stones which showered down on the Daroth 
below. A section of cliff sheared away, plunging down to block the 
pass. A cloud of dust billowed up, obscuring the carnage. 
One refugee came out of the dust, scrambling up the incline to fall 
at Karis's feet. The man had a gash to his head, and a broken arm. 
Friends helped him to stand and supported him. 
In the dying light of the sun the refugees watched as the dust 
cleared. Not one Daroth could be seen. 
'Let's go home,' said Karis. 

Karis led the refugees back to their ruined villages, where the 
ninety-three survivors picked their way through the debris, seeking 
what possessions they could find. There was little food, for the 
Daroth had stripped the storehouse and driven away all the cattle. 
Tarantio, Forin and Brune rode off into the valley to hunt. Karis, 
Vint and Pooris remained behind. The small politician had said little 


since their departure from Daroth One, and he sat with shoulders 
slumped, his back against the wall of the plundered storehouse. 
Karis sat down before him. 'What is troubling you, councillor?' 
He gave a weak smile. 'Look at all their faces,' he said, waving in 
the direction of the refugees as they searched through the 
wreckage. 'They are lost. Ruined. Not because their village has been 
attacked - such is the lot of farmers, I am afraid. They are lost 
because they have seen the enemy, and they know their world is 
gone for ever.' 
'They have not beaten us yet,' she said, but Pooris said nothing and 
Karis returned to where Vint sat by an open fire. 
'You did take a chance, lady,' he told her, with a grin. 'Supposing 
Tarantio had failed.' 
'Then we would be dead. But it wasn't that great a risk. As I told 
you before, I have seen him fight. Now you have too.' 
'He is a madman, Karis. I saw that, right enough. God's teeth, I 
would swear his eyes changed colour. It was like watching a 
different man.' 
'Still think you could take him?' 
He laughed aloud. 'Of course. I am invincible, dear lady.' Karis 
looked into his eyes, amazed to see that he meant what he said. 
She shook her head. 
'When we get back, if you will take my advice, you should go to the 
tavern where the incident took place and learn for yourself the truth 
of the matter. It would be folly to fight Tarantio for the wrong 
reason.' 
'I shall do as you say.' 

Four days later the farmer, Barin, was led into the library rooms of 
the Duke's private quarters. Karis and Vint 


were already seated there, as was the councillor Pooris. Barin had 
seen the Duke once before, leading a parade through Corduin, but 
never had he been this close to royalty. Albreck was an imposing 
man, with shrewd deep-set eyes and a hawk beak of a nose. Barin 
made a clumsy bow. 'Be at your ease, man,' said Albreck. The Duke 
turned to a servant standing beside him. 'Bring him a goblet of 
wine.' 
The servant did so and Barin stood staring at the goblet, which was 
fashioned from silver and inset with grey moonstones. Gold wire 
had been set into the silver in an elaborate swirl, making the letter 

A. The goblet, Barin realized, was worth more than he could earn in 
a year from his fields. He sipped the wine, and his spirits were lifted 
by the fact that it was thin and a little sour. Old Eris made better 
wine back in the village! 
'Now,' said the Duke, 'tell us all you can of the Daroth. It is of vital 
importance.' 
'I hardly know where to begin, sire. You already know they are 
powerful beyond belief.' 
'How do they live, how are they governed?' asked the Duke. 
'It is hard to say. They can communicate with each other without 
speech over large distances. As I understand it, their decisions are 
made communally. Instantly.' 
'Would you describe them as evil?' 
'Indeed I would, sire, for they do not understand the concept of evil 
- and in that alone they are terrifying. In the time I was with them, 
they killed and ate scores of young men and women. They cooked 
them over charcoal pits, first smothering them in clay. Most were 
alive when the cooking began. I will never forget the scenes; they 
are branded into my memory. They asked me why I did not eat. I 
told them that for us cannibalism 

was a vile practice. They did not — or would not -understand.' 
'Do they have religious beliefs?' asked Pooris. 
'They have no need of such, being virtually immortal. They live for 
only ten years, and twice in that time they create pods - giant eggs 


-in which they are reborn.' 
'What do you mean, reborn?' queried the Duke. 
'As I understand it, sire, when the young Daroth are ... hatched, 
they lie still, as if dead. The father, if you like, then moves to the . . 
. infant and a joining takes place. The old body withers and dies, 
the young body grows to full manhood in a matter of moments. All 
that is left is the empty pod and the withered husk of the former 
Daroth. This cycle happens twice in every Daroth lifetime: once for 
the father, once for the mother. And they go on ... and on.' 
'They told you all this?' put in Karis. 
'No. They drained my mind of all knowledge, but in doing so I could 
read theirs. I saw it, if you will.' 
'One aspect troubles me,' said Pooris suddenly. 'If the Daroth only 
breed to replace father and mother, how then does their population 
grow?' 
'There is a special season, once every fifty years,' explained Barin. 
'I cannot translate their name for it, but my own would be the Time 
of Migration. At this time the Daroth become hyper-fertile, if you 
will, and the pods can contain two or sometimes three infants. This 
last happened - in their time scale - four years ago; it led to the 
building of the city you call Daroth One. That is why the land around 
the city is so fertile. It has not yet had its heart ripped out.' 
Vint drew up a chair for Barin. 'Sit you down, man. You look 
exhausted.' 
Barin did so. 'Aye, sir, I am tired beyond belief.' 

'You say they have no concept of evil. What did you mean by this?' 
asked Albreck. 
Barin tried to gather his thoughts. 'I can answer it only as a farmer, 
lord. When the blowfly attacks a sheep it will kill it horribly, laying 
its eggs inside the living sheep. But the blowfly is not evil; it merely 
wishes to extend its life. The Daroth are like that, with the 
exception that they know the havoc they cause to other species. 
But they do not care. They do not love the land. They live only to 
live again. No music, no culture. They are parasites, their cities ugly 
and temporary. When they exhaust the land of all nourishment they 
merely move their cities to fresh ground. They are makers of 
deserts.' 
'What of friendship, camaraderie?' asked Karis. 'Do they have 
legends of heroes?' 
'No legends, lady, for they have lived for ever. They love to fight. 
Without an external enemy, they fight amongst themselves. But if 
one is slain his body is taken to the pod, and left there until the new 
body is born.' Barin talked for more than an hour, telling them of 
the Oltor and of their total destruction. 'They hunted the last of 
them through a mighty forest. I saw the Daroth slaughter them. 
The Oltor were a peaceful people, tall and slender, their skin golden. 
They had no weapons. And they were all exterminated.' 
'We are not Oltor, and we do have weapons,' said Karis. 
'They will not be stopped, my lady,' said Barin sadly. 'In the far 
distant past, when they warred upon one another, they created 
engines of great destruction. Giant catapults that could smash down 
the walls of a castle, battering-rams to breach any gate. With one 
blow they can cut a man in half. They are deadly beyond our 
imagining.' 
'Yet we killed them when they came after us,' Karis reminded him. 


'You will not hold Corduin, my lady!' 
'Let us talk of weaknesses,' said the Duke sternly. 'What do they 
fear?' 
'Deep water, my lord. They are too heavy to swim, and they abhor 
boats. Also, perhaps because of their great weight, they do not 
function well at high altitudes where the air is thin. Lastly, there is 
the cold. They need heat; in winter they become lethargic and 
slow.' 
The evening wore on until at last Duke Albreck rose and approached 
Barin. 'You have done well, farmer,' he said, tossing a pouch of gold 
coins which Barin caught. 'You are welcome to stay in the palace 
until you can find a new home.' 
'Thank you, lord,' said Barin, rising. 'But, by your leave, I shall take 
my son to Loretheli and travel to the islands.' 
'As you will. Though I understand it will be safe here until the 
spring.' 
'Not so, my lord. A Daroth army of more than five thousand was 
sent out two days before the Lady Karis arrived. I do not know their 
destination.' 
'If it had been Corduin, we would know by now,' said Karis. 
Albreck walked to the far wall and stared at the ancient map 
hanging there. 'There can be only one destination,' he said, 
stabbing his finger towards the map. 'The Lord Sirano is, I fear, 
about to reap the harvest of his ambitions.' Dismissing the others, 
he bade Karis stay. That she was a superb leader of men he already 
knew; that she was a whore was meaningless to him. Men who had 
a hundred lovers were admired. Albreck could see no reason why 
the situation should be so different with a woman. What worried 
him was something far more serious. 
She was still dressed in her travel-stained clothes and 


he bade her sit opposite him. She was a striking woman, he 
thought, with a leanness that ought to have made her appear 
masculine, yet somehow emphasized her femininity. 'I shall have 
my tailor attend you,' he said. 
Karis laughed. 'I am not looking at my best, my lord,' she admitted. 
'I shall speak frankly. I am considering asking you to conduct the 
defence of Corduin. Yet I am troubled.' 
'I am more suited to moving campaigns,' she said. 'But I do have 
experience of sieges.' 
'That is not what troubles me, Karis. I do not doubt your talents; I 
doubt your temperament.' 
'You are a plain speaker, my lord. How does my temperament 
offend you?' 
'It does not offend me. I am not easily offended. I had an elder 
brother - did you know that?' Karis shook her head. 'He was a fine 
man, but he loved danger. When we were children he once climbed 
to the palace roof, and ran along the top of the parapet. My father 
was furious, and asked him why he had done it. Did he not realize 
that one slip, one gust of wind, and his life would have ended? You 
know what he said, don't you?' 
'Yes, he told him that was why he did it.' 
'Exactly. The moment of madness, the exultation that comes with 
spitting in the eye of death.' 
'This is something you have experienced, my lord?' she asked him, 
surprised. 
'No. Never. But that is what my brother told me. Two months before 
my father died my brother travelled with some friends into the high 
country where there was a mountain which no man had ever 
climbed. My brother climbed it; he was killed in a rock slide on the 
way down. There was no need to climb that mountain; it achieved 
nothing. And he died.' 


'And you think I am like your brother?' 'I know that you are, Karis. 
You live your strange life on the edge of an abyss. Perhaps you are 
a little in love with death. But my city is in peril. To defend it will 
require dedication, constancy and skill.' 
Karis was silent for a moment, remembering first the time when she 
stood naked on the crumbling balcony in Morgallis, and then the 
issuing of the challenge to the Daroth leader. She looked in the 
Duke's hooded eyes. 'You can rely on me, my lord. I know that 
what you say of me is true. I do, perhaps, love death, and I am at 
my most content when standing upon the edge of the abyss.' She 
laughed. 'Therefore, where else would I choose to be than Corduin? 
The abyss is coming - black and terrifying. In the spring it will be 
just outside the walls.' 

When Karis had fled the city, Giriak had experienced two emotions. 
The first had been disappointment, for in his own way he had loved 
the warrior woman. Unlike any lover he had known Karis fired his 
blood, and his feelings for her were rooted deep. The second 
emotion, however, had been joy, for Sirano had given him 
command of her lancers. Giriak had always known he was as good a 
leader as she. Most of her victories, he believed, had been achieved 
due to his part in them. This was what made the current situation 
so galling, for since she had gone he had led two raids on the south, 
both of which had gone disastrously wrong. They would, he knew 
with absolute certainty, have failed even if Karis had been the 
commander. He was sure of that, even if his men were not. 
The one quality, it seemed to Giriak, that Karis had enjoyed above 
all others was luck. That was the only difference; he told himself 
this time and again, as if the 


constant repetition would make it true. All his life he had been 
cursed by bad luck. At an early age he had discovered a talent for 
running and he had trained hard under the watchful eye of his 
father, the village blacksmith. But another boy had beaten him in 
the Shire Finals after Giriak had stepped into a rabbit hole and 
twisted his ankle. Dark and handsome he had even lost out in love. 
Gealla had been all that he had wanted; he had courted her, and 
won her heart. But one of his so-called friends had told her of his 
illicit liaison with another village girl, and she had spurned him and 
married another. Even as a soldier Giriak had been overlooked - 
except by Karis. She had promoted him to be her second in 
command and here he had excelled, despite her occasional 
meddling in his decisions. 
Giriak stepped down from the saddle and tethered the gelding. Then 
he climbed the rampart steps of the north wall, where the veteran 
Necklen was supervising repairs. The Lord Sirano - thank the Gods - 
had ceased using his magic on the Eldarin Pearl, and the minor 
earthquakes no longer struck the city. Not that it mattered much, 
thought Giriak. Morgallis was pretty much deserted anyway. Of the 
85,000 people who had inhabited the city four months ago, now 
only around 5,000 remained. The rest had fled south to Prentuis 
where, according to rumour, they were housed outside the city in a 
huge camp of canvas tents. 
All across Morgallis, taverns and shops were closed and boarded up. 
'Almost there, Captain,' said Necklen, wiping sweat from his thin 
face and grey beard. 'The gap is filled, but the whole wall is riddled 
with cracks.' 
'There is no force to assail the city,' said Giriak, gazing down at the 
work party, ferrying rubble and mortar to the wall. 'But Sirano 
wants the repairs done anyway.' 


'We should be moving on,' said Necklen, keeping his voice low. 'This 
is like a city of ghosts. The men are getting anxious. Most of the 
whores have gone, and that takes all the fun out of a city.' 
'We're still being paid,' Giriak pointed out. 
'That's true, but it doesn't matter a damn if there's nothing to spend 
it on. Some of the lads are talking of desertion.' 
'Which ones?' 
Necklen gave a wry smile. 'Now, now, Captain, you know I'm no 
whisperer. I'm just alerting you to the prospect. They think Karis 
may have made it to Prentuis. They liked her, they want to serve 
her again.' 
Giriak sat down on the battlements. 'I am as good as she. You know 
that, don't you?' 
'You are a good man, Captain. Brave, loyal, steadfast.' 
'Why does that sound like an insult?' asked Giriak, surprised at his 
own lack of anger. Of all the men who served under him, Necklen 
was the one he trusted most. Soft-spoken and loyal, he was an able 
lieutenant. 
'It wasn't meant to be,' said Necklen. 'She is special, you know - got 
the mind for it. She could smell trouble when it was just a tiny seed. 
Put a halt to it before any knew there was a problem. That's why 
she made it all look so smooth. You and she were a wonderful 
team. But face it, Captain, it is not so wonderful without her.' 
Giriak sighed. 'If any other man but you said those words, I would 
kill him.' 
'The truth always has a bitter taste,' observed Necklen. 'I was there 
when she first learned to command. A group of us had been 
assigned to reinforce a garrison town. Soon after we arrived it was 
besieged. That was when Beckel 


was in command. He was all right, but he had one big problem; he 
was too intelligent.' 
'How could that be a problem?' Giriak asked. 
'Oh, it is a killer, Captain. Believe me. A man needs to know his 
limitations and that requires a certain humility. Beckel could 
multiply numbers in his head, recite ancient writings from memory, 
and knew every strategy ever used. But he couldn't lift them out of 
context. No imagination, you see. And that's what wins battles and 
wars. Imagination.' 
'How did Karis come into the story?' 
Necklen chuckled. 'She was his whore. When the siege started she 
came with him one day to the battlements. The enemy were cutting 
down trees. Beckel told her they were building siege towers. "The 
ground is too uneven," she told him, and she was right. No force on 
earth could have propelled towers over that landscape. "Catapults," 
she said. Then she shaded her eyes and scanned the walls and the 
land beyond. She pointed out where she thought they would raise 
the catapults, and the section of wall they would aim at. We'd been 
amused at first, but a little irritation came in then. Like, who does 
she think she is? You know what I mean, Captain?' 
'Ay, I do,' said Giriak. 
'Well, then she asks why we're not storing enough water. "'Cos 
there's a stream flowing through the garrison," says I, "and it has 
never been known to go dry." She just looked at me for a moment. 
You remember that look? Kind of still, as if she were studying you? 
Then she says: "It will dry up fast enough if the enemy block it 
behind those hills." Two days later that's just what happened. And 
they placed the catapult where she said they would. Beckel used 
her a lot after that, and when he was killed we just sort of turned to 
her for leadership.' 


'Why are you telling me this, old friend?' 
'I think maybe we should all go to Prentuis and seek her out. You'd 
be happier; you love the woman.' 
Giriak pushed himself to his feet. 'You tell the lads that she won't be 
in Prentuis. She'd have cut west to Corduin. She knew Sirano would 
want her dead.' 
'If you knew that, why did you send the riders south?' 
Giriak shrugged. 'Love or stupidity - one or the other.' 
'Both, maybe,' said Necklen, with a wry smile. 'By the way, the 
scouts you sent north have not returned. They are overdue by a 
day.' 
'They probably found a village full of young women,' said Giriak. 
'Perhaps. But Mell was leading them, and he's steady as they come; 
you can always rely on Mell. It could be that some enemy 
mercenaries have slipped by us.' 
'Send out a rider,' ordered Giriak. 
'Son of a whore!' hissed Necklen. 'Is that the Duke?' Giriak swung 
round to see Sirano striding down the road towards the rampart 
steps. His blond hair was lank and greasy, his face unshaven and 
his eyes fever-bright. He ran up the steps, his movements quick 
and jerky. Necklen saluted, but the Duke ignored him. 
'The enemy is coming,' said Sirano. 'Gather your men.' 
'What enemy, my lord?' 
'We need archers: thousands of them, lining the walls.' Sirano stood 
stock-still, unblinking, his gaze fastened on the north. 'And 
cauldrons of oil. The best archers . .. with strong bows.' 
'We don't have a thousand archers, my lord,' said Giriak. 'Who is 
the enemy?' 



'This will be the spot; this is where they will attack. Tell your 
archers to wait until they are well within range. They have very 
tough skins. Strong bones. Send Karis to me. We must plan.' 
Giriak and Necklen exchanged glances. Giriak stepped up to the 
Duke, taking him by the arm. 'How long since you slept, my lord?' 
'Sleep? I have no time for sleep. They are coming, you see. I 
brought them back. It was never my intention, Giriak. Never!' 
'Sit you down, sir,' said Necklen, taking the Duke's other arm and 
leading him to a bench seat. Sirano sat, but then swivelled and 
stared out over the ramparts. 'They will be here tomorrow, with the 
dawn,' he said. 'I have made a terrible mistake. And I cannot put it 
right. But the bowmen can. Fill the walls with them.' 
'I'll do that, my lord,' said Giriak, soothingly. 'But let us first get you 
back to the palace. You need rest.' 
He led the unresisting Duke back down to the lower level, then 
helped him to the saddle of his own gelding. With a wave to 
Necklen, he led the horse back along the deserted streets. 


Chapter Eight 
Sirano lay trembling on his bed, his body racked by painful sobbing. 
He had not cried since he was a child, but now all his defences had 
been torn apart like paper. Clea, who had loved him, was dead, 
sacrificed by him in order to gain the power of the Pearl. The 
Eldarin, who had offered no harm to the human race, had vanished. 
And now had come the crowning glory of his achievements: the 
return of the Daroth. Sirano lay on the broad bed, hugging the 
Eldarin Pearl to him. 'Come back to me, old man,' he pleaded. 'For 
pity's sake, come back!' 
Exhausted, he fell into a deep sleep full of bad, hurtful dreams. He 
saw his mother killed again and again, and watched his father die, 
the snake wriggling in his throat. Worse than both of these, though, 
was the vision of the overweeningly arrogant man he had become, 
plunging the world into war. And for what? To prove his father 
wrong? To show that he, Sirano, was a towering figure in human 
history? 
He awoke, and found himself lying not on his bed but on a field of 
green grass, surrounded by the scent of spring flowers. The 
madness brought on by exhaustion and lack of sleep had passed, 
and he was himself again. Beside him sat the silver-furred Eldarin 
elder. The creature had huge, dark eyes, that radiated sorrow. 
'Why am I here?' asked Sirano. 


"Why indeed?' answered the spirit. 
'I did not know the Daroth would come. You cannot blame me.' 
'I do not apportion blame, human. You were warned, and you chose 
to ignore the warning. Who would you blame? You are a student of 
history. You know the Eldarin do not lie.' 
'But I didn't know! If you had told me about the Daroth I would 
have desisted.' 
'Would you?' 
Sirano stayed silent. 'Where did you go?' he asked at last. 
'Where do you think? The Eldarin exist within the Pearl, held frozen, 
awaiting the Day of Awakening. Just as we did with the Daroth. You 
loosed the chains that held the Daroth captive. But only one living 
man can free the Eldarin.' 
'Tell me what to do, I beg of you! Advise me!' 
The Eldarin shook his head. 'The situation is beyond my advice, 
Sirano. As of tomorrow, Morgallis will be destroyed. Nothing you 
can do can save it, nor save the thousands who still inhabit it. 
Death and destruction are upon you, and I pity you and all who 
serve you. Now go from here. And do not return.' The Eldarin waved 
his hand dismissively. Sirano felt a jolt, as if from a fall, and awoke 
again in his own bed. It was dark, and his body was cold. He 
crawled under the covers, shivering. 
He lay there for half an hour, but as the sky lightened he pushed 
back the covers and moved to his study. From a large jar on the 
shelf above the window he took a dozen small glass balls, which he 
placed in a canvas bag. This he slung across his shoulder, and made 
his way down the stairs to the huge cellar beneath the great hall. 
There were hundreds of barrels here, scores containing lantern 


oil, others filled with brandy or fortified wine. One by one he placed 
ten of the glass globes among the lantern oil barrels. Lastly he 
turned on the taps. There were no drains here, nowhere for the 
liquid to go save to slowly cover the stone floor. 
Moving upstairs and out into the night, Sirano ran through the 
deserted streets, heading for the north wall. 
Giriak was there, with around 40 bowmen and some 200 soldiers. 
Sirano ran up the steps. 'Are they here?' he asked. 
'They will be soon,' said Giriak. 'According to our scout there are 
thousands of them. They are not human, Sirano.' 
The Duke ignored the lack of formality. 'They are Daroth,' he said. 
The men gathered around him began to whisper amongst 
themselves. 'We cannot hold here,' Sirano told Giriak. 'The city is 
finished. Get your men back from the walls. Rouse as many of the 
citizens as you can, and try to reach Prentuis. Do it now!' 
'What are you going to do?' Giriak asked. 
'I'll stay and talk to them. Perhaps we can reach an agreement.' 
'You hired me and my men. If you wish us to stay and fight, we 
will.' 
Sirano smiled, and clapped the warrior on the shoulder. 'You are a 
good man, Giriak. You are all good men. Go now, and live!' 
For a moment only Giriak stood his ground, then he swung away. 
'You heard the Lord Sirano. Let's go!' Gratefully the warriors left the 
walls, leaving Sirano alone. 
The sky was lightening now, the bright stars fading into the grey. 
The dawn sun crept over the eastern mountains, bathing the city in 
gold. Sirano sat on the ramparts and gazed back over Morgallis. 
Some of the buildings were 



ancient, built with love and care centuries before. This was his city. 
And he had destroyed it. 
He hoped Giriak would rescue most of the city-dwellers, but knew 
that was unlikely. These last few thousand had endured 
earthquakes and war; they would not leave their homes. The lucky 
ones would die under the swords of the Daroth. The young and 
tender-faced a different fate. 
Sirano was alone. Not a human in sight. Suddenly he realized he 
had always been alone. This moment before the storm epitomized 
his life. The child ignored by the man he thought was his father, had 
grown into a man apart. Incomplete. Unfinished. 
And self-pitying, he realized . .. 
The sun rose higher, the land awakening. Sirano looked at the 
distant tree-line, waiting for the Daroth. As a child he had gone 
hawking in those woods, hunting rabbit and pigeon. He had swum 
in the streams, and climbed the tall trees. And in a glade, near the 
centre, he had played the mighty hero - fighting imaginary foes, 
defending his people. 
Now the game was real and, unlike his childish fantasies, doomed to 
failure. 
The first of the Daroth riders emerged from the woods. They came 
in a line, fifty abreast, and rode slowly towards the city gates. 
Sirano climbed to the ramparts and looked down on the riders. 
Creatures out of nightmare, colossal and unreal, they moved 
forward in silence. From the woods came thousands of foot-soldiers. 
There were no battle cries, only the slow drumbeat of their boots 
striking the ground in perfect harmony. 
'What do you want here?' called out Sirano, as the first of the riders 
neared the wall. 
The Daroth did not reply. Forty foot-soldiers dragged a bronze-
headed battering-ram forward, lining it up against 


the gates. They swung it back, then thundered it forward. Sirano 
heard the splintering of the wood, and felt the impact on the 
parapet under his feet. Taking one of his remaining two glass 
globes, he hurled it down. It smashed against the ram. Fire 
exploded outward, engulfing the Daroth. Their armour glowing red, 
they staggered back, slapping at the flames which sprang from their 
clothing. Some fell, and not one of their comrades ran forward to 
help. The stricken Daroth blazed like torches, and died where they 
fell. 
Forty more Daroth made their silent way to the smouldering ram. 
Four times it swung - and the gates gave. Sirano ran down the 
steps as the Daroth swarmed through, then sprinted along the 
street, heading for the palace. Daroth riders galloped after him. 
He was breathing heavily when he reached the long, tree-lined 
avenue which led to the palace building, and could hear the 
pounding of hooves behind him. Swinging round, he threw the last 
of his globes. It struck a rider in the chest. Flames enveloped him. 
The huge horse reared, throwing the Daroth back from the saddle. 
Sirano sprinted on, up the twelve steps to the main doors and on 
into the Great Hall. At the far end, beneath a huge stained-glass 
window, was the Ducal Chair, carved from mahogany and inlaid 
with ivory and silver. Upon it was the Eldarin Pearl. 
Sirano ran to the chair and, taking the Pearl in his hands, sat down. 
Drawing in a deep breath he shouted out a single Word of Power. 
Below the Hall one of the globes scattered in the oil ignited, the 
flames spreading quickly across the cellar floor, licking at the 
wooden barrels. 
Daroth warriors swarmed into the Hall. 'Welcome to Morgallis,' said 
Sirano, with a broad smile. 'Who is your leader?' 


The Daroth approached him, spreading out in a wide circle. He 
stared at their bone-white features and their dark, soulless eyes. 
'Afraid to speak?' he asked them. 
A towering figure stepped from the ranks. 'I am the general,' it said. 
'And tonight I shall feast on your heart.' 
'I think not, you ugly whoreson! But let it not be said that Sirano did 
not give his guests a warm welcome.' Rising, Sirano shouted once 
more. All the remaining globes flared into life, the heat rising like a 
volcano. Beneath the feet of the Daroth the huge flagstones shifted. 
A wall of flame seared out. Then came a second explosion that tore 
the walls asunder, collapsing the roof. 
Sirano, his clothing ablaze, was hurled up and back, his burning 
body smashing through the stained-glass window, where it crashed 
into the upper branches of a willow tree in the Ducal gardens. He 
fell through the branches into a deep pond. 
His body a sea of pain, he dragged himself from the water and, still 
clutching the Eldarin Pearl, staggered out into the street beyond. 
Behind him a tower of flame was roaring up a hundred feet, through 
the broken roof of the palace. 
The Daroth army swept on towards the south, sacking villages and 
towns, until they reached the outskirts of Prentuis. There for the 
first time they came up against a human army, of 2,000 horse, 500 
bowmen and 3,000 foot-soldiers. The humans were cut to pieces, 
the army scattered. The carnage inside the city was awful to 
behold, and the few survivors who made it to Loretheli on the coast 
told grisly stories of the massacre, and the terrible feasting that 
followed it. 
In less than a month two of the great cities of the Four Duchies had 
fallen to an inhuman enemy. The Duke of 


The Marches had been killed on the battlefield outside Prentuis. Of 
the Duke of Romark there was no news. 
The snows came early, and the Daroth withdrew. But no-one had 
any doubts that the spring would bring fresh terror. 



Chapter Nine 
Brune's fever was high, his body sweat-drenched. The elderly 
doctor leaned over him, closely examining the yellow-gold of his 
skin. 'It is not the plague,' he told Tarantio. 'But I do not like his 
colour; it suggests the blood is bad. However, I have bled him and 
leeched him, and there is little more that I can do.' 
'Will he live?' 
The doctor shrugged his thin shoulders. 'To be honest, young man, 
since I do not know what ails him I cannot say. I have seen yellow 
skin like this in patients before. Sometimes it indicates the kidneys 
are failing, at other times jaundice or yellow fever. In this case I do 
not know. You say the colour of his eyes was caused by the 
magicker, Ardlin. Were I you, I would seek out the magicker, and 
find out what he has done.' 
'He left Corduin,' said Tarantio. 
'As well he might. I have no time for magickers: a tricksy bunch, if 
you take my meaning. Now a man knows where he is with leeches. 
They suck out the vileness. Nothing magical there.' 
Tarantio showed the man to the door, paid him, then returned to 
the bedside. 'You should have made him eat his leeches,' said Dace. 
'The man was an idiot.' 
'There was something in what he said. I think this illness is down to 
the magicker. You saw Brune's eyes. 


Both are golden now. There was no magic orb; it is just a spell of 
some kind. And it is spreading over him.' 
'Yes,' said Dace cheerfully, 'it is - and we should have killed Ardlin 
too.' 
'Is that your answer to everything, brother? Kill it?' 
'Each to his own,' said Dace. Brune groaned, then spoke out in a 
language Tarantio had never heard. It was soft, lilting and musical. 
Tarantio sat beside the bed, laying his hand on Brune's fevered 
brow. He was burning up. Fetching a bowl of warm water, he drew 
back the covers and bathed Brune's naked body, allowing the 
evaporation to cool the skin. 'He is losing a lot of weight,' said Dace. 
'Maybe you should cook a broth, or something.' 


Brune's golden eyes opened. 'Oh, it hurts,' he said. 
'Lie still, my friend. Rest if you can.' 
'I am cold.' 
Tarantio felt his brow again, then he covered him with blankets and 
walked out to the kitchen area. The young woman he had hired to 
cook for them had fled when Brune's fever began. There was no 
food in the house. Returning to the bedroom, Tarantio built up the 
fire then threw his cloak around his shoulders and walked out into 
the snow. It was a long walk to the Wise Owl tavern and he was 
frozen long before he reached it. Snow had begun to fall again, and 
his shoulders and hair were crowned with white. 
He rapped on the door and Shira opened it. Stepping inside he 
brushed the snow from his shoulders. 'I am sorry to trouble you,' he 
said, 'but I have a friend who is sick, and there is no food. Could 
you prepare something for me to take back?' 
'Of course,' she said brightly. As she turned away, he saw that she 
was pregnant. 
'My congratulations to you,' he said. 



She reddened. 'We are very pleased, Duvo and I.' 
'Duvo?' 
'The Singer. You remember?' 
'Ah yes. I wish you both happiness.' 
'Sit down by the fire and I will fetch you some mulled wine while 
you wait.' She limped away towards the kitchens. Tarantio removed 
his cloak and squatted by the fire. He shivered as the heat touched 
him. Staring into the dancing flames he began to relax, and did not 
hear the soft footfalls behind him. But Dace did, and surged into 
control - rising and twisting, his sword flashing into his hand. 
A lean, blond-haired man with green eyes stood there. 'I am 
Duvodas,' he said. 
'You're lucky not to be a dead Duvodas,' said Dace. 'What are you 
doing sneaking up on people?' 
'I was not sneaking, Tarantio. You were lost in thought. Shira tells 
me you have a sick friend and I was wondering if I could help.' 
Dace was about to spit out a reply when Tarantio dragged him back. 
'Are you skilled in medicine?' he asked. Duvodas said nothing for a 
moment, but his eyes narrowed. Tarantio wondered if, somehow, he 
had seen the transformation. 
'I know a little of herbs and potions,' Duvodas said. 
'Then you would be most welcome at my home. I have become 
rather fond of Brune. He is not the brightest of men, but he is 
honest and he doesn't talk much. And forgive me for my earlier 
rudeness. I have lived too long amid wars and battles. People 
appearing silently behind me usually wish me harm.' 
'Think nothing of it, my friend.' 
Shira returned with a canvas shoulder-bag, bulging with food. 'This 
should keep the wolf from the door for a day 


at least. Come by tomorrow, and I will have a hamper for you.' 
Tarantio offered to pay, but Shira refused. 'We still owe you a meal 
for the day you left, sir. Pay me for tomorrow's food.' 
Tarantio bowed, then accepted the bag which he slung over his 
shoulder. Donning his cloak, he made for the door. Duvodas walked 
out into the snow with him. Tarantio looked hard at the man, who 
was wearing only a shirt of green cotton, thin leggings and boots. 
'You will freeze to death,' said Tarantio. 
'I like the cold,' said Duvodas, and the two men strolled out into the 
snow-covered street. An icy wind was blowing against them as they 
walked, the snow swirling round them. Tarantio glanced at 
Duvodas, wondering that the man seemed oblivious to the cold. 
Twenty minutes later Tarantio pushed open his front door and 
stepped inside. The living-room fire had burned low and he added 
fuel. 
'You are a strange man,' he said. 'Were you raised in a cold 
climate?' 
'No. Where is your friend?' 
'In the first of the back bedrooms.' 
The two men walked through the house and found Brune mumbling 
in his sleep. 'Do you recognize the language he is speaking?' asked 
Tarantio as Duvodas sat by the bed. Brune suddenly began to sing, 
and the room was filled with the scent of roses. Then he groaned 
and was silent. 
'Where did that scent come from?' asked Tarantio. 'No rose blooms 
in the snow.' 
'What magic was worked on this man?' asked Duvodas. Tarantio 
told him of the damaged eye and the visit to Ardlin. 
'I did not see what he did. But Brune's eyesight is now 
phenomenal.' 


'He is not dying,' said Duvodas. 'He is changing.' 
'Into what?' 
'I cannot say for sure. But the magic is powerful within him, and it 
is growing.' Brune's golden eyes opened and he stared at Duvodas. 
The Singer took his hand and spoke in the Eldarin tongue. Brune 
smiled and nodded; then he fell asleep once more. 
'What did you say to him?' 
'I thanked him for his song and the scent of roses.' 
'Can you do anything to help him?' 
'No. He needs no help from me. Let us leave him resting.' Duvodas 
returned to the living room and sat down by the fire. Tarantio 
offered him wine but Duvodas refused, requesting water instead. 
Tarantio brought him a goblet, then sat down opposite him. 
'You are the man who killed the Daroth,' said the Singer. 'I have 
heard of you. The whole city has heard of you. You make the enemy 
seem mortal.' 
'They are mortal.' 
'They once destroyed an entire race,' said Duvodas. 'Wiped them 
out. Now they are lost to history. I was once in a temple that 
housed their bones. They were called the Oltor; they were Singers, 
Musicians and Poets. They believed the Universe was the Great 
Song, and all life within it merely echoes of the melody. Their music 
was magical, their magic was music. Their cities were said to be 
gardens of great beauty, at one with the land, harmonious and 
joyful. The Daroth destroyed the cities utterly, dashed the statues 
to dust, burnt the paintings, tore up the songs. They are devourers, 
these Daroth. They live to destroy.' 
'I am not a student of history,' said Tarantio, 'but I know how to 
fight. The Duke has commissioned new weapons, powerful 
crossbows that can put a bolt through six inches of teak. We will kill 
a lot of Daroth.' 


'Sadly, that is probably true. There will be a lot more killing,' said 
Duvodas, 'but I shall not wait to see it. Shira and I will be leaving as 
soon as the snow melts. I will take her to the islands, far away from 
the war.' 
'One day the Daroth might reach them,' said Tarantio. 'What will 
you do then?' 
'I shall die,' replied Duvo. 'I am not a killer. I am a Singer.' 
'Like the Oltor? A race that will not fight does not deserve to live. It 
is against nature.' 
Duvodas rose. 'I was taught that evil always carries the seeds of its 
own downfall. One can only hope that it is true. When your friend 
awakes, feed him no meat and give him no wine. Give him bread, 
hot oats or dried fruit. And plenty of water.' 
'Meat makes a man strong,' observed Tarantio. 
'It will make him vomit,' said Duvodas. 
'What is it that you are not telling me?' Tarantio asked. 
'If I knew for certain, I would tell you. I will call again when he is 
awake.' 


'Again!' shouted Karis, and began to count slowly. The fifty 
crossbow-men placed the heads of their black bows on the icy 
ground and began to turn the iron handles on both sides of the 
stock. By the time Karis had reached the count of twelve, they had 
notched the thick rope. Sliding bolts into place, they hefted the 
heavy weapons, rested them on the long support tripod, and took 
up their positions. The last man was ready as Karis reached fifteen. 
'Shoot!' she called. 
Fifty black bolts flashed through the air to hammer home into 
targets of solid oak set thirty paces from the bowmen. Karis loped 
across the target field. The bolts had all struck home, but not 
deeply. 



