"You wanna play with us, sweetie? You wanna fucking play?"

Marrha. Floating in a dark world of silence, she extricated the name from the morass of memories that bubbled stagnantly in her mind, fought to replace the face of the man with that of the woman, set the present against the past.

Marrha was herself. She had waged a war against her very being and had won. If freedom and honor were to be had in the world, she was worthy of both. She was ...

"C'mon, man, knock it off."

Dry laughter. "I'll knock it off. Reckon I'll knock off a good one. You hear, sweetie?"

The jungle came back, dense, hot, matted with vines and studded with fungus. Trees she could not name stretched up into darkness, their trunks deeply fissured, their branches dripping with moss. Insects rustled in the undergrowth. Night creatures prowled through the branches and the ferns.

And the voices were close. Very close. As were the harsh, sucking gasps of a woman she knew, a woman who would not allow herself to cry out, even though pain and fear and guilt had overwhelmed her.

Ahead, faint in the darkness, was a glow of light, and from within it came the voices and the gasps. Manda gripped her sword and stood up. Armed and in armor, the maid eased forward through the tall trunks and the meshes of intertwined creepers as though she herself had become a denizen of this dark place, as though, hungry for something other than the flat stateness of revenge, she now stalked a more elusive prey. Her steps silent, her eyes and ears straining, she crept toward the goal she realized she had been pursuing since the day she had been violated.

"C'mon, cunt. Let's see what you can do."

They tied a wire to the bindings on Marrget's wrists, and then they threw it over a tree branch and hoisted her arms up behind her. With a gasp of pain she tipped forward, a river of fire flowing up her spine and pooling between her shoulders. The splinters of the rough wooden crate ground into her breasts, and her cheek scraped itself raw on a ragged corner.

These were final moments, the clear-cut, hard-edged instants that trickled out just before the termination of a soul. She tried to recall something of her past that might give her strength-some memory of Karthin, perhaps, touching her tenderly among the furs of her bed; or of Alouzon, risking her life to save others-something that would shield her from the absolute, uncompromising starkness of what was going to happen to her; but another pull of the wire, another stab of white pain from her shoulders brought her back to the jungle, to the night, to the harsh voices of the soldiers.

She did not even know their faces. The few times that the curtain of pain had lifted enough for her to see, she had been confronted only by the gray plastic and goggle lenses of the masks they wore. Their words had been nasal, hollow, muffled: distant echoes of the words that she herself had heard from the soldiers of Gryylth in the last years of the war, when rape and brutality had been ranked alongside feats of arms and valor.

There was a little Dremord girl there, and I. . .

There had been a little Dremord girl for Marrget too, one with hair the color of buttercups, who, with wide, fearful eyes, had nonetheless fought until overpowered. Penetrated . . .

(And Marrget heard a Grayface step up behind her, heard him remove his mask and take a deep breath of the dank jungle air. With a mutter, he kicked her legs farther apart and fumbled with the fastenings of his trousers.) . . . held in enforced passivity, she had nonetheless stared her rapist directly in the eye, filling her memory with his face and the emblems on his armor. She would remember. She would have revenge. The curse had begun from that very instant.

(And the soldier touched her lightly on the rump as though to steady her, then stroked his penis against her shaking thigh until it was erect, firm.) Marrget laid her head down on the wood, closed her eyes, waiting, helpless, trying to recall some image of past valor or courage. But a woman's life was one of change, and the days of valor now seemed forever fled. And all she could remember of the past was the frightened, determined face of the little Dremord girl.

There was a sudden rush of movement behind her, and then a sound that was halfway between an impact and a wet slither. The soldier's hands fell away, and her back turned warm and wet. Blood was sheeting down her thighs. But it was not her own: it was that of the Grayface.

A scuffle, a stray shot, the sound of a sword pommel smashing a skull. A woman's voice: "In the name of the Goddess, you shall not have her!"

Manda.

There were six of them, standing casually in the circle of illumination provided by glowing globes of light, their weapons far from their hands, their thoughts centered on the naked woman bent over a wooden box, her arms bound, her legs wide.

They had thought that Marrget's companions had been killed by the trap in the Cordillera, and so they were taken utterly by surprise when Manda leaped into the light, her sword quick and her one-armed awkwardness offset by a warrior's controlled wrath.

The Grayface who stood behind Marrget went down with a single stroke, the pulsing arteries of his severed neck spraying crimson through the air. Trailing blood, the head spun across the clearing and hit the ground at the feet of another soldier, also unmasked, who stared in shock. He alone had his weapon at hand, but his moment's hesitation gave Manda an opening. The slug from the M-16 whined by her head harmlessly, and the pommel of her sword broke his skull.

