The blacksmith was a wizard? Tathrin nodded mutely and ate his fish stew.

Reher went over to the fireplace and exchanged a few words with Sorgrad. The Mountain Man glanced at Tathrin. Arest joined the two men for a brief conversation.

The atmosphere in the room was changing. Tathrin saw the rune bones swept up and the ragged engravings folded away. Men were running whetstones along swords and daggers. He watched one pox-scarred man test the edge of his blade by shaving the dark hair off his forearm. Gren was wont to do the same. One of the men who'd been drinking deepest from the ale barrels thrust his fingers down his throat. Tathrin felt his own gorge rise as the man stuck his head out of the narrow window and vomited noisily.

Sorgrad and the blacksmith came over. "Tathrin, you stick with me like a calf to its cow and you'll be safe enough. Reher, you're going over to the eastern bank with Gren. Once the peasants are pissing themselves for fear of magefire, Gren will see you safe back across the river. He knows where we're meeting up."

"Don't fret." Gren appeared at the big man's elbow. "I can't lose someone your size."

Tathrin cleared his throat. "Should I sharpen my sword?"

Gren chuckled. "Only if you want to give the lads a laugh. You use a whetstone like you're cleaning a ploughshare."

"Ploughman's an honest trade." Reher's stare challenged Gren.

"True enough," the Mountain Man said equably.

"Just sit still and don't get underfoot," Sorgrad advised Tathrin.

The Mountain Man talked to him like his mother. Galling as Tathrin found it, he decided this wasn't the time to rebuke him.

Sorgrad turned away with Gren to talk to some other mercenaries. Reher sat down beside Tathrin again.

"So whereabouts are you from?"

Sorgrad had told Tathrin to share nothing of his background with the mercenaries. But Reher wasn't a mercenary. He was from Carluse, and if he was a wizard, perhaps Tathrin could trust him to take word to his family. Because, as Tathrin was realising with a sinking feeling, he was going to be in a battle tonight. Would Sorgrad keep him alive?

"My people keep an inn on the Abray Road."

"I have family in Losand," Reher remarked.

Tathrin dragged his attention away from the mercenaries' ominous preparations. "What are their trades?"

"Pewtering." Reher stretched out a broad hand and clenched it so the muscles in his forearm corded. "My uncles reckoned I had the build for heavier work, so I was apprenticed to Master Findrin, the smith in Carluse."

What had befallen Reher's father, Tathrin wondered, that his uncles were making such decisions? "My father buys pots and pans in Losand. What's your family's mark?"

"The dog-rose." Reher looked at him.

Tathrin grinned. "I've cleared a fair few of those plates and tankards from the taproom."

Reher's smile was white against his dark beard. "Pleased to hear it."

Tathrin looked to be sure no mercenary could overhear them and chose his words carefully. "You didn't want to pursue other opportunities? Given your natural aptitudes?"

The big man's face darkened. "Not when I'd be forbidden to use whatever skills I learned to help my kith and kin."

"Were you in Losand when Sharlac last attacked?" Tathrin wondered.

Reher's fast-fading good humour vanished. "Not in the town. Nearby."

Seeing the bleakness in the smith's eyes, Tathrin shrank from asking anything more.

Reher got to his feet and beckoned to Sorgrad. The two of them retreated into a corner, the smith looming over the Mountain Man.

Tathrin couldn't help wondering. They'd said Lord Veblen, Duke Garnot's bastard son, had been shrouded from head to toe when he was put on his funeral pyre. They'd said he'd been horribly burned when some Sharlac scum had thrown flaming oil all over him. The treacherous cowards had been out to avenge the death of Lord Jaras, Sharlac's heir, at Veblen's courageous hand. Was that really what had happened? Might Reher have used his wizardry to kill Veblen, captain of Carluse's militia? If so, to what end?

He recalled the talk in the taproom once the dead had been recovered from the fields around Losand and the smoke from the funeral pyres had blown away. If Lord Jaras hadn't died, Sharlac mercenaries and militia would have ridden roughshod right into Carluse. But Jaras had died and Sharlac's attack was blunted. If Veblen had lived, Carluse militia and Wynald's Warband, Duke Garnot's favoured mercenaries, could have followed up their advantage and carried the attack on into Sharlac. But Veblen had died and that meant the Carluse forces had to settle for chasing the invaders back to the border.

Tathrin sat and studied his boots. Reher knew Failla, and Failla was close to the priests and guildsmen who secretly connived to keep the ordinary folk of Carluse safe from fighting. How closely was Reher involved in their schemes? Could they be so ruthless as to kill their own duke's son? His father knew some of these men. Had he wondered the same as Tathrin? Could his father approve of such callousness? Would that make it easier for Tathrin to explain himself, and everything he was doing this summer, when the time came?