Vint strolled across to where she stood. 'The accuracy is fine,' he 
said. 
'The penetration is not,' she told him. 'At twenty paces the bolts 
smash through the wood. At thirty they barely scratch it.' 
'Then we wait until the Daroth are within twenty paces.' 
'Gods, man! Is your imagination dead? Yes, we will cut them down. 
Then, as the reloading takes fifteen seconds, they will be upon us 
before a second volley can be loosed. The Duke believes we can 
have five hundred crossbow-men ready by spring. We will need to 
kill more than five hundred Daroth.' 
Vint shook his head. 'That presupposes we will be facing them on 
open ground. Surely the majority of our crossbow-men will be 
shooting from the walls?' 
'The bows are too heavy for accurate use upon the battlements,' 
said Karis wearily. 'And shooting downwards lessens the target 
area. Two-thirds of the bolts would miss. We need something more. 
There must be another weakness we can exploit.' 
Strolling back to the waiting bowmen, she signalled them to load 
again and to shoot without the tripod support. Half the bolts missed 
the target. She kept them hard at work for another hour, then 
dismissed them. 
Back in the barracks building she studied the reports of the 
massacres at Morgallis and Prentuis. Sirano had destroyed his own 
palace, killing scores of Daroth in the process. The Duke of The 
Marches had been less successful. Reliable reports claimed that no 
more than fifty Daroth were killed in the battle. Several thousand 
trained men had been slain, and scores of thousands of civilians. 
A servant brought her a meal of black bread and soft 


cheese. She ate swiftly then donned a sheepskin jerkin and made 
her way to the stables. Saddling Warain, she rode the grey out 
through the northern gates and across the open ground before the 
walls. Pausing a hundred paces from the walls, she looked back, 
picturing the line of crossbow-men. Heeling Warain into a run, she 
began to count once more. Three times she made the run at the 
wall, watched by perplexed soldiers on the ramparts. Then she 
turned away from the city and rode into the hills. 
It was past dusk when she returned. Leading Warain to his stall, 
she rubbed him down with fresh straw, filled his feedbox with grain, 
and covered his grey back with a thick woollen blanket. 
Returning to her rooms, she found Vint waiting for her. 'Did you 
clear your head, Karis?' he asked, offering her a goblet of mulled 
wine. She drained it in a single swallow. 
There was a log fire blazing in the hearth. Karis moved to it and 
removed her wet, cold clothing. Vint crossed the room and began to 
massage her shoulders and neck. 'You are very cold,' he said, his 
voice husky. 
'Then warm me,' she told him. 
Later, as they lay naked beneath satin sheets and heavy blankets, 
Karis waited until Vint's breathing deepened, then slid silently from 
the bed and returned to the fire. It had died down and she placed 
two fresh logs upon it. 
In order to use the crossbows to maximum effect, the Daroth 
charge would have to be slowed. Three volleys would cause carnage 
in their ranks, but that would involve holding up the Daroth for 
almost a minute within a twenty-pace range. Karis drank two 
goblets of wine, and still felt no drowsiness. She thought of waking 
Vint for another session of love-making, but decided against it. He 
was a caring and thoughtful lover, taking his time 


and making the moments last. At this moment Karis did not need 
such drawn-out intensity. Instead, she donned fresh leggings and a 
white woollen shirt, buckskin boots and her hooded jerkin, and 
walked from the palace into the night. 
The streets were deserted and a bitter wind was blowing down from 
the north. Karis pulled her hood over her long dark hair, and turned 
down a side alley towards the Barracks tavern. Golden lantern light 
glowed from the windows and a rush of welcome heat enveloped 
her as she pushed open the door. There were two log fires burning, 
one at each end of the long room within, and the tavern was packed 
with soldiers. Karis scanned the room, spotting the red-bearded 
giant Forin sitting in a corner with a young whore perched upon his 
knee. 
Karis eased her way through the crowd and removed her jerkin, 
draping it over the back of the chair opposite the giant. 'We need to 
talk,' she said. 
'Will it take long?' he asked. 'I have plans for the evening.' He 
grinned up at the young whore, who forced a laugh and stared at 
Karis with open hostility. 
'I want you to tell me everything you can remember of your father's 
stories concerning the Daroth. Everything!' 
'Can this not wait until the morning?' 
'No, it cannot,' said Karis. The young whore, sensing her payment 
receding, leaned forward, her face showing her anger. But before 
the girl could speak Karis drew her dagger and slammed it point 
first into the table. 'One wrong word from you and I shall cut your 
tongue out,' she said, her voice icy. The whore's painted mouth 
dropped open, fear replacing her anger. 'Now go away and find 
another client,' said Karis. 'There are plenty to choose from.' 
The girl slid from Form's lap and moved away into the 


crowd. Forin drained his tankard. 'You have lost me a night's 
pleasure,' he said. 
'And saved you a dose of the pox, in all probability.' 
Forin was about to reply when she saw him glance over her 
shoulder, his green eyes narrowing. Instantly alert to danger, Karis 
pushed back her chair and spun round. The young whore was 
approaching with two men. 'That's her! Pulled a knife on me, she 
did!' 
'That was a mistake, bitch,' said the first of the two, a broad-
shouldered young man with pockmarked features. 
'Not as bad as the mistake you are about to make,' Karis told him, 
noting that the second man held a short iron club. 
'Is that right?' he countered, lunging forward, his fist flashing 
towards Karis's face. She side-stepped suddenly and, thrown off-
balance, the man stumbled forward - to be met with a head butt 
that smashed his nose to pulp. He dropped like a stone. The second 
man grabbed Karis by the arm, hauling her towards him, but she 
spun and rammed her elbow into his chin. He staggered to his right, 
dropping the club. Karis took a step back, then leapt high, her 
booted foot cannoning against his face to catapult him back into the 
crowd. He fell heavily and did not rise. 
Forin moved alongside Karis. 'Perhaps we should continue our 
conversation somewhere private?' he offered. 
'Why not?' she told him. Forin took a candle from the table and led 
her through to the rear of the tavern and up a flight of rickety 
steps. There was a narrow corridor leading to three doors. Forin 
opened the first and stepped aside for Karis to enter. The room was 
small, gloomy and cold. There were no chairs, only a roughly 
crafted double bed with a thin mattress. Using the flickering candle, 
Forin lit a lantern which hung on a hook above the bed, then 


moved to the small hearth where a fire had been laid; this he also 
lit. 'It will be warm soon enough,' he said. 
She squatted down beside him, watching the firelight reflected in 
his green eyes. He was not a handsome man, she thought, but he 
had a quality that transcended good looks. Is it his strength, his 
size? she wondered. In the firelight he looked somehow larger, 
more impressive. Primal, perhaps? 'What are you thinking?' he 
asked her. 
'I was wondering what you looked like naked.' she said. 
'Wonder for a little longer,' he told her, with a broad smile. 'The 
room's not warm enough yet.' 
'Then tell me of the Daroth, for I need to find a weakness.' 
Forin sat back. 'There are none that I recall. You already know they 
do not like the cold, nor high places where the air is thin. They will 
not cross water if they can avoid it. But these things will not help us 
in Corduin. We are in low-lying land, the weather is clement in the 
spring, and there is no moat.' 
'Even so, I believe there is something else.' 
'Wishful thinking, perhaps?' 
'I do not believe so. It is something I have seen, and yet not 
recognized. Something that is perhaps too obvious.' 
'I am afraid you have lost me there.' 
'Tell me a simple story of how they live.' 
'You saw the city. They cluster together in domed dwellings. They 
cannot sit as we do, for their spines are thicker and less supple. 
They procreate without touching, the female laying an egg which 
the male fertilizes. There is no obvious difference between male and 
female. Both are equally strong, and - as we have observed - 
equally ugly. There are no children as such; the young emerge from 
their pods and grow within days to full-size adults, sharing the 


memories of whichever parent has died - if that is the term - beside 
the pod. They eat flesh, and require great amounts of salt.' He 
paused. 'Is this helping you?' 
'I don't know,' she admitted. The heat in the small room was 
growing, and Forin peeled off his shirt; his upper body bore many 
scars. As he rose and stripped off his leggings, Karis pushed the 
thoughts of the Daroth from her mind. 
His love-making was exactly what she needed - crude and powerful, 
animalistic and passionate - and Karis felt her body echoing his 
need. His arms slid under her shoulders, pulling her hard against 
him; his body smelt of wood-smoke and sweat. It was not 
unpleasant, as she had feared. As her body tensed and moved in 
rhythm with the man upon her, her mind relaxed, as if she was 
floating free of the carnal. In this curiously detached state her body 
drew strength from the massive figure above her, while the 
problems that haunted her faded from her consciousness. She was 
free. Nothing else existed. The world had shrunk to a grimy, firelit 
room above a noisy tavern. There were no problems to solve, no 
logistics to calculate, no plans to study. And she did not even need 
to consider the pleasure of the man, for he, she knew, was oblivious 
to her as an individual. It was the only true freedom Karis ever 
knew. 
Her legs locked about his hips, her nails raking his back, Karis found 
herself rising towards orgasm, which, when it came, sent her body 
into an almost painful series of spasms. Her head sank back onto 
the pillow and she closed her eyes, enjoying the small aftershocks 
that rippled through her system. Forin rolled from her and lay back 
with a sigh. For a long moment neither of them spoke, then Forin 
rose from the bed and moved to the fire. Karis watched him dress. 
'I'll get us both a drink,' he said, and left the room. 


After he had gone Karis also dressed. The room was warm now, the 
fire blazing. She moved to the small window and tried to open it, 
but the hinges were rusted and it would not budge. 
Not waiting for him to return, Karis made her way down the stairs 
and out into the night. 
Vint was still asleep when she returned, but she had no wish to 
climb in beside him. 
Stretching out on a couch, she dreamt of a green-eyed giant with a 
forked red beard. 


Tarantio rose with the dawn and moved through the silent house, as 
always enjoying the solitude, these brief moments without Dace. 
The kitchen was bitterly cold, the remains of yesterday's milk frozen 
in the jug. With a saw-edged knife he cut two thick slices of bread 
from a loaf, and carried them through to the living room. He had 
banked up the fire the night before, and the coals were still glowing. 
Tarantio toasted the bread and covered it with thick, creamy butter. 
I ought to be making plans, he thought. Corduin will not resist the 
Daroth. But where to go? The islands? What would I do there? He 
ate the toast and, still hungry, went back to the kitchen to cut more 
bread. The loaf was gone. 
Puzzled, Tarantio walked to the rear of the house, opening the door 
to Brune's bedroom. The bed was empty, and there was no sign of 
the young man. Retracing his steps he returned to the kitchen. The 
back door was still locked from the inside, the windows shuttered. 
Pulling back the bolts Tarantio opened the door. A blast of icy air 
struck him as he stepped out into the garden. 
Brune was sitting, naked, on the wooden bench. All around him 
birds were fluttering, landing on his arms, 



and head and hands, pecking at the bread he offered them. A wide 
circle of grass was all around the bench, without a flake of snow 
upon it, though the rest of the garden still lay beneath a thick white 
blanket. Tarantio pulled on his boots and walked out across the 
garden. The birds ignored him, continuing to fly around Brune. As 
Tarantio sat down he felt suddenly warm, as if Brune was radiating 
heat in defiance of the elements. 
The golden-skinned young man continued to feed the birds until all 
the bread was gone. Most of them flew away but several remained, 
sitting on his shoulders or on the back of the bench. They were, as 
was Tarantio, enjoying the warmth. 
Reaching out, Tarantio laid his hand on Brune's shoulder. 'You 
should come in,' he said softly. 
'I heard them call to me,' said Brune, his voice melodic and low. 
'Who called you?' 
'The birds. Up to two-thirds of their body weight can be lost on a 
cold night. They die in their thousands in the winter.' 
Suddenly Brune shivered and the cold swept in, bitter and deadly. 
He cried out, and the birds around him panicked and flew away. 
Tarantio helped him back into the house, taking him to the fire. 
'What is happening to me?' came the true voice of Brune. 'Why was 
I in the garden?' 
'You were feeding the birds,' Tarantio told him. 
'I am really frightened. I can't think. It's like there's someone else 
in me.' He was shivering, and Tarantio fetched a blanket which he 
wrapped around Brune's shoulders. 'I feel like I'm dying,' said 
Brune. 
'You are not dying. It's the magic that cured your eye. It's 
spreading somehow.' 


'I don't want this any more, Tarantio. I want to be what I was. Can't 
we get the magic taken out?' 
'I don't know. Tell me what you remember about feeding the birds.' 
'I don't remember nothing. I was asleep, and I had this dream. 
Can't remember much now. But I was in a forest, and there were 
lots of people - no, not people. They were all golden-skinned; they 
were . . . dying. Oh yes . . . there was Daroth there. Killing them. It 
was horrible. And then .. . there was nothing until I was sitting in 
the garden.' 
'How are you feeling now? Is there any pain?' asked Tarantio. 
'No. No pain. But. ..' Brune's voice tailed away. 
'What? Tell me!' 
'I'm not alone in here. I'm not alone.' 
'Of course you are not alone. I am here,' said Tarantio soothingly. 
'No, you don't understand. I'm not alone in my head.' Brune began 
to weep and Tarantio's anger flared, remembering the surprised 
look on the face of the magicker as he had entered the room. 
The sudden anger woke Dace. 'What is happening?' he asked. 
Tarantio told him. 'Someone else in his head? Sounds familiar,' said 
Dace.'I knew Brune would be an entertaining companion. Perhaps 
what you and I have, brother, is contagious.' 
'It is not funny,' said Tarantio sternly. 'Brune is frightened. He 
thinks he is dying.' 
'Everybody dies sometime,' said Dace. 
'I think the Singer knows more than he is saying,' said Tarantio. 'He 
is coming back today. I'll ask him.' 
'Let me ask him,' Dace urged. 
'Perhaps that will be necessary,' Tarantio agreed. 



Taking Brune by the arm, he led him back to the bedroom. 'Get 
some rest, my friend. You will feel better for it, I promise you.' 
Brune climbed back into the bed, drawing the blanket over him and 
resting his head on the pillow. 
'Look at his ear,' said Dace. Tarantio had seen it at the same time: 
the lobe was no longer smooth, but ridged like a seashell. 
'If I ever find that magicker I'll cut his heart out,' hissed Dace. 


The councillor Pooris stood shivering by the southern gate, counting 
the wagons as the oxen slowly hauled them into the city. The War 
of the Pearl had been a ruinous venture, disrupting trade, 
destroying farms, and taking young men from the fields and turning 
them into mercenaries. 
Even without the threat of the Daroth, Corduin was slowly starving 
to death. Corn was five times last year's price, and the city treasury 
was emptying fast. A census ordered by the Duke showed that 
almost 70,000 people were now resident in Corduin. Many were 
now starving, and crimes against individuals and property was 
soaring. 
As the last of the twenty-two wagons rumbled through the gate, 
Pooris ran alongside it and clambered up to sit alongside the driver. 
'I expected forty wagons,' said Pooris. 'That is what was promised.' 
The driver hawked and spat. 'This is all there is,' he said, brushing 
the ice from his beard. 'Be thankful for that.' 
'We paid for forty.' 
'That is not my problem, councillor. Take it up with the merchant, 
Lunder.' 
Pooris hunkered down inside his hooded sheepskin coat and thought 
of the city's bakers, who later tonight would 



be queuing at the warehouses. Forty wagons would have been 
barely enough to supply the bakers with half what was needed. 
Twenty-two would mean riots in the streets tomorrow. 
At Warehouse Street Pooris jumped down from the wagon and 
entered the small offices beside the guard gate. For several minutes 
he stood in front of a wood stove, warming his hands and thinking 
the problem through. The bakers were already rationed to 40 per 
cent of their needs. Now they would suffer a further 50 per cent cut. 
A young cleric approached him, offering a mug of hot tisane, heavily 
sweetened with sugar. Pooris thanked him. The man returned to his 
desk and continued to fill in the ledger, noting down the wagons 
and the time of their arrival. Pooris glanced around the room. The 
ill-fitting windows had been sealed with paper, which was now 
sodden and dripping water to the walls below. 'Not the most 
comfortable of working-places,' remarked Pooris. 
The young man looked up and smiled. 'I like it here,' he said. The 
cleric rose and donned a fur-lined cape. 'I must leave you, 
councillor. I need to check the unloading of the wagons.' 
'Of course. My thanks to you.' Pooris held out his hand. The young 
man shook it, then opened the door and stepped out into the snow. 
Pooris removed his coat and moved to the desk, scanning the 
ledger. The cleric's script was neat and easy to read. During the last 
two weeks some 320 wagons had been checked through, bringing 
corn, grain, salted meat, spices, dried fruit and wine from the 
islands. Almost all of the food had been shipped in through the port 
city of Loretheli, much of it arranged through the merchant Lunder. 
Flicking back through the pages, Pooris saw that the amount of food 
shipped had steadily decreased 


during the past three months, the prices rising in direct proportion. 
It was a simple economic law, Pooris knew, that when demand 
outstripped supply prices would take off like startled pigeons. 
The young cleric returned, and looked surprised to see Pooris sitting 
at his desk. 'Is there anything I can help you with, councillor?' he 
asked. Pooris glanced up, and saw the nervousness in the man. 
'I was just studying the shipments,' he said. 'We are fast 
approaching famine status.' 
'I'm sure the Duke will think of something, sir,' said the young man, 
relaxing. 'May I offer you another mug of tisane?' 
'No, I must be going.' Once more they shook hands. 'What is your 
name?' 
'Cellis, sir.' 
'Thank you for your hospitality, Cellis.' 
Pooris wandered along Warehouse Street, cutting through the 
narrow alleyways to the central avenue and thence to the palace. 
Ensconced in his own small office, he called in Niro, a spider-thin 
cleric with close-cropped, spiky black hair. 'What do you know of 
the man, Cellis, who works at the warehouse guard gate?' he asked. 
'Nothing, sir. But I shall find out,' Niro answered. 
'Do it now, as a matter of urgency,' said Pooris, removing his coat 
and hanging it on a hook set in the wall. For just over an hour 
Pooris worked through the tasks he had set himself for the day, 
compiling a list of armourers, and the various orders for swords, 
spears, crossbow bolts and armour placed with them, along with the 
delivery dates promised. He was almost finished when Niro 
returned. 
'I have some of the information you require, sir,' he said. 'Cellis has 
been working for us for two years. His 



father was a cobbler in the Southern Quarter, his mother a 
seamstress. He was educated by the Aver monks and passed his 
examinations with honours. He is not married, and lives in a hill 
house in Quarter Street. Was there more you wished to know, sir?' 
'A cobbler, you say?' 
'His father . . . yes.' 
'Does he own the house?' 
'I ... I don't know, sir.' 
'Find out.' 
Once again Pooris returned to his work. He called in a cleric and 
dictated several letters, including one to Lunder asking why the 
number of flour wagons had been fewer than expected. 
When Niro returned just before noon, he looked cold and his lips 
were blue. 'Sit you down, man,' said Pooris. Niro rubbed his thin 
hands together. Moving to the small stove, Pooris flicked open the 
door, allowing a rush of heat into the room. 
'Thank you, sir,' said Niro. 'Yes, he does own the house. He bought 
it four months ago for two hundred gold. It is a fine house, with 
stables in the rear and an apple orchard.' 
'How did a cobbler's son raise the capital necessary?' 
'I thought you'd ask that, sir; that's why it took me so long. He 
borrowed the money from . . .' 
'.. . the merchant Lunder,' finished Pooris. 
'Yes, sir,' said Niro, surprised. 'How did you know?' 
'Cellis wears a gold ring, set with an emerald the size of my 
thumbnail. No cleric could afford such a bauble. Go to the Hall of 
Records and find out how many warehouses Lunder owns or rents. 
Do it slyly, Niro. I want no-one to know.' 
'Yes, sir.' 



Pooris shut the stove door, put on coat and gloves and left the 
building, trudging through the snow towards the southern gate. A 
quarter-mile from the gate, he stopped at a row of terraced houses. 
They housed retired soldiers and their wives, and were a gift from 
the Duke - a reward for loyal service. Moving to the first he rapped 
on the door. There was no answer, and he walked to the second. 
When he knocked, an elderly woman called out from within, 'Who is 
it? What do you want?' 
'I am the councillor, Pooris,' he told her. 'I would appreciate a 
moment of your time, lady.' 
He heard the bolts being drawn back, then the door groaned 
inward. Stepping inside he bowed to the frail, white-haired old 
woman. 'They said I could stay here till I was dead,' said the 
woman. 'Said it was my right. I won't live in no poorhouse. I'll kill 
myself first.' 
'Be at ease,' he said softly. 'I have not come as a bailiff. Do you 
sleep well, my lady?' 
'Ay,' she said cautiously. 'Though not as deep as I used to.' 
'I was just wondering if the noise of the wagons disturbs you late at 
night.' 
'No,' she said. 'I sit at my window sometimes and watch them go 
by. I don't get out much now. Too cold for me. It's nice to watch life 
below my window.' 
'How often do they come through?' he asked. 
'Maybe three times a week. Great convoys of them.' 
'Did they come last night?' 
'Ay, they did. Three hours before dawn.' 
'How many?' 
'Maybe fifty. Maybe a little less.' 
'I thank you for your time.' He turned to leave. 'It is very cold in 
here. Do you have no fuel?' 
'The Duke's pension don't extend to luxuries,' she said. 



'My man fought for him for thirty years. He's dead now, and his 
pension is halved. I get food, though. As for the cold - well, I'm 
used to it.' 
'I shall see that coal is delivered to you before the day is out, my 
lady.' 
Pooris bowed once more, then stepped out into the cold, fresh air. 



Chapter Ten 
The cleric Cellis was arrested at his home and taken to the palace 
dungeons, where he was offered the choice between confession and 
torture. An intelligent man, and not without bravery, Cellis knew 
that following confession they would torture him anyway, and he 
chose to remain silent. 
Pooris, Niro, the Duke and Karis observed the beginning of Cellis's 
ordeal, then retired to the Duke's apartments. Niro was sent to man 
the small office at Warehouse Street. 
Just after dawn, with the stove recently lit and the room still cold, 
Niro was studying Cellis' neat ledger when the door opened and a 
tall, burly man entered. Bald at the crown, his receding black hair 
cropped short, he removed a cloak lined with expensive fur and 
stood before the stove. 'Where is Cellis?' he asked. 
'He has been taken ill, sir. I am Niro, and - temporarily one hopes - 
in charge here.' 
'Ill? He seemed in good spirits yesterday.' 
'Frightening, is it not, how swiftly the onset of illness can render a 
man incapable?' said Niro. 'How may I be of service, sir?' 
'I have a convoy due today. But I fear it may be delayed until after 
dark.' 
'I see, sir, and so you would like me to request written authorization 
for the guards to open the gates?' 


'We could proceed that way,' agreed the man, pulling up a chair and 
sitting down opposite Niro. He was wearing a heavy silk shirt of 
blue, embroidered with gold thread, and a fur-lined waistcoat of soft 
grey leather. If Niro saved his meagre wages for half a year he 
could not afford to buy either garment. 'But it would be simpler,' the 
man continued, 'to find another solution.' 
'Another solution, sir? How can that be? The Duke's orders are 
specific. The gates are closed at dusk and there can be no traffic 
thereafter, save with written authorization.' 
'Indeed that is the case,' said the man. 'But, in my experience, such 
authorization takes time, and effort, and - ' he grinned ' - a man's 
weight in paperwork. I am sure there is a good reason for the Duke 
to create such a rule, but poor merchants like myself need to earn 
an honest crust. Often that means conducting one's business swiftly 

-especially with perishable food.' 
'I am sure that is true, sir,' said Niro, rising and adding two logs to 
the stove. 'However, my understanding is that there is no private 
trade in food at present. The Duke, through merchants like yourself, 
buys all available supplies to keep the city fed. Therefore, whatever 
food is contained in your convoy is already under the ownership of 
the Duke. Not so?' 
'In theory, that is the case . . . Niro, did you say?' The cleric 
nodded. 'Well, Niro, I can see that you are an honest man. Do you 
know how I can make such a judgement?' 
'Indeed I do not, sir.' 
'Your tunic cost around eight copper pennies. The cloak hanging 
from the peg was no more than three.' He glanced down. 'Your 
boots are worn thin, the leather poor quality. Only an honest man 
would wear them.' 
'I take your point, sir. But surely to take that point a 

step further, I would have to say that you are a dishonest man, 
since your silk shirt must have cost . . . ten in silver . . . ?' 
'Thirty.' The man gave a broad smile as he opened the pouch at his 
side. Removing two gold coins he laid them on the desk. 'Unless I 
am mistaken,' he said, 'your wage for the year is less than the 
amount you see here.' 
'You are quite correct, sir.' 
'Take the coins in your hand. Feel the weight and the warmth. Gold 
has a special feel, Niro.' 
The cleric's thin hand gathered the coins. 'So it does. So it does.' 
'My convoy will be here by midnight. There will be no need to 
register its arrival.' 
The man rose and swirled his cloak around his broad shoulders. 
'Might I know your name, sir?' asked Niro. 
'I am Lunder. Serve me well, Niro, and you will enjoy great fortune.' 
'I thank you, sir. And you have saved me a journey.' Niro opened 
the desk drawer and produced a folded sheet of paper bearing the 
Duke's seal in red wax. 'I was asked to deliver this to you this 
morning.' 
'What is it?' asked the merchant. 
'I have no idea, sir. I am not privy to the Duke's thoughts.' Lunder 
took the paper and broke the seal. Then he smiled. 
'I am invited to dine at the palace this evening,' he said. 
'Congratulations, sir. I am informed that the Duke's chef is 
exceptional.' 


The Duke's carriage - handsomely crafted from mahogany, and 
fitted with seats of luxurious padded leather - was drawn by six 
greys. Lunder sat back and enjoyed the ride. 



Velvet curtains kept out the winter wind and two copper warming-
pans full of hot coals hung from hooks in the roof, filling the 
compartment with gentle heat. 
Lunder was as happy as any man born in a crofter's hut could be to 
ride in such a carriage. He wondered what his father would think of 
him, if he could but see what a man he had become! A house with 
twenty-six servants, a mistress of great beauty, and a personal 
fortune greater even than the Duke's. All this, plus an estate in the 
islands should the Daroth prove to be the menace everyone feared. 
Lunder could hear the iron-shod wheels rattling over the cobbles, 
but inside the compartment there was little sense of movement. He 
gazed at the ornate panelling, wonderfully carved from red 
mahogany. I should have a carriage like this, he thought. And I will. 
His thick fingers reached into the pocket of his velvet coat, drawing 
out a gold necklace and a tear-shaped amethyst set in filigree gold. 
An ancient piece, it had cost him 200 silver pieces. The amethyst 
was a present for Miriac, who loved such baubles. He would wake 
her when he got back, and watch her bright blue eyes go wide with 
joy. It was not a cause of irritation for Lunder that Miriac's ardour 
could only be awakened by such gems. Lunder himself found the 
acquisition of fresh wealth a continuing aphrodisiac. Added to which, 
all the presents he gave her were, in fact, registered in his name at 
the treasury, with bills of sale. If ever he tired of her, all the jewels 
would be his again. 
He heard the driver call out to the horses and the carriage slowed to 
a stop. The journey had been much swifter than he had calculated. 
Surely they could not be at the palace already? He rapped at the 
small hatch. 'Why are we stopping?' he called. There was no 
answer. Pulling back the curtains, he gazed out onto a grisly sight. 
The 


carriage had stopped in Gallows Square. Torches were lit all around 
it, and in their flickering light he could see ten corpses hanging by 
their necks. 'Move on!' he shouted at the driver. This was no sight 
for a man about to dine. 
A figure moved to the carriage door, wrenching it open. A soldier in 
a plumed helm pulled down the steps. 'Out you get, sir,' he said. 
'What are you doing? I am a guest of the Duke; he is awaiting me.' 
'Indeed he is, sir. Now step down.' 
Lunder's mind raced, but he could think of no reason to refuse 
further. Taking hold of the door frame, he pulled himself upright 
and climbed down the steps. Duke Albreck was standing there, the 
councillor Pooris with him, and that fellow Niro from the warehouse 
offices. 
'Good evening, my lord,' said Lunder. 'I am at a loss . ..' 
'You recognize this man?' asked the Duke, pointing to the first of 
the corpses. It was Cellis the cleric. Lunder's mind reeled. 'You 
recognize him?' demanded the Duke again. The other corpses were 
sentries from the south gate. 
'Yes, my lord, but I assure you . ..' 
'Your assurances mean nothing, Lunder. You have defrauded me, 
and caused unnecessary suffering in Corduin. Your goods are 
forfeit; your lands are forfeit. Your wealth is forfeit.' 
Lunder was trembling now. 'My lord, I allow that I have been . . . 
lax in my dealings. But I never intended to defraud you. All the 
goods are waiting in my warehouses. I... I make a gift of them to 
you.' 
'They are already mine,' said the Duke coldly. 'Hang him.' 
Lunder heard the words - but could not believe them. 



'Sir, I beg you ...' he said, as two soldiers grabbed his arms and 
began to haul him towards the scaffold steps. As he reached them, 
he started to struggle, but a third man stepped forward and smote 
him hard in the face with a clenched fist. Lunder was half hauled up 
the steps. At the top his hands were tied behind him, a noose 
looped over his head and tightened around his neck. He began to 
sob, and scream for mercy. Then the floor gave way beneath him - 
and he dropped into darkness. 
'I do not understand why he did it,' said the Duke. 'He was already 
rich. The prices he charged me were exorbitant, and his profits 
must have been huge.' 
'For some men there is never enough wealth, my lord,' said Pooris. 
'He knew that when the official warehouses were empty, people 
would pay anything for his goods. By smuggling them in, he would 
claim they were purchased before your decree was made.' 
'I do not understand such greed,' said the Duke. 'But I understand 
the value of loyalty. You, Pooris, have done me a great service. You 
may have Lunder's house and his lands.' 
'I thank you, my lord,' said Pooris, bowing deeply. 
'And now my dinner awaits,' said the Duke, moving to his carriage 
and stepping inside. Niro approached Pooris. 'My congratulations, 
sir,' he said, with a bow. 
The little politician chuckled. 'Seventeen warehouses packed with 
food - enough supplies to last most of the winter, and the treasury 
fuller than at any time since the war began. A satisfactory day, I 
think.' 
'Indeed, sir.' 
'Are those new boots I see, Niro?' 
'Yes, sir. I bought them this afternoon.' 
'They look expensive.' 
'They were, sir. Compliments of the merchant Lunder.' 


'What a benefactor he proved to be,' observed Pooris. 
Early the next morning, Pooris rapped at the door of Lunder's 
house. Together with a troop of guardsmen, he entered the main 
hall and called for the Lady Miriac. She emerged from an upstairs 
room and, dressed in a gown of white, walked down the long 
staircase. Pooris marvelled at her beauty - the shining hair like spun 
gold, the porcelain loveliness of her skin. He took her into the main 
room and, as gently as he could, explained the circumstances of his 
visit. She sat demurely, saying little and showing nothing of her 
emotions. 
'So,' she said, when he had finished, 'Lunder is dead, and the house 
is yours. How soon must I leave?' 
'There is no need to leave, my lady,' said Pooris. 'In fact, I would 
very much like you to stay. I have brought with me a small gift for 
you.' 
Reaching into his pocket he produced Lunder's necklace, with the 
shining amethyst shaped like a tear-drop. With delight he saw her 
eyes sparkle, and her hand reach out. 

The walls of Karis's apartments were covered with sketches on 
paper. On the north wall were delicately drawn landscapes, showing 
the highlights of the land to the north of Corduin; the hills and 
valleys, the level ground close enough to the city walls for the 
Daroth to deploy catapults. On the west wall were sketches of the 
city's fortifications, the numbers of men needed to man the 
ramparts, the logistics of supplying them with food. On the south 
wall a huge map of Corduin itself, which Karis had marked with 
symbols denoting buildings to be used as hospitals or supply 
depots. 
She was sitting on the couch studying the reports submitted by 
Pooris, concerning the manufacture of 


crossbows and bolts. With luck, they should have almost 800 
weapons and more than 10,000 bolts by the first day of spring. A 
servant tapped on the door and entered, bowing. 'There is a man 
wishing to speak with you, my lady,' he said. 'He claims to be a 
friend.' 
'He has a name, this friend?' 
'Necklen, my lady.' 
'Send him in.' Karis rose, and hid her sense of shock as the wiry 
soldier entered. Skeletally thin, his eyes sunken, Necklan looked 
twenty years older than when she had last seen him. A blood-
soaked bandage covered the stump where his left hand had been. 
'Come in and sit down, my friend,' she said, then ordered the 
servant to bring food and wine. 
Necklen slumped to a chair and closed his eyes. 'It has been a 
murderous ride,' he said, his voice slurred with weariness. His head 
sank back and his breathing deepened. When the servant returned 
with bread, butter, cheese and smoked meat, Karis told him to fetch 
the surgeon. Moving alongside the silver-bearded warrior, she 
touched his neck, feeling for a pulse. His blue eyes opened and he 
gave a weak smile. 'I am not dead, Karis. Though by rights I should 
be.' With a groan he sat up. Karis brought him a goblet of red wine, 
which he drained. He reached for the bread with his left arm, then 
stared bemused at the stump. 'Damn, but I can still feel my fingers. 
Strange, isn't it?' Karis cut him two thick slices, which she buttered. 
Then she sliced a thick chunk of cheese. Necklen ate slowly, then 
leaned back once more. 'I was at Prentuis. I tell you, no-one should 
have witnessed the slaughter I saw there. We rode out against the 
Daroth. Giriak led the charge, but our swords were like willow sticks 
against them. I slashed my sword across the neck of one: it 
bounced off! Didn't even gash the skin. He struck my shield with a 
return blow which clove the 


shield in two and tore off my hand. Within moments we were 
ruined, cut down in our hundreds. I saw a Daroth with maybe ten 
arrows jutting from him, but still fighting, unaffected. You want to 
know about Giriak?' 
She did not, but she nodded anyway. 
'He died bravely. Killed one of them, lanced him through the body 
at full gallop. Then he was cut down. You would not believe how 
short a battle it was, Karis. Within a few minutes we were cut to 
pieces and fleeing for the city. Thousands died on that plain. I was 
with the few hundred that made it through the gates; we thought 
we might be safe behind those walls.' Necklen shook his head. 'They 
brought up huge catapults which they used with stunning accuracy, 
hitting the same section of wall again and again. They smashed two 
broad holes in the north wall, then surged through. They know no 
weariness, Karis: they killed and killed from midday to midnight. 
Men, women, babes. Shemak's Balls, it was terrifying! I hid in a loft. 
Me and three women. You could hear the screams outside for hours. 
We escaped through the sewers. I was almost delirious with pain. 
The surgeons had covered the stump with hot pitch, and the agony 
was indescribable. The women half-carried me. But we made it to 
the outskirts and fled south-west towards the coast.' His voice tailed 
away. 
'You need to rest,' Karis said. 'We will talk more in the morning.' 
Helping him up, she led him to her bed, undressed him and covered 
him with thick blankets. 
'Satin sheets,' he said, with a smile. 'How good . . . they feel.' 
He was sleeping when the surgeon arrived. The man felt for 
Necklen's pulse and the warrior did not stir. 'Exhaustion,' said the 
surgeon, 'but his heart is strong.' Carefully he unwrapped the 
bandage and examined the 


blackened stump. 'No gangrene. The wound is clean,' he 
announced, applying a fresh bandage. 'He needs red meat and wine 
to fortify his blood and hot oats to clean his system. Honey is also 
good for strength.' 
Karis thanked the man and offered payment. He shook his head. 'I 
am in the Duke's employ,' he said. 'He pays me well.' 
After he had gone, Karis sat down once more with her notes. But 
she could not concentrate. Karis had never been a sentimental 
woman, but she was touched by the arrival of Necklen. The little 
man, maimed and hurting, had made a journey of almost 600 miles 
with no other purpose than to reach Karis. He would have been safe 
in the port city of Loretheli, screened as it was by high mountains. 
Instead he had come to her. Necklen had never been one of her 
lovers, but she had always considered him a friend she could trust the 
kind of man she wished her father had been. Karis put aside her 
notes and walked to the window. The moon was high in the 
cloudless night sky, and the snow in the Ducal gardens shone with 
an eldritch light. The city beyond was silent and serene. 
The door opened and a cool draught touched her back. Karis turned 
to see Vint striding across the room. 'I hear you have a man in your 
bed, my dove,' he said. His voice was light, but the smoke-grey 
eyes showed no humour. 
'An old friend,' she told him. 'He was at the fall of Prentuis.' 
Vint unhooked his black sable cloak and draped it over a chair. 'Was 
it as bad as we feared?' he asked. 
'Every bit as bad. The Daroth breached the walls within a single 
day, and butchered the inhabitants.' 
Rubbing his hand over his trident beard, he turned away and 
poured himself a goblet of wine. 'I have seen those walls. Corduin's 
are no stronger, Karis.' 


'There is less level ground here,' she said. 'But I will worry about 
catapults and siege-engines when the snow begins to thaw. Until 
then there are enough problems to consider. Have you rearranged 
your duel with Tarantio?' 
He shook his head. 'I took your advice and went to the tavern. The 
story was as Tarantio told it. I have offered him my apology, which 
he accepted. Fairly gracefully, I might add.' 
'I am glad. I need you both alive.' 
Vint grinned. 'It touches my heart that you care so greatly for me.' 
'Do not be too overcome,' she warned him. 'If you are to die, then I 
would prefer it to be in a useful manner.' 
He stepped in close and made to stroke her hair. 'Not tonight, Vint,' 
she told him. 'Tonight I must make plans.' 
He spread his hands. 'As you wish. Is there any way in which I can 
help?' 
'I don't think so.' 
Vint gathered up his cloak, then strolled through to the back 
bedroom. He returned within moments, looking embarrassed. 'I see 
what you mean by old friend,' he said. 
'That he is. Good night, Vint.' 
After he had gone she returned to the bedside, where Necklen was 
sleeping deeply. Tenderly she stroked his hair. 'I am glad you are 
here,' she whispered. 


Ozhobar was a huge man with sandy hair and a chin beard that 
straggled like an old brush. He gazed at the sketch Karis offered 
him, then leaned forward, reaching into a pottery jar and drawing 
out a thick oatcake biscuit which he devoured swiftly. 



'Can you make such a catapult?' Karis asked him. 
'All things are possible,' he said. 
'I did not ask what was possible. Can you do it?' 
'There is no indication here as to what the arm is constructed from, 
nor the weight of the stones. You say the range is around two 
hundred paces?' 
'That is what Necklen tells me, and he is reliable. And it does not 
throw stones, Master Weapon Maker. It hurls balls of lead.' 
'Hmmm,' said Ozhobar. 'That is how they maintain accuracy. The 
weight of each ball is identical.' 
'Can you make it?' she repeated, her irritation growing as Ozhobar 
ate two more oatcakes, brushing the crumbs from his beard. 
'I think we can do a little better than that. I take it the purpose will 
be to destroy the Daroth catapults?' 
'That is my plan.' 
'We do not have the means to make lead balls of the size your man 
describes. I would suggest a small refinement. Pottery.' 
'Pottery?' she repeated. 'Glazed or unglazed?' 
'Sarcasm does not become women,' he said. 'In order for the 
catapult to be accurately used, it will be necessary to place it where 
the men operating it can see the enemy. That leaves three choices. 
The first places the weapon outside the city. This is not - one would 
imagine - to be desired, for the Daroth could charge forward and 
capture or destroy it. The second is to place it on the walls. The 
parapets are around twelve feet wide, therefore the machine would 
have to be small, hence restricting the range. The third choice 
would be to strip the roof from the barracks building by the north 
gate, and set our catapult upon a platform there.' 
Karis nodded. 'That sounds a good plan. But it does not explain your 
use of pottery.' 



'We make hollow balls and fill them with flammable material - rags 
drenched in lantern oil, for example. Lighter than lead, our range 
would therefore be increased. What I need to design is a method of 
ignition that would allow the men loading the machine to be safe. 
One wouldn't want such a ball exploding on the barracks roof.' 
'And you can do this?' 
'I will think on it.' He reached into the jar and took another cake. 
'They look good,' said Karis. 'May I try one?' 
'No, you may not,' he told her sternly. 'They are mine.' 
Swallowing her irritation, Karis thanked Ozhobar for his time and 
rose to leave. 'Come back and see me in three days,' he said. 'And 
send your man Necklen to me. I need to ask some more questions 
about the Daroth weapon. Oh yes . . . and we are running short of 
iron. I suggest you ask the Duke to requisition gates, old cooking 
pots, railings .. . you know the sort of thing.' 
'I'll see to it,' promised Karis. 
Outside it was snowing once more, but the temperature had lifted. 
Children were playing in the street, throwing snowballs at one 
another. Their squealing laughter lifted Karis's spirits as she strolled 
towards the practice field. 
There were already forty men present, the largest and the strongest 
in Corduin. Forin and the officer Capel were putting them through a 
series of tests. Karis stood in the shadows and watched as they 
lifted rocks, or bent bars of iron. Forin was moving among them, 
issuing orders and directing events. She found herself strangely 
hesitant about seeing him again. He had been ever-present in her 
mind since the night in the tavern. But why? He was not an 
exceptional lover. Poor dead Giriak had been just 


as powerful. Yet something had moved within her at his touch, as if 
a rusted lock, long unused and almost forgotten, had given way, 
revealing . . . revealing what, she wondered. 
This is nonsense, Karis, she admonished herself. The man means 
nothing to you. Put it down to the stress of the day. And, more 
importantly, cast it from your mind! She heard his laughter echoing 
across the field, the other men joining in. A donkey had strayed on 
to the field and taken a dislike to one of the contestants. It was 
chasing him, and nipping at his buttocks. Karis grinned - and 
regained her composure. 
Stepping into view she strolled to a picket fence. Forin saw her and 
ambled across to where she stood. 'Good morning, lady,' he said. 
His voice was even, his manner guarded. Karis was pleased that 
there was no wink, or leer; no forced intimacy. 
'How goes it, Forin?' 
'There are some powerful men here. All are anxious to win the 
pouch of silver. I'd like to try for it myself.' 
'Get me fifty strong men and I'll give you such a pouch.' 
'What do you need them for?' 
Karis climbed to the fence and sat back, looking down on the red-
bearded giant. 'At some point the Daroth will storm the walls. 
Nothing will stop that. I need men who can stand against them; 
they will be armed with heavy double-headed axes, with hafts and 
blades of steel. So it is not only strength I need. I want men with 
courage. You will lead them.' 
'Is this a promotion or a punishment?' he asked. 'Hand to hand 
against the Daroth? Not a thrilling prospect.' 
'It is a promotion. You will be paid well.' 