Pivoting, screaming her challenge, Manda evaluated her targets quickly. Had she friends to back her up, this would be a much less doubtful fight. As it was, she had only surprise on her side, and as moments passed, that advantage was evaporating.

She kicked herself away from the body, evading a burst from an automatic rifle that shredded the corpse into bone splinters and raw flesh. Frantic, the Gray-face who was firing attempted to track her and wound up cutting down one of his own men.

Three left. Weapons were being leveled. Manda crashed into one soldier and sent him sprawling. Cursing, he grappled with her while the others held their fire for fear of hitting him. He grabbed for her left wrist and came up with nothing. Manda jammed the stump of her arm into his eye.

He shrieked, and his hands lost their strength. But as Manda scrambled for cover, she saw the end of the wire with which Marrget's arms had been pulled nearly vertical. It was tied to a tree at about eye level.

She had no time to think, only to hope. With a lunge, she sliced through the wire with her sword, pulled the blade free of the trunk, and cut deeply into the man who had come forward to seize her.

Marrget collapsed on the box with a harsh groan, and Manda dived behind a row of barrels just as the remaining Gray face opened fire. The bullets ripped the containers open from top to bottom with a ragged tearing of tortured metal, but the oil in them stopped the slugs before they reached her.

Within seconds, though, the oil had flooded out through the gaping rents, covering the floor of the clearing with thick, viscous liquid. The ragged, empty barrels provided no cover. The first soldier paused to reload while the man with the wounded eye kept his rifle leveled, forcing Manda to stay where she was. They could kill her at leisure.

But the second soldier suddenly cried out as Marrget staggered up from the box and, with a scream, threw herself into him. His rifle flew from his hands, and he stumbled toward the jagged remains of the barrels. Though he saved himself from being impaled on the razor-sharp edges, Manda kicked a barrel out of the way, and her sword severed his spine as he fell.

Marrget had fallen at the feet of the last Gray face. Gasping, too weak to rise, she lay with closed eyes. She had obviously bitten her own cheek to stay her pain and fear, and a dribble of blood flowed from her lips and pooled on the thick layer of oil.

The soldier aimed his rifle at Marrget's head and looked up at Manda. Here in Broceliande, stripped of his mask, he was no longer an ominous, omnipotent presence. He was, rather, a pale, undistinguished man, his skin as gray as his uniform, his eyes young and curiously unfocused. He could have been anyone. Or no one. "Put down that sword, dink."

Manda stood, debating. If she moved, Marrget would die. If she did not move, Marrget would die.

"Put it down or blondie here gets it."

She took a step forward. "That would be a more honorable death than what you planned for her a minute ago."

"Drop the sword."

Debating, Manda gazed at the half-conscious woman on the ground. Perhaps, if she moved quickly enough, she could slay the man before she died, thus saving Marrget. But Marrget was wounded, helpless, exhausted: unless she found help, she would die anyway. And what chance of help was there in Broceliande?

Behind the Grayface, something stirred in the jungle: something pale, something that gleamed in the light of the radiant globes that hung above the clearing.

"I will not surrender," said Manda.

"Give it up, girl." The muzzle of the rifle rested, cold and blue, against Marrget's head.

Karthin's face hung in the air behind the Grayface. Moving noiselessly, his feet feeling out the silence of each step before they took his weight, the big man glided toward the soldier. He was smeared thickly with a layer of slime and mud, and his bare arms and legs were covered with black leeches the size of his thumbs. His eyes, though, shone as luminous as stars, and he closed the distance between himself and the man who threatened his wife and his countrywoman with a sense of terrible purpose.

Manda held the eye of the" soldier. Not a flinch, not a quiver of her lip betrayed Karthin's presence. ' 'I will not surrender," she repeated.

The soldier was becoming impatient. The bodies of his companions were bleeding about him, and his sole opponent had only a sword. Manda could see the reasoning in his dull eyes. It would be an easy thing to- Karthin struck. The rifle clattered away and the soldier's arm snapped like a twig. The Grayface cried out, but Karthin lifted him into the air as though he were a child. Holding the soldier above his head, the big warrior slowly bent him backward.

The soldier's eyes widened. His mouth opened to scream, but Karthin's right hand was clamped about his throat, and the sound was no more than a pinched gurgle.

