"Here, at Casyme." He indicated the place on a map.

It was not far from Gothryme. "Why there? Does this place have any strategic importance, Vanhe?"

"None whatsoever! It's not even a particularly good place to defend. Yet they provoke us constantly. As if they want us to attack."

Maigraith felt a prickle of unease, but not being used to following her intuition, she ignored it. "Do you know Karan Fyrn of Gothryme, Dilman?"

"She is mentioned in tales about the Mirror, lar, and I know her to be your friend. I've never been to Gothryme."

"Thank you, Dilman. Take food and rest; I may call on you again."

He saluted and withdrew. Maigraith read the dispatches.

"This thorn must be cut out," she said to Vanhe.

"Or starved out! I am minded to blockade them until the spring. A Bannador winter will test their appetite for rebellion."

"And what about the people of Bannador?" Maigraith asked coolly.

"Many would starve," he said, "but that is the cost of war."

"Easy for you to say, since you trade in it. Bannador has done nothing to deserve this war."

Vanhe reacted as if she had blasphemed. "You let personal feelings overcome your judgment. We could lose a whole army there. Our job is to win the war."

"Your job!" she snapped. "To risk an army for so little is folly! The Ghashad are not cowed. Our so-called victories have just been strategic retreats by them, but they will be back with a vengeance if we stumble."

"Well, you put me here," said Maigraith coldly. "Do you now withdraw my commission?"

"I appointed you to give us a leader to rally to, not to command my armies."

"I gained a different impression from your earlier arguments," she said in a chilly voice. "Surely my performance has given me legitimacy."

"But not authority! You are no general, Maigraith, to lead an army to war."

"Neither are you, Marshal Vanhe." She emphasized his lowly rank.

He flushed. "I did not ask for this command," he said.

"Neither did I, if you recall!"

"Do you challenge me?"

"You forced me to learn the arts of war and command. I saved Thurkad from defeat-saved your life! Your strategy is wrong, therefore I propose my own. Do you challenge me?"

Maigraith could not read the blank face of the old soldier, but she did not need to. Just the way he stood, the muscles corded in his neck, showed the struggle he was having with himself. He had given her a form of authority and it was scarcely in him to disobey. But on the other hand, marching to war against the Second Army in Bannador was folly. She knew it as well as he did. Good soldier that he was, every one of his troops was important to him.

"You have two choices," she said softly. "Get rid of me and lead yourself, or follow me. I am immoveable."

Now the struggle showed. His square jaw was knotted; she could hear the grinding of his teeth.

She pressed him harder. "Can you lead? Do you know where to lead us?

"No and no," said Vanhe with a sigh. "There is ... some merit in your plan, though it would be a terror to put into action. No, Maigraith, I do not challenge you, for I know I can do no better. If you order it I will lead an onslaught on the very gates of the void. But not without you knowing exactly what the consequences are likely to be."

"Very well," said Maigraith. "I want to be briefed tonight on options for war in Bannador. I want no drawn-out campaign. Give me bold plans; swift strikes; a strategy for quick victory. And all in total secrecy."

"It will be done," said Vanhe, bowing lower than usual.

The following night all roads out of Thurkad were sealed, all bridges guarded and every ford watched, to make sure that the word did not get out. The majority of the First Army moved out before dawn and proceeded, some fourteen thousand troops, by forced marches down the Feddil Road to Bannador, holding all bridges and fords as they went.

Dilman had spoken truly. Bannador was a ruined land. It made Maigraith sick to see it. Why? she kept asking. Why would they do this? What could they hope to gain? On the sixth night Maigraith rode ahead with Vanhe and three of his lieutenants. The following day they were to camp the best part of a league from the Second Army, whose encampment was in a long valley protected by a knife-edged range of slate. Dilman was their guide. He led them up the ridge through a patch of burnt forest to a lookout, where they waited for the dawn.

The sun sprang up, a huge globe, blood-red through the smoke that hung everywhere in the skies of Bannador. It was going to be another scorching day.

"Is this the whole of the Second Army?" asked Maigraith, looking down at the enemy camp, which occupied the lower part of the valley, near the river. Her face was soot-stained. There was ash in her hair.

"No, but it's the best part of it."

"How far are we from Gothryme?"

"Less than a day's march that way." He pointed north, where a rugged arm of the mountains projected east.

So close. Was there a reason for it? "Well, we'll attack at four in the morning, over the ridge."

"No!" cried Vanhe beside her. "Look at their defenses-trenches, palisades, pits and traps. We'll never get through in the dark. And if we do, we'll spend the night killing each other."

"We'd never get through in daylight," said Maigraith. "Word will have reached them by then. Our only chance is to come up over the ridge here, split into two and head down there and there. We'll attack up the road from both sides at once, just before dawn."

"Up the road! They'll cut us down in our ranks."

"I'll make a deception to get us to the gates undetected," she said with more confidence than she felt. Such a massive working would have been difficult even if they were not going against the Ghashad. "They won't expect that. Look how slack the guards on the gate are." She passed him the field glasses.