He stood silently for a moment. 'Why did you leave the other night?' 
'I had matters to attend to,' she said, keeping her voice cool. 
'And I had served my purpose? Ah well, I have used many as you 
used me. I have no complaint. I will find you your fifty men.' He 
turned away and strolled back across the field. 
Karis swore softly, then leapt from the fence and strode back 
towards the palace. 


'How are you feeling today, Brune?' asked Tarantio. 
'Better, thank you,' replied the golden-eyed young man. 'I slept 
well.' His voice too had changed, becoming more gentle, almost 
melodious. 
Tarantio sat down beside the bed. 'I have been concerned about 
you, my friend.' 
'You are a kind man, Tarantio, and I am in your debt.' 
'It is not him,' said Dace. 
'I know.' 


The sun was high in a cold, clear sky, and the bedroom was bright 
and warm. The fire still burned in the hearth, and the pale golden 
figure lay back with his head on the pillow, his body relaxed. 'Where 
is Brune?' asked Tarantio. 
'He is here with me. He is not frightened, Tarantio. Not any more. 
We are friends, he and I. I will take care of him.' 
'Who are you?' 
'Not an easy question to answer. I am the Oltor Prime, the last of 
my race. Does this mean anything to you?' 
'The Oltor were destroyed by the Daroth,' said Tarantio. 'Perhaps a 
thousand years ago.' 



'At least. Do not ask me how I came to be here, for I do not know. 
If I could leave I would. If I could surrender this body to Brune, I 
would. I have no purpose any longer.' 
The figure rose from the bed and stood, naked, in the sunlight 
streaming through the window. He was thin and tall, his six-
fingered hands long and delicate. His eyes were larger than human 
and semi-protruding, his nose small with the nostrils widely flared. 
'I stood in the forest on that last day,' he said sadly, 'and I watched 
my people die. I surrendered myself to the land. And I died too.' 
'Did you have no magic to use against the Daroth? Could you not 
fight?' asked Tarantio. 
'We were not death dealers, my friend. We killed nothing. We were 
not a violent people, we had no understanding of its nature. We 
tried to befriend the Daroth, helping them through the Curtain, 
giving them land that was rich and green and full of magic. They 
dug into it for iron, tore at it for food, and drowned the magic with 
their hatred. When we closed the Curtain on them, preventing more 
from joining them, they turned on us with fire and sword. They 
devoured our young ones, and slew the old. In despair we tried to 
run, to open the Curtain on another world. But the magic was gone, 
and before we could find new, virgin land they were upon us. I was 
not the Oltor Prime then. I was a young Singer, wed to a beautiful 
maiden.' 
'What does this title mean? What is the Oltor Prime?' 
'It is a difficult concept to verbalize in a tongue that is new to me. 
He - sometimes she - is the spiritual leader of the Oltor, possessing 
great power. When he died in the forest he turned and pointed at 
me. I felt his power course through my veins. But I surrendered it 
and died. Or so I thought. Somehow the magicker who tried to heal 
Brune brought me back. The "how" is a mystery.' 


'You say you surrendered your life. Did the Daroth not kill you?' 
'Yes, they pierced my hearts with harsh swords, pinning me to the 
ground. Then they struck off my head.' 
'I believe I know the answer,' said the voice of Duvodas, and 
Tarantio turned to see the Singer standing in the doorway. Dressed 
now in a tunic of green silk, his blond hair held in place by a gold 
circlet, Duvodas entered the room and bowed to the Oltor Prime. 
'Your blood soaked into the earth: the blood of the Oltor Prime. It 
lay in the stones. The Eldarin found them and took them back to 
Eldarisa, and they lay in the Oltor Temple for generations. Forty 
years ago one of the humans - allowed into the city for a special 
meeting - stole one red stone. It was for this reason that no human 
was ever allowed to enter again. I have spoken to some of the 
people cured by Ardlin, and they claim he held a block of red coral 
over their wounds. Used carefully, the magic would have no ill-
effect on the patients. However, Tarantio told me of Brune's 
healing. It seems that Ardlin lied - he told them he had a magic orb 
to replace the injured eye, but there was no orb. What he cast was 
a spell of disguise - of changing! In his haste he made an error - 
and released the essence that had remained in the stone for 
generations. He released you, Lord of the Oltors.' 
The Oltor Prime sighed. 'And here I stand - without purpose, or 
reason for being. Locked in my hearts are the histories of my 
people, each one of them. What am I to do?' 
'You could help us fight the Daroth,' said Tarantio. 
'I cannot fight.' 
'Even after they destroyed all your people?' 
'Even so. I am a Healer. It is not what I do, Tarantio; it is what I 
am. If I saw a wounded Daroth, I would heal 


it without a moment's hesitation. In that way I feed the land with 
magic. I create harmony.' 
'I call that the coward's way,' said Dace aloud. 'Life is a struggle, 
from the agonies of birth to the railing against death. Devour or be 
devoured. The law of the wild.' 
'This land was not wild until the Daroth came,' said the Oltor. 
'Did the lion not hunt the deer, leaping upon it, tearing out its 
throat?' 
'Yes, Dace, the lion did that, for that is the lion's nature. But at no 
time did the deer develop fangs and claws and rend the lion.' 
Dace was stunned by the use of his name. 'You can see the 
difference in us? You can tell us apart?' 
'I can. You were born in that terrible moment when a child, 
Tarantio, saw his father hanging from a beam. He could not face the 
sight, and in his terror he created a brother who could - a brother 
who could survive all the terrors the world could hurl at a child. You 
saved him, Dace. Saved him from madness and despair. Now he 
saves you.' 
'I need no-one to save me. I am Dace. I am the best there is, the 
best there ever was. Hell's teeth, I am the best there ever will be! I 
am not weak. When an enemy comes for me I slay him - human or 
Daroth, lion or wolf.' 
'And yet you wept when Sigellus was cut down. You tried to stop 
him duelling; he was drunk, his powers fading. You almost begged 
him to let you fight in his place. But he was proud. When he died, 
you felt as though a hot knife was being dragged across your soul.' 
Dace's hand flashed for the dagger at his belt. He staggered. 'I did 
not know that,' said Tarantio, his hand dropping to his side. 


'He lies!' shouted Dace. 
'There was never a need for lies in a culture that knew no violence, 
no anger, no despair,' said the Oltor. 'That is why the Daroth fooled 
us. They are telepaths, and they presented a mental wall through 
which we did not pass. It would have been discourteous to try.' 
'We are now facing the Daroth,' said Tarantio. 'Your help would be 
appreciated.' 
'I will heal your wounded, but more than that I cannot offer. I will 
rest now. Perhaps you would like to speak with Brune?' The Oltor 
closed his eyes. Brune opened them. 'He is very sad,' said Brune. 
'He wants to die.' 
Moving to his clothes, Brune dressed himself. His leggings were too 
short now, and his clothes hung upon his slender frame. He sat 
down by the window. 'Can you do nothing for him?' he asked 
Tarantio. 
'What can I do? He is the last of a dead race.' 
'But he's so sad,' said Brune. 'And he's my friend.' 
'Yesterday you were frightened,' said Tarantio, 'and rightly so. Can 
you not see that he is taking over your body?' 
'I don't mind,' said Brune. 'All my life I've been frightened. Never 
knowing what to do, what to say. So many things I couldn't 
understand. People. Wars. I couldn't remember things. Places. I 
used to get lost. I'm not lost now. He teaches me things, he looks 
after me.' 
Tarantio smiled, and patted Brune's shoulder. 'We all look after you, 
my friend. That is why we are concerned.' 
'I'll be all right, honestly I will. You won't let no-one hurt him, will 
you? He's not like us. He won't fight.' 
'I'll do what I can,' Tarantio promised. 



'He has knowledge that could end disease and famine,' said Brune. 
'The Oltor may be gone, but we humans could learn so much from 
him.' 
'If we survive the Daroth,' said Tarantio. 



Chapter Eleven 
Shira was nervous as she lay upon the bed, the golden creature 
sitting beside her. 'Do not fear me, child,' he said. 
'I have no fear of you, sir. It is just that it pains me to have anyone 
. . . view my deformity.' 
'I do understand, Shira. If you do not wish me to continue, I will 
understand that also. It may be that I can do little, for I have never 
encountered humans before.' 
She smiled at him, then looked to Duvo. 'Do you think I should?' 
she asked him. He nodded and Shira closed her eyes. 'Very well, 
then,' she said. Duvo moved to the bedside, his harp in hand. 
'There will be no need of actual music,' said the Oltor. 'The song I 
sing cannot be heard by you.' The scent of roses filled the room. He 
laid his slender, golden hand on Shira's brow and her breathing 
deepened instantly. 'She sleeps,' he said, drawing back the sheet. 
Shira was dressed in a simple cotton shift, which the Oltor raised to 
her hips. The deformed leg was ugly and twisted, the muscles 
knotted and misshapen like rocks under the skin. 
The Oltor Prime placed his hand on her thigh. Astonished, Duvo 
watched as the hand began to glow, becoming at first translucent 
and then transparent. Slowly it sank beneath the surface of Shira's 
skin. 'The bones of the thigh and shin were broken badly,' 
whispered the Oltor, 'and 


they have been set awkwardly and suffered severe calcification. The 
muscles around them are badly fibrotic, no longer wet tissue, and 
the tendons are now too short.' 
Duvodas tried to mask his disappointment. 'It was kind of you to 
examine her,' he said. 
'Be patient, my friend, we have just begun.' Shira's thigh was 
glowing now, and Duvo could see the Oltor's hand moving below the 
surface of the skin. There was a sudden crack, the noise like a 
whiplash in the quiet of the room. Duvo jerked at the sound. 
'What are you doing?' 
'Breaking the thigh-bone and re-setting it straight. It is difficult; it is 
taking longer than I had thought to heal and stretch the muscles.' 
Slowly the knots and lumps of Shira's thigh began to shrink. After 
an hour the Oltor removed his hand, and began again below the 
knee. 
As dusk approached, the room grew gloomy and Duvodas lit a 
lantern. 'How long now?' he asked. 
'Not long. Help me to turn her over.' Gently they rolled the sleeping 
woman to her stomach. 
'The leg looks perfect,' said Duvo. 
'It is, but the muscles of the lower back are also misshapen, as is 
the spine. This is natural after years of limping. I must be careful 
now, for your son must not be touched by the magic.' His hands 
moved over Shira's lower back, the long fingers gently kneading the 
flesh. At last he stood, and covered her with a sheet. 'You may 
wake her now,' he said. 
Duvo sat on the bed and took Shira's hand, kissing it. 'Wake up, my 
love,' he told her. Shira moaned softly, and yawned. Her eyes 
opened. 'Time to get up,' said Duvo. 
Sleepily Shira pulled back the sheet and allowed Duvo to help her to 
stand. There was no surprise as she straightened. 'This is a lovely 
dream,' she said. 


'It is no dream. You are healed, Shira.' The girl stood for a moment, 
then took several tentative steps. Ignoring both men, she sat back 
down on the bed and drew up her cotton shift, staring down at the 
now perfectly formed leg. She stood once more, then spun on her 
heel in a graceful pirouette. 
'She still believes it is a dream,' said the Oltor. 
'Perhaps you should pinch yourself, Shira,' suggested Duvo. 
'I don't want to wake up from this,' she said, tears in her eyes. 
'I can promise you that you will not,' Duvo assured her. Shira 
hesitated, then dug her nails into the palm of her hand. 
'It hurts,' she said. 'I am awake! Oh, Duvo!' She ran to him, 
throwing her arms around his neck. 
He kissed her, and held her close. 'You are thanking the wrong 
person,' he said at last, and Shira turned to the Oltor Prime. 
'I don't know what to say to you,' she said. 'I cannot believe it! How 
can I thank you?' 
'Your joy is enough, Shira,' the Oltor replied. 'I think the journey to 
Loretheli will be a little easier now. How soon will you be leaving?' 
'As soon as the weather begins to break,' Duvo told him. 'There are 
more than eight thousand people preparing for the journey. You 
should come with us.' 
'I think not,' said the Oltor. Looking down at Shira, he smiled. 'Your 
baby is strong and healthy, lacking nothing. His development shows 
he will be a lusty infant.' 
'A boy, then,' she said, taking Duvo by the hand. 'A son for you, my 
love!' 
Duvo sat down upon the bed, holding her hand in both of his. 'A son 
for us,' he corrected her. Releasing her hand, 



he stroked her raven hair. 'I cannot tell you how happy you have 
made me. And I cannot believe how I could think that love would 
destroy my music. Every day with you makes the power swell within 
me.' 
'I think you are embarrassing our guest,' chided Shira. 
'Not so, Shira,' said the Oltor. 'But I think I will leave you. Tell me, 
Duvodas, is there a place within this city where land magic still 
flourishes?' 
'Not with any strength,' said Duvo. 
'I feared not. You humans are similar to the Daroth, in that you 
draw magic from the land without replacing it. You carpet the 
ground with dead stone. It is not healthy.' 
'What is it that you need?' asked Duvo. 
'I need to touch the stars. There are truths I must find, and riddles 
which must be answered.' 
'There is a park close by,' said Duvo. 'Whenever I need to feel the 
magic, I go there. As I said, it is not strong, but then you are far 
more powerful than I.' 
'Will you take me there?' 
'I will. In summer it is a haunt of evil men - robbers and thieves. It 
is too cold for them now. We should be safe.' 
Hooded and cloaked, the Oltor Prime walked through the winding 
streets alongside Duvodas, coming into Gallows Square just as the 
moon emerged from behind a screen of clouds. The Oltor paused 
and gazed at the line of corpses hanging there. 'You find it so easy 
to kill,' he said sadly. 
'I have never killed,' Duvodas told him. 
'I apologize to you, Duvodas. But you cannot know how much pain 
such sights cause me. Come, we must move on swiftly. This place is 
like a Daroth city. It is not just that the magic has gone, but there 
is force here, like a 


whirlpool that devours. I can feel the power being leached from 
me.' They hurried on, through the park gates and up the ice-
covered slope to the small group of hills at the centre of the park. 
The Oltor Prime turned to look back at the glistening city. 'What will 
you humans do when you have drawn all magic from the land? 
What will you become?' he asked. 
'Perhaps we will also find a way to put it back,' said Duvodas. 
The Oltor Prime nodded. 'That is a good thought. Hold to it.' 
'You say that without conviction,' Duvodas pointed out. 'Do you 
believe we are incapable of finding a way?' 
The Oltor Prime shook his head. 'No, not incapable. Just different. If 
all the Oltor were struck blind, save for one man, then the rest 
would look to him for leadership. They would seek a way for all to 
see. You humans would not react in this way. The blind would be 
jealous of the man with sight, and seek to put out his eyes also. I 
learned much from Brune. There was a woman in his village when 
he was young. She had power; she was a Healer. But they burned 
her in a great fire, and rejoiced when they had done so. However, 
let us not dwell on such matters. Do not be concerned with what 
you are about to see,' he said. 'No human in the city below will 
observe it.' The Oltor walked to the highest point of the hill and 
knelt down in the snow. Within moments it had melted away and 
Duvo felt the warmth of a summer day radiating from the golden 
figure before him. The Oltor began to sing in a low, sweet voice, 
creating music more perfect than any Duvodas had heard. He sat 
down, lost in the wonder of the moment. 
A shimmering blue light grew around the Oltor, and Duvo sat 
amazed as he saw the creature's spirit swell out 


from his body, shining and wondrous, growing, filling the sky - a 
colossal, towering figure, whose gigantic arms reached out to touch 
the stars, cradling them in his palms. Flowers sprang into life 
around the Oltor's body - small snowdrops, yellow daffodils, shining 
in the bright moonlight. Time ceased to have meaning for the 
human, and as the music faded he felt a wrench, and a sense of 
great loss. Tears fell from Duvo's eyes and he fought back a wave 
of sorrow threatening to engulf him. The Oltor Prime laid his hands 
on Duvo's shoulders. 'I am sorry, my friend. The magic was almost 
too powerful for you. Be at peace.' The sorrow faded, replaced by a 
sense of melancholy. 
'I watched you touch the stars,' said Duvo. 'How I envy you that 
power!' 
'There is more to see, if you have the desire,' the Oltor Prime told 
him. 
Duvodas heard the sadness in his voice. 'What is it?' he asked. 
'I have the answers, Duvo, but they are painful. When the Daroth 
had destroyed my people, they set themselves to obliterate the 
Eldarin. Like us the Eldarin would not fight, but they honed their 
magic and cast a mighty spell.' Reaching out to the edge of the 
snow, the Oltor swept his hand across it, scooping it, then rolling it 
into a ball. This he tossed into the air - where it instantly vanished. 
'The Eldarin spell ripped out across the land, gathering power, 
swallowing the Daroth cities, and containing them in a black Pearl 
which the Eldarin hid within the topmost peak of the highest 
mountain. The threat was gone, yet not one Daroth was slain. When 
the human armies came against the Eldarin there were those who 
considered repeating the magic, trapping the humans. But the 
Council of Elders chose a different route. They 


cast the spell against themselves - leaving one elder to take charge 
of the new Pearl. 
'The humans killed him. And the Pearl became a cause for yet 
another war. It was perceived as a magical artefact - which indeed 
it was. And now, as a result of the greed and lust for power of one 
man, the Daroth have returned and the Eldarin Pearl is far from its 
home.' The Oltor Prime sighed, then he turned to Duvo and laid his 
hand on the young man's shoulder. 'Would you like to see the city 
of Eldarisa again?' 
'More than anything.' 
'Then stand close to me.' The Oltor rose and lifted his arms, and 
once more the bitter cold of winter enveloped the hillside, the circle 
of flowers dying within minutes. Clouds gathered, and fresh snow 
fell upon the parkland and the city. But it did not touch Duvodas or 
the Oltor. For now they stood on the barren rocks that had once 
been the land of the Eldarin. 
And here there was no snow. 

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


roof where carpenters and builders were arguing over the best way 
to strip it and lay a flat surface for the weapon. And that was only 
the morning. 
An appealing thought struck her. She should run to the stables, 
saddle Warain and ride off into the mountains, heading south for 
Loretheli! There she could book passage to the southern islands, 
where winter had no hold. I could run naked on the sands, she 
thought, and swim in the warm sea. 
Rising once more, she tugged off her shirt and leggings, throwing 
them across the room. Lifting the empty jug, she hurled it at the 
wall where it burst into scores of jagged fragments. 
Hearing the noise, a servant entered, and stood staring open-
mouthed at the naked woman. 'Get out!' she bellowed. The man 
turned and fled. 
Karis staggered to the balcony window, pushing it open. The cold 
struck her as she walked out and leaned over the rail, staring down 
at the snow-covered courtyard below. Brushing the snow from the 
rail, she hooked her leg over it. A strong hand grabbed her, 
dragging her back into the room. Swinging, she aimed a punch at 
Necklen's grey-bearded face, but he blocked her arm and threw her 
to the couch. 
'What are you doing?' she cried. 'Get out of here!' 
Necklen turned to a servant who stood cowering by the door. 'Fetch 
me a jug of water and some bread and cheese,' he ordered. Then 
he knelt by Karis. 'Let's get you to bed,' he said. Her fist snaked 
out, but sailed harmlessly over his shoulder. Ducking into her, he 
hauled her upright and half-carried her to the bedroom. She fell 
back on the bed, and noticed that the ceiling was gently revolving. 
'I want to dance,' she said. 'I want another drink.' She struggled to 
sit up, but Necklen pushed her back. 


'You just lie there, princess, until we can get some food into you.' 
Karis swore at him, loud and long, using every gutter insult she 
knew. Necklen sat silently throughout the tirade. The ceiling was 
spinning faster now, and something horrible was happening to her 
stomach. Groaning, she rolled to the edge of the bed, where 
Necklen held an empty bowl beneath her and she retched violently. 
And passed out . . . 
When she awoke the room was dark, a single candle flickering on 
the table beside her bed. She sat up. Her mouth tasted vile, and her 
head pounded. There was a jug of water on the bedside table and 
she filled a goblet and drank deeply. 
'Are you feeling better?' asked Necklen. The old soldier was sitting 
in a chair in the shadows. He rose and moved to the bed. 
'I feel like death,' she told him. 
'The thaw has begun, Karis. Spring is almost here.' 
'I know,' she said wearily. 
'This is no time to be dancing naked on balconies. Giriak told me 
how you stood on the rail at Morgallis. He thought you were mad, 
but I told him you were merely eccentric. Eccentric and unique - 
and far too easily bored.' Tearing off a chunk of bread, he handed it 
to her. Karis chewed on it without enthusiasm. 'Everyone here is 
relying on you, princess.' 
'You think I don't know that? And don't call me princess!' 
Necklen chuckled. 'I've known many commanders during my life - 
steady ones, reckless ones, cowardly ones. But you are an original, 
princess. You can't be read. With you it is all instinct. I had a horse 
like you once: sweet as a berry one moment, vicious and deadly the 
next. Highly strung, 


he was. But a thoroughbred, faster than the wind, stronger than a 
bull. And fearless. Rode through fire for me, he did. I loved that 
horse, but I never understood him.' 
'What are you prattling on about?' demanded Karis, swinging from 
the bed. She groaned as the pounding in her head increased. 
'Drink some more water.' 
'Shemak's Balls, but you sound like my mother!' Karis drank 
another goblet, then ate more bread. Glancing up, she grinned at 
him. 'But I love you, old man!' 
'So I should hope.' 
She saw that the bandage around the stump of his left wrist was 
seeping blood. 'Oh, Hell, did I do that?' 
'You didn't mean to; you were thrashing around a little. It will heal. 
Now, to more important matters. I have sent scouts out to the 
north and south-east. And the Weapon Maker wants to know if you 
will be there when they set up the catapult.' 
'Damn right I will! . . . How are you getting on with him?' 
'At first he seems a pompous bastard, but his heart is in the right 
place. I like him. And he knows his craft, by heaven!' 
'Don't try to steal his oatcakes,' warned Karis. 
Necklen laughed aloud. 'He makes them himself, you know. They 
are damn good. He let me have one from a fresh batch. Just the 
one, mind!' 
Karis lay back. 'How long before the dawn?' 
'Another couple of hours.' 
'I'll sleep,' she said. 'Will you wake me at dawn?' 
'I'll be here.' Reaching out, she took his hand and squeezed it 
gently. He kissed her fingers, then covered her with a blanket. 'May 
your dreams be sweet,' he said. 'And don't forget to say your 
prayers.' 


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

Duke Albreck was tired, his eyes bloodshot and gritty. Pushing away 
the mass of papers before him he rose, opened the door to the 
gardens and stepped through into the moonlight. The fresh cold air 
revitalized him and he shivered with pleasure. A servant announced 
the arrival of the soldier, Necklen, and the Duke returned to the 
warmth of his rooms. The old soldier looked wary. 
'How is she?' asked Albreck. 
'Very well, sir. She is resting,' 
Albreck had never known how to communicate with ordinary 
people. It was as if their minds worked at a different level; they 
were rarely at their ease with him, nor he with them. 'Sit you down, 
man,' he said. 'I see your wound is bleeding again. I shall send my 
surgeon to you.' 
'It's stopped now, sir. Scar tissue broke, is all.' 
'You are a brave man,' said Albreck. 'Karis tells me you have served 
her before, and know her well.' 
'Can't say as I know her that well,' answered Necklen, guardedly. 
'She's good, though. The best there is.' 
'I think that is a fair estimate,' agreed the Duke. 'However, the 
pressures here are very great. The burdens are onerous. 
Sometimes even the best find such situations ... intolerable. There 
are many stories about Karis. She has become something of a 
legend during these last few years. One man told me she once 
danced naked through a town, following a victory. Is it true?' 
'There's always lots of stories about generals,' said Necklen. 'Might I 
ask where this is leading?' 
'Oh, I think you know where it is leading,' said Albreck. 


'This is my city, my responsibility. It is threatened with death and 
destruction, by an enemy more powerful and more evil than any it 
has faced in its long history. I have no right to ask you for honesty, 
Necklen. You are not sworn to me. But I would value it, 
nonetheless. Karis is a great fighter, and a fine tactician. She has 
courage, I don't doubt that. But is she steady? For that's what we 
need.' 
Necklen sat silently for a moment, staring into the fire. 'I am not a 
skilled liar, my lord - never felt the need to acquire the skills - so I'll 
tell you plain. Karis isn't like anyone I've ever known. She's a mass 
of opposites, tough and tender, caring and callous. And she has a 
love of wine - ay, and men. She pushes herself too hard sometimes, 
and then she drinks. Too much, usually.' Necklen shrugged. 'Despite 
that there is a greatness in her. That will carry her through, don't 
you worry none about that. When the Daroth are before the walls, 
you'll see that greatness shine. I promise you that.' 
The Duke smiled thinly. 'I hope that you are right. I am a capable 
swordsman, but I was never a soldier. Nor did I wish to be one. My 
skill lies in judging men. Women, I am glad to say, remain a 
mystery to me.' 
'A wondrous mystery,' said Necklen, with a grin. 
'Quite so.' In that one, small moment, there was a flicker of 
camaraderie. The Duke felt it, and drew back. 
Necklen sensed the change of mood and rose from his chair. 'If that 
is all, my lord?' 
'Yes. Yes, thank you. Stay close to her. See that she doesn't... push 
herself too hard.' 
'I'll do my best, sir.' As he left, the Duke leaned forward, lifting a 
sheaf of papers, and returned to his reading. 

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


Together they climbed to the first sandstone ridge of Bizha. 
Duvodas remembered the first time he had climbed the Twins, 
scaling Bizha and standing on the top of the natural stone tower, 
from there to leap across the narrow space to land - breathless with 
excitement and fear - atop Puzhac. All the Eldarin children made the 
jump. It was said to epitomize the journey from childhood to 
manhood. 
Now, on this first ridge, Duvo shivered, more at the sadness of his 
memories than the cold winds howling around the rocks. 'Why are 
we here?' he asked the Oltor. 
'Observe,' said the Oltor Prime. He began to sing, his voice melting 
into the wind, becoming part of it, dark as the night, icy as a winter 
peak; a song of starlight and death. The music filled Duvo's heart, 
and he unwrapped his harp and began to play the notes clear and 
clean in perfect harmony with the Singer. Duvo had no idea where 
the music came from. It was unlike anything he had ever played, 
weaving a mood that was dark and contemplative. Then it changed. 
The Oltor's sweet voice rose. Still matching the bitterness of a bleak 
winter, the Oltor introduced a light rippling chord, like the first shaft 
of sunlight after a storm. No, thought Duvo, like a birth on a 
battlefield, incongruous, out of place, and yet beautiful. 
A gentle light began to glow some twelve feet above the rocky 
ground, spreading out like a mist across the land. Then it rose, 
fashioning itself into ghostly, translucent images. Duvo ceased his 
playing, and watched in silent awe as the city of Eldarisa was slowly 
sculpted in light. Not just the buildings, but the flowers of the park 
and the people of the Eldarin: frozen in place, transparent. Duvo felt 
he could step from the rock and become part of the light, for it 
glowed mere inches from the ridge on which he sat. He was about 
to do so when the Oltor ceased his 


song and laid his hand on Duvo's shoulder. 'You cannot walk there, 
my friend. Not yet,' said the Oltor Prime. 
The golden figure raised his hands, palms pressed together as if in 
prayer, then drew a vertical line through the air. As his hands swept 
down Duvo felt a rush of warm air strike him. His eyes widened with 
shock as he saw sunlight stream through the line made by the 
Oltor's hands. The line opened further, and through it Duvo could 
see the City of Eldarisa, not fashioned in light but in stone and 
wood, solid and real, the grass of the park green and verdant. 
'I have opened the Curtain,' said the Oltor Prime. 'Follow me.' 
On trembling legs Duvodas stepped through. There were children, 
statue still, throwing a ball which hung in the air like a small moon. 
Older Eldarin were sitting on park benches. Not a movement could 
be seen. There was not a breath of wind. Duvo glanced up at the 
summer sky. Clouds stood motionless. 
'How can this be?' he asked the Oltor. 
'Time has no meaning here. Nor will it. Come, help me in what I 
must do.' 
The Oltor Prime moved across the Great Square and up the broad 
flight of granite steps to the entrance of the Oltor Temple. There 
were some Eldarin inside. A father, statue-still, was pointing 
towards a section of bones laid upon a velvet-covered table. Beside 
him his children stood in silent, frozen wonder. 
The Oltor Prime stood in the centre of the enormous hall, scanning 
the thousands of bones. Then he strode towards the high altar, and 
lifted a chunk of red coral. Duvodas followed him. 'This was once 
my lifeblood,' said the Oltor Prime. 'Now it will be the lifeblood of 
my people.' Lifting a section of blue velvet cloth, he tore 


a long strip loose. 'You will need to cover your eyes, my friend,' he 
said, 'for there will be blinding lights that would melt your sight 
away for good.' Duvodas took the velvet strip and tied it around his 
head. The Oltor handed him his harp. 'You will not know the song I 
am to sing, but let your harp follow it as your heart dictates.' 
Once more the Oltor's sweet voice broke out in song. Duvo waited 
for several moments, feeling the rhythm, charting the melody. Then 
he began to play. Even through the velvet blindfold he could see the 
brightness grow. It was sharp and painful, and he turned away from 
it. The music was similar to the Song of Morning which Ranaloth 
had taught him many years before. But it was infinitely more rich 
and multi-layered. And slowly the song swelled, other voices joining 
in, until it seemed that a great choir was filling the Temple with a 
magic so potent that Duvo's senses swam. 
He sank to his knees and let fall his harp. The music washed over 
him like a warm wave, and he lay down upon the stones and 
dreamed. In his dream he saw the Oltor Prime, standing before a 
host of his people. The Curtain of Time was open once more, and 
the people filed slowly through it to a land of green fields and high 
mountains: a place of peace, harmony and tranquillity. Duvodas 
longed to go with them. 
He awoke as the Oltor Prime touched his face, feeling more rested 
than at any time in his life. Pulling clear his blindfold, he saw that 
the Eldarin father was still pointing towards the high altar. But now 
there was nothing upon it. Swiftly Duvo scanned the great hall of 
the Temple. It was empty. Not one shard of bone remained - save 
the skull held in the hands of the Oltor Prime. 'You brought them 
back from the dead!' whispered Duvo. 
'We brought them back, Duvodas. You and I.' 


'Where are they?' 
'In a new land. I must join them soon, but I need your help one last 
time.' 
'What can I do?' 
The Oltor lifted the skull. 'This is all that is left of me, my friend. I 
cannot join to it, for I cannot both sing and be born again. You must 
play the song you heard.' 
'I cannot do it like you. I do not have the skill.' 
The Oltor Prime smiled. 'You do not need the skill. You need the 
heart - and this you have.' The Oltor retied the blindfold. 'Join with 
me in the music. And when I fall silent, play on!' 
Once more the song sounded. Duvo's fingers danced upon the harp 
strings. There was no conscious creation of sound, no planned 
melody. The music he played was automatic and instantaneous. He 
failed to notice when the Oltor's voice faded away, and his fingers 
continued to dance effortlessly along the strings of his harp. 
A hand touched his shoulder, and he let the music die away. 'We 
are here, Duvodas,' said the Oltor. Duvo untied the blindfold and 
rubbed his eyes. Lying on the floor was the sleeping figure of Brune. 
No longer golden-skinned, he was the sandy-haired young man 
Duvo had first seen in the Wise Owl tavern with the swordsman, 
Tarantio. Beside him stood the tall, naked figure of the Oltor Prime. 
'I must leave now,' said the Oltor, 'and you must return to the 
world.' He handed Duvo a small piece of red coral. 'I have imbued 
this with a spell, which will open the Curtain twice only. It will take 
you to the land below a monastery on a high mountain some forty 
miles south-east of the ruined city of Morgallis. There you will find 
Sirano. He has the Pearl with him. Take Tarantio with you, if he will 
go.' 
'Could you not stay and help us?' 


'I wish to see no more wars. I have touched the stars, Duvodas, 
and seen many wonders. The Eldarin allowed the humans through 
the Curtain many centuries ago. Do you know why?' 
'Ranaloth told me it was because our world was dying.' 
'Yes, there was charity and kindness involved in the deed. But the 
underlying reason was that the Eldarin knew you were similar to the 
Daroth. They felt great guilt for imprisoning an entire race. You 
humans were not as grossly evil as the Daroth, but you had a 
capacity for vileness which the Eldarin were trying to understand. 
They believed that if they could master relations with the humans it 
would better help them when they restored freedom to the Daroth.' 
'We are not like the Daroth! I cannot believe that.' 
The Oltor sighed. 'But, deep down, you do, Duvodas. Yours is a race 
whose imagination is limited to its own small appetites. Greed, lust, 
envy - these are the motivating forces of humankind. What redeems 
you is that within every man and woman there is a seed that can 
grow to encompass love, joy and compassion. But this seed is never 
allowed to prosper in fertile ground. It struggles for life among the 
rocks of your human soul. The Eldarin came, at last, to this 
realization. And here they are all around us, unmoving. Alive, and 
yet not living.' 
'I thought this but a frozen moment in time,' said Duvodas. 'I 
thought you had opened a Curtain on a heartbeat from the past!' 
'No, my friend, though it is a heartbeat frozen in time. This is the 
present. We are inside the Pearl.' For a moment only the words 
failed to register. Duvo looked around him at the silent buildings 
and the statue-still Eldarin. 'Rather than fight or kill,' continued the 
Oltor Prime, 'they chose 


to withdraw from the world. They left behind one elderly mystic to 
carry the Pearl to a place of safety. He did not survive.' 
'How can I help them?' asked Duvo. 'How can I bring them back?' 
'First you must find Sirano and the Pearl, then bring it to the 
highest mountain above Eldarisa. Lodge it there and climb the 
Twins. Then you must play the Creation Hymn. You know it - 
Ranaloth taught you.' 
'I know it. But I was here once before. I cannot find the magic in 
these rocks.' 
'And yet you must, if the Eldarin are to live again.' 
Brune took a deep, shuddering breath and woke. He sat up and 
looked at the Oltor. 'You . .. are not with me any more,' he said, 
fear in his voice. 
'A part of me will always be with you, Brune. And now it is time to 
say goodbye.' 


Ozhobar was a large man, and distrustful of the spindly ladders 
giving access to the stripped barracks roof. Yet he climbed steadily, 
unwilling to allow his invention to be set in place by inferior hands. 
Coming to the roof, he stepped out and cast an expert eye over the 
work of the four carpenters, who stood by expectantly. They had 
constructed a large, flat surface of interlocking planks, set on four 
huge beams. Ozhobar strode on to it, stamping his foot here and 
there. It was solid, the joints neat, the pins planed down perfectly. 
Satisfied, he took a piece of string and summoned one of the 
workmen. 'Hold this in place with your thumb,' he said, laying one 
end of the string on the centre of the platform. Stretching the other 
end to its full length of five feet, he took a piece of chalk and traced 
a circle with a diameter of ten feet on the wood. The carpenter 
watched with curiosity as Ozhobar 



shortened the string by three inches, then traced a second circle 
within the first. Returning the string to his pocket, he called the 
carpenters to him. 'I want a series of holes drilled within the chalk 
lines, three inches deep and set four inches apart. No more, no 
less.' 
'What are they for?' asked the team leader. 
'Pegs,' said Ozhobar. 'I need the work completed by noon. The rails 
are being delivered then.' The Weapon Maker strode away from 
them to where a series of pulleys had been constructed, the ropes 
hanging down to the street far below. He had designed it himself to 
take three times the expected weight of the weapon and its 
ammunition. Even so his mind was full of calculations, possible 
problems and their likely solutions. Crossing the roof once more, he 
scanned the countryside beyond the northern wall. He already knew 
it was 400 yards to the first probable Daroth catapult site, 375 to 
the second, and 315 to the third. Prevailing winds in spring came 
from the south-east - but not always. In terms of maintaining 
optimum accuracy, the wind might still prove a problem. 
He saw Karis on the wall some sixty feet to the north. She was 
talking to several officers and the veteran warrior, Necklen. Seeing 
him she waved and smiled. Ozhobar gave a cursory nod and turned 
away. Could he build a catapult? Could a blind man piss in the dark? 
Irritating woman. 
His natural sense of fairness asserted itself and he felt guilty about 
his rudeness. It was hardly her fault that she, like all the others, 
failed to recognize his genius. People rarely did. The world was full, 
it seemed to Ozhobar, of men with small minds and little 
imagination. 'Why are there so many fools in the world?' he had 
once asked his father. 
'Well, boy, the world is ruled by fools so that other 


fools might prosper. Men of imagination are not highly regarded, as 
I fear you will find.' 
How true it had proved! At thirty-five Ozhobar had seen many of his 
inventions scorned by lesser minds, his written papers mocked by 
the wise men of the day. Only now, with Corduin about to be 
destroyed, had they come to him. And for what? His water-pumping 
machine? His designs for an inter-connected sewage system to 
alleviate the spread of sickness and plague? His water-filtration 
device? No. For crossbows and armour and giant catapults. To call it 
galling would be an understatement. 
'What diameter holes do you want, sir?' asked the team leader, 
moving up behind him. 
'One inch should suffice.' 
'I'll have to send down for new drill bits. It'll take time.' 
'What size do you have?' 
'Three-quarter, sir. And we've plenty of pegs that size to fit them.' 
Ozhobar thought the problem through. The pegs would lock the 
wheels of the catapult into place, the rails allowing the weapon to 
be turned through 360 degrees. When the throwing-arm was 
released there would be a savage kick-back, driving the wheels into 
the pegs. Would three-quarters be thick enough? Should he design 
pegs of iron instead? That would be simple enough. But then iron 
pegs could damage the peg holes. 
'Sir?' 
'Yes, use three-quarters. But deepen the holes. If a peg snaps, it 
will need to be hammered through, so as to allow a fresh peg to be 
inserted.' 
'Yes, sir.' 
The man walked away. Ozhobar heard a distant voice call his name 
and he ambled across to the edge of the 


roof, gazing down to the street below. There was a cart drawn up 
there, carrying twelve of the huge pottery balls he had ordered; 
they were packed in straw. His irritation rose. They were not due 
until later this afternoon, and the canvas-roofed shelter had not yet 
been constructed for them. 
His irritation flared into anger minutes later when the pulley crew, in 
their anxiety to finish the job swiftly, cracked one of the balls 
against the side of the building, smashing it to shards. 
For the next hour the Weapon Maker moved back and forth between 
the pulley crew and the carpenters, checking the work. The pottery 
balls were stored against the western side of the roof, and covered 
with a canvas sheet. The circular iron rails arrived in the early 
afternoon, and Ozhobar himself fitted them over the chalk circles, 
hammering the iron spikes into place. It was almost dusk before the 
first sections of the catapult were hauled into the street below. 
Ozhobar oversaw the lifting of the cross-beamed base and the 
throwing-arm, then ordered lanterns to be lit so that the work could 
continue after dark. 
It was midnight before the weapon was fully in place, its four 
wooden wheels set within the iron rails. The throwing-arm extended 
upwards more than ten feet, the bronze cup at the top gleaming in 
the lantern light. Ozhobar swung the machine to the right, and the 
wheels groaned as the catapult moved. He greased the axles. Now 
there was no sound as the catapult turned. 
'I hope it works,' said the team leader, a thin-faced man with a 
seemingly permanent sneer. 
Ozhobar ignored him, then smiled as he pictured the man sitting in 
the copper cup as the holding hook was hammered clear. In his 
mind's eye he could see the fellow sailing up and over the north 
wall. 