Farther back, and farther. Manda heard the grinding of bones, but not a word came from the huge Corn- nian. His jaw was clenched, determined; and his face was a pale mask of fury, a fury that stemmed from days and nights of sleepless, frantic travel, a fury that was now being vented upon the body of the Gray face.

The soldier struggled for an instant, and a frantic whining came from his constricted throat. Then, with a dull crunch, his spine fractured, and Karthin flexed him in two as though he were an eel, bending his head back to meet his knees before flinging him into the jungle.

Karthin's mouth worked, but, shaking with hatred, he could not move, could not even find the presence of mind to kneel beside the woman who, bound and bleeding, was weeping on the ground at his feet. "Marrha," he said softly. "I am here."

Marrget wept. Manda threw her sword aside, sloshed forward through the oil, then knelt beside the captain and pried the bindings off her forearms. "Is Dindrane near?" said the maid. Her words were faint and hoarse.

Karthin's breathing came and went in gasps as harsh as Marrget's. "I . . ."

Manda did not wait. Forcing her throat to open to the storm of emotion that filled her, she screamed. ' 'Dindrane!''

Tears blurred her vision, turning the lamps in the clearing to misty moons. She jerked the last of the bindings free and pulled Marrget up and into her arms. The captain stared at her with bleak, frightened eyes. Manda kissed her on the cheek.

A soft step told of the priestess's approach.

"Dindrane," Manda choked, "please heal my friend."

* CHAPTER 24 *

The Specter came as a cold mist that wrapped itself about Alouzon. Moisture beaded on her face, liquefied the dried blood and mucus on her arms, turned her bronze mane to lank tendrils.

She saw nothing but whiteness, but beyond the deadly chill, she sensed and recognized a malign presence that did not blench at the slaughter of infants, that calmly allowed others to die while it mouthed platitudes about patriotism and valor. Solomon Braithwaite had been the perfect vehicle for it, and now his Specter was here with her: birthed from her own fears and hates, empowered with the strength of a lifetime of despair, distilled and refined into the very essence of uncaring and gratuitous destruction.

A face seemed to stretch across the sky, its blue-black eyes a window into utter void. Graying and elderly, the Specter of Solomon Braithwaite nonetheless held in its hands the counterpart of the Dragonsword that Alouzon carried.

"You can't take me, girl," it said. "You never could."

She tightened her grip on her sword, felt the slick-ness of her aborted child on her hands. "I know what you are."

The empty eyes crinkled in amusement. "I'm Doctor Solomon Braithwaite."

"No." She tried to see it only as a man, but it existed here in Broceliande as an omnipresent phan- torn: she might have turned in any direction and found herself still eye to eye with it. "No. Sol Braithwaite died for his people."

"And you kill your people, girl."

Solomon's voice sounded within her skull, torturing her with the old guilt. For an instant, her belief wavered.

The Specter pressed, coalescing into a man-sized figure before her. "You've been killing your people since you set foot in Gryylth. What excuse do you have for all those Dremords who never went back to their families because of that sword in your hand? What about the Vayllens who were bombed into jelly back in Lachrae? What about-?"

The words were like razors in her mind. She rebelled. "You were the one who started the war," she screamed. "You sent the bombers."

"Make up your mind. Am I you? Or am I Sol Braithwaite?" It clucked knowingly, secure and confident in a gray suit and conservative tie. "You can't play both ends against the middle."

She wanted to spring at it while it was still of human proportions, but she held herself back. If the Specter was indeed a part of her, then in attacking it she would only be attacking herself.

"Selfish little bitch," it said, turning away casually. "You went through those poor boys in Bandon like crap through a goose. And all because you wanted to save your little ass. Just like you saved it at Kent." It started to vanish into the mist. ' 'Who took your bullet? Sandy? Allison?"

Goaded beyond endurance, she leaped, but it was ready. Its gnarled fist struck her in the face and sent her sprawling onto the damp, worn floor of the temple.

Temple? She lifted her head, fought with blurry vision. About her, yellow stone billowed in cyclopean proportions; and overhead, a shallow dome of aqua porcelain stared down at the immense, circular room like the blind eye of a leper.

And the carvings that adorned the stone depicted the wreckage of her life. Here was Joe Epstein, and a dozen other men whose beds she had shared but whose names she had forgotten. Here was her daily schedule of cold breakfasts and rushed cups of coffee, a headlong, thoughtless plunge through an existence that became more meaningless with each passing hour. Over here, in meticulous detail, was her abortion, the pleading eyes of the dead child filling one entire wall with reduplicated horror. And the sprawled corpses at Kent State. And at Bandon. The Circle. Lachrae.