"Too slack for guards under the command of the Ghashad! Anyway, our troops won't reach camp until this afternoon. You can't do forced marches, push them up over the mountain in the dark and expect them to fight the next day."

"We have the advantage, but it can't last. Surprise is our only chance. Let it be done!"

"I will carry out your orders," Vanhe said in a dead voice. "So what are you doing about the Gashad? I've heard it said that they can sense their enemies."

"I'm working on that too," said Maigraith.

Once they had the layout of the camp fixed in their minds Vanhe and his lieutenants went back to make ready for war. Maigraith, Dilman and her guard remained where they were. Sweat made tracks down her sooty face. One failure and the First Army would be destroyed. And if she succeeded, what would be the fate of the rebels? Why had the Ghashad wrought such havoc anyway? What was the point of this rebellion, here of all places? That she could not understand.

But her most crucial problem was how to nullify the Ghashad. Some of them were sensitive, together if not separately. If they sensed her the battle plan could not succeed.

She spent all morning staring down at the camp, but whatever the enemy were doing she was blind to it. If only I had a sensitive, she thought unguardedly, but that only reminded her how badly she had treated Karan.

Dilman cleared his throat behind her. "Time to go, lar!"

Yes, time had run out and she knew nothing more than she had the previous day. She went back down to the camp, where her soldiers were already marching in, and the smart salutes of her troops, the whispers behind her back about her strange powers, the boasts of a quick victory tomorrow, were gall in her mouth. She was a facade, an empty shell that the Ghashad would blow apart, and these poor fools would die for it.

Maigraith spent all afternoon and evening trying to design a glamour that would conceal the front ranks of her troops so that they could reach the gates undetected. She had considered every form of the Secret Art that she had any capacity for. Illusion had been her first thought-literally painting pictures in the air to conceal the marching troops. It was probably her best chance, and the darkness would help even though there was a bright moon. But an illusion to conceal an army, from so many of the enemy, would probably be beyond her.

Mesmerism and forms of mass hypnosis she quickly rejected. Such things could not be done from a distance, and in any case Maigraith was not confident that she had the ability. Her lack of empathy with other people was a fatal handicap.

Another option was physical concealment, such as by bringing down fog or mist. But to create mist on a hot summer's night in this drought-stricken land would be difficult. "Where's the nearest water?" she whispered to Dilman after midnight.

"Half a league away, just by their camp."

"Can you take me there?"

"No, lar, I can't. They've got scouts all along the river. Is it important?"

"No," she said, "just one of a few ideas I'm working on." She did not want to alarm him by revealing just how empty her armory was.

"There used to be springs at the bottom of this ridge," he said. "Though they may have dried up in the drought."

"See if you can find one," she whispered.

Time ran out without Dilman returning. She'd have to use illusion after all. Climbing a tree, Maigraith sat in the fork staring down at the road and the enemy camp. Shortly Vanhe appeared, looking up anxiously. "Are you ready?"

"Another few minutes," she said, pretending confidence that she did not feel. Her preparations had been wasted so far. The best illusion she could do now was also the simplest, just an image of mist on the road. But if the guards wondered at mist on a hot summer's night, if they disbelieved, it would vanish.

'Time to go," said Vanhe, a few minutes later. "Ready?"

She wasn't, but she'd have to be.

It was four in the morning. The night was cloudy, though the moon gave enough light to see the road. The First Army assembled on the brow of the ridge in their two separate wings. Vanhe addressed his lieutenants.

"Go quietly," said the marshal, looking haggard, "until the alarm is raised. Then rush the gates. The quicker you are the easier it will be. Once you're inside I'll send up rockets to light your way."

Maigraith released her illusion. The first ten ranks of soldiers faded to a silvery blur, a file of marching ghosts in the moonlight. A whisper of amazement passed through the army.

"I feel better now," said Vanhe, mopping his brow, surprised though he had known what she was going to attempt. "It's worth half a night's sleep to their morale. Send them out!"

His officers ran to their posts. The two wings began to move.

Let it last, Maigraith prayed. If only it does not break on the Ghashad's defenses. But she had a horrible feeling the illusion was not going to last. Something kept interfering, and no matter what she tried she could not overcome it. There seemed to be a shield around the camp. Even this far away it was hurting her. What would it be like at the gates?

Dilman appeared out of darkness. "I found a spring," he whispered. "Not far from here."

"Take me there!" she snapped, feeling the illusion weakening already.

Dilman led her down the hill to a tiny seep coming from the base of a ledge. A depression in stone held about as much water as a large washbasin. How much fog will that make? she thought, dismayed. Better than none, I suppose! Holding the spell in her mind, she plunged her clenched fists into the basin. A little patch of mist formed in the center. Hurry. It's nearly too late!

She concentrated harder, until the mist boiled up around her wrists and spilled over the edge of the depression. Maigraith whipped her arms out. The mist began to pour down the gully.