It began to snow. Ozhobar ordered the catapult to be covered with 
a tarpaulin, then made the long perilous descent to the ground, four 
floors below. 
Striding back through the city, he stopped at a tavern for a brief 
meal, then walked the mile and a half to his workshop. His burly 
assistant, Brek, was talking to Forin and the female general, Karis. 
Ozhobar moved to the forge, holding out his hands to the heat. 'Are 
we ready?' he asked the black-bearded Brek. 
'It is mostly assembled, Oz. A few minor additions will be needed to 
the helm.' 
'Then let us go through,' he said. Aware of his earlier discourtesy, 
he bowed to Karis. 'After you, General.' 
Karis moved through to the rear store-room. There, set on a 
wooden frame, was a curiously wrought breastplate of polished iron, 
with bulging shoulder-guards and a raised, semi-circular neck-plate. 
Brek walked to a nearby workbench and came back with a huge 
helmet which he fitted inside the neck-guard. 'It looks like a huge 
beetle,' said Forin, with a deep belly laugh. 
'Put it on,' said Karis. 
'You're joking!' 
'I never joke. Put it on.' 
Forin stepped up to the frame. Brek removed the helm, then lifted 
the breastplate clear, placing it over Forin's broad shoulders. The 
jutting shoulder-guards made him look even more enormous. The 
open sides were protected by chainmail, which Brek hooked into 
place. 'Now the helm,' said Karis. 
The large, conical helmet was lowered into place, then hooked to 
the neck-guard. Forin's green eyes shone with humour as he gazed 
out of the slitted visor. 'I feel like an idiot,' came his muffled voice. 


'How appropriate,' observed Ozhobar. 
'What did he say? I can't hear a damned thing in here.' 
Lifting a heavy broadsword from beside the black forge, Ozhobar 
swung it over his head and brought it down hard against the side of 
the helm. Forin staggered and almost fell; then he whirled on the 
Weapon Maker. Ozhobar struck him again. This time the sword 
snapped in two. 
'Remove the helm,' ordered Ozhobar. Brek climbed on a bench and 
lifted the helmet clear. 
'You whoreson!' stormed Forin. 'I'll break your . . .' 
'You are alive, idiot!' snapped Ozhobar. 'Had you not been wearing 
the armour, I would have cut your head from your shoulders. I do 
not know how strong the Daroth will prove, but I am stronger than 
most men and I could not dent the metal!' 
'He's right,' said Karis. 'How does the armour feel?' 
'Damned heavy. But the helmet needs padding; it felt as if I was 
inside a town bell. I can still feel it ringing in my ears. Also we'll 
need eye-slits at the sides. The helmet isn't made to turn with the 
head; the head turns inside it. We need side vision.' 
'That is already in the design,' said Ozhobar. 'As Brek said earlier, 
we still have to complete the helmet. That said, I am pleased with 
it. If it meets with your approval, General, I shall have the 
Armourer begin work on the others.' 
'What about protection for the arms?' asked Forin. 
'I am developing a complex design of interlocking arm plates,' 
Ozhobar told him. 'The first set should be ready by next week. The 
elbow section is the problem at present, but I will find a way around 
it. How are the axes?' 
Forin shrugged. 'At first I thought they would prove impossible to 
wield, but we are getting used to them. 


The men improve day by day. Why did you design the blades to 
flare at the base and tip? They look like butterfly wings.' 
'As indeed they were intended to,' said Ozhobar. 'The problem with 
the simple half-moon design is that when it smashes through the 
ribs it can catch within the body. The butterfly design will help to 
prevent such a possibility. I hope you have also noticed that the 
upward flare of the blades allows it to be used as a stabbing 
weapon.' 
'An axe is not a stabbing weapon,' objected Forin. 
Ozhobar moved to a bench at the rear of the room, lifting a black 
short-handled axe. Holding it like a spear, he suddenly threw it at a 
nearby door. The upper points of the head slammed deep into the 
wood. Ozhobar walked to the door, wrenching it open. Two shining 
points of steel had completely pierced the door, and were jutting 
like dagger blades from the wood. 'My axe is also a stabbing 
weapon,' he said. 'It just takes a little imagination to see it.' 
'Your point is well made, Oz,' said Karis. 'And I am delighted with 
the armour.' 
Only Ozhobar's closest colleagues were allowed to use the short 
form of his name, and inwardly he bridled at her casual use of it. 
But, almost in the same moment, he realized that he liked the 
sound of it from her lips. Reddening, he muttered something banal. 
She smiled then, thanked him and Brek for his time and, with Forin, 
walked from the room. 
Brek was grinning. 'Don't say a word!' Ozhobar warned him. 
'Perish the thought,' answered Brek. 
Outside the snow had turned to sleet, the temperature just below 
freezing. 'Only a matter of weeks now,' said Karis. 


'Ay,' agreed Forin. 'You look tired, Karis. You need some sleep.' 
She chuckled. 'You were right. You did look like a giant beetle.' 
Then there was silence. Karis was loath to walk away from the 
green-eyed giant, and he too seemed ill at ease. 'I'll see you 
tomorrow,' she said at last. 
'It is already tomorrow,' he pointed out. She shrugged and walked 
away. He called her name, his voice soft and low. Karis paused, 
then walked on. Damn the man, she thought. Why does he fill my 
mind? 
As she strode on, a large black hound padded out from an alleyway 
and began walking alongside her. She stopped and glanced down. 
'Where do you think you are going?' she asked. The hound cocked 
its huge head and looked at her. Squatting down, she stroked the 
squat muzzle, then patted its back; she felt the bones of its ribs 
under her hand. A figure shuffled out of the darkness and Karis 
rose, one hand on her dagger. 
'You won't need that,' said the elderly man. 'I'm harmless enough.' 
His back was arthritic and bent and he was struggling to carry a 
bundle of firewood. 
'It is late to be out,' she said. 
'The house was too damned cold, so I took the opportunity of 
ripping a few sticks from a rich man's fence.' He gave a gap-toothed 
grin, then looked down at the dog. 'He's called Stealer,' he said. 
'Your dog?' 
'No-one's dog. He lives by his wits - and by catching rats. Good 
judge of character, is Stealer. He has a nose for a soft heart.' 
'His nose has betrayed him this time,' she said. 
The old man was unconvinced. 'I don't think so. Anyway, the chill is 
getting to me, so I'll say good night 


to you.' He shuffled away into the moon shadows and Karis walked 
on, the dog padding alongside her. 
At the gates of the palace she waved at the guards and made her 
way to her rooms. A servant had lit a fire some hours before, and 
the coals were glowing with a dying red. Stealer loped across the 
room and stretched himself out on a rug before the hearth. A 
covered platter had been left on the table. Karis lifted the lid and 
saw a plate of salted beef, a round of red cheese and a loaf. 
Suddenly hungry, she sat down. Stealer was immediately beside 
her, staring up at her with his large brown eyes. 'You are a beggar, 
sir,' she said. His head tilted. She fed him the meat, then tucked 
into the bread and cheese. Stealer watched until the last morsel 
was gone, then padded back to the fire. Karis added the last of the 
coal, then wandered into the bedroom. 
Blowing out the lanterns, she took off her clothes and slipped under 
the blankets. Almost immediately a terrifying growl sounded from 
the main room. Throwing back the covers, she ran out to find Vint 
standing against the wall, knife in hand, the huge hound before him 
with teeth bared. 
'Come here!' she called. 
'Me or the beast?' enquired Vint. Karis chuckled. Stealer did not 
move. Karis strolled across to him and knelt down, stroking his 
muzzle. 
'This man is, loosely, what one might call my friend. Therefore it 
would be best if you did not rip his throat out.' She patted the broad 
head, then stood and took Vint's hand, leading him into the 
bedroom. 'You are just what I need,' she told him. 
Moments later they were both naked. As they were caressing Karis 
noted a swift change in Vint, a sudden softness. 'What is wrong?' 
she whispered. 


'The damn thing is looking at me,' he said. Karis turned her head, to 
see that Stealer was standing with his front paws on the bed, his 
squat nose inches from Vint's face. It was too much for Karis, and 
her laughter pealed out. 
Vint slumped down beside her. 'I don't think he likes me,' he said. 
'Bring some meat next time you come. I have a feeling that 
Stealer's affections are easily bought.' 
'He is the ugliest hound I've ever seen. How did you come by him?' 
'He adopted me.' 
'You do have an uncanny effect on males, Karis! I'll give you that.' 


The winds were howling across the jagged rocks, whipping sleet 
against the cold walls of the cliffs. A violet light shimmered, then 
two men were standing where a moment before there had been 
only a long-dead tree and an empty trail. 
Tarantio ran forward, ducking behind a rock as the icy needles of 
sleet slashed into him. Duvodas came alongside. 'This should be the 
mountain,' he said. 
'I have to say, Singer, that I did not really believe your story. If I 
had, I would have thought twice about accompanying you.' 
Duvo glanced up. The clouds were thick, the darkness almost 
absolute. Then there was a break in the clouds which lasted just 
long enough for both men to see the outline of the monastery, high 
up the mountainside. 'That's a long climb,' said Tarantio, 'and it will 
be a cold one.' 
Duvo closed his eyes and warmth radiated from him, enveloping 
Tarantio. They stood and began the ascent. Despite the heat it was 
an uncomfortable climb, for the 



sleet melted into rain around them and both men were drenched 
within minutes. 
The path grew narrow, and Duvodas slipped. Tarantio caught his 
arm. For a heartbeat only Duvodas found himself staring down over 
an awesome drop, his heart hammering in panic. 'Walk on the 
inside,' said Tarantio. Gratefully Duvodas exchanged places and 
they climbed on. The wind picked up, battering at them, the rocky 
path underfoot was icy and treacherous. Conversation was 
impossible, and they ducked their heads into the wind and slowly 
forced their way up the mountain. 
The heat spell was useless against the power of the wind, and ice 
began to form inside their clothing. Duvo found his mind wandering; 
he sat down suddenly. Tarantio loomed over him. 'What in Hell's 
name do you think you are doing?' he shouted. 
'I think I'll sleep for a little while.' 
'Are you mad? You'll die.' 
Duvo's eyes closed. Tarantio's cold hand slashed across his face in a 
stinging slap. 'Get up!' ordered the warrior. The sudden pain cut 
through his drowsiness and, taking Tarantio's hand, he hauled 
himself to his feet. As the two men struggled on, the wind grew into 
a storm which lashed at them, buffeting them against the rocks, 
making balance and movement a continuing nightmare. Arms 
linked, the climbers pressed on, finally rounding a bend and 
entering a cleft away from the wind. The relief was indescribable. 
Duvo pressed his back to the wall, and once more summoned the 
heat spell. Drawing Tarantio in close, the two men stood shivering 
as the warmth grew, easing through their icy clothing. 
'We must be close,' said Duvo, his voice shaking. 
'Let's hope they open the gate.' 
'Why would they not?' Duvo asked. 


'They might not hear us in the storm. I would guess they are all 
tucked up in their beds. Wait here. I'll find out.' 
Tarantio moved away into the darkness and Duvo slumped down. 
Steam was rising from his clothes and the growing warmth was 
delicious. He lay down on the rock and fell asleep. Minutes later, 
when Tarantio shook him awake, Duvo was icy-cold. The heat spell 
could only be maintained while he was awake. Shivering 
uncontrollably, he fought to restore it. Tarantio sat down beside 
him. 'By the Gods, you are a fool!' hissed the warrior. 
'I... am . . . sorry.' 
'Not as sorry as I would have been, without a way back to Corduin.' 
'Did you find the monastery?' 
'Yes. It is around two hundred paces further on. There is a nasty 
section of rock, narrow and covered in ice. I think we should wait 
for the dawn before trying it.' 
'I don't think I can stay awake that long.' 
Tarantio's dagger pricked the skin under Duvo's chin. 'If you fall 
asleep, I think I know a way to wake you.' 
The night wore on, seemingly endlessly to the exhausted Duvodas, 
and when at last the first rays of dawn could been seen illuminating 
the southern end of the cleft, he felt a surge of elation. 
'What do we know about this monastery?' asked Tarantio - the first 
words he had spoken in hours. 
'Very little. I looked for references to it in the library at Corduin. It 
was originally built by Priests of the Source hundreds of years ago. 
Now it is owned by a sect who call themselves the Letters of 
Revelation. Their cult believes the end of the world is upon us.' 
'They may not be far wrong,' said Tarantio grimly. 'Let us hope they 
are early risers.' 
The two men rose wearily to their feet and moved 



along the cleft. Duvodas stumbled to a halt before the narrow ledge 
leading to the gates of the monastery. It was around 100 paces 
long, ice-covered and slanted, in places no more than three or four 
feet wide. The drop to the left of the ledge was dizzyingly deep. 
'How high do you think we are?' he asked Tarantio. 
'A thousand feet. Maybe more,' answered the warrior. 'The height is 
immaterial. A drop of a hundred feet would see a man dead. All this 
means is that you will be in the air for longer.' 
'I don't think I can walk across that,' said Duvo. 
'Move ahead of me. I'll catch you if you stumble.' 
'I can't.' 
Dace grabbed Duvo's fur-lined cloak and slammed him back against 
the rock wall. 'You listen to me, you miserable whoreson! You've 
dragged me half-way across the land with your tale of woe, of 
rescuing the Eldarin and imprisoning the Daroth. And now a little 
danger has you pissing your breeches. You'll walk - or I swear I'll 
hurl you over the edge.' 
'Not everyone is blessed with your courage,' said Duvodas, 'but I 
will make the attempt. Not because you threaten me, but because 
you are right. It is more important to find the Pearl.' 
Tarantio released him. 'Hold to the wall, and move slowly. If your 
foot slips, drop to your stomach. Do not try to maintain balance.' 
Duvo took a deep breath and was about to step forward, when the 
sound of distant singing came from the monastery. A wall of 
warmth struck him. Ahead the ice began to melt on the ledge. The 
heat was now almost unbearable and both men turned their backs 
to it. As they did so, they saw the same effect flowing along the 
cleft. 'They understand the magic 


of the land,' said Duvo. 'They are clearing a path for us.' 
The wall of heat moved on, flowing past them. Stepping out, Duvo 
ran along the ledge and up the small slope to the ancient gates. 
Tarantio came up behind him. 
'They are not doing it for us,' said Tarantio. 'If they were, the heat 
would have stopped where we were. And they are still singing their 
magic.' 
'I don't care,' said Duvo happily. 'We made it, Tarantio.' He 
thumped his fist on the gate. After several moments he heard a 
latch creak, and when the gate opened an elderly monk stood there 
in woollen robes of flowing white. He had kindly brown eyes and a 
gentle smile. 
'Who are you?' he asked. 'What are you doing here?' 
'Can we come in?' asked Tarantio. 'It has been a cold night and I 
would appreciate a warm meal.' 
'Of course. Of course.' The old priest stepped aside. After they had 
entered he closed the gate and led them across a small courtyard 
and into the main building, up three flights of stairs and along a 
corridor. Here there was a long, narrow dining-room. Another 
white-robed priest was working in the kitchen area, cleaning dishes. 
The sound of singing was muted now, but the travellers could still 
hear it coming from far below. 
'Good-morning again, Brother Nemas,' said the old man to the dish-
washing priest. 'We have two visitors. Is there any soup left?' 
'Indeed there is, brother. Have they come to join us?' 
'If they have, it is too late,' said the old monk. 'But at least we can 
give them a warm meal for their journey back to the damned.' 
There was a bright fire burning in an iron stove by the far wall. 
Tarantio walked to it and warmed his hands, then he moved to the 
window which overlooked the courtyard 


and the gates. The old priest set two bowls of steaming soup on the 
table. Duvodas thanked him. 'We are here looking for a man named 
. . .' 
'Kario,' said Tarantio suddenly. 'A young man who was sent to join 
you. Have you seen him?' 
'Kario? No, I don't believe we have any acolytes of that name. But 
then we may have turned him away. Now that the last days are 
upon us, there is no need of new acolytes. The evils of this world 
will be burned away and the Letters of Revelation will rule, as our 
prophet ordained. Have no fear, brothers, we will rule wisely and 
well, and the world will become a paradise of prayer and 
celebration. I am sorry that your journey here has been in vain.' 
'We are grateful for your hospitality,' said Tarantio. 'And doubly 
grateful for the heat spell you sent down the path for us.' 
'It was not for you, my friend, though I am glad you took benefit 
from it. The Servants of the Lord are coming, and we wished to 
show them courtesy.' 
'The Servants of the Lord?' queried Duvodas. 
'Those who are fulfilling His desires. The Cleansers. The Bringers of 
Fire and Destruction. As the Holy Word tells us: "Their swords will 
plough the cities, their spears will sunder armies. Fortress walls will 
shiver and fall at the sound of their hoof beats."' 
'The Daroth,' said Tarantio. 
'Indeed,' agreed the old man amiably. 'The Servants of the Lord. 
Your soup is getting cold. Eat. Rest.' 
Tarantio sat down and ate, dipping bread into the soup. It was 
bland and tasteless. 'It is very good,' he said. 'Tell me, brother, why 
are the Servants of the Lord coming here?' 
'We sent an emissary to them - to let them know that not all men 
are consumed by evil. We captured one of their 


enemies, the vile Sirano. He destroyed many of the Servants with 
devilish fire, then escaped into the wilderness. We have him here - 
awaiting their justice.' 
The sound of singing faded away, to be followed by a booming noise 
coming from the gates. 'Ah, they are here,' said the old priest. 
'Please excuse me. I must welcome them with my brothers.' 
It was Dace who rose and moved to block the priest's path. 'Where 
is Sirano held?' he asked. 
'Why would you wish to know that?' 
'We are here to rescue him,' said Dace. 
'You are Slaves of the Ungodly?' The old man took a backward step. 
'I shall tell you nothing.' Dace drew a throwing-knife, then spun and 
hurled it into the throat of the priest in the kitchen. The man 
staggered back, then fell from sight. Dace drew a second blade and 
advanced on the old man. 
'Oh, you will tell me, old fool. And you will tell me now!' 
'He is in the upper turret,' wailed the old man. 'Please do not kill 
me!' 
Dace sheathed the knife, and gestured to the priest to leave. 'Go,' 
he said coldly. 'Welcome your guests.' As the old man shuffled past 
the warrior, Dace slammed a blow to the priest's neck which 
snapped with a loud crack. 'Let's go,' he told Duvodas. 
'There was no need to kill them,' stormed Duvo. 
'Look out of the window,' ordered Dace, and Duvodas did so. In the 
courtyard below, some twenty Daroth warriors had marched 
through the gates. 'You think any of these priests will be alive come 
dusk? Now let's find Sirano.' 
With a heavy heart Duvodas followed Dace. The two men left the 
room and ran along the corridor. Finding a 


set of stairs leading up, they took them two at a time. At the top 
was another corridor; moving along it they came to a spiral 
staircase. 'This place is like a rabbit warren,' said Dace. 'I can't tell 
where we are. Let us hope this is the way to the turret he spoke of.' 
Running up the stairs they came to a bolted door. Dace opened it 
and stepped inside, but the room within was empty. He swore and 
moved to the window. There were three more turrets visible. 'Is 
there no magic you can use to find him?' he asked Duvodas. 
The Singer shook his head. 'Not magic - but have you noticed only 
that turret window has bars?' he said, pointing across the courtyard. 
'The question is, how to reach it.' 
'That, at least, is simple,' said Dace, opening the window and 
climbing out on to the narrow sill. The courtyard was some sixty 
feet down, but below the window, to the right, was a parapet that 
connected the turrets. Dace tensed, then leapt the gap. Duvodas 
took a deep breath and climbed out. Closing his eyes, he made the 
jump. Dace grabbed him, hauling him to safety, then together they 
ran along the parapet, entering a small door and emerging into a 
narrow corridor and a second circular stair. 
At the top they unbolted the door and stepped inside, where a man 
was lying in a pallet bed. His face was hideously burned on the left 
hand side. Pus was seeping from the ruined eye-socket, and his hair 
had been burned away. He was unconscious. 
'He looks close to death,' said Dace. 'You want me to carry him 
through?' 
'You are right. He is on the verge of death.' Duvodas unwrapped his 
harp and sat beside the bed. His fingers rippled across the strings 
and the scent of roses filled the room. 'What in Hell's name are you 
doing?' 


hissed Dace. 'The Daroth could be on their way here now!' 
'Then watch out for them,' said Duvodas calmly. His fingers danced 
upon the strings. 
Dace ran from the room and down the stairs. Far below, someone 
screamed. Moving to a window, he gazed down to see a priest 
staggering out into the courtyard, blood streaming from a gaping 
wound in his back. The huge figure of a Daroth moved slowly after 
him. Other screams began. 'Well,' said Dace softly, 'you were right 
about the end of the world. Your world, anyway.' To Dace the 
screams were more musical than the hideous noise coming from 
Duvo's harp. How, he wondered, could people enjoy such sounds? 
'I do,' said Tarantio. 
'Then you enjoy them, brother. Call me when killing is needed.' 


Dace faded back and Tarantio rose and moved back up the stairs. 
The wounded man was awake now. His face was still badly scarred, 
but the wounds were clean. 
Sirano sat up. 'Who are you?' he asked. 
'I am Duvodas and this is the warrior, Tarantio. We have come to 
find the Pearl. We must return it to the lands of the Eldarin. We 
must bring them back.' 
'What are the screams I hear?' 
'The Daroth are killing the priests.' 
Sirano gestured to a canvas pack by the far wall. When Duvodas 
moved to it and opened the flap, the Eldarin Pearl lay there. 
Reaching into the bag Duvo tenderly stroked the surface, which was 
warm to the touch. His hand trembled. The Eldarin were here, 
trapped within an orb of pure magic together with their homes, 
their lands, the rivers and streams that fed the earth, and the 
forests where Duvo had played as a child. All existed beneath his 
palm. Reverently he closed the canvas flap. 'Now we 



can go,' he said, looping the bag over his shoulder. 'Now there is 
hope.' 
'We can talk about hope back in Corduin,' said Tarantio. 'Are you 
ready, Duvodas?' 
'Ready for what?' 
'To get us back with your Oltor magic?' 
'We must make it back to level ground,' Duvo told him. 'Otherwise 
we might appear a thousand feet above Corduin.' 
Tarantio swore. In the courtyard below three priests had tried to 
reach the mountain path. A long spear plunged through the back of 
the first, pinning him to the gates. The second was almost cut in 
half by a swinging broadsword. The third, a young man, fell to his 
knees and begged for his life. A Daroth warrior grabbed him by the 
hair and dragged him back into the building. Tarantio drew back 
from the window. 'There is only one way out,' he said, 'and the 
Daroth are there. Our only chance is to find a rope to climb over the 
battlements.' 
Sirano rose and put on his clothes, which were scorched, blackened 
and bloodstained. The three men left the room and made their way 
back to the parapet door. Tarantio stepped through and peered 
down into the courtyard. Five bodies lay there, blood drenching the 
snow around them. There were no sounds of screaming now. Swiftly 
Tarantio led the others across to a second door and along a 
corridor, stopping to look into each room. Moving silently down 
another flight of stairs, they came to a store-room where there 
were barrels of wine and ale, casks of dried fruit, sacks of salt and 
flour. 
In the corner lay two coils of rope. Sounds of booted feet on stone 
came from outside, and the three men ran to the rear of the storeroom, 
ducking down behind the barrels. 


The door opened and two Daroth entered. Duvodas heard the 
hissing sound of their breathing, and was sure they could hear the 
pounding of his heart. A clicking noise sounded, and Duvodas heard 
the scraping of a sack on the stone. Then there was silence. 
Cautiously he peered over the barrels: the Daroth had gone. 
'They wanted the salt,' whispered Tarantio. 'I would guess they are 
about to feed.' 
'Maybe we can slip by them,' suggested Duvodas. 
'I doubt it. Any time now they will find Sirano gone; then they will 
search the monastery. Our best chance is to use the ropes and slip 
over the battlements.' 
'They will be able to see us from the main building,' objected 
Sirano. 
'You have any other suggestions?' Tarantio asked. 
'Let them find me. Then you two can slip through the gate.' 
Tarantio stared at the scarred young man. 'You want to die?' he 
asked. 
'It holds no terrors for me. I brought the world to this. I destroyed 
the Eldarin and allowed the Daroth to live again. My city is 
destroyed, my people slain. Look at me. Disfigured and grotesque. 
Why should I fear to die?' 
'He has a point,' said Dace. 'He is an ugly son of a bitch.' 
'It is true that you have been responsible for great evil,' said 
Duvodas, 'but no man should ignore the possibility of redemption.' 
'I don't want redemption,' declared Sirano. 'I want revenge! That 
will best be achieved if you succeed with the Pearl. The Eldarin can 
destroy the Daroth. They have the power.' 
'Even if we brought them back, they might not do it,' said Duvodas. 
'They are not killers.' 



'The more fool them,' said Sirano. 'But at the least they could cage 
them again. You have magic. You understand the heat spell?' 
'I do.' 
'Good.' Sirano moved to the shelves on the back wall. There were 
scores of empty bottles there; he took down several and laid them 
on the floor. 'Apply great heat to the necks and melt them, making 
a complete seal,' he said. 
'For what purpose?' asked Duvodas. 
'Because I ask it.' 
Duvodas knelt on the floor and held his hands over the neck of the 
first bottle. Tarantio watched as the blue glass neck swelled, then 
sagged over, melting like candle wax. When six bottles had been 
heated, Duvo glanced up at Sirano. 'Now what?' he asked. 
'Now you leave me. Get as close to the gate as you can. You will 
know when the moment to leave has arrived.' 
Sirano knelt by the sealed bottles and began to chant. 
'Sorcery!' whispered Duvodas. 
'Yes, sorcery,' answered Sirano wearily. 'Black, evil sorcery.' 
Looking up at Tarantio, he smiled. 'I will give you a gift, warrior. Let 
me have your swords.' Tarantio pulled his short swords clear and 
laid them by Sirano. The Duke of Romark lifted the first and sliced 
the blade along his left palm. Blood welled and he smeared the 
blade with it. The chant began again. The blood on the sword hissed 
and bubbled, and the blade shimmered and shone like polished 
silver. Cutting his right palm, Sirano repeated the process with the 
second sword. 'Be careful as you sheath them,' he said. 
'Why?' asked Tarantio. 
Sirano lifted a sword and lightly swung it at a barrel filled with dried 
fruit. The blade sliced through the wood as easily as a wire through 
a round of cheese. Dried apricots 


spilled from the barrel. 'As I said, sheath them with care. Now leave 
me.' 
Carefully Tarantio scabbarded the blades, then took Duvodas by the 
arm. 'It is his life,' he said. 'Let him live it - or lose it - as he will.' 
As they reached the door Sirano's voice called out. 'Tell me, who is 
in charge of Corduin's defences?' 
'Karis,' answered Tarantio. 
Sirano smiled. 'Give her a message for me. The Daroth burn like 
wax. Naked fire is a terror to them.' 
The two men stepped into the corridor and silently made their way 
to the ground floor. Ahead of them was the door to the courtyard. 
Bodies lay sprawled in the corridor; Tarantio noted that all of them 
were older men. 
'What now?' whispered Duvodas. 
'Now we wait,' said Tarantio. 



Chapter Twelve 
In all his young life Sirano had never experienced the focus he now 
applied to the Five Levels of Aveas. The bottles trembled with the 
power he transmitted, the glass warm to the touch. Lifting the last 
of them he unwittingly saw the horror of his reflection - the scarred 
bald head, the empty eye-socket, the side of his face melted away 
as if white candle-wax had been poured over the skin. 'What an evil 
countenance,' he said, aloud. 
Evil. The word jolted him. 
Are you evil, Sirano? he asked himself. Are the Daroth evil? It was 
an interesting thought. There were those who believed evil was an 
absolute - priests and holy men, mostly. In their view evil hung in 
the air, touching every man, woman and child, promoting the seeds 
of hatred, lust and greed, planting them in hearts and minds. 
Others, as Sirano himself had believed, considered it to be a 
movable feast. What appeared as evil to one man could be 
considered good by another. Much depended on the moral codes 
and laws that governed each society. What moral codes had the 
Daroth broken? Perhaps none, by their reasoning. Therefore were 
they evil? 
Sirano chuckled. What a time, he thought, to be considering 
philosophical points. All that he knew for certain was that he himself 
had broken the codes of his society. He had killed a woman who 
loved him, had 


overseen the destruction of his people, and had brought horror and 
desolation to his lands. A great sadness touched him then, a sense 
of something lost which could never be recovered. Duvodas had 
spoken of redemption. For some crimes there could be no 
redemption . . . 
Wearily Sirano rose and searched the store-room, finding a small 
pile of empty sacks. With his dagger he cut a four-foot length from 
a coil of thin rope. Making two slices in the neck of a sack, he tied 
the rope to it. Filling it with the six bottles, he looped the rope over 
his shoulder and stood, the bottles clinking against one another. 
Tarantio had asked him if he wanted to die. Oh, yes, he thought. I 
can think of no greater relief than to fall into darkness. 
Slowly he made his way out into the corridor, then along it and 
through a series of rooms until he came to a narrow staircase. He 
had last been here ten years ago, when he had endowed the 
monastery with a gift of gold. Then he had wandered the place and 
marvelled at the labyrinthine design. The large hall where now the 
Daroth would be feeding was on the lower level, but above and 
around it was a gallery. Sirano recalled his visit, trying to remember 
the routes through the monastery. Descending the stairs he cut left, 
then padded through a long library, checking his bearings by 
peering out of a window. Now he knew where he was. Down two 
more flights of stairs, and along another corridor he paused at the 
last door. Taking a deep breath, he eased it open and slipped 
through to the gallery. Smoke was swirling around the rafters and 
he could smell the sweet, sickly scent of roasting flesh. Glancing 
over the rail, he saw the Daroth below. They had torn up the slabs 
of the floor and broken them to form a low wall around a carefully 
fashioned cooking 


area. Red-hot charcoal burned within it and a body was spitted over 
it. There were bloody bones scattered around the floor, and most of 
the Daroth were sitting well back from the fire, eating in silence. 
Two others were standing by the open door, overlooking the gates. 
Sirano dipped his hand into the bag he carried, pulling forth a 
bottle. Then he strode into view. 'I was asking myself,' he said in a 
loud voice, 'whether the Daroth could be considered to be evil. Do 
you see yourselves as evil?' 
Heat and pain roared into his mind and he staggered. He thought he 
had been prepared for the mental onslaught, but it had come so 
swiftly he had no time to fight it. He did so now, summoning a 
masking spell which flowed through his mind like a cooling stream. 
'Have none of you the wit to offer me an answer?' he called. 
'We came for you, Sirano,' said a deep voice. He could not, at first, 
identify the speaker. 
'And you have found me. Now answer the question. Are you evil?' 
The two Daroth by the door had moved inside. Sirano scanned the 
group. Two were now missing. A towering Daroth warrior moved 
closer, carefully avoiding the fire. 'The word has little meaning for 
us, human. We are Daroth. We are one. There is nothing else of 
importance under the stars. Survival is the ultimate goal. What is 
good enables us to survive and to continue. What is evil threatens 
that survival.' 
'How did the Oltor threaten you? I thought that they saved you.' 
'They sought to deny us land. They closed the gateways to our own 
world.' 
'And the Eldarin?' 


'We will not coexist,' said the Daroth. 'Their magic was strong. They 
could have . . . troubled us.' 
'So!' shouted Sirano. 'It was fear that prompted you.' 
'We fear nothing!' declared the Daroth, his voice rising. 
The gallery door swept open and a huge Daroth warrior surged 
inside. Sirano spun and let fly with the bottle, which burst on the 
warrior's chest. Flames spewed out to envelop the enormous white 
head, and a terrifying scream sounded. Fire consumed the towering 
figure, and the air was filled with black smoke. The Daroth crashed 
back into the door, then fell to his knees, his body flaring like a 
great torch. Blue flames hissed from him, and the heat was 
incredible. Pulling another bottle clear, Sirano swung towards the 
second door. As it opened he hurled the bottle - but it exploded 
harmlessly against the far wall. Climbing over the gallery rail, 
Sirano leapt to a ledge on one of the ten wooden pillars supporting 
the ceiling. 
'You fear extinction!' he shouted. 'Your lives are ruled by terror! 
That is why you cannot coexist. You believe that every race is as 
vile and self-centred as your own. And this time you are right. We 
will destroy you! We will hunt you down and wipe your grotesque 
species from the face of the earth!' 
Three Daroth moved out onto the gallery. Sirano hurled another 
bottle, but they dived back and it too exploded without harm to the 
warriors. From his vantage point on the column, he saw the figures 
of Tarantio and Duvodas make the dash across open ground to the 
gates. 
A hurled spear smashed through Sirano's belly, pinning him to the 
pillar. Pain engulfed him, blood spraying from his mouth as he 
sagged down against the spear. 
'You pose no threat to us!' sneered the Daroth leader. 'Your pitiful 
race is weak and spineless. Your weapons 


are useless against us. We have crushed your armies, and 
destroyed two of your greatest cities. Nothing that lives can stand 
against us.' 
Loosing the bag from his shoulder Sirano, with the last ounce of his 
strength, tossed it into the fire. It erupted with a tremendous 
explosion that hurled several Daroth from their feet, engulfing two 
of them in flames. 
A second spear slammed into Sirano's chest. And with it came the 
gift he sought above all others. 
Darkness. 

As Duvodas entered the tavern Shira ran to meet him, throwing her 
arms around his neck. 'I was so frightened,' she said. 'I thought you 
had left me.' He hugged her close and kissed her cheek. 
'Never! I will never leave you again.' His fingers stroked through her 
long dark hair, and her face tilted up towards him. Tenderly he 
kissed her lips, then eased free of her embrace and sat beside the 
fire. Her father, Ceofrin, ambled forward and patted Duvo's 
shoulder. 
'You look exhausted, man. I'll get some food for you.' Ceofrin 
moved to the kitchen and returned with a bowl of porridge and a 
container filled with honey. It remained untouched. 
'What happened? Did you find it?' asked Shira. Duvodas opened the 
canvas pouch and removed the Pearl, which shone brilliantly in the 
firelight. For a moment none of them spoke. The Pearl was warm in 
Duvo's hands, and the weight of responsibility was strong upon him. 
Shira's gaze moved from the orb to Duvo, and her love for him 
swelled. Ceofrin stood back. He did not understand the nature of 
the Pearl's power, but he did know that armies 


had fought and died for seven years to possess it, and now it lay 
within his tavern. 
'Oh,' said Shira at last, 'it is so beautiful. Like a moon fallen from 
the sky.' 
'It contains the Eldarin, their cities and their lands. Everything.' 
Slowly he told them of the journey to the monastery and of the 
death of Sirano, Duke of Romark. 'What happened at the monastery 
was terrible,' he said. 'The monks were slain by the Daroth, the 
younger ones consumed by them.' 
Ceofrin listened as Duvo repeated his tale. 'I can only imagine the 
anger you must feel,' he said. 
Duvodas shook his head. 'The Eldarin taught me how to deal with 
anger: you must let it flow through you without pause. It was a 
hard lesson, but I believe I mastered it. Anger leads only to hate, 
and hate is the mother of evil. The Daroth are what they are. Like a 
storm, perhaps, destructive and violent. I will not hate them. I will 
not hate anything.' 
'If you ask me,' said Ceofrin, 'you are walking a hard road. Man is 
born to love, and to hate. I do not believe that any teaching can 
alter that.' 
'You are wrong,' said Duvodas. 'In my life I have seen evil in all its 
forms, great and small. They have not altered my perceptions.' 
Ceofrin smiled. 'You are a good man, Duvo. May I touch it?' Duvo 
passed it to him. Hefting the Pearl in his huge hands, he stared hard 
into its milky depths. 'I cannot see cities here.' 
'They are there, nonetheless. I must get the Pearl to the highest 
mountain of the Eldarin lands. Then they will return.' 
'And help us destroy the Daroth?' asked Ceofrin. 
'No. I do not believe they will.' 


'Then why bring them back?' 
'Father! How can you say that?' asked Shira. 'Do they not deserve 
to live?' 
'I did not mean it in that way,' said Ceofrin, reddening. 'What I 
meant is that if they chose to hide from a human army because 
they do not like to fight, then why bring them back to face a Daroth 
one?' 
'It is a good point,' conceded Duvodas. 'That said, the Eldarin are a 
wise people who may well offer alternatives to war. Their return 
alone will force the Daroth to reconsider their plans.' 
'I hope that you are right, Duvo,' said Ceofrin, returning the Pearl. 
'Now I must prepare the kitchens. There is food to be cooked, and 
ale to be brought up from the cellar.' He glanced once more at the 
Pearl and shook his head. 'It seems strange to think of such 
humdrum matters on a day such as this.' 
'Life goes on, my friend,' said Duvodas, pushing himself to his feet. 
Shira took his arm. 'You need some rest,' she said. 'Come. The 
bedroom is warm and there are fresh, clean sheets upon the bed.' 
Together they made their way to the upper rooms, where Duvodas 
laid his harp upon the table and stripped off his travel-stained 
clothes. 
'Lie with me for a while,' he said, as he slipped under the covers. 
'I have work to do,' she told him. 'And if I came in there with you, 
you would not rest!' 
Duvodas rolled to one elbow and looked at her. The pregnancy was 
now well advanced. 'Are you still sick in the mornings?' he asked 
her. 
'No, but I have the most incredible cravings for food. Honey-cakes 
dipped in gravy! Can you imagine?' 
'Happily I cannot,' he said. Lying back on the pillow 


he closed his eyes. His body felt as if it were floating in a boat on a 
gentle current. He felt her kiss upon his cheek, then drifted away 
into a dreamless sleep. 
When he awoke it was close to midnight and Shira lay fast asleep 
beside him. Reaching out he drew her to him, holding her close. In 
ten days they would join the first of the refugees, heading for 
Loretheli. Once he had settled Shira there, he would strike out 
south-west to the lands of the Eldarin. Shira awoke in his arms and 
snuggled closer. He could smell the sweet perfume of her hair and 
skin, and feel the warmth of her body. 
Arousal grew in him and he made love to her, slowly and without 
passion, kissing her softly. Then he lay back, still holding her. 'I love 
you,' she whispered. 
'And I you.' It seemed then that there was no world outside. The 
whole universe was contained in this one small, cosy room. Placing 
his hand on Shira's swollen belly, he felt the life there. His son. The 
thought brought a lump to his throat. His son! 'He will be born in 
the late spring in a city by the sea,' Shira had said. 'I will show him 
to the sunrise and the sunset. He will be handsome, like you, with 
fair hair and your eyes. Not at first, for all babies are born with blue 
eyes. But they will turn grey-green as he gets older.' 
'Why should he not have beautiful brown eyes, like his mother?' 
'Perhaps he will,' she had said. 

Karis sat quietly as Tarantio told her of the journey, and the 
recovery of the Pearl. Forin, Necklen and Vint were sitting close by, 
while Brune was in the kitchen, preparing a supper for them all. 
'You believe it? About the Pearl, I mean?' she asked. 