Not wishing to pursue that line of thought, he turned his attention outwards and scanned the room, only to notice women armouring themselves alongside the men. A sturdy matron who looked as if she should be sweeping out her kitchen stripped off her tattered gown and donned buckskin breeches. As she stood, half-naked, turning her padded arming jacket the right way out, no one spared her heavy breasts a second glance. A younger woman, lightly built but harsh-faced, held out her arm as a swordsman buckled on her vambraces. As soon as he was done, she did the same service for him. With a shock, Tathrin realised a warrior almost as tall as him was another girl when she laughed at another mercenary's jest, kneeling to secure her metal-plated boots.

Men and women alike were winding bandages and checking pots of salve. Some spread sticky concoctions on linen rags that they carefully stowed in pouches on their sword-belts. Donning helms that made it difficult to tell men from women, Tathrin saw that all of their faces were grimly determined.

What kind of woman chose life with a mercenary band? Had they no family, no friends to shelter them from whatever calamity had deprived them of hearth and home? Tathrin knew there were such unfortunates. He'd seen maidens, desperate mothers and grey-haired matrons among the beggars trailing along the verges of the Great West Road. Had these bolder women chosen this dangerous life in preference to the insults and perils of whoring to keep from starving?

What had driven Failla to play the strumpet in Duke Garnot's bed? Tathrin wondered. Did it matter? Wasn't her help in their quest to bring peace to Lescar enough to persuade Drianon to forgive whatever sins against chastity and motherhood the goddess might hold her to account for? Where was Failla? Was she safe? Whatever Tathrin's misgivings about Aremil sending some unknown adept to travel with her, it would be a relief to know what had become of her.

"Here." Gren walked up and dumped a roll of chain mail at his feet. "You may as well look the part." He dropped a round helmet on top of it and walked off.

Standing up, Tathrin tried to don the hauberk like a tunic, but the slithering links didn't stretch like cloth. With it halfway over his head, he realised his arms and shoulders were firmly stuck. For one horrible moment he thought he was going to have to ask for help. His shoulders sagged, something slipped and he was able to wriggle free.

Red-faced, he paused and watched how the other men threaded their arms through their hauberks' sleeves before throwing the weight upwards. Ducking their heads inside, they shook themselves like dogs as the steel rings flowed down their bodies. Taking a deep breath, Tathrin did the same, grimacing as the pinching links ripped stray hairs from his head.

"Zeil, you're leading the horsemen along the causeway. I want you kicking Parnilesse arses before dawn." Arest strode into the centre of the room, massive in his gleaming hauberk, swinging a round shield broader than Tathrin's arm was long. His black helmet shadowed his face, his voice harsh and commanding. "The rest of you, Jik's got weapons we've taken off the locals out on the bridge. Take some to throw down and make this look like a real rout."

With that, he walked off.

Tathrin had been expecting some words of encouragement. Fear congealed the fish stew in his belly. How could he need to piss so urgently when he'd only drunk water and precious little of that?

"Stick close to me." Sorgrad shoved his shoulder.

Mute, Tathrin followed him down to the bridge. Zeil and the horsemen were already galloping out of the far gate. Sorgrad stooped to pick up a stained and notched sword from a heap on the roadway. Tathrin grabbed a pike with a broken haft. As they reached the gatehouse facing the sleeping town of Emirle, mercenaries were throwing the torches into the river, their shouts drowning out the hiss of quenched fire. There was enough moonlight to see by without them, with the Greater Moon full and the Lesser still at its half.

"Ware! Ware! Ware!" Sorgrad banged the notched sword on the small metal shield strapped to his other forearm.

The mercenaries took up the cry, roaring obscenities as they clashed purloined weapons in mock combat. The same commotion rose at the other end of the bridge, echoing down the river. Whatever their birth, Tathrin realised, Arest's men were all yelling with Draximal and Parnilesse accents. It sounded like battle to him.

Mercenaries were at the bridge's gatehouse, sliding the timbers barring it out of the sockets in the stonework. As the gates swung open, the swordsmen ran out, every warrior staying within reach of his neighbour's protective blade. Half were crying out desperately for assistance, the rest shrieking vile threats or cheering loudly for Parnilesse as they ran up the slope towards the walls of Emirle Town. Tathrin saw the first startled lights being kindled along the ramparts.

"Come on." Sorgrad ran to the end of the bridge and threw the notched sword down among the scorned weapons littering the road. Tathrin tossed the broken pike after it.