Climbing onto a pinnacle where she could see the road, she saw her soldiers just coming out of the scrub. To her left the mist shone silver in the moonlight, now splitting to take different paths downslope. Maigraith's head was aching from the strain of nudging her little pools of mist toward the camp. It kept running down the wrong gullies. Weatherworking was a difficult art-no mind could control something so complex.

At last it reached the road near the main gate of the camp, reduced to a few wispy patches drifting with the breeze. Leaving it, she turned her attention back to the two marching columns, which were approaching the road at either end of the camp. Her illusion was fading, the soldiers beginning to appear. She let it go this side of the camp, where her mist was, and put all her effort into holding the other side.

Those soldiers were still some distance from the gates when a roar came from the camp. They had been spotted. Below her the mist was evaporating into the warm air. The moonlit blur on the road suddenly resolved into a column of marching soldiers. They were still fifty paces from the gate. A bell began to clang furiously. Her troops surged forward and were soon involved in bitter fighting.

At the same instant Maigraith was flung backwards off her perch. The illusion had been savagely broken. She lay on the ground in a daze.

"Lar? Lar? Maigraith-lar!" It was Dilman, shaking her. "Lar? Are you all right?" He was practically in tears.

Maigraith groaned. He lifted her to her feet "Lar, we need you desperately." His voice positively dripped defeat.

Maigraith realized that she was freezing, shuddering with cold for all that it was a warm night. How long had she lain here? "Don't give up, Dilman," she said with a lying smile. "I haven't begun to fight yet."

They ran for the camp. Dilman had to keep stopping for her, and finally took her on his shoulders for the last dash.

Carnage at the gates, so horrible that she could not bear to look at it. Hundreds lay dead within the sweep of her glance. She had ordered it.

"Come on!" Dilman screeched, dragging her past the hacked corpses.

The Second Army fought as if possessed and, Maigraith realized, probably was. How right Vanhe had been; how quickly her inexperience had been shown up. She had marched as hard as any, and with less rest. By now she was incapable of thinking straight. Her soldiers must be the same.

Flares and rockets went up, lighting their path. One or two fell into the middle of the camp, setting a tent blazing. It was moot whether this advantaged them more than the enemy, though her soldiers did seem to be heartened by the light.

But Maigraith was not. She had blundered and her troops were dying by the score. She had underestimated the Ghashad. Their will supported these puppet soldiers and weakened hers. They were the key. If she could not break them the First Army was finished.

She sorted through her recollections of the camp layout, trying to work out where the Ghashad would be. It was beginning to get light. She staggered along the rows of tents, through a chaos of running people, burning tents and hand-to-hand fighting. A straggle of her soldiers ran past, weaponless, fleeing back toward the gate. Another band followed, running before the enemy. Maigraith attempted a concealing illusion but it failed utterly.

A tall man with a sword ran straight at her. She gestured in the air, a spell that outside the camp would have had his feet out from under him, but it did not even make him pause. Lurching out of the way of his weapon, she hurried toward the center of the camp. He went after one of her fleeing soldiers, cutting the unfortunate fellow down with one hack.

Maigraith ran around a corner, straight into a battlefield strewn with dead and dying, most of them her own. One of the enemy lay on the bloody grass right in front of her.

Panting, she went to her knees beside him. "Where is the tent of the Ghashad?"

The fellow was weeping with pain, mortally wounded. The front of his jerkin was saturated in blood. Putting her hands on his head she lifted the pain from him, a terrible wrench that she would suffer from later.

"Where?" Maigraith screamed in his face.

He raised his hand. "Three rows!" He pointed to the left, "The gray one," and flopped down dead.

Maigraith sprinted down the rows. The wounds Thyllan had given her months ago, shoulder and side, throbbed with each footfall. A great clot of her troops ran the other way. They, too, had abandoned their weapons. The enemy was pushing them back, showing no concern for their own lives. She could feel horror swelling inside her at her folly; she had sent the entire army to their deaths.

There, the gray tent! Shadows moved inside it. No time to think. Maigraith burst in through the flap. Eight Ghashad sat on benches in a square, four men and four women, while a fifth woman stood inside the square at a table. They were as alike as clones; she recognized none of them. They were concentrating so hard that she had a few moments before they could react.

A gray board marked with blue and yellow squares covered most of the table. It was scattered with clusters of counters that appeared to represent units of the Second Army, gray, and Maigraith's own, green. As she watched, the woman at the table put out her hand and with evident strain knocked two of the green counters off the board with her gray one. A great roar came from somewhere outside. Maigraith's head exploded.

She moaned involuntarily. All their eyes snapped toward her. She felt so dizzy that she could barely stand up, and fumes of sickness began to cloud her senses. There came a stab in her chest, like a sword thrust-the mortal pain that she had lifted from the man outside. She felt herself slipping into unconsciousness. The battle was lost. All was lost!