'I do,' said Tarantio. 'Brune told me about the resurrection of the 
Oltor. And Brune does not have the imagination to lie.' 
'I hope that you are right. What concerns me, however, is that the 
Daroth were at the monastery at all.' 
'What do you mean?' Tarantio asked. 
'All of our plans are predicated on the fact that the Daroth do not 
like the cold, and will not arrive before the full spring thaw. Now 
you tell me they climbed a mountain trail in sub-zero temperatures 
and murdered scores of priests. By that token they could be here 
within days. And we are not ready.' 
Karis swung to Forin. 'What do you think?' she asked. 
'There is a difference between a small group tackling the frozen 
wilderness and an army doing the same thing. In spring there will 
be sufficient water for their soldiers and their horses. In winter the 
streams and rivers are frozen. Likewise grass for their mounts, 
which at present is under the snow. I think we still have time - 
albeit less than we would like.' 
'I agree with Forin,' said Necklen. 'And since there is nothing we can 
do about it, I suggest we move on as we have planned.' 
Karis nodded. 'The new catapult is wonderfully efficient. Three more 
are being assembled now to protect the eastern wall.' 
'What about west and south?' asked Tarantio. 
'I am not too concerned about the western wall. The land falls away 
from it; there is no site for a catapult, and any charge from foot-
soldiers would be slowed by the steep slope. In the south we could 
have a problem; but if we have weeks left before the siege then 
more catapults will be assembled and raised to protect it. I 


think the Daroth will strike first from the north, where they will try 
to breach the walls and storm through. Our first - and main - task is 
to stop them there.' 
'Ozhobar tells me you and he have other plans,' said Necklen. 
'When will you share them with us?' 
'I won't be sharing them, my friend,' replied Karis. 'The Daroth are 
telepaths. I do not believe they will seek to read our minds before 
the first charge, for they are arrogant and believe us to be pitifully 
weak. When we turn them back, however, that arrogance will begin 
to leach away. Then they will concentrate on learning what else we 
have in store. It is vital that our secondary plans remain secret. 
That is why neither Ozhobar nor myself will be on the walls — or in 
sight of the Daroth - at any time.' 
'I take it,' said Vint, 'that is why the stonemasons have been 
gouging deep holes in the stonework behind the gates?' 
'It is. You will see many such activities in the days to come. Try not 
to be curious.' 
Vint laughed. 'Easier said than done, my lady.' 
'I know. I remember the silly mind-games Giriak used to play. One 
of them involved not thinking about a donkey's ears for ten 
heartbeats. It was impossible. Even so, you must try. Also warn all 
the men along the north wall: any sudden headaches or feelings of 
warmth in the skull are to be reported and the men questioned. I 
tend to think the Daroth will concentrate on officers, but I could be 
wrong.' 
'How many fighting men will we have, Karis?' asked Necklen. 
'Already the numbers listed for the refugee columns have reached 
ten thousand, and they are still rising. Councillor Pooris says he and 
his department are weighed down by the requests.' 
'The closest estimate is fifteen thousand fighting men,' 


said Karis. 'We should outnumber the Daroth by three to one. 
However, that statistic is meaningless, since our troops will need to 
be spread around the four walls. It is likely we will be evenly 
matched on the north wall.' 
Brune brought in several trays of meat, bread and cake, and a large 
flagon of red wine. 
'Prentuis fell within a day,' said Necklen. 'One blood-filled, terrible 
day!' 
'This is not Prentuis,' said Karis. 'And they were not led by me.' 


The logistics of the problem had initially excited Pooris. Several 
thousand refugees to be shepherded to the city of Hlobane, just 
under 300 miles south-west, and then a further 410 miles south and 
east to the port city of Loretheli. The problem was now much 
greater, and Pooris sat with Niro and a score of clerics in the hall 
above the Great Library, frantically trying to collate statistics. 
Fourteen thousand people had now declared their wish to leave 
Corduin, almost 20 per cent of the adult population. The Duke's 
riders had made a score of hazardous journeys south with 
messages to and from Belliese, the Corsair Duke, who had 
demanded five silver pieces for every refugee, a further ten for any 
who wished to be transported on to the islands. The sum was not 
extortionate, but was now coming close to emptying the treasury. 
Considering the fact that there were more than 10,000 mercenaries 
now in Corduin who demanded payment on the first day of every 
month, the problem was serious indeed. Without the windfall of the 
executed Lunder's fortune, the project would never have been 
begun. Even with it, Pooris now doubted whether the city's finances 
would stretch far enough. 



The spidery figure of Niro loomed over his desk and Pooris glanced 
up. 'There are not enough wagons, sir,' said Niro. 'Not by half. The 
price of those there are has trebled already. It will rise higher.' 
'How many have we purchased for movement of food and silver?' 
'Thirty, sir. But the main holding yard was broken into last night, 
and five were stolen. I have placed extra guards there.' 
'Were our wagons marked as ordered?' 
'Yes, sir. A yellow strip hidden by the rear axle.' 
'Order a full search. When the wagons are found the owners are to 
be hanged.' 
Niro hesitated. 'You are aware, sir, that they will have been sold on 
in good faith? The people who now have them will not be the 
thieves.' 
'I am aware of that. Before they are hanged they will be questioned 
as to those who sold them the vehicles. Anyone named will also be 
hunted down and hanged. We will leave no-one in any doubt as to 
the severity of punishment should such thieving continue.' 
'Yes, sir.' Niro moved away and Pooris leaned back and rubbed his 
chin. The bristle growing there surprised him. How long had he 
been in the building? Fourteen hours? Eighteen? 
A young cleric approached him and bowed. Pooris was so tired he 
could not remember the man's name. 'What is it?' 
'A small problem, sir. We have run out of red wax for the Duke's 
seal. There is none to be found anywhere.' 
Every official refugee was to be given a note of authority stamped 
with the seal of Duke Albreck, and each, upon presentation of the 
seal, was entitled to remove from the treasury a sum not to exceed 
twenty gold pieces -


assuming, of course, that they had money in excess of the sum 
banked there. 
'Red wax,' mumbled Pooris. 'May the Gods spare me! What colours 
are there to be had?' 
'Blue, sir. Or green.' 
'Then stamp them with blue. It is the seal, not the colour, which 
gives authority.' 
'Yes, sir.' The young man backed away. Pooris stood and moved to 
his private office, where the stove fire had died and the room was 
cold. There was a jug of water on the desk. Pooris filled a goblet 
and sipped it. 
The convoy of refugees would probably spread out over two miles 
or more. They would have to be guarded from robbers, and fed, and 
housed in tents on the journey. It was like equipping an army for a 
campaign, thought Pooris. Gazing up at the map on the wall, he 
studied the terrain. A swallow would cover 512 miles to Loretheli, 
but on foot the refugees would have to skirt the mountains, adding 
almost 200 miles, much of it across rough, cold country with little 
game and less shelter. 
The Council at Hlobane had been instructed to send out food 
wagons to meet the convoy. These would most certainly be needed. 
According to Karis, the refugees would average around eight miles a 
day. All told, the full journey might take three months. 
And still 14,000 wanted to try it, to face the perils of cold and 
hunger, robbers and thieves. Many of the richer refugees would also 
be obliged to leave their fortunes behind, never to be recovered. All 
for the distant prospect of a safe haven. Some would die on the 
journey; Karis estimated the number at around 2 per cent. 
Three hundred people who would have lived longer had they 
remained in their own homes . . . 
Pooris had been against the expedition from the start, 


despite his love of logistics. But both the Duke and Karis had been 
against him. 
'You will not stop people deserting,' said Karis. 'If heroes came in 
great numbers we would not value them so highly. Most people 
have cowardly hearts.' 
'And if we force them to stay,' put in Albreck, 'there will be panic 
when the Daroth arrive. We cannot afford panic. Let it be known 
that a refugee column will leave the city in the last month of winter; 
it will be escorted to Hlobane.' 
'That will push up the numbers of those wishing to leave, my lord,' 
said Karis. 
'I fear that is true, sir,' added Pooris. 
'Let the faint-hearted fly where they will. I want only the strong. We 
will fight the Daroth - and we will beat him.' The Duke gave a rare 
smile. 'And if we do not, we will bloody him so badly that he will not 
have the strength to march on Hlobane. Is that not true, Karis?' 
'It is true, my lord.' 
True or not, it did not help Pooris as he struggled to make the 
arrangements for the civilian withdrawal. 
A knock came at the door. He called out to enter and Niro stepped 
inside. 
'Another problem?' he asked the man. Niro gave a shrug. 
'Of course, sir. What else would you expect?' 
Pooris gestured him to a seat. 'I was scanning the list of refugees. 
You asked for them to be compiled as to occupation.' 
'Yes. And?' 
'Twelve of the city's fifteen armourers have applied to leave. Not a 
good time, I would have thought, to run short of crossbow bolts and 
suchlike.' 
'Indeed not.' 



'Curiously, only two of Corduin's sixty-four bakers have applied to 
leave.' Niro grinned. 'Makers of bread are more courageous than 
makers of swords. Interesting, sir, don't you think?' 
'I will raise the problem with the Duke. Well spotted, Niro. You have 
a keen eye. How many merchants on the list?' 
'None, sir. They all left soon after Lunder's execution.' 
'Will you be leaving also?' asked Pooris. 'I understand that more 
than four-fifths of the city's clerics have applied.' 
'No, sir. I am by nature an optimist. If we do survive and conquer, I 
should imagine the Duke would be most grateful to those who stood 
by his side.' 
'Pin not your hopes on the goodwill of rulers, Niro. My father once 
told me - and I have seen it to be true -that nothing is as long-lived 
as a monarch's hatred, nor as short-lived as his gratitude.' 
'Even so, I shall stay.' 
'You have faith in our lady general?' 
'Her men have faith. They have seen her in action,' said Niro. 
'As have I. I watched her bring a mountain down on a group of 
Daroth riders. More importantly, to do so she crushed several of our 
own people. She is ruthless, Niro. And single-minded. I do believe 
that we are lucky to have her. Yet . . . the Daroth are not like any 
human enemy we have ever faced. Every one of their warriors is 
stronger than three of ours. And we have not yet seen what 
strategies they are capable of.' 
'I shall observe them with interest,' said Niro, rising. 
Pooris smiled. 'You are an optimist,' he said. 'And if we do survive I 
shall make sure you achieve what you 


hope for.' Niro bowed and Pooris gave a dry chuckle. 'Falling short, 
of course, of my own position.' 'Of course, sir.' 

He was moving through the darkness of the tunnels, hearing the 
child's cry for help in the distance. He came to the coal face, and 
here there was — as he knew there would be - a jagged crack just 
wide enough for a body to squeeze through. 
'Help me! Please!' 
Tarantio eased himself through the crack and into the greenish 
glare of the tunnel beyond. Opal-eyed creatures shuffled forward, 
picks and shovels in their hands. 
'Where is the boy?' he demanded. 
The cries came again from far ahead and, drawing his sword, 
Tarantio ran forward. The creatures scattered before him. At the far 
end of the enormous cavern stood a man, guarding a bolted door. 
Tarantio halted his run and advanced slowly on the swordsman 
facing him. His hair was white and stood out from his head in 
ragged spikes. But it was the eyes that caught Tarantio's attention: 
they were golden, and slitted like those of a great cat. 
'Where is the boy?' demanded Tarantio. 
'First you must pass me,' said the demonic warrior. 
In his mind Tarantio sought out Dace, but he was not to be found. 
Fear rose in him, followed by a quaking certainty that he was 
looking into the face of death. His mouth was dry, his sword hand 
wet with sweat. 'Help me!' cried the boy. Tarantio took a deep 
breath and threw himself into the attack. 
The demon lowered his sword and offered his neck to Tarantio's 
blade. At the last moment he swung the blow aside. 



'Why do you want me to kill you?' he asked. 
'Why do you want to kill me?' the demon responded. 
'I just want to help the boy.' 
'To do so you must kill me,' said the demon, sadly. 


Tarantio awoke in a cold sweat. Rising from his bed, he wandered 
out to the kitchen and filled a long goblet with cool water. In the 
main room Forin was asleep on a couch; the others had gone. 
Tarantio entered the room, moving silently to the fire. It was dying 
down and he added a fresh log. 
'You can't sleep?' enquired Forin, yawning and sitting up. 
'No. Bad dreams.' 
'The Daroth?' 
'Worse than the Daroth. I've had the same dream for several years 
now.' He told Forin about it. 
'Why didn't you kill it?' Forin asked. 
'I don't know.' 
'Silly things, dreams,' said the giant. 'I once dreamt I was standing 
naked in a marketplace, where all the stalls were selling honey-
cakes riddled with maggots. Everyone was buying them and 
extolling their virtues. No sense at all.' 
Tarantio shook his head. 'Not necessarily. You are a man of iron 
principles. Most are not. You know the values of loyalty and 
friendship, where others see only the price to be paid for such 
comradeship. Merchants, town dwellers, farmers - all despise 
warriors. They see us as violent and deadly, and indeed we are. 
What we come to learn, however, is that life is often short and 
always unpredictable. We fight for gold, but we know that true 
friendship is worth more than gold, and that comradeship is above 
price.' 


Forin sat silently for a moment, then he grinned. 'What has this to 
do with nakedness and maggoty cakes?' 
'You do not value what they value. You would not buy what they 
buy. As to the nakedness, you have thrown off all that they are.' 
'I like that,' said Forin. 'I like that a lot. What then does your dream 
mean?' 
'It is a search for something that is lost to me.' Tarantio felt 
uncomfortable discussing it further, and changed the subject. 'I saw 
you and your men in that armour today. I see what you mean.' 
'Ludicrous, isn't it?' agreed Forin, with a wide grin. 'But it works 
well. Especially the arm-plates; they are all individually hinged, 
allowing almost full movement. Incredible! I think I could take a 
Daroth wearing it.' 
'You should be able to catch him unawares as he falls over 
laughing,' said Tarantio. 
'Is there any wine left?' asked the giant, moving out to the kitchen 
without waiting for an answer. He came back with a jug and two 
goblets. 
'Not for me,' said Tarantio. 'Drinking that will only give me more 
dreams.' 
Forin filled a goblet and drained it in a single swallow. Wiping his 
beard with the back of his hand, he leaned back on the couch. 
'What do you think of Vint?' he asked. 
'In what way?' 
'I was just wondering. He seems very .. . close with Karis.' 
They are lovers, I should imagine.' 
'What makes you say that?' 
'Common knowledge. Karis always has a lover somewhere; she's 
that sort of woman.' 
'What sort . . . exactly?' said Forin coldly, his green eyes narrowing. 



The swordsman saw the anger there. 'Is there something here that 
I don't understand?' he countered. 
'Not at all,' answered Forin, forcing a smile. 'As I said, I was just 
wondering.' 
'Karis is an unusual woman, that's what I meant. Whenever I've 
served with her, she's had a different lover. Sometimes more than 
one. But it does not affect her talents. She never seems to fall in 
love with any of them.' 
'How many has she had?' 
'Gods, man, how would I know? But Vint was one of them. Now he 
is again.' 
Forin drained another goblet. 'I wish I'd never met her,' he said, 
with feeling. 
Tarantio remained silent for a moment. 'When did you meet her?' 
he asked softly. 
Forin glanced up. 'Is it that damned obvious?' 
'What happened?' 
This time Forin did not bother with the goblet but raised the jug to 
his lips, tilting it high until all the wine was gone. 'She came to me 
one night, asking questions about the Daroth. Then we... well, you 
know. Something happened to me; she got into my blood somehow. 
Can't stop thinking of her.' 
'Have you talked to her about it?' 
'To say what? She avoids me, Chio, unless she is already in 
company. Why would she do that?' 
'I'm the wrong man to ask. I have never understood women.' 
'Have you ever been in love?' asked Forin. 
'Yes,' said Tarantio, surprising himself. 
'Well, I haven't. I don't even know if this is love. Maybe if I slept 
with her again, it would all fall into place and I'd be able to smile 
and say goodbye, and she'd vanish from my mind.' 



'Ask him if she was good in bed,' suggested Dace. 
'Maybe that is her problem too,' said Tarantio. 'Maybe she feels 
something strongly for you. I don't think she wants to fall in love, 
and usually picks men merely to satisfy a need - a physical need.' 
'I've never known a night like it. Maybe never will again,' said Forin. 
He gave a long sigh. 'If this is love, I don't think I like it.' He lay 
back on the couch, and within minutes was snoring softly. 
'What is wrong with you?' asked Dace. 'You could have asked for 
details.' 
'Do you dream, Dace?' 
'I've told you before that I don't.' 
'I know. I believe it to be a lie. Why would you lie to me?' 
'That is a premise built on a foundation of feathers.' 


Tarantio returned to his bed and lay down, drawing the blankets 
over him. As he drifted into sleep he heard Dace whisper, 'Thank 
you, brother.' 
'For what?' asked Tarantio sleepily. 
'For not killing us.' 


As the thaw continued, a sense of urgency surrounded all aspects of 
city life. Karis and Ozhobar met often, planning late into the night, 
testing new weapons in secret so that no knowledge of their 
purpose could leak out to the troops manning the walls. Vint led 
scouting missions to the north, watching for signs of the approach 
of the Daroth. Forin drilled his fifty soldiers constantly; always in full 
armour, until the heavy plate felt like a second skin. The Duke, 
Pooris and the other bureaucrats worked ceaselessly to prepare for 
the evacuation. 
At last the day arrived - four days later than planned. Thousands of 
citizens assembled in the fields to the south 



of the city while the veteran officer, Capel, in charge of the exodus, 
tried to assemble the wagons into a convoy. There was a sense of 
joy about the proceedings, and safety beckoned for the refugees. 
Shira and Duvodas, having said farewell to the tearful Ceofrin, were 
in the last wagon to leave. They sat together on the driver's seat, 
waiting their turn. Duvo's hand absently strayed to the canvas 
pouch he wore, his fingers tracing the outline of the Pearl. I will 
bring you back, he promised silently, recalling the frozen figures in 
the silent city. 
'It is a beautiful day,' said Shira. 
'I don't think Capel would agree with you,' he answered, pointing to 
the grey-bearded officer as he rode up and down the line of 
wagons, seeking to instil some sense of order. The head of the 
convoy had set out almost three hours before, but the wagons in 
the rear were still waiting. 
At last Duvodas received the signal to move, and he flicked the 
reins against the backs of the four oxen. The beasts leaned in to the 
traces and the wagon jerked forward. The land was hilly at the start 
of the journey, and before they had gone more than a mile from the 
city they came upon the first casualty. A wagon, taking a turn too 
fast, had tipped over and slid down the slope. Furniture was strewn 
over the snow-patched grass, and one of the oxen was dead. 
Soldiers were cutting away the traces as Duvo and Shira drove up. 
Hitching ropes to their rear axle they hauled the other wagon 
upright. The soldiers repacked it, and the journey continued. On the 
last of the high ground, Shira swung round to see the distant city of 
Corduin, brilliantly lit by sunshine. 'Oh look, Duvo! What a 
wonderful sight!' He glanced at her and saw that her eyes were 
moist, her 


lips trembling. Putting his arm around her, he drew her to him. 
'Your father will be fine.' 
'I don't know. I just wish he had come with us.' 
'So do I, my love. But, as he said, his life is in Corduin.' Cupping her 
face in his hands he kissed her. 'I will do everything in my power to 
make you happy for as long as we live. I will keep sickness from 
you and our son, and we will know great joy.' 
'I already know great joy,' she said. 'From the moment you came 
into my life.' 
The oxen had halted. Now Duvo rapped the reins and they moved 
on. For several hours they rode. As far as the eye could see, the 
line of wagons stretched out towards the south-west. Soldiers rode 
up and down the line, checking on the stragglers. 
Towards mid-afternoon the rear of the line halted once more. To the 
right was a high cliff-face, to the left a wide-open section of gorse 
and heather. Duvo climbed down from the wagon. 'I'll see what's 
holding us up,' he said, loping off towards the south. 
As he neared a bend in the trail he saw a wagon some fifteen paces 
ahead, its left rear wheel shattered. Men were unloading boxes and 
furniture, lightening the load so that a spare wheel could be lifted 
into place. There were enough bodies for the work, and Duvo turned 
back and strolled along the line. Suddenly a woman screamed. 
Duvo's eyes sought her out. She was middle-aged and stout, and 
she was standing on the driver's seat, pointing to the east. He 
turned. Half a mile away, across the gorse, a long line of riders was 
moving slowly forward. They rode huge horses, and the faces of the 
riders were bone-white. Other people began to shout. Then to run. 
He started to sprint back towards his own wagon. As 


it came into sight, he saw Shira standing up and waving to him - 
and behind her two Daroth riders, galloping along the trail. Fear 
welled in him, and he continued to run towards her. 
One of the Daroth levelled a long spear. 'No!' Duvo screamed. 'No!' 
Shira turned. The spear took her in the belly, lifting her high in the 
air, the bloody point emerging from her back. Almost casually the 
Daroth flicked the spear and Shira was flung from it to the ground. 
All his life Duvodas had been taught to eliminate anger from his 
soul, allowing it to float through him, leaving him untouched. But it 
was not anger he felt in that dread moment. 
It was a blind, bottomless rage. 
Letting out an animal scream he pointed at the Daroth, sending out 
a heat spell which burst to life inside the creature's skull. With a 
hideous shriek, the Daroth dropped his spear and grabbed at his 
temples. 
Then his head exploded. 
The second Daroth bore down on Duvo. There was no fear now in 
the Singer, and a second heat spell exploded in the Daroth's chest, 
sending white blood and shards of bone spraying through the air. 
Duvo continued to run, coming alongside Shira and dropping to his 
knees. The wound was terrible, and he cried out in anguish to see 
it. Her body was almost torn in half, and Duvo saw the tiny arm and 
hand of his dead son protruding from the wound. 
Something died in him then, and a terrible coldness settled on his 
soul. Trembling he touched his hand to Shira's blood, then smeared 
four bloody lines down his own face. 
Duvodas rose and walked slowly towards the Daroth line. There 
were hundreds of riders, but they were not 


moving with speed. It was as if they wanted to delay the moment, 
so that every ounce of fear could be extracted from the helpless 
refugees. 
'Fear,' hissed Duvodas. 'I will show you fear!' Raising his hands, he 
drew on the magic of the land. Never before had it felt so strongly 
within him, pulsing with a power he had not realized could be 
contained in a single human frame. Darkly exultant, Duvodas 
extended his arms, redirecting the magic, flowing it like a storm 
over the gorse and the heather. Every seed and root beneath the 
earth swelled with sudden, rushing life, writhing up from the 
ground, the growth of years erupting in seconds. 
The ground below the Daroth writhed and trembled. At first it only 
slowed the huge horses, whose powerful legs broke the new roots 
and branches. 
Stronger and faster grew the plants and bushes and trees. The 
horses were forced to a halt and the Daroth swung in their saddles, 
their dark eyes seeking out the sorcerer. Duvodas felt their power 
strike him, and he staggered. He sensed their hatred, and their 
arrogant belief that they had defeated him, and he allowed them a 
brief moment of exultation. Then he fed upon their hatred, and 
hurled it back at them with ten times the force. The nearest riders 
shrieked and pitched from their saddles. Sharp roots pricked at their 
skin, then burrowed through muscle and around bone. Horses 
reared and fell, toppling their riders. The Daroth tried to hack their 
way clear of the eldritch forest, but even their massive bodies were 
no match for the power of nature. 
One Daroth tried to reach Duvodas, his huge sword cutting left and 
right to smash through the surging growth, but he stumbled and fell 
to his knees. A fast-growing oak sliced into his stomach, lifting him 
upright. One branch burst through his lungs and out through his 
back, another 


surged up his throat, slithering from his mouth like a grotesque 
tongue. 
Roots clawed their way into flesh - ripping into bellies and chests, 
lancing through legs and arms and necks. 
And still the forest grew. The struggling bodies of the Daroth and 
their mounts were lifted higher and higher, dangling like corpses on 
a colossal gibbet. 
The refugees watched in awe-struck silence as hundreds of Daroth 
were destroyed. 
At last Duvodas let fall his arms, and men, women and children 
gazed upon the dangling corpses which moments before had been a 
terrible threat. There were no cheers from the saved. No one 
rushed forward to congratulate the blood-smeared young man who 
stood staring malevolently at the dead. 
The officer Capel rode slowly towards him, dismounting by his side. 
'I don't know how you did it, man, but I'm grateful. Come, let us 
bury your dead. We must move on.' 
Duvodas said nothing. He stood stock-still, his body rigid. Capel 
placed his hand on Duvo's shoulder. 'Come now, lad. It is over.' 
'It is not over,' said Duvo, turning his face towards the officer. Capel 
blanched as he saw the blood red lines on the young man's face. 
Pulling a scarf from his belt, he gave it to Duvodas. 
'Wipe your face now,' he said. 'You'll frighten the children.' Dumbly 
Duvo wiped the blood away. But it made no difference. The crimson 
lines remained, as if tattooed upon his skin. 
'Dear Heaven,' whispered Capel. 'What is happening here?' 
'Death,' said Duvodas coldly. 'And it is but the beginning.' 



The Pearl at his side was forgotten now, as was his mission, as 
slowly he began to walk towards the new forest. Trees and roots 
shrank away from him, creating a path. 
'Where are you going?' Capel called out. 
'To destroy the Daroth,' said Duvodas, striding on faster now. 
And the forest closed in around him. 


Leaving his lieutenant in charge of the convoy, Capel made the 
seven-mile ride to Corduin to report the bizarre events of the day. 
Despite the imminence of the Daroth threat, the Duke felt 
compelled to ride out to the scene of the slaughter. With Vint, 
Necklen and twenty lancers, the Duke arrived at the scene just 
before dusk. 
The group drew rein at the edge of the forest. The bodies of the 
Daroth horses hung, skewered into the tree-tops. The Daroth 
corpses had withered away to dry skin, flapping in the evening 
breeze. 
'I have never seen - or heard of - anything like it,' said the Duke. 
'How could this happen?' No one answered him. 
'I wish the sorcerer had come back to Corduin,' said Vint. 'We could 
certainly use him there.' 
'Who was he?' asked the Duke. 
'A harpist, sir. He sang at the Wise Owl tavern. I heard him once or 
twice; he was very good.' 
'His name is Duvodas, my lord,' put in Capel. 
The Duke turned his hooded eyes on Capel. 'My apologies, Captain, 
for doubting your story. It sounded incredible. But here is the 
evidence, and I do not know what it means. You had best rejoin the 
column, and I wish you good luck on your journey.' 
Capel saluted. 'And may good fortune be with you, 



sir,' he said. Then he swung his horse and galloped off towards the 
south. 
The riders reached Corduin just after dark and the Duke summoned 
Karis to his private chambers. The warrior woman looked drawn and 
tired, and there was about her a nervous energy that concerned 
Albreck. 'I hope you are getting enough rest, General,' he said, 
offering her a seat. 
'Not a lot of time for rest, my lord. Apart from the attack on the 
convoy, our scouts report the main Daroth army is camped less 
than a day's march from the city.' 
'So close? That is unfortunate.' 
'They halted their march at the same time as the forest miracle,' 
said Karis. 'I would imagine the scale of the slaughter has given 
them a nasty shock. They would have had no reason to believe that 
any human would have such power.' 
'I am rather shocked myself. How could this man have 
accomplished such a feat?' 
'Vint is questioning the tavern-keeper, Ceofrin, and I have had a 
long conversation with Tarantio. It seems that Duvodas was raised 
among the Eldarin, who taught him many secrets of magic. Tarantio 
is stunned by the events; he maintains that Duvodas was a pacifist, 
wholly opposed to war and violence. He also told me a strange tale 
concerning Sirano.' Karis told the Duke of the attempted rescue of 
Sirano at the monastery, the coming of the Daroth and the recovery 
of the Eldarin Pearl. 
'Sirano was right,' said the Duke, bitterness in his voice. 'The Pearl 
is a fearsome weapon. Why did this harpist not bring it to us? We 
could have destroyed the Daroth utterly!' 
'Perhaps it is best that he did not,' answered Karis. 'Ever since 
Sirano unleashed his magic against the Pearl, nothing 


has been the same. And we cannot spend valuable time concerning 
ourselves with speculation. Perhaps within a day the enemy will be 
upon us. That must be our prime concern.' 
Albreck offered Karis a goblet of wine, but she refused. 'I must 
leave you, my lord. I am meeting Ozhobar at his forge.' 
'Of course,' said Albreck, rising with her. 'But first tell me how your 
plans are progressing.' 
She shrugged. 'That is hard to say, sir. The weapons are untried 
against the Daroth, and much depends on the strategies they 
adopt.' 
'And what of your strategies, Karis?' 
She gave a weary smile. 'In war it is best to act, and therefore force 
your enemy to react. We do not have the luxury of such a strategy. 
To attack the Daroth on open ground would be suicidal, therefore 
the first advantage is his. When you add to that the simple fact that 
our enemy is telepathic, and many times more powerful than any 
human warrior, our problems become mountainous. Because of 
their mental powers I cannot even explain my tactics to my 
commanders, for fear that the Daroth will discover them. All in all 
the prospects are bleak.' 
'You sound defeatist,' he said. 
Karis shook her head. 'Not at all, sir. If the Daroth act as I suspect 
they will, then we have a chance to hold them. If we can beat off 
their first attack, we will further sow the seeds of doubt in them. 
The miracle of the forest will have worried them. If we stop them 
without magic, it will worry them further. And doubt is a demon that 
can destroy an army.' 
Duke Albreck smiled. 'Thank you, General. Please continue your 
duties.' 
Karis bowed and left the room. Moving through to 


the rear of his apartments, the Duke lit two lanterns and stood 
staring at the armour hanging on the wooden frame. It had been his 
grandfather's, and had been worn by his father in several battles. 
Albreck himself had never worn it. The helm of iron, polished until it 
shone like silver, was embellished with the golden head of a roaring 
lion. The image of a lion had also been added in gold to the 
breastplate. It was altogether garish and hideously eye-catching. 
Albreck had always viewed it with distaste. 
'A ruler has to be seen by his warriors,' his father had told him. 'And 
seen in battle as a colossal figure, head and shoulders above other 
men. A leader must be inspirational. This armour you sneer at, boy, 
serves that purpose. For when I wear it, I am Corduin.' 
Albreck remembered the day his father had led the army from the 
city. He had watched, with his mother and brother, from an upper 
balcony in the palace. And that night, when the victorious Duke had 
returned, he had understood his father's words. In the moonlight 
his father had looked like a god. 
The memories brought a sigh from him, and he drew the longsword 
from its scabbard. It was blade-heavy, a knight's weapon, designed 
to be wielded from the saddle, striking down at enemy foot soldiers. 
Albreck returned it to its scabbard. 
A servant entered bearing a tray. 'Your supper, my lord,' he said. 
'Set it upon the table.' 
'Yes, my lord. Very fine armour, my lord.' 
'Indeed it is. Tomorrow have it returned to the museum.' 
'Yes, my lord.' 
Albreck returned to the main room and sat down by the fire, leaving 
the meal untouched. He fell asleep in the 


chair. His night servant found him there, and covered him with a 
soft blanket. 

Avil had never achieved any promotion. He had been a scout now 
for six years, and had done his job as well as any man. He had just 
been unlucky. Anyone could have missed a small raiding party 
coming through the Salian canyon; there were any number of 
branch passes along the route. It had been so unfair to be forced to 
carry the blame. Had they known he had been asleep during the 
raid he would have been hanged. But then a man had to sleep, and 
Avil felt no guilt about the incident. 
But this new woman general, she knew his worth. She had spoken 
to him personally about this mission, and Avil intended to prove 
himself to her. She had summoned him to her private quarters, and 
given him a goblet of fine wine. 
'I have been watching your progress,' she said, 'and it is my belief 
that you have been wrongly overlooked for promotion.' Even Avil 
had started to believe the stories of his carelessness. Now, 
however, someone in authority had seen his true worth. 'I need a 
good scout to give me an accurate estimate of enemy numbers,' 
she had said. 'I want you to observe them. See how they make 
camp, observe their actions.' 
'Why is it important to see how they make camp?' he had asked. 
'A good army is disciplined. Everything they do indicates how well 
they are led. A lazy general will be lax, the camp disorganized. You 
understand?' 
'Yes, General. Of course. How stupid of me!' 
'Not stupid at all,' she assured him. 'A sensible man asks questions 

- that is how he learns.' A huge hound padded over to him, resting 
his head in Avil's lap. 'He likes you,' said Karis. 

'I know him. This is Stealer. He hangs around the barracks and 
steals scraps.' 
Karis had laughed. She was not a great beauty, he thought, but 
there was about her an earthy quality that made a man think of 
nakedness and a warm bed. In that moment he understood one of 
her nicknames: some of the men called her 'The Whore of War'. Avil 
found his eyes wandering to her breasts; she was wearing a thin, 
woollen shirt and he could see their outline. 'You have heard, of 
course, about our magician?' she asked, dropping her voice. 
'Everyone is talking about the slaughter of the Daroth,' he said, 
dragging his gaze from her body and trying to look into her eyes. 
'We have three sorcerers,' she told him. 
'Three?' 
'Their powers are astonishing. One can bring fire from the sky. They 
were trained by the Eldarin. Naturally this must not be spoken of. 
You understand?' 
'Yes, General. .. well, no. Would it not ease the fears of the people 
to know we have such power?' 
'Indeed it would. But if the Daroth were to find out just how strong 
we are, then they might not come within the range of our spells.' 
'Oh, I see. But surely they already know about the slaughter, and 
the magical forest?' 
'I don't doubt that they do. That was unfortunate - but we had to 
protect our refugees. However, the Daroth know of only one 
sorcerer and one great spell. They probably believe they can 
overcome us despite his abilities. That is when the other two will 
wreak their terrible spells.' 
She had offered him a second goblet of wine then. It was heady 
stuff. He told her of his plans and ambitions, and of his life back on 
the farm. She seemed fascinated 


by everything he said. No-one had ever been fascinated before. He 
told her this, and that his comrades called him dull. Karis assured 
him that he was far from dull. In fact, she had enjoyed his company 
immensely, and when he returned from his scouting mission they 
must meet again. 
Avil was smitten. Her last words came back to haunt him now, as he 
sat at the feet of the Daroth general. 'Be very careful, Avil. If the 
mission goes wrong, do not allow yourself to be taken alive. They 
must not find out about our plans.' 
'You can trust me, General. I will say nothing. I will cut my own 
throat before I betray you.' 
Luck had deserted him yet again - for the last time. He had crept 
close to the Daroth camp, sure that he was unobserved; but then 
this terrible pain had struck his head and he had passed out. When 
he awoke he was in the centre of a circle of Daroth warriors. Their 
faces were blank, alien and unreadable, but Avil knew of their foul 
practices and his fear weakened his bladder. He felt the warm urine 
soaking his leggings and, for a moment at least, shame outweighed 
his terror. 
'Give us your name.' said a deep voice. Avil jerked and gazed 
around, trying to identify the speaker. 
'I am Avil,' he said, his voice trembling. 
'You are frightened, Avil.' 
'Yes. Yes, I am.' 
'Would you like to be released to return to your city?' 
'Yes. Very much.' 
'Then tell me of the forces gathered there.' 
'The forces? The Duke's army, you mean? I don't know how many 
there are. Thousands, I expect. Soldiers.' 
A Daroth rose and, taking hold of Avil's hair, dragged him to his 
feet. The creature took hold of the young man's 


arm - and suddenly snapped it. Avil screamed. The Daroth released 
him and he fell to the ground, staring stupidly at the twisted arm. 
At first there was little pain, but it grew into a terrible burning that 
made Avil feel nauseous. 
'Concentrate, Avil,' said the Daroth. Pain flared in his head again, 
then subsided. 'Tell me about the wizards.' 
In all his life Avil had known no friends, and many nicknames - none 
of them a source of pride. But Karis had trusted him, and - merely 
with her conversation - had given him one of the finest evenings of 
his life. Frightened of pain, terrified of death, Avil was determined 
not to betray her. 'I know nothing of . . .' 
'Beware, Avil,' warned the Daroth. 'I can inflict great pain on you. 
The broken wing will be as nothing to what you will face if you lie to 
me.' 
Tears flowed from Avil's eyes and his lip trembled. He began to 
weep. Around him there sounded a strange clicking noise. He took a 
deep breath, and tried to control his fear as the Daroth spoke again. 
'The wizards. Tell me of the wizards.' 
'There are no wizards!' shouted Avil. I will die like a man, he 
thought, though I wish to all the gods that I could live to see the 
fire blast down on these devils! 
'How will this happen?' asked the Daroth softly. 'How will the fire 
come?' 
Avil blinked. Had he said it aloud? No, he wouldn't be that stupid. 
What was happening? 'Tell me of the wizard who makes fire from 
the sky,' the Daroth repeated. 
Avil dropped his head, trying not to look at the Daroth. Then he saw 
his knife, still in its sheath; they had not bothered to disarm him! 
Grabbing the hilt, he dragged the weapon clear and plunged it deep 
into his chest. He fell back to the grass, and found himself staring 
up at the night sky and the bright stars. 


I did not betray you, Karis. The bastards learned nothing from me. 

The clicking noise sounded again. 
Hands pawed at the dying man, tearing away his clothes. Then he 
was lifted and carried towards a pit of burning charcoal. 



Chapter Thirteen 
'You realize the impossibility of what we are planning, don't you?' 
said Ozhobar, as he and Karis sat beside the forge, enjoying the last 
of its dying heat. 'You can't hide secrets from a telepathic race. 
Every weapon we have tested has been seen by our men. The 
Daroth will not be surprised.' 
'That entirely depends on the manner in which their mental powers 
operate,' she said. 'Can they read all thoughts, or only those we are 
thinking as they view us?' 
'We have no way of knowing,' said Ozhobar, stroking his sandy 
beard. 
'Exactly. Therefore I will waste no energy in trying to second-guess 
their talents,' said Karis. 'Did you study Tarantio's swords?' 
'Yes. Remarkable. It seems the spell has - among other things -
significantly reduced the friction on the blades. But that is not what 
makes them so deadly.' 
'Can you duplicate them?' 
'Sadly, no. I am not a sorcerer, Karis. I am a scientist. The blades 
seem to shimmer in and out of existence. It is not possible, for 
example, to hold the metal. I tried to put a clamp on one of the 
blades, but it just slid clear. They will cut clean through stone, 
wood, and leather. Even iron, though less cleanly.' 