The Specter was before her, squatting on a square block of stone like a gargoyle. "You're just like all the rest of your fair-weather idealists. A bunch of spoiled brats. And the Weather Underground showed your true colors. You wanted peace? Bullshit. You made bombs just like the very military you protested. And you used them with even less justification."

But Alouzon stood her ground. "I take responsibility for my own actions." She pointed at the Specter. "Maybe I made mistakes. Maybe I'll make more. But I'm trying to do better, and that's a damn sight more than you'll ever do."

The Specter's eyes narrowed. It rose up from its crouch, the Dragonsword gleaming.

Alouzon took a guard stance. "Come on. I fought you in the 1960s. I'm still fighting. We had a good idea. It went bad, but it started good." She readied her sword. The heady exhilaration of the idealist was upon her again, and as she had once faced police nightsticks and tear gas, so she now confronted thirty-three inches of cold steel, finding in herself a readiness for sacrifice that she had not known since she had watched the Guardsmen level their M-l's.

A wind suddenly stirred outside, whining through the vine-choked cracks in the walls, rising within moments to a roar. She heard the beating of immense wings and the thrum of a voice: Alouzon!

With a harsh cry, the Specter threw itself on her.

Kyria had fallen to her knees, attempting to find in the sea mist that enveloped her a memory of a time when she had not been afraid, when her body and mind had not been the property of either man or deific abstraction, when the world had lain open to her, beckoning her forth onto fields of praise.

Solomon had cursed, and she had wilted. Although she carried the staff of a wizard, still she held within herself the green girl who, in immaturity and naivete, had taken the hand of the uniformed hero freshly returned from Korea, surrendering her power and autonomy to one who had valued neither. And standing between the two, shrieking with rage, was Helen Ad-dams.

Bent as though with nausea, she opened her eyes to find that she was kneeling on the floor of a dark warehouse. A few feet away stood a metal table, the nylon restraints hanging limply, the stirrups only recently swung back. Blood trickled slowly from its level surface, splattering, drop by drop, on the floor.

Inches from her face, heaped on the worn linoleum, were the remains of a child. It might have been hers, might have been anyone's, but its expression was peaceful, and its dusty eyes regarded Kyria with an understanding that went beyond matters of mother and child, or even of life and death. It was a look that reached out beyond the boundaries of forgiveness, an absolution that carried with it a call to duty.

For me, life is done. But you have others now. You have a world.

The words might have been shouted into her ear. They put her back on her feet and clasped her fingers about her staff.

You have friends.

She blinked at the shabbiness about her, knowing full well that this was but another face of Broceliande.

You have other children.

She had failed before. She had failed many times. She would not fail again., Alouzon's time-Kyria's time, Helen's time-was approaching.

Go.

"Alouzon!"

The child faded, and Kyria's voice echoed off the bare walls.

"Alouzon!"

A wind arose.

She flinched instinctively. But this wind was a beating as of great wings. And though she recalled that such a beating had presaged her summons to Gryylth, still she sensed with all the subtle perceptions of a sorceress that these wings were different, that, having previously ushered her into a dimension of unreality, they were now stripping illusion away.

The wings pounded, tumbling the table across the floor, scattering dust, drying up the blood. The warehouse room shifted and blurred as though it were a water-color running in a spring rain, and its place was taken by a clearing in a jungle. Ahead, a temple of yellow stone rose up, jagged buttresses and eaves jutting out from above massive walls. Windows gaped like hungry mouths, and a flight of steps-vine-choked, worn as though from a thousand years of feet and rain-led up to a dark archway.

But above Kyria's head was the Great Dragon, its eyes clenched and its iron-colored head thrown back as, with huge wingbeats, it drove one of many layers of phantasm from a small part of Broceliande. The essence of balance and existence, Silbakor slashed at the shifting morass of fantasy as a man might scythe down a field of weeds.

The temple solidified. The jungle became real. Silbakor stilled its wings and opened its eyes. "My lady Kyria," it said, and the name struck the sorceress in the face like a splash of cold water, clearing her thoughts, firming her resolve. She knew what she had to do, knew also that she could do it. "My lady, Alouzon is in need."

From within the temple came the sound of sword against sword. A scream as from a throat lined with thorns echoed against the yellow stone.

It was answered by another. The White Worm was diving at Silbakor.

The Great Dragon turned and struck black talons into the pale throat. The Worm jerked away, leaving Silbakor clutching scales and flesh. Wounded, but living, it darted for the temple. Silbakor pursued.