'I would give ten years of my life to have a hundred such blades,' 
said Karis. 'Why did Sirano have to allow himself to be killed?' 
Ozhobar lifted a small linen sack and opened it, offering a biscuit to 
Karis. 'I do feel honoured,' she said. He chuckled. 
'They were a gift from the Duke's chef. They are rather good - 
though not as fine as my own oatcakes.' 
'This is why you are willing to share them?' 
Ignoring the remark, Ozhobar reached down a second sack, 
considerably heavier than the first. From this he took a handful of 
what appeared to be small black pebbles. 'What do you think?' he 
asked, passing them to Karis. 
'Better than stones,' she said. 'Iron?' 
'Yes. Each ballista will loose around two hundred of these. The trick 
is to cause a spread that is not too wide. I think I have achieved it. 
Come and see.' 
Together they walked to the rear of the building. In an enclosed 
area, hidden by high walls yet brilliantly lit by moonlight, there 
stood a giant crossbow with arms over ten feet wide, built on a 
criss-crossed timber frame. On each side of the frame were 
handles, which when turned drew back the giant arms. Striding past 
the machine, Ozhobar hauled an old door of thick oak to the far 
wall, resting it there. Then he returned to the machine and, 
together with Karis, wound the handles until the rope and its sling 
of leather dropped over a large bronze hook. Locking it into place, 
Ozhobar filled the leather cup with iron pellets. Having checked the 
alignments, he walked around to where Karis stood. 'The door is 
oak, almost two inches thick.' With a boyish grin he handed her a 
small hammer. 'Strike the release bolt hard. Do it from behind.' 
Karis moved to the rear of the machine and struck the 


bolt. There was a sudden hiss, then a sharp clanging as the arms 
swept forward to strike the wooden restraints. Almost immediately 
came a series of small thunderclaps as the iron shot smashed into 
the door. Ozhobar ambled over to the ruined wood. 
'Well?' he asked, as Karis joined him. The door was peppered with 
deep holes that in many places had completely pierced the wood; in 
the centre it was torn apart, ripped to tinder. Ozhobar grinned. 'You 
like it?' 
'It is incredible! What kind of killing range?' 
'Against the Daroth? Who can tell? Though I would guess at around 
fifty feet. After that the momentum will start to slacken. Fifty down 
to twenty-five would be the optimum.' 
'Why not inside twenty-five feet?' she asked. 
'Oh, it will still kill, but the spread will be small.' He pointed to the 
door. 'As you can see, at a range of only about fifteen feet the 
pellets struck in a rough circle of ... what? . . . around four feet. 
That equates with one Daroth. But at fifty feet the circle of death 
will be much greater.' 
'How many ballistae will we have?' 
'That depends on how long the Daroth wait. If we can get five more 
days I can have three by the northern gate, two others ready for 
swift transportation across the city.' 
'We will, I believe, have a few days,' she said. Something in her 
voice caught his attention, and he stared intently at her. 
'You . . . instituted the plan?' 
'Yes. The scout has not returned.' 
'This troubles you,' he said softly. 
'Would it not trouble you? I have no qualms about sending soldiers 
to their deaths, but this time I had to 


lie, to deceive. He was a dull man, but I don't doubt he deserved 
better than to be betrayed by his general.' 
'You chose him because he was a careless man. Therefore it could 
be argued that his own carelessness killed him.' 
'Yes, I could argue that - but it wouldn't be true. I think it will buy 
us time, though not much. It won't be long before they capture 
another scout, or get someone close enough to our walls to read 
another mind.' 
'Five days. That is all we need.' 
Ozhobar covered the ballista with a tarpaulin and led Karis back to 
the warmth of the forge. 'Did you overcome the recoil problem on 
the catapult?' she asked him. 
'Of course. I weighted the cross timbers. It is a little less 
manoeuvrable now, but still accurate. Necklen has mastered the 
machine, and his crew operate well.' 
'Let us hope so,' said Karis. 
'Another biscuit?' 
She smiled. 'No. I'd better be getting back. I still have work to do.' 
A deep growl sounded from outside the main door and Karis strolled 
across to it. Outside, Stealer was baring his fangs at a huge figure. 
'Call off the hound before I break its neck,' said Forin. 
Karis bade Ozhobar good night, then stepped out into the night with 
Stealer padding alongside her, still keeping a wary eye on the man. 
'What do you want?' she asked wearily. 
'To talk,' said Forin. 
'I have no time to talk.' 
'No time or no desire?' he asked, pausing in his walk. She moved 
two paces ahead, then swung back to him. 
'We shouldn't have made love,' she said. 'It was a 



mistake, and I cannot afford such mistakes. If it is any consolation 
to you, it was a wonderful night, and I will never forget it. But it will 
never be repeated. So stop following me around like a moonstruck 
idiot!' 
She expected anger and his laughter surprised her. 'I am not 
moonstruck, Karis. I never was a great believer in love at first sight 
- or indeed at any sight. And, to be honest, I don't know what I feel 
for you. Had you stayed that night, and we had talked, there might 
have been no need for a meeting like this. But you didn't. You ran. 
Why? Why did you run?' 
'It is late, and I am too tired for this,' she said, turning away. 
'Not afraid to die, but terrified to live. Is that it?' he asked her. 
She whirled on him then. 'What is it with you men?' she sneered. 
'Why can your egos never cope with rejection? I don't want you, I 
don't need you. You helped me to relax. That was your role and you 
did it well.' 
He laughed again, the sound rich and unforced. 'Of course no man 
likes rejection. And I have known my share. What I find hard to 
understand is not that you reject me, Karis; it is that you are 
frightened of me.' 
'Frightened? You arrogant pig! Nothing on this earth will ever 
frighten me again. My father saw to that. Now get out of my sight!' 
He gave a rueful smile and turned away. She heard his voice drift 
back across the moonlit street. 'I am not your father, Karis.' 
Angrily she strode back to the palace and to her apartments, where 
Necklen was waiting. 'You have chosen the men?' she asked, 
stepping inside. Stealer had to leap aside as she slammed the door. 
'Yes. A hundred stretcher-bearers, and sixty orderlies 


to assist with the wounded. You know there are only four surgeons 
left in the city?' 
'I do now.' 
'You want me to come back tomorrow, princess?' 
'Don't call me that!' She slumped into a chair. 'Do you think I am 
frightened to live?' she asked the old man. 
Necklen gave a wide grin. 'What do you want to hear?' 
The truth would be pleasant.' 
'I never met a woman yet who wanted to hear the truth. Are we 
talking about Vint, or the dog-ugly brute in the dung beetle 
armour?' 
'You think he is ugly?' she asked, surprised. 
'You think he is not?' countered Necklen. 'He has a nose that looks 
as if it has been kicked by a bull, and a broad flat face and small 
eyes. Green, if I recall. Never trust men with green eyes.' 
'How did you know it might be him? Has he been speaking of me?' 
'No, princess. But, if you want the truth, I learned it from you. 
Whenever he is close you cannot keep your eyes from him. Did he 
accuse you of being too frightened to live?' 
'Yes. You agree with him?' 
'How would I know?' asked Necklen. 'But you do surprise me, girl. 
You obviously want him, and I've never known you to be coy.' 
'I slept with him once. Now he wants to own me,' she said. 'I won't 
be owned. I won't be used in the name of love.' 
'Did Giriak use you?' he asked, softly. 
'Of course he didn't. But then I didn't love him.' 
'And you love Forin?' 
'I didn't say that!' she snapped. 



'I'm not sure what you are saying.' 
Relaxing into her chair, Karis let out a long sigh. Then she chuckled. 
'Neither am I. Pass me the jug, my dear old fool. It is time to get 
drunk!' 


Just before dawn on the morning of the fourth day, Vint left his 
quarters in the palace and strolled the half-mile to the northern 
wall. A cold wind was blowing down from the mountains and he held 
his sheepskin cloak tightly around his slim frame. Passing the old 
barracks building, he saw three men hauling a hand-cart on which 
was set a metal drum, and the smell of hot onion soup drifted to 
him. 
As he neared the gates he saw scores of workmen laying stone 
walls across the entrances to the alleyways leading off from the 
main avenue. Karis and Ozhobar were moving among them, 
checking the work. Vint walked past them, trying to control his 
feeling of irritation. Karis had not invited him to her bed in days. His 
annoyance surprised him. He was not in love with her, nor had he 
any wish to build a lasting relationship. What then? he wondered, as 
he climbed the rampart steps. The answer was not hard to find. He 
smiled ruefully. She is not in love with you either. It was a blow to 
the morale to be so casually discarded. 
At the top of the steps he saw the sentries squatting down below 
the ramparts, hiding from the bitter bite of the north wind. 'Soup is 
on its way, lads,' he said. 
'Not onion again, sir, is it?' asked one veteran. 
'I am afraid so!' 
The dawn sun crept into view, its rays cutting through the wind. 
'Are the scouts back?' he asked. 
'Not yet, sir. They should be in sight any time now.' 
Vint turned towards the north, scanning the hills. Nothing was 
moving there. Glancing back, he saw Karis striding across the 
avenue with the huge form of Ozhobar 



beside her. Her dark hair was drawn back into a tight ponytail, and 
she was wearing a rust-coloured tunic of wool, and green leggings; 
a wide leather belt emphasized the slimness of her waist. How 
many women have you discarded in a similar fashion? Vint asked 
himself, trying to ease his troubled mind. 
'Why are they doing that, sir?' asked a young soldier, coming 
alongside him and pointing to the workmen building new walls to 
block the alleyways. 
Vint swung on the man. 'The Daroth can read minds,' he said. 'Do 
you think that it is a good idea to voice such questions?' 
'I don't see as it makes a lot of difference,' replied the soldier, with 
a shrug. 'We're not going to stop them with a few stones. Nor 
crossbows. Nor catapults. They butchered thirty thousand people at 
Prentuis. The entire city - and its army. They'll do the same here.' 
'Then why do you stay?' 
'It's what I'm paid for,' said the soldier grimly. 
'Have you ever served with Karis?' asked Vint. 
'No, but I know men who have and they say she's never lost. But 
then she's never faced a Daroth army either.' 
'She will surprise them,' said Vint. 
'Really? I don't think so. She told one of the scouts about a group of 
wizards who are going to destroy the Daroth. He was simpleminded 
and believed every word. Wizards! You think if we had 
anything that powerful we wouldn't have gone out after them? You 
think we'd be shut in here building pigging walls?' The soldier 
brought his hand up to his head, pinching the bridge of his nose. 
'What's wrong?' asked Vint. 
'Stinking headache,' said the man. 'It's this wind.' 
Sudden pain struck Vint. Grabbing the man, he hauled him below 
the ramparts. 


'What are you doing?' shouted the soldier, angrily. 
'Where is your head pain now?' snapped Vint. 
The man blinked. 'Well, it's gone,' he said. 
Vint swore and then, keeping low, he moved to the steps and ran 
down to where Karis and Ozhobar were standing. 'Can we talk?' he 
asked her. Together they moved away from the group and Vint told 
her about the exchange with the soldier. 
'I'm surprised it held them this long,' she said, turning away. 
'You sent out a man knowing he would be taken by the Daroth? I 
hope you had the decency to bed him first.' 
Her eyes were cold as she stepped closer to him. 'No, Vint, I liked 
him. It is a rule of mine never to bed a man I like.' Swinging away 
from him, she called out to Necklen. 'Find your crew, old man. The 
Daroth are coming!' 
Twenty minutes later Necklen was climbing the rickety ladders to 
the roof of the old barracks building. Climbing with only one hand 
was difficult, and he was breathing heavily when he stepped out 
onto the roof. The four boys of his team were waiting for him. They 
were all young and beardless - just children, he thought. But they 
were nimble and quick, and they took his orders well. 
'Are the wheels greased?' he asked. 
'Yes, sir. And we brought the oil up last night,' answered Beris, a 
small lad with a shock of ginger hair and a freckled face. 
'Good. Take to the handles!' Two boys on each side grabbed the 
iron handles and began to turn them. Slowly the great arm was 
winched down into place, then Necklen pushed the iron locking bolt 
through the metal hoops. Two boys ran back to where the pottery 
balls were covered by tarpaulin. Pulling back the sheet they rolled 
one of the balls 


to the catapult, then carefully lifted it to the bronze cup. 'Oil!' 
ordered Necklen. Then he swung around. 'Where is the brazier?' 
'Sorry, sir, I forgot,' said Gelan, a thin, pockmarked boy. 
'Fetch it. And do it now!' The boy ran to the ladders and swung 
down out of sight as Necklen strolled to the edge of the roof, staring 
out over the hills. Soon they would come. Walking back to the 
catapult, he checked the sighting wheel. The weapon was aimed at 
the first of the two probable sites for the Daroth catapults. So far 
Necklen and his team had loosed more than thirty practice missiles, 
and the accuracy rate was high, eight out of ten landing on the 
target. 
Gelan came scrambling back into view with a small brazier strapped 
to his back, a lantern held in his right hand. Necklen set the brazier 
alongside the catapult, filled the lower half with oil-soaked rags, 
then kindling, and lastly added several handfuls of coal. Taking the 
lantern from Gelan, he lifted the lid and held the naked flame under 
the soaked rags. Flames seared up. Ginger-haired Beris brought five 
torches made from dried reeds and laid them alongside the brazier. 
Satisfied the fire was going well, Necklen called again for the oil and 
watched as Beris poured it through one of six round holes in the 
pottery ball. Three more jugs of lantern-oil followed; the holes were 
then plugged with rags. 
The sound of shouting came from the walls below, and Necklen saw 
the first line of Daroth horsemen breast the northern hills. Ahead of 
them rode ten warriors, each carrying a long spear. 
Impaled upon the spears were the bodies of the ten Corduin scouts 
sent out the night before. 


Necklen glanced at the boys, seeing the fear on their faces. 'You be 
steady now, my lads,' he said softly. 
'Why did they do that to those men?' Beris asked. 
'To frighten us, lad.' 
'Are you frightened, Necklen?' asked Gelan. 
'There's no shame in fear,' said the old man. 'But understand this - 
the coward is ruled by fear, while the hero rides it like a wild 
stallion. You boys are born to be heroes. Trust me. I am a fine 
judge of men. That's why I chose you.' 
'I don't feel like a hero,' admitted Beris. 
'You don't have to feel like one, boy. You live like one!' 
As the full Daroth army crested the skyline and spread out along 
the slopes, Vint stood on the walls and tried to estimate their 
numbers. They were moving in columns of fours towards designated 
positions. They pitched no tents, but waited in 5 huge groups, each 
around 1,500 strong. Three of the groups were foot-soldiers, in 
black armour; they carried long spears with serrated heads. The 
other two groups were horse-soldiers. 
The sound of running men could be heard behind the walls and 
some soldiers turned to look. 'Stare straight ahead!' bellowed Vint. 
The men swung back. Forty Daroth warriors put aside their spears 
and removed the packs from their backs, taking short-handled 
shovels and moving to two areas on the hillside, some 200 paces 
from the walls. 
'What are they doing?' someone asked Vint. The swordsman 
shrugged. Swiftly the Daroth began to dig away at the hillside. They 
moved with great energy that did not slacken. Other Daroth moved 
in, removing their cloaks and filling them with earth, before carrying 
it 


away. The digging went on for almost an hour before Vint 
understood their plan: the Daroth were levelling two sections of 
ground. 
Up on the barracks roof, Necklen realized what was happening. 
'They are not going to use the ground we picked out, lads,' he said. 
'They are building new bases for their catapults.' 
Moving to the iron rails, Necklen pulled clear the retaining rods. 
'Let's move her round,' he called. 'Beris, line her up with the first 
new site. Gelan, you and the others lift clear the ball. We'll need to 
loose her; the range is wrong now.' 
The boys struggled to roll the ball clear. It was big and unwieldy, 
and oil was seeping from the rags. Necklen moved to help them. 
Once the ball was clear, he hammered the trigger bolt. The catapult 
snapped forward, the great arm thudding home against the sand-
sacks roped to the frame. 'How far would you say to the site?' 
Necklen asked Beris. 
'Around two hundred and ... forty paces?' 
'My eyes are not that good any more. I'll take your word for it. 
Heave her back into position.' The boys set to at the handles and, 
slowly, the arm was winched into place. 
'We are in line,' said Beris. Necklen slid the retaining rods home 
behind the wheels and climbed onto the platform alongside Beris. 
'Looks good,' said the older man. 'Replace the ball.' Gelan and the 
other two boys heaved the ball into the bronze cup. 
Two Daroth catapults were pulled into view: huge machines, 
painted black. Necklen's throat was dry. He had seen these before, 
at the fall of Prentuis, the boulders of lead smashing the walls to 
fragments. Slowly the Daroth 



pulled the first of the catapults into position. 'Get back, lads, and 
we'll let her go!' 
'Shall I light it, sir?' asked Gelan. 
'Not this one, boy. This is a scout. We'll see where she lands.' 
Taking up the small hammer, Necklen rapped it against the trigger 
bolt. The red pottery ball sailed high into the air, the wind whipping 
through the holes and creating an eerie scream. For a moment 
Necklen thought they were right on target, but then the ball 
dropped some twenty feet to the right and twelve paces short, 
smashing into hundreds of pieces. 'Haul her back, and bring the 
setting down one notch,' he ordered. 
'Left one mark,' shouted Beris. 
Necklen and the boys drew out the retaining rods, swinging the 
huge machine on its wheels. In their excitement they pushed it too 
far. 'Steady, lads!' he called. 'Take it slow!' 
'They are arming their catapults!' shouted another boy. 
Necklen did not pause. Applying the last rod he called for a second 
ball. It was rolled to the catapult, then lifted into place. Beris filled it 
with oil. 
'It's coming!' yelled Gelan, and this time Necklen did look up. A 
huge ball of lead was sailing through the air. It passed over the 
wall, and only at the last second did the old soldier realize the 
Daroth were aiming at the catapult. The ball slammed into the edge 
of the roof, dislodging masonry and sending chips of stone 
screaming over their heads. 
Necklen grabbed a torch, lit it from the brazier and applied it to the 
oil-soaked rags which Beris had rammed into the holes. 'Here 
comes another!' shouted Gelan. 
'Well, let's send one back!' snarled Necklen, hammering the trigger 
bolt. The red ball, flames and smoke hissing 


from it, soared high - passing within yards of the Daroth shot. The 
black ball of lead struck the rooftop, hit a beam and crashed 
through to the empty second floor of the barracks building. 
'Haul her back! Don't wait to look!' shouted Necklen, though he 
himself could not resist following the flight of their blazing shot. It 
struck the top of the first Daroth catapult - and shattered. Flames 
rippled down the black machine. The Daroth ran forward to hurl 
earth over the blaze. 
A great cheer went up from the battlements. 
'One more!' shouted Necklen, and second ball of flame flew into the 
sky. The Daroth scattered as it smashed down, fire exploding out in 
a huge circle. The wooden catapult was engulfed now. 
But the second enemy machine loosed another shot which 
thundered against the side of the building, ripping away an entire 
corner which slid away to crash to the street below. 
'Right three marks!' shouted Beris. 'Take her down two more 
notches.' 
Slowly they swung the machine. 'One shot is all we'll have,' said 
Necklen, trying to keep his voice calm. 'Make it a good one, boy!' 
'Yes, sir,' said Beris. Once they had loaded the ball and Gelan had 
filled it with oil, Necklen ordered the boys from the rooftop. Another 
huge lead ball soared by them, missing the catapult by inches and 
destroying the store of pottery ammunition. 'Get out now!' shouted 
Necklen. 
The boys ran to the ladders as Necklen slammed the trigger bolt 
clear. He should have followed them, but he could not resist 
watching the flight of his last missile. Once again the Daroth loosed 
a shot. It left their catapult just 


as the pottery ball exploded over it, spraying burning oil over the 
machine. Two Daroth warriors were engulfed, and ran across the 
hillside like living torches. 
'Yes!' shouted Necklen, punching the air. 'Did you enjoy that, you 
bastards?' 
The last Daroth shot hammered into the platform, smashing the 
catapult. One of the retaining bars burst clear, striking Necklen in 
the shoulder and spinning him across the rooftop. As his legs 
slipped over the edge he threw out his hand, scrabbling at an edge 
of masonry, and clung to it with all his strength. 
There was no way back. The old warrior did not possess enough 
strength in one arm to haul himself to safety. His strength was 
ebbing away when a face appeared above him and little Beris 
reached down and grabbed his arm. 
'Let go, you fool! You can't take my weight. You'll be dragged over 
with me.' But the boy clung on. 
'Gelan is getting ... a ... rope,' said Beris. 'I can hold you till he 
comes.' 
'Please, boy! Just let go. I couldn't bear to take you with me.' 
'No, sir,' said Beris, his freckled face crimson with the effort of 
holding on. Necklen gripped the ledge more tightly, fighting to stay 
calm. His fingers were tiring, and his arm began to tremble. 
Just then Gelan appeared and threw a loop over Necklen's head. 
Pushing his useless left arm through it, he hooked himself to the 
rope. 'It is tied to a beam,' shouted Gelan. 
'Good boy,' said Necklen. 'Now let go, Beris, there's a good lad.' 
When Beris did so, Necklen dropped around four feet; but the rope 
tightened and he dangled there, feeling sick with relief. Moments 
later three strong men dragged him back to safety. 


Necklen grinned at the boys. 'I hope you never learn to take orders, 
lads,' he told them. 
'Yes, sir!' they chorused, grinning. 
But Necklen's smile faded as he saw the Daroth hauling another 
catapult over the hills. 


As the first of the huge lead balls crashed into the wall beside the 
gate Vint ordered the troops back. The two blazing Daroth catapults 
were now oozing thick plumes of black smoke into the sky. 
'What can you see?' yelled Karis. Vint eased himself up, and stared 
through the crenellated battlements. 
'Two Daroth legions are massing,' he shouted. 'They are moving 
slowly forward.' 
A second lead ball struck the gates, smashing two thick timbers and 
splitting the giant locking bar. 'They are coming at a run now,' 
yelled Vint. 'Maybe three thousand of them. The rest are just 
waiting.' 
Another lead shot smashed home, tearing open the gates and 
rolling ponderously into the avenue beyond. Vint ran for the steps, 
taking them three at a time, then sprinted down towards a line of 
wagons stretching across the avenue. Karis, Ozhobar and Tarantio 
were already there. 
Two hundred crossbow-men moved through a gap in the wagons 
and took up positions in front of them, one line kneeling and the 
other standing behind. They weren't going to stop the Daroth, 
thought Vint. Not 200. 
The first of the enemy pushed their way past the ruined gates, saw 
the crossbow-men, and charged. They came in silence, save for the 
pounding of their boots on the cobbles. The silence itself chilled 
Vint. He drew his sabre, knowing that the weapon was useless 
against the leathery skins of the Daroth, yet feeling better for 
having it in his hand. 



'Wait!' shouted Karis, her voice clear and calm. The twenty-wide 
mass of the Daroth attackers came closer. Seventy feet. Fifty. 
Forty. 'Now!' she cried. The kneeling line of crossbow-men loosed 
their shafts, which hammered home into the leading warriors. 
Scores went down while the rest charged on. 'Again!' yelled Karis. 
The standing line let fly, and a second black cloud of bolts plunged 
home. The charge scarcely faltered. 
Suddenly crossbow bolts came shooting from every window on 
either side of the avenue. Bowmen rose up from behind the hastily 
erected walls across the alleys, sending volley after volley into the 
Daroth ranks. 
Vint heard a whip crack. In an alley, hidden from sight, three oxen 
lunged into the traces and the wagons were hauled away, exposing 
three enormous steel-armed ballistae hidden behind them. The two 
lines of crossbow-men sprinted clear left and right, just as the 
Daroth charged again. 
Ozhobar slammed his hammer against a release bolt and two 
pounds of spreading iron shot screamed into the attackers, 
smashing the first line from their feet. Standing to one side, Vint 
saw a Daroth's face swept away in a milky blur, shards of bone 
spraying into the air. All around, mutilated Daroth warriors were 
hurled to the cobbles. A second ballista loosed its load, punching a 
great gap in the Daroth line. Vint stood back and watched three 
men smoothly drawing the deadly arms of the first ballista into 
position. Then the third sent its lethal missiles into the packed ranks 
of the enemy. Crossbow bolts continued to rain from the windows, 
and the carnage in the avenue continued. Now the first two lines of 
crossbow-men edged back along the walls, spreading out again 
behind the ballistae and loosing their bolts into the enemy. 
One Daroth warrior, his left arm torn away, stumbled 


forward and then hurled his spear. It took a crossbow-man through 
the chest, hurling him back into a wall. Tarantio relaxed and allowed 
Dace to take control. He leapt forward and with one sweep of his 
blade disembowelled the creature, then beheaded him as he fell. 
'That's one for Sirano and his spell swords,' said Dace. 
As the enemy charged once more, the arms of one of the ballistae 
snapped off. Within seconds the Daroth had reached the weapons. 
Then the second ballista blasted lead shot into them at point-blank 
range, lifting three warriors from their feet and slamming them into 
their comrades. 
From the alley alongside the ballista Forin and his fifty axemen 
charged into the fray. Dace was in with them, his eldritch swords 
cleaving a path through the enemy. Vint, his own sword useless, 
scrambled back from the action and joined Karis and Ozhobar. 
Taking up a crossbow, he cocked it and sent a bolt through the 
brain of a towering warrior. 
A bugle blew. 
Forin and his men ran left and right, opening a gap through which a 
ballista could send its murderous ammunition slashing into the 
Daroth ranks. Hundreds of the creatures were down now, more 
falling with every heartbeat as the merciless hail of death continued 
from the windows on either side. 
There was nowhere for the Daroth to run. Ahead of them were the 
deadly ballistae, on either side the alleyways were blocked. And as 
the death toll continued to rise, they fought to make their way to 
the only haven: the north gate. 
Forin took a blow to the head which sent him reeling, his helmet 
flying clear. As the Daroth ran in for the kill, the giant reared up to 
smash his axe into his enemy's face. The blade plunged home, then 
tore itself away. The 


spear of a second Daroth struck his breastplate, denting it deeply 
and bruising his ribs. Spinning, Forin lunged with his axe, stabbing 
both points through the Daroth's chest. The creature's fist crashed 
against Forin's brow. Stunned, the giant stumbled to his knees. 
Dace appeared beside him, his sword half decapitating the Daroth. 
Forin struggled to his feet, dragged his axe clear of the dead Daroth 
and charged back into the fray. 
Her face expressionless, Karis watched the battle. Humans were 
dying now as the frantic Daroth warriors tore at the makeshift walls, 
hacking and stabbing at the crossbow-men on the ground level. At 
least fifteen of Forin's men were down. 
Four Daroth warriors broke clear of Forin's line and made it to the 
ballistae. Dace ran up behind the last of them, cutting him down. 
Crossbow bolts slammed into the second and third men, but the 
fourth leapt straight at Karis. 
Vint was the closest to her. He heard his name shouted and turned 
to see Tarantio throwing one of his swords. The shimmering blade 
spun through the air and Vint leapt to catch it, his hand curling 
round the hilt. Even as he caught it, he knew he would be too late. 
Spinning on his heel, he ran towards the Daroth. The creature's 
sword swept up, but Karis stood her ground, staring defiantly at 
him. 
At that moment a hurtling black form crashed into the Daroth, 
Stealer's huge jaws clamping to his neck. Off balance, the Daroth 
fell back. Ozhobar lunged forward to send his hammer cracking 
against the side of the attacker's head. Vint sent Tarantio's sword 
slicing through his spine. As the creature fell dead, the hound 
continued to gnaw at his throat. 'Here!' called Karis. Stealer backed 
away, still growling. 
A slow rumbling began, like distant thunder. Vint 


glanced round to see Necklen and ten men hauling a new catapult 
along the avenue. Behind it were several horse-drawn wagons, the 
first carrying fresh shot and a burning brazier. Ozhobar ran back to 
them. 
The Daroth were streaming back for the gates as the bugle 
sounded. Forin, Dace and the surviving eleven armoured warriors 
turned and ran back towards the ballistae. A blazing pottery ball 
flew over their heads and exploded just below the gate tower. 
Close-packed as they were, the flames engulfed twenty Daroth 
warriors. In panic the remaining Daroth trampled each other to 
escape, and the flames spread. 
A second ball soared over the walls to scatter blazing oil over the 
warriors milling there. 
The Daroth army fled back towards the hills. 
'Clear the dead!' yelled Karis. 'Make way for the wagons.' 
Dace ran among the Daroth corpses, checking them. Several of 
them were still alive, and these he despatched swiftly. Soldiers 
began to drag the giant bodies back to the walls on either side, and 
three wagons inched their way to the gates. Ozhobar rode the first 
wagon, and when it reached the gate tower he jumped down and 
called for help to unload. Each of the three wagons carried 
interlocking sections made up of long iron bars. Ropes and pulleys 
were assembled on the parapet above, hauling the sections into 
place, lodging them into the deep grooves which stonemasons had 
carved in the solid stone on both sides of the gate tower. 
Behind the workmen the catapult was hauled into place. Necklen 
ran to the gate and gauged the distance to the Daroth weapon. No 
more than 200 paces. Moving back to the catapult, he passed the 
information to young Beris. 
Moments later a blazing ball soared over the walls, 


exploding some thirty feet to the left of the Daroth 
machine. Soldiers on the walls cheered as Daroth soldiers hastily 
roped their catapult, dragging it back out of harm's way. 
Slowly the iron portcullis was assembled, effectively re-blocking the 
gateway. Ozhobar stood back, hands on hips, admiring his 
handiwork. 'Not bad,' he said. 'Not bad at all.' 
Across the avenue stretcher-bearers, Brune among them, were 
carrying away the Corduin wounded and dead. Vint moved amongst 
them, checking the numbers of injured and slain. He crossed to 
where Karis was standing with Tarantio. 
'Forin lost thirty-nine men: thirty-seven dead, two badly wounded. 
Just under sixty other men died, or will not fight again. As far as I 
can tell we killed around two hundred and thirty Daroth.' 
Karis nodded, but said nothing. 'You did it, General,' said Vint. 'You 
turned them back.' 
'We've certainly made them think,' she agreed. 
Vint offered Tarantio his sword. The dark-haired warrior grinned. 
'Keep it! But be careful how you sheathe it.' 
Vint nodded. 'If I had known how deadly it was, I'd have thought 
twice about catching it.' He glanced up. The sun was still climbing in 
the sky. 'Sweet Heaven,' he said. 'You would have thought it would 
be dusk by now, and yet it is not an hour since the charge began.' 
Forin joined them. 'Will someone help me get this damned 
breastplate off?' he said. 'I can't breathe in it.' The armour was 
covered with deep dents, and there was a gash across the back 
where the metal had split. Once Tarantio and Vint eased the 
breastplate clear, Forin stripped off his shirt. His upper body was 
covered in bruises, and there was 


a shallow cut on his shoulder. 'I'm not looking forward to going 
through that again,' he grumbled, sitting down on a broken wall. 
'You fought well, big man,' said Vint. 'I think you killed three of 
them.' 
'Two. Tarantio took the last. But I marked a few too.' He looked up 
at Karis. 'You think they'll come back today?' 
'Men wouldn't,' she said. 'The generals would get together and 
rethink their strategy. They are not men, however.' 
'Do you have another fiendish plan for them?' asked the giant. 
'No,' Karis admitted. 'Send for me if they charge again.' With that 
she turned and strode away, the dog Stealer padding alongside her. 
'She's not much on celebration, is she?' remarked Ozhobar. 


As the day wore on, and the Daroth remained in their camp, an air 
of jubilation swept through the city. The invincible Daroth had been 
turned back by the strength and courage of the soldiers, and by the 
strategic brilliance of Karis. Crowds formed outside the palace, 
cheering her name. 
Inside, Karis lay in a hot bath with Stealer lying at the edge, looking 
quizzically at his adopted mistress. Her thoughts were many and 
confused. Far from jubilation, she felt a sense of panic - almost of 
loss. It had begun when she had seen Necklen hanging from the 
rooftop; the old man meant more to her than she had realized. 
Then, when Forin charged in with his men, and she saw them cut 
down, one after another. With each one that died, a part of herself 
faded. War and death. 



She was suddenly tired of both. And yet this was just the beginning. 
The Daroth would be wary now; they would circle the city, looking 
for a weak spot, then launch another attack ... and another. Even if 
Corduin held, what would be gained? There were seven cities of the 
Daroth, and their power was enormous. 
Karis sighed, then ducked her head under the warm water, washing 
her dark hair. 'What is it for?' she asked Stealer. Cocking his head 
he gazed back at her. 'Is there a point to it all?' 
'A drowning man doesn't stop to think about whether the sea has a 
reason for being,' said a voice. 'He just swims and fights for life.' 
'What are you doing here, Forin?' 
'I came to talk, but I'd just as soon have a bath.' Stripping off his 
bloodstained clothes, the red-bearded giant moved down the marble 
steps and sank down into the water. 'Ah, but that is good.' 
'I don't want company,' she said, but there was no force of 
conviction in her voice. 
'Yes, you do. You've lived and breathed the Daroth threat for weeks 
now - scheming, planning, worrying. And all for this day. Now it is 
over. And all the tension of those dark days is settling over you like 
a black mist.' 
'I'm sick of it,' she said. 'Sick of seeing death and violence.' 
'You are right to be sick of it, it is a sickening business. As to the 
point . . . ? Ask the living. There are crowds outside chanting your 
name . . . well, not exactly your name. "The Ice Queen", they are 
calling you now. They think you are a deliverer sent by the gods. 
Better than the "Whore of War", anyway.' 
'I don't care what they think.' 
'You should; they are what this is all about: the bakers 


and the carpenters, the dreamers and the poets. But you won't see 
that today, will you, Karis?' 
'What is it you want from me?' she asked, rising from the water and 
climbing the steps. Servants had left thick towels by the bath side 
and Karis wrapped one around her torso, using a second to dry her 
hair. 'Well?' she persisted. 
'I don't know. How did the hot water feel upon your skin?' 
'What has that to do with anything?' 
'It felt good, didn't it? Cleansing the skin, relaxing the muscles. Had 
the Daroth broken through, we would have all been dead. No more 
baths. No more wine. No more loving. They didn't break through, 
Karis. You stopped them. And here we are. And life is sweet! 
Tomorrow. . . ? Well, tomorrow can look after itself. What do I 
want? Pointless to say that I want you for eternity. We may only 
have a day. But if we don't use it then the Daroth might just as well 
have won.' 
She sat down on a bench and smiled. 'That was a long-winded way 
of saying you want to take me to bed.' 
He grinned at her. 'What I wanted most was to see you smile.' 
She looked into his green eyes and was silent for a moment. 'Come 
and join me in a drink,' she said at last. He rose from the water and 
she threw him a towel. 
Necklen, Vint and the Duke Albreck were waiting in her outer 
rooms. The Duke stood as she entered, then averted his eyes. 'My 
apologies, General,' he said. 'We will come back when you are 
attired for company.' 
Karis bowed. 'With respect, my lord, please be seated. I am too 
tired to dress, and will soon be asleep. But for 


the moment I have enough wits about me to conduct a 
conversation.' 
'As you wish,' he said, but he was clearly uncomfortable. Seating 
himself, he was about to speak when Forin walked in naked. Hastily 
the giant swept a towel around his hips, but as he bowed the towel 
fell away. Necklen roared with laughter and even the Duke smiled. 
Then Albreck turned to Karis. 'Firstly, let me congratulate you on 
today's victory. The people seem to believe it was a miracle. For 
myself I know it to be the result of careful planning and meticulous 
strategy. I am proud of you, Karis. Whatever happens from now on, 
nothing will change that.' 
Karis reddened, seeming at a loss for words. The Duke rose and 
bowed to her, then swung to Forin. 'You lost a lot of men today, 
Captain. But you fought like a lion. Should Corduin survive this war, 
then there will be a place for you in my personal guard.' 
'Thank you, my lord. I'll enjoy that.' 
The Duke moved to the door. 'When you have rested, Karis, please 
come to my rooms. I would like to discuss tomorrow's plan of 
defence.' He paused before the door, which Necklen opened for him. 
Karis lay back on the couch, fatigue making her head swim. 
'We'll let you get some rest, princess,' said Necklen, tapping Vint on 
the shoulder. Vint did not move; his face ashen, he was staring at 
Forin with undisguised hatred. Necklen leaned in to him. 'Time to 
go, my friend,' he whispered. Vint took a deep breath, pushed 
himself to his feet and stalked from the room. Necklen followed 
him. 
'I think I've made an enemy of Vint,' said Forin. There was no reply 
from Karis, and the giant, moving alongside her, saw that she was 
asleep. Gently he lifted her into his arms and carried her into the 
bedroom. Pulling the sheets and blankets over her he 


kissed her brow, then dressed and wandered out of the palace. 

Necklen caught Vint just as the swordsman was passing the side 
gates of the palace. 'Join me for a jug?' asked the older man. 
'I don't think so.' 
'It's what she is, Vint,' said Necklen. 'I love her like a daughter, but 
she's wilful.' 
With great effort Vint held back the angry retort that swelled in his 
throat. Necklen was a good man, tough and loyal, and he meant 
well. The truth was simple: a man rarely understands the value of 
what he has - until he loses it. 'You mustn't blame Forin,' said 
Necklen. 
'Blame? I don't blame anyone. I am angry, but that will pass. And 
now, if you'll excuse me, I'll return to the wall.' 
Vint strode off. Everywhere there were crowds on the streets, 
laughing, singing, drinking. He moved through them like a wraith, 
oblivious to their joy. The black-clad figure of Tarantio was sitting 
on the battlements, staring out over the walls. 
'Anything happening?' asked Vint. 
'No. A whole group of them, maybe two hundred, have been sitting 
in a circle for the last couple of hours. Where's Karis?' 
'Resting, apparently.' Tarantio caught the edge in Vint's tone and 
said nothing. 'Where next, do you think?' asked Vint. 'The east 
gate?' 
'I have no idea. They are shocked, that's for sure.' 
Vint glanced back to where the Daroth bodies had been dragged 
earlier. All that remained was what appeared to be a huge pile of 
white sacks and oddments of armour and weapons. 'What happened 
to the Daroth dead?' he asked. 


'That's them,' said Tarantio. 'The bodies just shrivelled away. The 
stench was dreadful for a while. I saw a snake shed its skin one 
time; it was something like that.' 
'It was the same at the miracle forest,' Vint told him. 'They really 
decompose fast, don't they?' 
'If that is what is happening,' said Tarantio. 'That farmer who was 
taken by them . . . Barin. He said they were immortal - reborn 
every ten years. Maybe there's a new body for them back in their 
city.' 
'What a loathsome thought.' 
The bearded soldier who had spoken to Vint just before the attack 
walked up the rampart steps. He was weaving slightly, and holding 
a jug in his hands. 'What a day!' he said, slumping down beside the 
two men. 'What an incredible day! Did you know the whores are not 
accepting money today? Everything's free: women, drink, food. 
What a day!' The man lay down on the stone and, using the empty 
jug for a pillow, fell asleep. 
'Let's hope he has the same sentiments tomorrow,' said Tarantio. 
'People are treating this as a great victory, when in fact it is only 
the starting skirmish.' 
Brune ran up the steps, tripped at the top, recovered his balance 
and then moved alongside Tarantio, handing him a package 
wrapped in muslin. Tarantio opened it to find fresh bread, salted 
beef and a pottery jar containing butter. 'It's amazing back there,' 
said Brune. 'Everyone's so happy. A woman kissed me!' 
'She must have been drunk,' teased Tarantio. 
'Yes, she was,' admitted Brune. 'It was still nice, though.' 
'How is the eye?' asked Vint. 
The sandy-haired youngster gave a shrug. 'It's not as good as it 
was when it went gold. But it's all right.' 
'You can shoot straight now?' 


'I don't know. Haven't tried.' 
'Brune has decided that war is evil, and he will have no part in 
killing,' put in Tarantio. 'Isn't that right, Brune?' 
'Yes. I don't want to kill nobody.' 
'Putting aside the double negative for a moment,' said Vint, 'I think 
that is a laudable point of view. But what do you do when a Daroth 
warrior is about to behead you with a large sword? Do you just die - 
or do you fight?' 
'I'll die, I reckon,' said Brune. 
'Could you offer some validation for this philosophy?' 
'What did he say?' Brune asked Tarantio. 
'I think he wants to know why you have decided not to fight.' 
'Oh. It was the Oltor. I can't explain it, but when he was . . . you 
know, part of me, I could feel what he was thinking. What he was 
feeling. And it was good, you know? It was . . .' he paused '. . . 
right. Yes, that's it. It was right. You understand?' 
'Not a word,' admitted Vint. 'You think it would be better to be dead 
than to fight for your life?' 
'Yes, I think so. That's what the Oltor done.' 
'And they were wiped out.' 
'Yes, but they're back now.' 
'What is he talking about?' Vint asked Tarantio. 
'It is a long story.' 
Vint was about to question him further when movement began in 
the Daroth camp. Hundreds of Daroth warriors moved to the lower 
hillside and began to dig while others could be seen returning from 
the woods carrying the trunks of felled trees. Within minutes the 
area was the scene of frenzied activity. The diggers soon 
disappeared from sight, but the watching men could see earth being 
thrown up from the pit. The Daroth brought up empty wagons, 
which they filled with earth; these were then 



trundled away, returning empty minutes later. Ropes and pulleys 
were assembled above the pit, drawing up dirt, while planks and 
timbers were lowered down. 
Realization dawned on Vint and he felt a chilling fear spread through 
him. They're building a tunnel,' he said. 'They are going to burrow 
underneath us!' 


Chapter Fourteen 
The house was cold and Tarantio lit a fire. Brune was staying in the 
new barracks building with the other stretcher-bearers, and the 
house seemed lonely without him. 'I miss him too,' said Dace. 
Tarantio smiled. 'You remember that first day? "He hit me with a 
lump of wood",' he mimicked. 
'He is a good man. I hope he survives.' 
Tarantio sat before the fire, enjoying the new warmth. 'We don't 
make many friends, do we, Dace? Why is that?' 
'We don't need them, brother.' 
'So why Brune? Why do we miss him?' Dace remained silent and 
Tarantio wandered out to the kitchen. There was a stale loaf there 
and he cut several slices from it, bringing them back to the fire and 
toasting them. He ate only one, then lay down on the goatskin rug, 
weariness washing over him. The Daroth were still digging, the 
mouth of the tunnel illuminated by lanterns. Soon they would erupt 
out of the ground somewhere within the city. 
'We won't die, brother,' said Dace. 'I'll kill them all.' 
'I've always loved your sense of humour.' 
'Don't go to sleep yet. I feel the need to talk awhile.' Dace sat up 
and added a log to the fire. 'Chio? Chio!' he said, aloud. He swore 
softly, and tried to summon Tarantio. He could now feel the 
weakness in their body, 


the muscle fatigue and the bone-numbing weariness. It was not a 
sensation Dace enjoyed. Pushing himself to his feet he walked to 
the kitchen and drank several cups of cold water, then scraped the 
last of some honey from a pottery jar. It was sweet and good. 
His keen hearing picked up the sound of someone walking along the 
path to the door, and he opened it. There, framed in the moonlight, 
the hood of a dark cloak hiding her golden hair, was the Lady 
Miriac. 
'Are you not going to invite me in?' she asked. Dace stepped aside. 
Her blue silk skirts swished against the floor as she moved through 
to the fire and sat down. Dace could hardly believe this was 
happening. It seemed so long ago when Tarantio had bedded her 
and Dace had fought for control, determined to draw his knife 
across her slender throat. In terror Tarantio had run from the room 
of mirrors. Now she was here. And Tarantio was asleep. 
'Why did you not tell me you were back in Corduin?' she asked. 
'I did not know you were still here,' said Dace, his fingers idly 
stroking the hilt of his dagger. 
'Did I do something wrong?' she asked. 'We. . . blended so well. I 
felt ... I don't know what I felt. But I have thought about you 
constantly.' She rose and stepped in close to him, putting her arms 
around his shoulders. He felt the warmth of her body, and pictured 
the blood gushing from her. Smoothly he drew the dagger, bringing 
it up behind her back. Her lips brushed against his cheek, then 
touched his mouth, and he felt her soft tongue upon his. All 
weariness fled from him, and he was suddenly filled with an aching 
need. Stepping back she loosed the cloak, letting it fall, then undid 
the ties at the front of her silk dress. Dace watched in silent 
amazement as the garment 


fell to the floor. 'Why are you holding a dagger?' she whispered. He 
hurled it aside. 
They made love before the fire, their passion fierce and 
uncontrolled, and when it was over Dace - for the first time in his 
life - began to weep. She held him close, stroking his back and 
whispering gentle endearments to him. It seemed to Dace that walls 
were collapsing in his mind, and emotions long hidden were 
washing out like the swollen waters of a flood. He saw his father 
hanging from the beam, and instead of being filled with a bitter 
hatred of the man's weakness he remembered his father's kindness 
and the love they had lost. He felt he was drowning in a sea of 
emotions he never knew he possessed. And he clung to Miriac, 
whose soft caresses and gentle words aroused him again. 
He took her to the bedroom where they made love slowly and with 
great tenderness. Later, as she slept, Dace sat up and stared down 
at her as she lay with her golden hair spread out on the pillow, her 
slender left arm draped across the bed. She was the most beautiful 
woman he had ever seen. 
'And you wanted to kill her,' said Tarantio. 
'I have wanted many things,' Dace told him. 'But mostly I wanted 
us to stay together.' 
'We are together.' 
'You don't understand, Chio. We are not real, you and I; we are 
both creations of the child trapped in the mine. He created me to 
deal with his terrors, and in doing so gave birth to you. For only you 
could control me. Don't you see? And the pull is getting stronger. 
One day he will draw us both to him, and we will cease to be.' 
'You cannot be sure of this,' argued Tarantio. 
'Oh, I am sure. I can hear him calling me even now. And I can no 
longer resist.' 


'Why?' Tarantio asked. 
'Because I have known love - and that is not what I was created for. 
Goodbye, brother,' said Dace aloud, an infinite sadness in his voice. 
Tarantio jerked back into awareness. 'Dace!' he called, but there 
was nothing. 
Miriac stirred. 'Did you call me?' she whispered. 
Tarantio sat very still, a yawning sense of emptiness sweeping 
through him. 
Dace had gone ... 


The mood in the Meeting Hall was sombre as Vint gave his report. 
The Daroth had moved mountains of earth from their tunnel, and by 
morning would be close to the walls. By late tomorrow they would 
be under the city. Duke Albreck listened in silence, but cast a 
searching gaze around the room and its occupants. The little 
councillor, Pooris, looked glum and uncertain. Karis sat with eyes 
downcast, contributing nothing. The giant Forin was only half-
listening to Vint; he was casting furtive glances towards Karis, and 
his look was one of concern. The dark-haired, skeletal cleric, Niro, 
sat forward attentively with his eyes fixed on the speaker. Neither 
Tarantio nor Ozhobar had so far arrived. 'I cannot see,' concluded 
Vint, 'how we can combat this new initiative. If it was men we were 
facing, I would suggest digging down to intercept them. But 
Daroth? They would cut us to pieces in moments.' He sat down, and 
the silence that followed his words was ominous. 
Duke Albreck waited for a moment, then took a deep breath. 'Our 
thanks to you, Vint. Your report was clear and concise. Any 
comments?' The silence grew again. 'General, do you have anything 
to add?' Karis shook her head, but did not look up. The Duke 



chose his words carefully, speaking without any hint of criticism. 
'My friends, we have worked hard and long to plan our defences, 
and to secure a future for the thousands of Corduin citizens who 
remain. It would be less than courageous to give in now, before the 
enemy has breached our walls. There must be something we can 
do.' He glanced at Pooris. The little man wiped the sweat from his 
bald head. 
'I am not a warrior, my lord, as well you know. But I fail to see how 
we can combat these tactics. The Daroth could come up anywhere, 
and the only real weapons we have against them are too 
cumbersome to haul around the city. The way to the south is still 
open; the Daroth have not surrounded us. It seems to me that we 
should order a mass evacuation.' 
'How far would we get?' asked Forin. 'At best such a column could 
make eight miles in a day. The Daroth riders would be upon us 
within the hour.' 
The door opened and Ozhobar strolled in, carrying a bundle of 
scrolls under his arm. He gave a cursory bow to the Duke, then 
pulled up a chair. 'Have I missed anything?' he asked. 
'You appear to have missed out your apology for lateness, sir,' 
chided the Duke. 
'What? Ah, I see we are still observing the niceties. That's rather 
good. We dangle from the crumbling lip of the precipice, but we 
retain our manners.' 
'We do, sir,' said the Duke curtly. 
'My apologies for my late arrival, my lord,' said Ozhobar, rising and 
bowing once more, 'but I needed to obtain these items from the 
Great Library. Some fool of a cleric told me that it was closed, but 
would re-open at its usual time tomorrow. He too was observing the 
niceties.' His pale eyes gleamed with anger. 'This of course meant 


that I had to waste time fetching a large hammer from my forge 
and beating down the door. However, that is largely of no 
consequence now. I have, I believe, found a way to fight the 
Daroth.' 
Duke Albreck swallowed his irritation. 'Would you enlighten us, my 
dear Ozhobar?' 
'Certainly, my lord.' He passed one of the scrolls to the Duke, who 
opened it. He recognized it instantly. 
'These are your plans for a city sewerage system. I recall you 
brought them to me last year.' 
'Indeed I did. After examining them you passed them on to the City 
Council for perusal. From there, it seems they were sent to a 
treasury team, then to the councillors responsible for public works. 
Lastly they were lodged in a small room at the rear of the Library, 
perhaps waiting for future generations to study them. It took me a 
long time to locate them, but here they are.' 
'I see the plan,' said Vint dryly. 'We swiftly build a sewer system, 
and when the Daroth break through they are washed away. I think 
it is brilliant.' 
'Dolt!' said Ozhobar, passing the other scrolls around the table. 'I 
am talking about the reason why such a sewerage system was 
feasible in the first place.' 
'The catacombs,' said the Duke, unable to keep the excitement from 
his voice. 
'Precisely, my lord. They spread under the city in all directions. I 
believe the Daroth will break through into one of the natural tunnels 
below the old barracks building. Now, if they have any sense at all 
they will not dig any further, but follow the tunnels to any one of 
seventeen exits within the city itself.' 
'And that is a help?' sneered Vint, his face pale and angry. 


'Perhaps if I speak more slowly your simple mind might be able to 
keep up,' said Ozhobar. 
Vint fought for control. 'Be careful, fat man. Your life hangs on a 
thread.' 
'Somewhat similar to your brain, then,' observed Ozhobar. Vint 
lurched to his feet at the insult. 
'That is enough! Both of you!' said the Duke, without raising his 
voice. 'What is your plan, Ozhobar?' 
'I don't make war plans. I leave that to Karis. But there are many 
chambers in the catacombs. I have walked them, and I know.' 
Karis looked up. 'Before I speak it is vital for Vint and Forin to leave 
the room.' 
'Why?' asked Forin. 
'Because both of you will be fighting the Daroth, face to face. Ask 
no more questions. The answers should be obvious.' 
'Indeed they are, Karis,' said Vint. The warrior swung to Ozhobar, 
and when he spoke his voice was flat and cold. 'You have nerve, fat 
man; I'll give you that. And because of your discovery, I will not kill 
you for your insolence.' 
'Decent of you, I'm sure,' retorted Ozhobar. 
The two warriors left the room. Karis rose, and Duke Albreck was 
delighted to see the glint in her eyes. 'We can lead the Daroth to 
the exit we prefer,' she said. 'We need a fighting force below 
ground. They will attack the Daroth, then retreat before them. The 
Daroth will follow. If we can maintain a fighting retreat, we can 
ensure that we have ballistae, crossbow-men and catapults waiting 
for them above ground. The difficulty will be in preventing the 
Daroth from recognizing the plan; if our men are retreating towards 
a set exit, they may well suspect a trap.' 
'I see the problem,' said the Duke. 'If our men are told 


of the plan, the enemy will read their minds. Yet if we don't tell the 
men which way to retreat, the scheme is doomed anyway.' 
'Then what do you propose, Karis?' asked Pooris. 
'I don't know yet. But I will, councillor. Be assured of that.' 


Necklen poured himself a goblet of wine and sipped it. It was a fine 
vintage, yet its flavour was lost on the veteran. The stump of his 
left arm was throbbing, and he felt every inch his fifty-seven years. 
Normally he avoided mirrors but, fortified by the wine, he sat before 
the oval mirror set above the dresser and stared gloomily at his 
reflection. There was not much dark hair left in his almost silver 
beard, and his leathery skin was criss-crossed with wrinkles. Only 
the eyes remained alive and alert. 
No-one knew exactly how old he was. He had always lied about his 
age, for few captains would have knowingly hired a mercenary over 
fifty. I hate being old, he thought. I hate the aches and the pains 
that come with the winter winds and snow. But most of all he hated 
the chasm it created between himself and Karis. He could still 
remember the day four years ago when he discovered - to his utter 
amazement - that he was in love with her. It was after the victory 
at the Boriane Pass, when she had wandered away to sit alone by a 
small waterfall. She was by the waterside, surrounded by daffodils, 
when he had taken her some food the camp cook had prepared, and 
was surprised to find her weeping. 
'One usually weeps when one has lost a battle,' he said softly, 
sitting down beside her. Her dark hair had been tightly drawn back 
into a ponytail. Karis loosed the tie and shook her head. It was in 
that moment, her hair 



hanging free, tears in her eyes, that Necklen fell in love for the 
second time in his life. 
Karis wiped her eyes. 'Stupid woman,' she said. 'I thought they 
would have surrendered. Outnumbered, outflanked, what else could 
they do? But no, they had to fight to the death. And for what? A 
little village that will still be there when we have all gone to dust.' 
'They were brave men,' he conceded. 
'They were fools. We are fools. But then war is a game made for 
fools.' 
'And you play it so well, princess.' 
She looked at him sharply. 'I don't think I like that term.' 
'I'm sorry,' he had said, reddening. 'I haven't used it in years. It 
was what I used to call my daughter.' That was a lie; it was the pet 
name he had called Sofain, his wife. 
'Where is she now?' asked Karis. 
'Dead. She and my wife were visiting their family in the islands 
when the boat was caught in a storm. They were washed 
overboard.' 
'I am truly sorry, Necklen. Did you love them very much?' 
'It is curious, but I loved them more when they had died. You don't 
know how valuable love is, until something takes it from you.' 
'How old was your daughter?' 
'Five. Dark-haired like you. She would have been about your age 
now - young, and full of life. Married, probably, to some farmer.' 
'And you would have been a doting grandfather with babies on your 
knee.' He chuckled at the thought. 'I need to swim,' she said. 
Rising, she had stripped off her boots, leggings and tunic and dived 
into the pool below the falls. Necklen had rarely felt as old as he did 
at that moment. 



He was dragged from his reverie by the sound of the door opening. 
Karis moved across the room and sat down opposite the old warrior. 
He forced a cheerfulness he did not feel. 'You are looking brighter, 
princess,' he said. 'What can have changed your mood?' 
'One more tactic against the Daroth,' she said. 'The last one.' She 
told him about the catacombs, and her plans for a rolling retreat to 
draw the enemy to a desired location. 
'But if there are seventeen exits, the Daroth might split their force 
and not follow our men. Or they might read their minds and realize 
the trap.' 
'Exactly! That is what we must work out. How do we misdirect the 
Daroth?' 
'Well, firstly, is there a need? In the darkness of the catacombs, 
amidst the chaos of a rolling retreat, the Daroth may not be able to 
read minds.' 
She shook her head. 'We cannot rely on that.' Moving to the table 
she spread out a map of the catacombs. 'Six of the exits emerge 
into the Great Park. Only one of these is surrounded by flat land 
where we could assemble all our ballistae, spreading them in a half 
circle around the exit. Then, when the Daroth emerge we can cut 
them to pieces.' 
'There is a second problem there, princess: they will not emerge all 
at once. Let's say twenty scramble out, then charge the ballistae. 
We shoot, they fall, then fifty more emerge while we are reloading. 
We will also need a plan that allows the greatest number of Daroth 
to rise from the darkness - before we shoot.' 
'One problem at a time, old one.' They talked on for more than an 
hour, discussing possible strategies, then Karis called a halt. 'I will 
sleep on it,' she said. Necklen rose to go, but she lifted her hand. 
'Wait for a few moments, my friend,' she said. 



'What else is troubling you?' he asked. 
She gave a wistful smile. 'Nothing of great importance - not to the 
city anyway,' she told him. 'You once told me about your wife. Did 
you love her?' 
'Ay, I did. She was a fine woman.' 
'How did you know you loved her?' 
The question took Necklen by surprise. 'I can't say I know what you 
mean, princess,' he said. 'How does anyone know? It just happens.' 
She looked disappointed, but said nothing and Necklen felt he had 
failed her. 'How do you feel when you are in love?' he asked. 
She shrugged. 'I never have been.' 
'But you've . . .' he faltered. 
'Had a hundred lovers,' she finished for him. 'I know. I've always 
been careful. Never rutted with a man who touched my soul.' 
'In Heaven's name, why?' 
Karis half-filled a goblet with wine, then added water. But she did 
not drink; she merely stared into the wine's crimson depths. 
Necklen was about to ask her again when she looked up. 'I don't 
remember how old I was when I first saw my father punch my 
mother. But I was very small. I saw her thrown across a table, and 
lying upon the floor with blood seeping from her smashed lips. He 
kicked her then, and I began screaming. Then he struck me.' 
'What has this to do with your falling in love? I don't see the 
connection.' 
'You don't? She married for love. It destroyed her.' 
'And you feel it would happen to you? Why should it?' he asked. 
'You think all men are like your father?' 
'Yes,' she answered, simply. 'They all want control. They see women 
as possessions, and I will not be possessed.' 
'Forin,' he said. 'You are in love with Forin. He is the 



last person you think of before going to sleep, and the first person 
you see in your mind's eye when you wake. Yes?' She nodded. 'Ah, 
princess, you are a fine, intelligent lass, and yet dumb as a jackass. 
Of course love is dangerous and wild and irresponsible. By Heaven, 
that's what makes it so wonderful!' 
'You think me stupid?' she asked him, her voice soft, barely above a 
whisper. 
'I adore you, princess, but you should not be looking at love 
through the eyes of the frightened child you once were. Let me go 
and find him. I'll send him to you.' As Necklen pushed himself to his 
feet, Karis rose and stepped close to kiss his bearded cheek. 
'I love you, old man,' she said. 'I wish you had been my father.' 
'I love you too,' he said. 
And, with despair in his heart, strode off to find Forin. 


The sun was high in the sky as Ozhobar and Vint stood on the 
parapet of the north wall watching the Daroth toil. 'They have hit 
rock,' said Ozhobar. 'It has slowed them considerably.' 
'Maybe they will not be able to pass it,' suggested the swordsman 
hopefully. 
'They will pass it,' said Ozhobar grimly. 'Before long we will be able 
to hear them below us, like termites.' He switched his gaze to the 
soldiers on the wall; they were stern of face, and there was little 
conversation. The celebrations in the city had died away as the 
news spread of the new Daroth initiative. Already citizens had 
begun to report sounds underground, which they became convinced 
were Daroth engineers. It was hard to allay the fears, and fresh 



columns of refugees had already started to stream towards the 
south. 
The smell of onion soup drifted up to them. 'I cannot stand another 
day of that,' said Vint. 'Join me for breakfast?' 
'I thought you wanted to kill me,' Ozhobar observed. 
'I also want to eat,' said Vint coldly. The two men left the ramparts 
and walked to a nearby tavern, where they breakfasted on eggs, 
bacon and beef, washed down with cider. 'Where are you from?' 
Vint asked the Weapon Maker. 
'The islands. My father was a blacksmith and an inventor.' 
'What brought you to the mainland?' 
Ozhobar shrugged. 'I thought I'd travel and see the world. Thought 
there'd be more scope for my talents.' 
'Well, you were right about that.' 
'I didn't mean with weapons,' said Ozhobar sadly. 'Prentuis had a 
sewerage system - not a very good one, mind, but they survived 
the plague better than any other city. Less filth on the streets. Less 
disease.' 
'The city doesn't exist any more,' said Vint. 
'That's not the point I am trying to make. Life could be so much 
better for people if we weren't always fighting, using all our 
resources for weapons and armies. I suppose, however, that life 
would be exceedingly dull for you if peace ever came?' 
'No, I would paint and write,' said Vint, draining the last of his cider. 
'You are a painter?' 
'Ah, I have surprised you,' said Vint. 'Yes, I paint. Landscapes 
mostly, but I have tackled portraits. I would offer to paint you, Oz, 
but I fear I wouldn't have a canvas large enough.' 



Ozhobar laughed. 'Vint the painter and Ozhobar the sewer designer. 
What a pretty pair!' 
'Indeed we are,' agreed Vint. 'And now, I fear, it is time for the 
return of the Swordsman and the Weapon Maker! Shall we tour the 
catacombs?' 


Servants were rushing about the house packing valuables into 
chests and carrying them down to the two wagons drawn up 
outside. Miriac walked past them into the main room to find Pooris 
pushing papers into a leather shoulder-bag. 
'What is happening?' asked Miriac. 
'My dear, it is time to leave. The city is about to fall. I have had 
most of your clothes packed and loaded in the wagon. We set off for 
Hlobane within the hour.' 
'I thought you had decided to stay,' she said. 
'That was then,' he told her. 'Now events have overtaken my plans. 
The Daroth are tunnelling beneath the city as we speak.' 
'And the Duke has allowed you this leave of absence?' 
'I am not a bondsman,' he said curtly. 'I can go where I will. Now 
please look to your personal possessions and make yourself ready.' 
Miriac left the little man and moved back into the hall. Stopping a 
servant, she told him to unload her chests and return them to the 
master bedroom. Pooris heard her and rushed out. 'Do not be 
stupid,' he said. The Daroth will have no need of courtesans, my 
dear - save to cook you over a charcoal pit.' 
Leaning forward, she kissed the crown of his bald head. 'You go, 
Pooris,' she said. 'I will stay and look after your house.' 
'You don't understand ...' 
'I understand well enough. The Daroth are tunnelling 



beneath us and you believe the city is about to fall. You wish to 
save yourself - that is entirely natural. Do as you think fit, Pooris. 
But I will remain.' 
'But ... I need you.' 
'No. You want me. There is a difference.' He stood very still, and 
she could see the confusion on his face. Even more, she could 
understand the warring emotions within him. Pooris was not a 
coward but, like all politicians, he was a pragmatist. If the Daroth 
had won — which he believed they had - then it was only sensible 
to retreat before them. Now Miriac had presented him with a fresh 
dilemma. He loved her, and, as a man, wanted to protect her. He 
could not do this from Hlobane or Loretheli. Realistically, however, 
he could not do it here in Corduin either; the tiny councillor would 
be no match for a Daroth. 'I want you to be safe,' she told him. 'You 
are very dear to me. I think you have made the right decision.' She 
saw him relax then, as she had known he would. 
Without further conversation, she went upstairs to her rooms and 
began to unpack the chests. She had promised Tarantio to return at 
dusk, and had been wondering how to break the news to Pooris. 
Now there was no need. 
The councillor came to her an hour later, and stood in the doorway 
of her bedroom. 'Please come with me,' he said. 'I beg you.' 
'No, dear heart.' 
'I have great wealth, much of it invested in Loretheli and the 
islands. You would be like a queen there.' 
'Go, Pooris. The Daroth may even now be riding to intercept the 
convoys.' 
Moving forward, he kissed her cheek, then turned and ran from the 
room. 
Miriac heard him on the stairs, then returned her gaze to the long 
mirror on her dressing table. 'You are a fool,' she 


told herself. Then she remembered the time with Tarantio, the 
warmth of his body upon hers. 
She had thought of him every day since the curious events two 
years before, after the duel with Carlyn. The Duke had asked her to 
entertain his new champion, and she had done so to the best of her 
considerable abilities. It had been a wondrous night, and she had 
been surprised by the intensity of his virgin love-making. Then he 
had fled. No other word could describe it. The following morning she 
had tried to dismiss it from her mind, yet she could not. 
Investigations revealed that Tarantio had spurned the Duke's offer 
to become champion and instead had enlisted as a mercenary. 
There was no sense to it. Why would any man turn down the 
promise of riches and comfort for a life of hardship and premature 
death? 
For some time she continued to ask about him. Then she met the 
merchant Lunder, whom Tarantio paid to invest his hard-earned 
silver. Through Lunder she knew where Tarantio was, and what 
battles he had fought in. It was a tenuous link, but a link 
nonetheless. 
When she had gone to him last night she had hoped to find him less 
fabulous than in her memories, so that she could finally be rid of 
the torment of thinking of him. Instead she found the experience 
enriching, and she still felt an inner glow as she recalled his tender 
touch. 
'I will not lose you again,' she said. 

In the three days that followed, the Daroth made one half-hearted 
attack on the eastern gate, but were driven back by the fireballs of 
two catapults. Meanwhile the endless tunnelling continued. Minute 
by minute, Daroth engineers could be seen leaving the mouth of the 
tunnel bearing sacks of rock which were loaded to wagons, then 
ferried away out of sight. They worked ceaselessly, and 


always at the same pace. 'They are like machines,' said a soldier to 
Forin, as he and Karis observed the work. 'Do they never rest or 
sleep?' 
'Apparently not,' replied Forin. 'But they die, boy. And more of them 
will die when they break through.' 
'It is said they don't die,' put in the soldier. 'They go back to eggs or 
some such, and are born again.' 
Forin did not reply. When Karis walked away, he followed her. 'You 
are pensive today,' he said, as they strolled along the avenue 
towards the palace. 
'I have much to think about.' 
'We will survive, Karis. I'm sure of that.' 
'It would be nice to be so sure.' 
'I don't intend to fall before some whey-faced giant termite — not 
now I've found you.' 
'I hope that you don't!' 
'You have a plan yet?' 
'If I tell you, then you will not be able to lead the fighting in the 
catacombs. Do you want me to tell you?' 
He paused. 'I would dearly like to say yes to that, but I cannot. 
Tarantio and Vint have their magical swords. I have my strength. It 
will be needed in the catacombs. Speaking of Tarantio, I haven't 
seen him for days. Where is he?' 
'I don't know,' replied Karis. 'He has failed to attend two meetings. I 
want him there tonight.' 
'I'll fetch him myself,' promised Forin. She made to walk on, but he 
gently took her arm. 'When this is over, would you consider 
marrying me?' he asked her. 
'You are certainly an optimist, Redbeard.' 
'Always. But especially now. You think I will allow the Daroth to 
steal my joy?' 
Karis looked up into his broad, flat face and met the 



intensity of his green gaze. 'You are the strongest man I've known. 
Perhaps you can survive. Ask me again when the Daroth are 
defeated.' 
He moved to kiss her but she stepped back, her eyes cold. 'Not in 
the open, Forin.' 
'Are you ashamed of me?' he asked, bewildered. 
'Have you not heard what they call me? "The Ice Queen". Let them 
keep their illusions. Now is not the time for them to see Karis the 
woman.' 
She swung away from him and strode on. Forin cut off to the left 
and made his way to the small house Tarantio had rented. He 
hammered on the door, but at first there was no reply. Four times 
more he thumped his fist against the wood, then finally the door 
swung open and Tarantio stood there, bare-chested. 'Sleeping in 
the middle of the day? You are getting old, man.' Without waiting to 
be invited, Forin stepped inside, walking through to the main room. 
His nostrils flared; the smell of strong perfume lingered in the air. 
'I am sorry, my friend, I did not know you had company.' 
'Well, I have,' said Tarantio. 'What brings you here?' 
'Karis wanted to make sure you would attend tonight's meeting.' 
'Tell her I will not be there.' 
'You must be - that is where we will plan the fight in the 
catacombs.' Swiftly he told Tarantio of the caverns under the city. 
'Ozhobar thinks the Daroth will break through sometime tomorrow.' 
'I am no longer willing to fight,' said Tarantio. 
'Is this a joke? You think you have a choice?' 
'A man always has a choice. I am leaving tomorrow.' 
'I don't believe it,' declared Forin, stunned. 'You of all people! How 
can you consider leaving us to fight alone? 



You are the best swordsman I ever saw, and you have a magical 
blade. We need you, man.' 'The sword is by the door. Take it when 
you go.' Forin looked at him quizzically. 'What has happened to you, 
Chio? You are not the man I knew. You are certainly not the man 
who said he could swallow me whole if someone buttered my head 
and pinned my ears back. Gods, man, has the heart gone out of 
you?' 'Yes,' said Tarantio. 'The heart has gone out of me.' 
Disgusted, Forin swung away from him and headed for the door. 
The sword belt was hanging on a hook and the giant lifted it clear. 
'I am sorry,' he heard Tarantio call out. 'Rot and die,' replied Forin. 
Dressed in a loose-fitting white gown, the ties undone, Miriac came 
out of the bedroom as the front door closed behind Forin. For a 
moment she said nothing, but stood looking at Tarantio. He smiled 
at her. 'Would you like some wine?' 
'He was your friend,' she said. 
'Yes. Would you like some wine?' 
'No. I don't understand why you told him that.' 
'What is there to understand? I'm not going to fight any more. I 
want to get you somewhere safe.' He reached for her, but she drew 
back. 'What is wrong?' he asked her. 
'I don't know - but he was right, Chio. Something has gone out of 
you; I've sensed it for days.' 
'Is it that obvious?' 
'It is to me. I love you, but you have changed. Have I done this to 
you? Have I robbed you of your courage?' 
'My courage has not gone!' he said, but the words came out 
defensively and he could hear his own fear echoing 


in his denial. 'It has not gone,' he said. 'He wasn't my courage.' 
'He?' 
'I don't want to talk about it.' 
'Not even to me?' 
Tarantio turned away from her and stared around the room. Miriac 
remained quiet and still, allowing the silence to grow. He moved 
over to the fire and added coal to the embers, then sat down on the 
rug and looked into the flames. In a low voice he told her of his life, 
and the birth of Dace, and how they had lived together ever since. 
'I am not insane,' he assured her. 'Dace was as real to me as you 
are. You asked me why I fled that night. Dace wanted to kill you; he 
felt my love for you, and saw it as a threat. When you came to the 
house two nights ago, it was Dace who met you.' He fell silent, and 
did not look at her. 
She moved alongside him and sat down beside the fire. 'I don't 
understand,' she said gently. 'I have never heard of anything like 
this. But I do know that the man who met me was not you. And 
when I kissed him he was holding a dagger.' Taking his face in her 
hands, she looked into his deep blue eyes. 'And his eyes were grey,' 
she said, 'and fierce.' Her hands fell away, and she leaned in and 
kissed his cheek. 
'I am not insane,' he repeated, 'but the next morning Dace said 
goodbye to me - and I can no longer find him. I call, but he is not 
there.' 
'And that frightens you?' 
He nodded. 'Dace could fight his way clear of any danger. He feared 
nothing in combat. But I do. And I do not want to die - not now I 
have found you again.' 
'We are going to die,' she said. 'Perhaps not today or tomorrow - 
but sometime in the future we will cease to be. It cannot be 
avoided, no matter how far or how fast 


we run. I do love you, Chio, but I do not know you very well. So I 
may be wrong in what I am about to say, but I will say it 
nonetheless: you will come to hate yourself if you run now. I believe 
this to be true.' 
'You want to stay here? And face the Daroth?' 
'No, I want to run too. Yet I will stay. I will stare my fears in the 
face, as I have always done - not over my shoulder as I flee.' 
'I don't know what to do,' he said miserably. 
'Look into your heart, Chio. How did it feel to have your friend look 
at you with contempt? How do you feel about yourself?' 
'Lessened,' he said simply. 
'Then go to the meeting. Take back your sword. No-one can take 
away your pride; you have to willingly surrender it. Once you do so, 
you will never be the same man again.' 
'I don't know if I'll be much use to them without Dace.' 
'Perhaps you are Dace. Perhaps he is merely another manifestation 
of you. Even if he is not, you are still a man of courage. I know this, 
for I could never love a coward.' 
He smiled then, and she saw his expression lighten. 'You are a 
wonder,' he said. 
'Indeed I am,' she told him. 'And if Dace returns, tell him I love him 
too.' 


The Meeting Hall was filled with officers and men. The Duke, 
dressed in a tunic and leggings of black silk, sat at the head of the 
table, with Karis to his right. The white wall behind him had been 
stripped of paintings, and Ozhobar had sketched out a map of the 
catacombs on the bare plaster. 



The Duke rose. 'This will be the final battle,' he told his grim-faced 
audience. 'Below the ground, underneath the city, you will face a 
terrible enemy. Karis will explain the strategy to you. It will not be 
easy to carry out the orders - which is why every man here has 
been hand-picked. You are the most courageous fighters we have, 
and I am proud to stand in this room with you.' 
With that he sat down, and Karis pushed back her chair and moved 
to the wall. Using a slender rapier, she pointed to the map. 'This 
area is where we expect the Daroth to break through. Already we 
can hear them. Lanterns have been placed around the catacombs, 
so that you will be able to see your targets. The object is to hit the 
enemy hard, then fall back to our second line of defence, which will 
be here,' she said, pointing to an area where the tunnels branched 
and narrowed. 
'Excuse me, General,' said an older officer, a tall man sporting a 
curling moustache but no beard, 'but I know the catacombs. 
Wouldn't it be wiser to fortify the main tunnel? You have us 
retreating along a branch section.' 
'That is a good point,' she admitted, 'but the main tunnel branches 
further back, then splits into a honeycomb of passages. We could 
lose a great many men there.' He made to speak again, but Karis 
raised her hand. 'Do not question me further, sir; you are 
overlooking the menace of the Daroth talent for reading minds. I 
don't know how strongly they will be able to penetrate our plans 
once the killing begins. But I do not want us - here and now - to 
examine all the possibilities for defence or counter-attacks. What is 
vital is that you all listen, and obey your orders to the best of your 
abilities. The fate of the city will depend on you.' 
In the silence that followed she mapped out the line of the rolling 
retreat, the numbers of crossbow-men and 


the positions they should occupy. 'As each group retreats they 
should keep close to the walls, so that the next line of bowmen can 
rake the enemy. When you pass through the lines, take up positions 
to the rear and prepare to cover your comrades as they in turn 
retreat.' Slowly and methodically she covered the plan again, then 
asked questions of the officers until she was sure they knew what 
was required. 
The man with the curling moustache spoke again. 'And what if the 
line breaks, General? What do we do?' 
'You get out as best you can,' Karis told him. Seeing that, he was 
about to speak again, she raised her hand to halt him. 'No more 
questions,' she said. 'Go and gather your men, give out your orders, 
then assemble at the park entrance to the catacombs. Vint and 
Forin will be there waiting for you.' 
'As will I,' said Tarantio, from the rear of the room. Forin swung in 
his seat and gave a broad grin. As the officers filed out Tarantio 
moved over to Forin. 'I think you have something that belongs to 
me,' he said. 
'Indeed I do, man. It is good to see you.' Unbuckling his sword belt 
he passed the weapon to Tarantio. 
'What changed your mind?' asked Karis. 
'The love of a good woman,' Tarantio answered. 
'You and Vint will cover the withdrawals. You will rove freely, 
making use of the available cover - and there is a great deal of that. 
The catacombs are a maze of stalactites and stalagmites.' 
'I never could remember the difference between the two,' muttered 
Forin. 
'Neither could I,' said the Duke. 'Think of the "c" and the "g" as 
standing for ceiling and ground. Stalactites grow from the ceiling 
downwards, stalagmites from the ground up.' 


'Thank you, my lord,' said Forin. The Duke gave a short bow. 
'When I say free roving,' said Karis, 'I mean exactly that. But do not 
allow yourself to be drawn away from the retreating lines. There are 
a number of blind tunnels that lead nowhere, and a great many 
more that have hidden pits, some of which are very deep. The main 
areas we are defending have been marked by white paint. Keep to 
those.' 
Vint spoke up. 'I know this is a difficult area, Karis, but all the men 
who were here heard you talk about a rolling retreat. Retreats do 
not win battles. They know you will have a secondary plan of action; 
we all know it. Therefore so will the Daroth. It has to involve the 
exits; you will be planning to ambush them as they come out. 
Therefore they will probably not follow us.' 
'Forgive me, General,' said the Duke, 'but I was thinking the same 
thing. Once the battle begins, the Daroth can take any number of 
exits.' 
'That is true,' said Karis, 'but firstly the Daroth may not yet know 
about the catacombs. Secondly, even if they do, they will not be 
familiar with the layout.' 
'Every man here will have seen the map,' said Forin. 
'Yes,' agreed Karis, 'but we cannot cover all the eventualities. As 
you can see, if the Daroth are drawn into the first series of tunnels 
the number of exits available to them drops to eight. The further we 
pull them, the fewer their options.' 
'At the risk of labouring the point,' said Vint, 'everything you are 
telling us can be learned by the enemy.' 
'That is why I am not telling you everything. Trust me, Vint. We will 
surprise them. You see, they also will face a difficult dilemma. They 
know I have misdirected them once before, by planting false 
information in the mind of 


one of our scouts. Therefore, in the chaos of battle within the 
tunnels, they will not be able to trust completely in the thoughts of 
the men facing them. That will lead to confusion, believe me.' 
'I believe you, Karis,' said Vint. 'I just don't want to be used like 
that poor scout.' 
'You are being used in exactly that way,' she told him coldly. 


The smell of lantern oil hung heavily in the still air of the 
catacombs, and the warriors crouched in nervous silence, listening 
to the steady thudding sound of Daroth hammers and pick-axes 
coming ever closer. Forin wiped sweat from his face and glanced at 
Vint, who was standing beside the column of a towering stalagmite. 
The swordsman's face seemed strained and tense in the yellow, 
flickering light of the lanterns. Some way to his left Tarantio was 
sitting on a jut of rock, head down and arms on his knees. Forin 
took a deep, calming breath and walked back among the kneeling 
crossbow-men. No-one spoke, and the sheen of fear-sweat was 
bright on every face. 
For the second time in an hour Forin strode forward, crossing the 
cavern floor all the way to the far wall. Once there, heart pounding, 
he placed his hand on the rock. This time he could feel the vibration 
of the Daroth hammers tingling against his palm. 
Tarantio looked up as the giant returned, lantern light gleaming on 
the polished iron breastplate. 'Soon,' whispered Forin. 


Where are you, Dace? 

There was no response. Tarantio was trembling and terror was 
growing within him. A splintering thud, louder than before, caused 
him to jerk as if stung. Rising to his feet, he found his legs unsteady 
and was filled with an 


urge to run from this dark, shadow-haunted place. Even as the 
thought came to him, a young crossbow-man to the rear dropped 
his weapon and scrambled back along the paint- marked tunnel. 
Other men stirred and Forin moved amongst them, patting a 
shoulder here, pausing to whisper encouragement there, his 
colossal presence calming them. He gave the signal to cock the 
weapons. 
Tarantio's mouth was dry, and he thought of Miriac waiting for him 
back at the house, the bright sunshine streaming through the open 
windows. If the Daroth were to break through here ... The thought 
was too awful to entertain. 
The edge of a pick-axe smashed through the black rock. The 
crossbow-men set up their tripods, resting their heavy weapons 
upon them, aiming at the wall. Vint and Tarantio moved back away 
from the killing area. Tarantio drew his sword, which shimmered in 
the lantern light. 
A large section of rock fell away - then another, crashing to the 
cavern floor. A huge Daroth engineer stepped into sight. Three 
crossbow bolts smashed through his skull and he pitched to the 
ground. Frenzied activity began in the tunnel, picks and hammers 
crashing at the last barriers. The hole widened and the Daroth 
swarmed through, their faces ghostly white, their massive forms 
throwing giant shadows on the walls. 
Crossbow bolts tore into them, and they charged. Tarantio darted 
from behind a stalagmite and sent a slashing cut through the ribs of 
the first Daroth warrior. Ducking under a thrusting sword-blade, he 
speared his own weapon through the belly of a second. On the 
other side of the cavern Vint lanced his sword into the chest of a 
Daroth warrior, then spun on his heel to send a reverse cut across 
the throat of a second. Behind them the crossbow-men were 
retreating to the second line of defence. 


Vint leapt back, then turned on his heel and ran for cover, keeping 
close to the right-hand wall. A hurled spear smashed into a 
stalagmite, sending shards of stone into his face and neck. Ahead 
was a line of sandbags, with crossbow-men kneeling behind them. 
As Vint leapt over them, then spun to face the enemy, he saw 
Tarantio running along the far side of the cavern, scrambling to 
safety. 
The mass of Daroth surged forward. The crossbows sang, and fifty 
bolts slammed into the leading warriors. The Corduin soldiers 
struggled in vain to reload - a few succeeded - but the Daroth were 
upon them, serrated swords smashing through armour, flesh and 
bone. Vint leaped forward, cutting and killing. 'Back!' he shouted. 
The defenceless crossbow-men needed no instructions; they fled 
along the tunnel. Vint followed them, Tarantio to his right. 
There was no sound of pursuit. Spinning, the two men looked back. 
The Daroth were standing by the sandbag wall, then they filed away 
to the right. Vint swore. 
Karis's plan was not working. 

Alone in the dark Ozhobar listened to the distant sounds of battle, 
the screams of wounded men, the clash of steel, the hissing song of 
crossbow strings. Appalling sounds, he thought. 
Evil. 
Ozhobar was not a religious man. He had prayed only once in his 
life. It had not been answered, and he had buried the ones he 
loved, the plague continuing to sweep through the islands causing 
misery and desolation to those left behind. But one did not need to 
be religious to understand the nature of evil. The plague had an evil 
effect, but was merely a perversion of nature; it was not 


sentient. The Daroth, on the other hand, Ozhobar believed to be evil 
incarnate. They knew what they were doing, the pain they caused 
and the despair they created. Worse, they had fostered hatred in 
their enemies that would last for generations. And hatred was the 
mother of all evil. 
'You will not make me hate you,' thought Ozhobar. 'But I will kill 
you!' 
The sounds of fighting died away. Ozhobar lifted the glass from his 
lantern, exposing the naked flame, then rose and glanced down the 
sloping tunnel. He could see no movement, so he closed his eyes 
and listened. At first there was nothing, then he heard the sound of 
boots upon stone. The mouth of the tunnel was over 100 feet from 
where he now stood. Lifting the lantern, he moved behind the huge 
pottery ball and lit the oil-soaked rags wedged into the holes. 
Ahead he could see flickering shadows as the Daroth moved up the 
slope. 
Ozhobar sat down with his back to the wall, placed his boots against 
the burning ball and thrust hard. It began to roll, slowly at first on 
the gentle slope; then it gathered pace. The Daroth came into sight. 
Ozhobar took up his crossbow and aimed it, sending an iron bolt 
into the ball, shattering a section of the pottery. Blazing oil spilled 
out, and flames erupted through the Daroth ranks. 
Not waiting to see the result Ozhobar scrambled back, replaced the 
glass on the lantern and then climbed further up the slope, 
traversing a ledge that brought him out high above the cavern floor. 
He could clearly see the stream of burning oil flowing out of the 
tunnel. A flash of bright light came from the far side, and he saw 
Daroth warriors fleeing from the mouth of a second tunnel. Two of 
them were engulfed in flames, their comrades staying well back. 
Ozhobar's assistant, Brek, came into sight, emerging 


from a cleft in the tunnel. The Daroth saw him and surged forward. 
Brek ran towards a tunnel mouth, but a jagged spear smashed 
through his back and he fell. 
High on the ledge, Ozhobar felt the sting of grief. Brek had been a 
good man, solid and trustworthy. With a sigh, Ozhobar watched the 
Daroth milling in the centre of the cavern. Then they broke into a 
run and surged forward. 
Towards the waiting crossbow-men. 


Three volleys of bolts plunged into the advancing Daroth, but there 
was no slowing them now. Tarantio killed two, then dashed to his 
left as a spear smashed into the rock by his head. Three huge 
warriors ran at him. Cut off from the main body of defenders, he 
ran into a narrow tunnel, then turned swiftly and drove his blade 
through the white skull of the first pursuer. A spear slammed into 
his left shoulder, the serrated blade tearing up through his collarbone. 
Blood sprayed from the wound. Tarantio swept his sword 
across the Daroth's belly, then backhanded a cut that half-severed 
his head. 
The pain from his wound was intense, blood was flowing freely 
inside his shirt and pooling above his belt. Movement was agony, 
but he scrambled further back into the tunnel, searching for an exit. 
Another spear flashed past him. 
Spinning once more, he swayed away from a wild, slashing cut. His 
riposte passed through the Daroth's forearm, to send the limb 
spinning through the air. Still the Daroth rushed him, his great fist 
clubbing into Tarantio's chest and hurling him from his feet. 
Tarantio rolled as the creature leapt for him feet-first. Pushing 
himself upright, the swordsman plunged his weapon into the 
Daroth's chest. 'Now die, you whoreson!' he hissed. 
As the sound of pounding boots came from the tunnel 



mouth, Tarantio swore and stumbled further back into the darkness. 
There were no lanterns here, and only the shimmering glow from 
his sword offered any light. He felt a touch of cool air brush his 
cheek. It came from above, but his left arm was useless and there 
was no way he could climb to the opening. The tunnel itself petered 
out into a black wall of rock. Two Daroth spear-men came into 
sight. The first lunged at Tarantio, whose sword swept across his 
body - slicing through the shaft - then reversed and tore open the 
Daroth's throat. The second spear slammed through his side and 
deep into the rock behind. Cutting through the shaft he flung the 
blade like a knife. It slammed point first into the Daroth's ridged 
brow, sinking in all the way up to the hilt. Tarantio tried to move 
forward to retrieve the blade, then cried out in agony, for he was 
pinned to the wall. 
He could hear the stealthy footfalls of more Daroth approaching. His 
heart sank and he ceased to struggle. If that was death, so be it, he 
thought. 

'A pox on you, brother! I'm not ready to die yet!' 

Dace hurled himself forward, his wounded body sliding clear of the 
broken spear-shaft. He hit the ground hard, the impact jarring his 
broken collar-bone. Reaching out, he grasped the hilt of his sword 
and then struggled to his feet. 
Four Daroth swordsmen rounded the bend in the tunnel and, with a 
bloodcurdling scream, Dace charged them -his sword slicing through 
the chest of the first, the skull of the second and the ribs of the 
third. The fourth stumbled; Dace leapt upon him, using his sword 
like a dagger which he drove down through the neck and into the 
lungs. 
Dace fell with him, then staggered upright. 'Where are you, you 
bastards?' he screamed. 'I'll kill you all!' 


'Dace, for the sake of Heaven, let's find a way out of here!' cried 
Tarantio. 
But Dace ignored him. He took three running steps, then pitched 
sideways into the wall and half-fell. Blood-drenched and swaying, 
he made it back to the main tunnel and saw the bodies of a score of 
Daroth and as many Corduin men. Picking his way through them he 
heard the sounds of battle up ahead. 
'I'm coming for you!' shouted Dace, his voice echoing through the 
tunnels. He stumbled on, then fell to his knees. 
'Stop, Dace,' Tarantio urged him. 'Stop now. We are dying.' 
Dace sat with his back to the wall and gazed down at his blood-
drenched clothes. There was no feeling in his right leg now, and his 
vision was swimming. 'I am not going to die in the dark,' he said. 
With a great effort he rolled to his knees, then got his good leg 
under him, forcing himself upright. As two Daroth warriors came 
into sight, Dace blinked sweat from his eyes. 'Come on!' he called. 
'Come and die, you ugly whoresons!' 
They rushed forward, but the first suddenly swayed to his left with a 
crossbow bolt through his skull. The second lunged at Dace. The 
swordsman's blade flashed up with impossible speed, blocking the 
thrust. Off-balance, the Daroth fell forward and Dace's blade swept 
through his thick throat. 'Where are the rest of you?' shouted Dace. 
Then he fell unconscious into the arms of Ozhobar. 

Dressed in black leather leggings and a silver satin tunic shirt, the 
Duke stood silently in the park. Though surrounded by men he was 
alone, as he always had been. His eyes scanned the hillsides, 
remembering far-off days 


when he had played here with his brother. Bright and adventurous, 
Jorain had been the only person to reach the shy, introverted child 
the Duke had once been. When he had died he had taken a part of 
Albreck with him. A loveless marriage, and twenty years of ruling a 
people he neither liked nor understood, had been the life of Albreck 
following the death of Jorain. You would have been so much better 
than I, thought Albreck. The people loved you. 
Albreck switched his gaze to the catacomb entrance. Reinforced by 
two elaborate stone pillars and a white lintel stone, there were steps 
within that led down to the crystal cavern. Jorain had told him it 
was an entrance to Hell, and the six-year-old Albreck had been 
afraid to enter. 
Now the childish game had become a reality. It was an entrance to 
Hell. 
And I have come here to die, thought Albreck. The thought made 
him smile, he didn't know why. Are you waiting for me, Jorain? he 
wondered. The Duke had brought no sword or dagger and he stood 
now, arms folded, waiting patiently for whatever would follow. He 
glanced at Karis. The warrior woman was now wearing a dress of 
white silk she had borrowed from the wardrobe of the Duke's wife; 
around her slim waist was a blue sash. She looked so incongruous 
now, surrounded by warriors, like a virgin bride waiting for her 
groom. 
'Why do you need the dress?' he had asked her. 
'Don't ask, my lord,' she said. 
Under torchlight, Karis was organizing the placements of the five 
ballistae, forming a wide semi-circle some hundred paces from the 
entrance to the catacombs. Four hundred crossbow-men, in three 
ranks, were positioned between the weapons: the front line 
kneeling, the second 


standing, the third, higher still, positioned on the backs of a circle of 
wagons. 
The Duke saw the veteran warrior Necklen approach Karis and take 
her by the arm. He could not hear their conversation, but he could 
see anxiety in the warrior's face. 
'There is no need for you to die,' said Necklen, moving alongside 
Karis. 'I could do it!' 
'I am not planning to die,' she told him, 'but it is a risk I cannot 
avoid. You said it yourself - how can we get them to mass in the 
centre of the killing circle? This is the only way I could think of.' 
'All right. But why you? Why not me?' 
'You have no rank, old man. They would believe in an instant that it 
was a ploy.' 
'And it isn't?' 
'No, it is not. Now go to your position. And do as I bid.' 
'I couldn't kill you, Karis. Not if my life depended on it.' 
She put her slender hands on his shoulders. 'Thousands of lives 
may depend upon it. And if it comes to it, promise me you will obey 
my order. Promise me, Necklen, in the name of friendship.' 
'Let someone else do it. I'll stand beside you.' 
'No! If you cannot do your duty, then get you gone and I'll find a 
man who can.' The sharpness in her tone stung him, and he swung 
away from her. She called to him instantly, her tone contrite. 'I love 
you, old man. Don't let me down.' He couldn't speak, but he nodded 
and walked back to his ballista, checking the load and the release 
pin. Then he took up his hammer. 
The Duke approached Necklen. 'What is she doing?' he asked. 


'Getting ready to die,' whispered the old man. 
'What do you mean?' 
'She is going to talk to them, forcing them to mill around her. She'll 
ask for peace. If they say no - which they will - she will raise her 
hand. When she drops it, the killing begins.' 
The Duke said nothing, staring at the woman in the white dress 
standing in the moonlight. She looked so frail now, ghostlike and 
serene. He shivered. 
A soldier at the catacomb entrance called out: 'I can hear them. I 
can hear the screams.' 
Karis strode forward. 'Get back to your position,' she told the 
soldier. Gratefully the young man ran back to the wagons, climbing 
to the back of one and retrieving his crossbow. Karis stood some 
thirty feet from the white stone of the entrance and waited, longing 
to see Forin emerge unscathed. A few crossbow-men made it into 
the torchlight, and stood blinking; their friends called to them and 
they sprinted for cover. Then Vint appeared, blood on his face and 
arms. He ran to Karis, but she ordered him back. 'The Daroth are 
right behind. You must take cover,' he said. 
'Get back. Now!' 
He hesitated, then ran to where Necklen stood, his face pale, his 
eyes haunted. 
Forin came last, his armour once more dented and split, a deep 
gash upon his brow masking his face with blood. He stumbled 
towards Karis and grabbed her arm, dragging her back. Her hand 
lashed across his face, the sound like a whiplash. 'Let go of me, you 
stupid ox!' His hand fell away and he stood staring at her. 'Get back 
now!' 
'They are upon us.' He reached for her again. 
Spinning on her heel she pointed to a crossbow-man. 'You! Aim at 
this man's heart, and if he isn't moving 


when I drop my arm - kill him!' She raised her hand. 'Now move, 
goat-brain!' she thundered. Furious, Forin stalked back towards the 
wagons. 
Karis let out her breath. She wanted to call out to Forin, to explain. 
But there was no time. The first of the Daroth moved out into the 
torchlight, which glistened on his ghost-white face and beaked 
mouth. 'No one shoot!' yelled Karis. 'Where is your leader, Daroth?' 
she asked. Heat began to grow inside her head. 
'It is time to end this war. It is time to end this war! It is time to 
end this war!' She repeated the thought over and over, like a 
prayer. 'I wish to speak to your leader,' she said, aloud. More and 
more Daroth were moving out of the entrance now, spreading out, 
staring at the ballistae and the crossbow-men, their jet-black eyes 
unreadable. A warrior taller than the others stepped through the 
mass. 'I am the Daroth Duke,' he said. 'I remember you, woman. 
Say what you have to say, and then I shall kill you.' 
'And what purpose will that serve?' she asked him. 'In the few 
months since we have learned of your threat, we have already 
designed weapons that can destroy you in great numbers. We are 
an inventive people, and we outnumber you vastly. Look around 
you now. How many more of your people must die in this insane 
manner?' 
'We do not die, woman. You cannot kill us. We are Daroth. We are 
immortal. And I tire of this conversation. You have gained time, and 
you will now destroy more of our bodies. Then we will sack the city 
and kill everyone in it. So give your order - and let it begin.' 
'That is not what I wish, my lord,' she told him. 
'Your wishes are of no consequence.' His sword came up and Karis 
raised her arm. 


Duvodas had not eaten or slept for five days, yet there was no 
sensation of hunger or weariness. Nor did he feel the biting wind 
from the north, nor the heat of the midday sun as he crossed the 
mountains and descended into the verdant valleys below. 
There was no sensation for him, and his mind was empty of all 
emotion - save one: the burning need to wreak revenge upon the 
Daroth. His clothes were filthy and mud-spattered, his blond hair 
greasy and lank as he moved through the darkness towards the 
domed city. No Daroth riders were in sight as he walked in the 
moonlight, and he made no attempt to move stealthily. 
For two days now he had been aware that the land below his feet 
was devoid of magic. It did not matter, for sorcery, dark and 
terrible, coursed through his veins - feeding him, driving him on. 
The power within did not lessen; instead it seemed to grow with 
every step he took towards the city. 
There were no walls. The Daroth, in their arrogance, did not believe 
that an enemy would come this close. Had there been walls, 
Duvodas would have broken them. Had there been gates, he would 
have torn them asunder. He paused for the first time in five days 
and stood, staring at the moonlit city. An owl swooped above him, 
and a small fox scuttled away into the undergrowth to his right. 
Sitting down on the ground, he let fall the two shoulder-bags he 
carried. The canvas sack slid several feet down the gentle slope and 
the Eldarin Pearl rolled clear, moonlight shimmering on its surface. 
Duvodas blinked, and a tiny needle of regret pricked his soul. He 
remembered Ranaloth warning him of the perils of love, and he 
knew now what the old Eldarin had meant. Like light and shadow, 
love and hate were inseparable. One could not exist without the 
other. Rising he gathered the 


sack and reached for the Pearl. But as his hand touched the milky 
surface, he recoiled in pain and stared at his palm. Blisters had 
formed there, the skin burnt by the contact. Carefully covering the 
orb with the sack, he eased it back into place. 
'What have you become that you cannot touch it?' he asked himself. 
The answer was all too obvious. Duvodas returned his stare to the 
city, and thought again of his plan. It seemed awesome now in its 
evil. Shira's beautiful face swam before his eyes, and he saw her 
once more lifted on the Daroth spear, the life torn from her. His 
resolution hardened. 
'You who bring death and despair to the world deserve no mercy,' 
he told the distant city. 'You who live for destruction and pain 
deserve no life.' 

By what right do you judge them? 

The thought sprang unbidden, as if whispered on the wind. 
'By the right of power, and the needs of vengeance,' he answered. 


Does that not make you as evil as the Daroth? 

'Indeed it does.' 
Looping his bags over his shoulder, he walked on. There were no 
sentries, and he passed the first buildings without incident. 
Then a Daroth moved into sight, carrying two buckets on a yoke 
across his shoulders. His black eyes fastened on the human. 
Duvodas pointed a finger and the Daroth died, his body crumbling 
to the ground with steam erupting from his eyes, ears and mouth. 
Duvodas did not even see him fall. On he walked through the night-
shrouded city, searching for signs of his intended destination. Three 
times more he slew unsuspecting Daroth who stumbled across him. 
He had expected more of them to be on the 


streets, but the night was cold and the vast majority of the city-
dwellers remained snug in their domed homes. 
Duvodas saw twin towers in the distance, smoke drifting from them, 
and steadily he made his way towards them. Closer now, and he 
could feel the pulsing of life from the caverns deep in the ground. 
Ahead was a huge dome, where two sentries stood before the 
doors. Levelling their spears, they approached him. 
He felt their feeble attempts to read his thoughts. This he allowed. 
'I have come to destroy you and all your people.' 
'Impossible, human. We are immortal!' 
'You are doomed!' They rushed him then, but twin blasts of fire 
speared from his fingers, piercing their bodies and burning huge 
holes in the wall of the building behind them. Duvodas walked to 
the great doors and pushed them open. Within was a circular hall, 
and a vast empty table. Pulling shut the door he searched for a 
stairwell, finding it at the rear of the chamber. Behind him he could 
hear the city-dwellers running from their homes, a huge mob racing 
to stop him. 
He did not increase his speed. Opening his thoughts, he reached 
out, feeling the panic in the minds of the Daroth. 'I am vengeance,' 
he told them. 'I am death.' The steps were shallow, and wound 
down deep below the city; there were no lanterns here, and the 
darkness was total. But Duvodas raised his hand, and his palm 
began to glow with a fierce white light. Down and down he moved, 
descending to a wide corridor and a second stairwell. The heat here 
was intense. Pausing, he knelt and touched the floor. The stone was 
warm, and he could feel hot air blowing against his skin. His glowing 
hand illuminated an air vent close to the wall. 
Ahead was a wide entrance in the rock, blocked by a 


huge steel portcullis. Duvodas reached out and touched it and it 
began to glow - faintly red at first, then brighter and brighter. The 
centre sagged and melted away, smoke and steam hissing up from 
the floor as rivulets of molten metal swirled around his feet. He was 
about to enter the cavern beyond when he heard the sounds of 
booted feet upon the stairs behind him. Spinning, he threw out his 
hand. The first two Daroth warriors ran into sight; both burst into 
flames. 
The pulsing of new life was almost overpowering now as Duvodas 
strode into the massive chamber. More than 600 paces long, and at 
least 200 wide, it was filled with thousands of yellow and black pods 

- huge cocoons, many of them throbbing and writhing. 
The Daroth were indeed immortal. Twice in every generation they 
were reborn through these pods. And that, as Sirano had known, 
was their greatest weakness. That is why they feared coexistence - 
for should an enemy ever reach where he had reached, their 
immortality would be lost. A human had but one life to lose, and 
that was hard enough. But to lose eternity . . . ? The fear was 
colossal. 
He could feel it now in the panic of the Daroth as they surged down 
the stairwell behind him. 
Several of the pods burst open and small, naked Daroth wriggled 
free. He felt the pulsing of their thoughts; two were the sentries he 
had despatched earlier. 'Tell me again of your immortality,' he 
pulsed at them. 
Drawing in a deep breath, Duvodas spread out his arms. The 
temperature around him plummeted, ice forming intricate patterns 
on the walls - spreading, flowing, bright and white against the black 
rock. The heat from the vents caused sleet to swirl, settling on the 
pods and frosting them with death. 
The ice cold power of Duvo's hatred swelled out, and 

the nearest pods shrivelled and cracked. The three Daroth young 
who had emerged began to scream and writhe upon the ice-covered 
floor. 
Duvodas began to walk the length of the immense cavern, radiating 
the bleakness of a savage winter with every step. Yellow-black pods 
cracked and burst all around him, disgorging their infant contents. 
The cavern echoed to their high-pitched, dying screams. 
Hundreds of full-grown Daroth warriors ran into the chamber behind 
him. One charged at Duvodas but, as he neared, ice forming all 
around him, he began to slow. Desperate to save the pods, the 
warrior pushed on until his blood froze and he fell dead to the floor. 
Others hurled spears, but upon striking the walking man they 
shattered as if made of glass. 
Within the chamber and throughout the city, thousands of Daroth 
adults began to scream and die, their bodies shrivelling as the 
symbiotic link between them and their pods was severed. 
And Duvodas walked on. 
A glistening column of white light opened out before him, and he 
saw the golden figure of the Oltor Prime, his hand outstretched. 


The Daroth Duke dropped his sword and a strange high-pitched 
scream was torn from his throat. Karis stood stunned as the huge 
warrior suddenly crumpled. All around her Daroth warriors were 
dying, their inhuman wailing filling the air. Others merely stood, 
swords and spears dropping from their hands as they knelt beside 
the shrivelling corpses. 
Forgotten, Karis moved back to the ballistae. 'Do we shoot now?' 
asked Necklen. 
'No,' said Karis. 'We wait.' 



The old man cast her a quizzical look. 'We can finish them, Karis.' 
'I'm sick of killing,' she told him. 'Sickened to the depths of my soul. 
If they pick up their swords we will attack them, but something is 
happening here and we may yet end the slaughter.' 
The bodies began to putrefy at an alarming rate, and the stench 
was overpowering. Duke Albreck moved through to stand beside 
Karis. 'Did you do this?' he asked. 
She shook her head. 'They talk of immortality - but I think they 
have just experienced genuine death. I don't know how.' 
The kneeling Daroth suddenly rose. Not one of them reached for a 
weapon, but one of the ballistae engineers panicked and struck his 
release bolt. Iron shot tore into the enemy ranks, smashing a score 
of warriors from their feet. Thinking an order had been given, three 
of the other ballistae were loosed, and the crossbow-men added to 
the carnage. 
The Daroth did nothing. They merely stood and they died. Horrified, 
Karis shouted for the killing to stop, but blood-lust and hatred were 
high now and the crossbow-men continued to shoot. She saw the 
ballistae arms being drawn back once more. 
Running out across the killing ground with her arms held high, Karis 
continued to shout: 'It is over! Stop shooting!' 
Black bolts slashed the air around her, and Necklen scrambled from 
behind the ballistae, running towards her. Forin too dashed across 
the open ground, trying to reach her. Panic welled in him. 'Karis!' he 
yelled. 'Get down!' He even saw the bolt flying towards her. For a 
moment only he thought he could hurl his body across its deadly 
line, but it flashed by him to plunge into her back. 


Karis staggered, but did not fall at first. Slowly she sank to her 
knees, blood soaking through the white dress. The crossbow-man 
dropped his weapon and put his face in his hands. Only then did the 
killing stop, as the Corduin army gazed in stunned disbelief at the 
kneeling figure of the dying Ice Queen. 
Forin reached her side, dropping to his knees where she lay only 
yards from the surviving Daroth. He put his arms around her, 
holding her close. 'Sweet Heaven, don't die on me, Karis! Don't die!' 
The Duke, Vint, and Necklen joined them. Karis felt no pain as her 
head sagged against Forin's shoulder. He kissed her brow. 'Where is 
the surgeon?' he shouted. 
'Calm yourself,' she whispered. There was no tension in her now, no 
fear. The killing was over, and she felt strangely at peace. Looking 
up, she saw that fewer than fifty Daroth were still standing. 'Who is 
the leader now?' she asked, directing her question at the nearest 
warrior. 
The Daroth's white face turned towards her. 'You will now destroy 
us,' he said. 'The Daroth will be no more.' 
'We do not . . . want to destroy you,' Karis told him. Gentle heat 
grew inside her head, and she sensed that all the Daroth were now 
mind-linked to her. 'What we desire ... is an end to war.' 
'There can be no end,' said the Daroth. It seemed to Karis that a 
wealth of sorrow was hidden in those words and then, as if a door 
had been opened, she was allowed to share the emotions of the 
Daroth, their anguish at the death of their kindred and their fears 
for the future. 
She could scarcely feel Forin's arms around her now, and she was 
almost overcome by a need to let go, to fly free. Struggling to hold 
on she whispered to the Daroth: 'Come closer.' Clumsily the Daroth 
knelt before her. 'Take my hand,' she said, and his thick fingers 
reached out to 


curl around Karis's slender palm. 'There can be no ... end without... 
a beginning. You understand?' 
'We have great hatred for you,' said the Daroth, 'and we cannot 
coexist. For one to prosper, the other must die.' 
Karis said nothing, and the silence grew. 'Oh, no,' said Forin. 'Oh, 
no!' He hugged the dead woman close to him, cradling her head. 
Tears streamed to his cheeks as he rocked her to and fro. 
'We cannot say whether this be true,' said the Daroth, still holding 
to the limp hand. 'We have no experience of it. But we shall do as 
you say.' 
'Who are you talking to?' asked the Duke. 
'The woman. She speaks still. You cannot hear her?' 
The Duke shook his head. Releasing Karis's hand, the Daroth stood. 
'Your wizard with the face of blood has destroyed our Life Chamber. 
Half of all our people are dead now, never to come again. Karis says 
we should return to our city. We will do so.' 
'To prepare for war - or peace?' the Duke asked. 
'We cannot say . . . not at this time.' The Daroth gazed down at the 
dead warrior woman. 'There is much to consider. You are not 
immortal - and yet Karis gave her one life to save ours. We do not 
understand it. It was foolish, and yet ... it speaks to us without 
words.' 
'Is she with you still?' asked the Duke. Forin glanced up. 
'No. But her words remain.' 
The Daroth swung away and walked to the catacomb entrance. One 
by one the surviving warriors followed, vanishing down into the 
dark. 


Tarantio remained unconscious for eight days, and missed the state 
funeral the Duke gave for Karis, the Ice Queen. 



All of the citizens of Corduin lined the route, and Karis's body was 
borne in the Duke's carriage, drawn by six white horses. Karis's 
war-horse, Warain - led by Forin -walked behind, followed by the 
Duke and the army she had led. Spring flowers of yellow, red and 
blue were cast into the street ahead of the procession, and the 
carriage rolled slowly on over a carpet of blooms. 
Vint did not attend. He sat in his apartments at the palace and 
watched the procession from his balcony. Then he got drunk, and 
let his grief flow where none could see it. 
Karis was laid to rest in a tomb built on a high hill, facing north. A 
bronze plaque, cast by Ozhobar, was set into the mortar. It said 
simply: 

Karis — the Ice Queen 

The Duke made a speech at the tomb. It was simple, dignified and, 
to Forin, deeply moving. Then the crowds were allowed to file 
through, past the open coffin, to pay their respects. It remained 
open for two days, then was sealed. In the months to come a statue 
would be raised upon it of a warrior woman, her sword sheathed, 
her hand extended towards the north. 
Tarantio opened his eyes on the morning of the ninth day to see 
Miriac sleeping in a chair beside the bed. His mouth was dry and his 
body ached; he tried to move, and groaned. Miriac awoke 
immediately and leaned over him. 'They told me you would die,' she 
said. 'I knew they were wrong.' 
'Too much to live for,' he whispered. 
'That's true,' said Dace. 
Tarantio felt a surge of emotion that brought a lump to his throat. 


'Thank you for coming back, brother!' 


'Don't go maudlin on me, Chio. Where else could I go?' 

Tarantio closed his eyes. 

'What about the child in the mine?' 
'He can wait for a while longer. One day, maybe, we'll find him 
together.' 
Tarantio felt the warm touch of Miriac's hand on his own. 'Don't go 
back to sleep,' said Dace. 'Tell her we love her, you fool!' 


Forin stood alone before the newly sealed doors, remembering what 
had been and mourning what could have been. 
'I can't stay in Corduin, Karis,' he said. 'There is nothing for me 
here without you.' 
He strode away in the gathering dusk, only pausing at the foot of 
the hill to look back. Seeing that a dark shape had moved out of the 
trees and hunkered down by the door, Forin retraced his steps. 
Stealer looked up as he approached, bared his teeth and growled. 
'I don't much like you, either,' said Forin, reaching out his hand. For 
a moment it seemed that the hound would snap at him, then 
Stealer sniffed his fingers, and he ran his hand over the broad, ugly 
head. 'How do you feel about travelling south?' he asked. 'We'll see 
the ocean and live like lords.' Rising, he took several paces down 
the hill. 'You coming or not, you ugly son of a bitch?' 
The hound cast a lingering look at the tomb, then rose and padded 
after him. 


Epilogue 
The Oltor Prime brought Duvo to the centre of the desert which had 
once housed the city of Eldarisa. There were no buildings now, 
sculpted in light, merely a great emptiness and an ocean of barren 
rock. 
'Why did you come for me?' asked Duvo. 'I would have killed them 
all.' 
'That would be reason enough, Duvodas.' 
'They deserve to die.' 
The golden figure stepped back from Duvo and the human refused 
to meet his eyes. 'I have brought you here so that you might learn 
a terrible truth. I wish it were not so.' 
'What truth? I have no need of truth! There is a war being waged, 
Oltor, and I am a part of it.' 
'There is no war, Duvodas. It is over.' 
The young man surged to his feet, his clenched fist raised. 'Then I 
did it! I ruined them!' 
'I cannot say that your actions did not affect the outcome,' said the 
Oltor. 'For they did. But what made the difference was not, 
ultimately, your slaying of the Daroth, but the death of a single 
human. Though that is a riddle you are no longer equipped to 
fathom. I wish you well, human.' 
The Oltor Prime's hands swept down and a curtain of bright sunlight 
opened on to the darkness. Without 



another word he stepped through, and then Duvodas was alone. He 
felt suddenly weary, and he slept until the dawn. Then, with 
renewed energy, he climbed the tallest peak and 

- careful not to touch the surface of the orb - removed the Pearl 
from its sack and wedged it deep into the rocks. 
It took most of a day to climb down to the lowlands, but Duvodas 
felt a longing to see the return of Eldarisa, and to be with the 
Eldarin again. Pushing on without rest, he reached the Twins by late 
evening and carefully climbed to the ledge where he had stood once 
before with the Oltor Prime. Taking his harp in his hands, Duvodas 
prepared for the Creation Hymn. It did not concern him that there 
was no land magic here, for never before had he experienced such 
power as had flowed in his body since the Daroth slew Shira. 
His fingers lightly stroked the strings, and a jangle of discordant 
notes jarred the night air. At first he was untroubled and tried to retune 
the instrument; then his fingers touched the strings again. The 
noise that came was a screeching travesty of music. With increasing 
panic he sought the notes of the Hymn, but there was nothing 
there. No music at all moved within him. 
All night he struggled, but with the coming of the dawn not one 
pure note had sung from his harp. It was as if he had never known 
how to play. He thought of the simple melodies he had learned as a 
child, lullabies and dancing songs. Not one could he remember. 
Through the long day he sat upon the ledge, and at the last he 
remembered the words of Ranaloth so many years before. 'Many 
among the Eldarin did not want to see a child of your race among 
us. But you were lost and alone, an abandoned babe on a winter 
hillside. I had always wondered if a human could learn to be 
civilized 
- if you could put aside the violence of your nature, and 

the evils of your heart. You have proved it possible and made me 
happy and proud. The triumph of will over the pull of the flesh - this 
is what the Eldarin achieved many aeons ago. We learned the value 
of harmony. Now you understand it also, and perhaps you can carry 
this gift back to your race.' 
'What must I beware of, sir?' he had asked. 
'Anger and hatred - these are the weapons of evil. And love, Duvo. 
Love is both wondrous and yet full of peril. Love is a gateway 
through which hatred - disguised and unrecognized - can pass.' 
'How can that be so? Is not love the greatest of the emotions?' 
'Indeed it is. But it breaches all defences, and lays us open to 
feelings of great depth. You humans suffer this more than most 
races I have known. Love among your people can lead to jealousy, 
envy, lust and greed, revenge and murder. The purest emotion 
carries with it the seeds of corruption; they are hard to detect.' 
'You think I should avoid love?' 
Ranaloth gave a dry chuckle. 'No-one can avoid love, Duvo. But 
when it happens, you may find that your music is changed. Perhaps 
even lost.' 
'Then I will never love,' Duvo had promised. 
But he had loved, and the Daroth had stolen it away, torn it from 
him on the point of a spear. 
In despair now, Duvo returned his harp to the bag and slung it over 
his shoulder. Then he climbed from the ledge and, leaving the Pearl 
where he had placed it upon the mountain-top, began the long walk 
from the desert. 
For weeks he wandered, coming at last to a high mountain valley. 
There, on top of a hill a mile above a lake, he came upon an old 
man sitting in the captain's chair of a fishing boat. The old man 
waved 


to him as he approached and Duvo climbed to the deck. 
'Why are you staring at me so?' asked Duvo. 
'You have flames around your soul, young man. You must be in 
great pain.' 
'You see a great deal, sir. Tell me, why have you built a boat upon a 
mountain?' 
'First you tell me why you have scarred your face with blood.' 
As they sat quietly in the sunshine Duvo told him of the death of 
Shira, and the war against the Daroth, and lastly of the Pearl and 
his failure to bring back the Eldarin. The old man, Browyn, listened, 
and at dusk led Duvo back to his cabin, where they ate a simple 
meal of hot oats and milk sweetened with fruit syrup. 
'I think you should stay here for a while, my boy. Rest. Let the 
mountain air clear your mind.' 
Duvodas had nowhere else to go, and was grateful for the 
invitation. He stayed throughout the summer, and on into the 
autumn. Then, as the weather grew colder, Browyn caught a chill 
which became pneumonia. Duvodas could not help him, for he had 
lost the power to heal. 
'It does not matter,' Browyn told him, lying back on his pillow with 
eyes closed. 'I am ready to die.' 
'I think that I am too,' said Duvodas. 
'Nonsense. You have not yet brought back the Eldarin.' 
'I cannot. I have told you - the magic is lost to me.' 
'Then find it, boy! Don't you understand? Nothing in terms of the 
soul is irrevocable. Once you were pure, and the magic flowed in 
you. It will do so again. Already, in your time here, I see the chains 
of fire have died down. You know what you must do. Begin the 
journey back to what you were.' 
'It is not possible.' 



'Pah! Nothing is impossible - especially not in terms of the human 
soul. If that were true, every soldier would become evil and every 
priest would have healing hands. You know what talent makes us 
great?' 
'No.' 
'The best of us just never know when to give up.' 
True to his own description Browyn survived the pneumonia, much 
to his surprise, and lived throughout the winter and the spring of 
the following year. But in the summer he developed a hacking 
cough and began to lose weight. By the first day of autumn he was 
barely skin and bone, and Duvodas knew that he was dying. 
Towards the end Browyn became delirious. Duvodas took to 
carrying him up into the mountains, where the old man could sit 
and look out over the vistas and the distant lake. 
On the last morning of Browyn's life, as he sat on the mountainside, 
he became suddenly lucid. 'I have always wondered,' he said, 'if my 
boat could sail.' 
'We shall see,' said Duvo. Taking a large hammer, he knocked away 
the restraining planks and focused his energies on the earth below 
the boat, drawing up water from deep in the ground. It bubbled 
through the grass and pooled around the hull, slowly lifting the 
vessel, which began to move down the hill on a cushion of water. 
The slender craft sped down into the valley, spearing into the lake 
before bobbing up gently on the surface, its momentum carrying it 
forward towards a pine-crested island. 
'Ah, what a beautiful sight,' murmured Browyn. He died soon after, 
and Duvodas buried him in the shade of a spreading oak. 
'Farewell, my dear friend,' he said, when the grave was completed. 
Then he sighed as he realized, with a touch of 


regret, that Browyn had never told him why he had built a boat on a 
mountain. 
Duvodas stayed on in the cabin. There was nowhere else he wished 
to be. On the last day of autumn he tried to play the harp again but, 
as ever, the music was a travesty. Laying the instrument on the 
floor, he walked out into the meadow beyond the cabin. 
And froze. 
Twenty Daroth horsemen were riding slowly up the hill. Gazing at 
them, he knew he could kill them all without effort. The thought 
was not a good one, and a great sadness fell upon him. I will kill no 
more, he told himself, and he strode out to meet them. 
The leader climbed down from his horse and approached. He was 
carrying a small, sleeping child wrapped in a blanket. 'You are the 
harpist Duvodas?' he asked, his voice deep and resonant. 
'I am.' 
'I am the ambassador to Loretheli. We came upon an old human 
dying on the road; he told us his name was Ceofrin. He was trying 
to reach you, to bring you this child, but his heart was not strong.' 
'Why should he send a child to me?' asked Duvo. 
'He is your son,' said the Daroth. 
'My son died,' declared Duvo, feeling the anger rise in him. 'Torn 
from life by a Daroth spear.' 
'Not so, human. As Ceofrin lay dying we touched his mind. We know 
how Shira died, but when they came to bury her a female saw the 
child move. Nursed to health and taken to Loretheli, he was 
returned to his blood kin Ceofrin when the war ended. The old man 
tried to find you, but no-one knew where you had gone. Then word 
reached him of a man with the face of blood, living in the 
mountains. Ceofrin knew he was dying and wanted 


the child raised by blood kin, so he tried to reach you. You 
understand this?' 
As Duvo stepped back, his mind reeling, the Daroth spoke again. 
'You are the sorcerer who destroyed our Life Chamber.' 
He nodded dumbly, unable to think clearly. For a moment there was 
silence and he looked up into the face of the Daroth, then ran his 
gaze along the line of riders. No-one spoke. Then the Daroth leader 
stepped forward. 'Here is your son,' he said, offering the child. 
Duvodas reached out and took him. His hair was dark, like Shira's, 
and he could see her beauty in the lines of his face. The boy 
yawned and his eyes opened. In that instant Duvo heard Shira's 
voice echoing in the halls of his mind. 'I will show him to the sunrise 
and the sunset. He will be handsome, like you, with fair hair and 
green eyes. Not at first, for all babies are born with blue eyes. But 
they will turn grey-green as he gets older.' 
'Why should he not have beautiful brown eyes, like his mother?' he 
had asked. 
'Perhaps he will,' she had said. 
The boy's eyes were brown, and shining with the innocence only the 
young can ever know. 
Duvodas looked up at the Daroth towering above him. 'I thank you,' 
he said. 
'The war between us is ended,' said the Daroth. 
'Yes, it is,' agreed Duvodas. 
Without another word, the Daroth strode to his horse and mounted. 
The troop rode away down the hillside. Duvodas carried the child 
into the cabin and sat him on the floor. Rolling to his hands and 
knees, the boy saw the harp and crawled towards it, his chubby 
hand reaching 


out and dragging at the strings. A jangle of discordant sounds rang 
out. 
But within the sounds was one clear, pure note. 
And, for a moment only, the scent of roses filled the room. 
THE END