Sorgrad turned and flung his hand out as if he were strewing sawdust onto a treacherous floor.

Scarlet flame sprang out of the darkness and rolled along the pounded earth. Where the red fire touched a weapon, the blade glowed white hot, as if it had just been taken from the heart of a forge. Leather bindings and wooden hafts flared to ash in an instant of ruby flame. Blades melted into puddles reflecting the eerie magelight.

Tathrin took a hasty step backwards, seeing the liquid metal running together like quicksilver. How could anything burn with such an improbable colour? How could anyone mistake this unearthly fire for anything but wizardry? He could feel the searing heat on his face.

Molten metal pooled beneath the gates of the bridge. Sorcerous fingers crawled up the ancient weathered wood, glinting savage red. Silver threads spun off to ease themselves into knots and crevices. Inside a few breaths, the timbers split. A handful of men with axes couldn't have done as much damage if they'd hacked at the wood for a long summer's day. The iron bindings screeched with protest, stretching like softening wax.

"That'll do." Sorgrad turned towards the town.

Tathrin saw a shadowy void in the wall, piercing pale stone reflecting the red of the magefire. Who had been fool enough to open the town's gates? He followed Sorgrad up the slope. What else could he do?

As they ran through the arch of the gate, unchallenged, he saw lights in windows. Shutters slammed open on shouts of alarm. Arest's mercenaries were running up the main street now, kicking in doors and smashing lanterns hung out by conscientious householders.

Gouts of red fire dripped from Sorgrad's fingers as he set the town's gates burning. Tathrin watched, dumbfounded. How could the Mountain Man do such a thing? How could anyone be born with the ability to command the fleeting mystery of fire? How could Sorgrad use his talent to wreak such havoc? What else could he do, if he chose to? What could he do to a living thing?

"Shit!" Tathrin flinched as a rivet sprang from the tortured gate and struck a chip from the stonework beside him.

"Come on."

Dragging his gaze from the burning gates, Tathrin followed Sorgrad along the road into the little town. He was sweating, yet at the same time chilled to the bone. Shouts and screams came from all directions. Weapons clashed, glass shattered and wood splintered. All around, men and women were screaming. Sorgrad loped on ahead, looking this way and that, his sword ready.

Drawing his own blade with a trembling hand, Tathrin smelled smoke. A whitewashed wall reflected the orange glow of ordinary fire running out of control. A girl ran shrieking from an alley, her white nightgown splashed with dark vileness.

Sorgrad let her pass before heading into the shadows she had fled. Hurrying after him, Tathrin nearly fell as he skidded on slick cobblestones.

"You bastards!" A townsman raged at Sorgrad, a murderous billhook raised.

The Mountain Man's sword met the stroke before it could descend. He smashed the small shield on his forearm into the man's face. The townsman fell backwards, his head hitting a windowsill with a sickening crack. Sorgrad bent over him, forcing his head back to bare his throat. A stray gleam of moonlight caught the blade in his other hand.

"No!" Tathrin couldn't see an innocent man's throat cut. "You can't kill him." He tightened his grip on his own sword. Was this how he was going to die? Defending someone he didn't even know from Sorgrad?

"That windowsill's smashed his skull. He's better off dead than lingering." Sorgrad thrust the narrow dagger into the man's eye and straightened up. He frowned at the wet cobbles. "Where's all this blood come from?" He stepped into a black shadow cast by a nearby gable. "Ah, sheepshit."

"What?" Tathrin took a reluctant pace after him.

"It's Jik." Sorgrad snapped his fingers and a scarlet flame danced on his palm.

Tathrin saw Jik sprawled gracelessly in the dirt. A massive gash split his head just in front of his ear, running down his neck. Bone and gristle shone in the murderous wound, the exposed skull rosy in the light of Sorgrad's magefire.

"Go and fight Poldrion's demons, old pal." Sorgrad tilted his hand and dripped ruby magic onto Jik's bloody chest. "Till they're the ones hammering on the door to the Otherworld just to get away from you."

"But he's not dead!" Aghast, Tathrin saw the magelight shimmer. Jik's chest struggled to rise.

"You think he can be saved?" Sorgrad asked savagely. "You think he'd want to be thrown into some charnel pit to rot like vermin?"

"But--" Tathrin gagged on the stink of burning flesh.

The flames of the magefire sprang up as if fanned by the Mountain Man's anger. A spasm racked Jik from helmet to boots. His corpse writhed, hands drawn up as if to ward off some hideous foe. The hobnails on his boots scraped the cobbles. A moment later, a charred and splintered skeleton lay wrapped in the smouldering remains of Jik's clothes. His helm was twisted and blackened, patches of his chain mail melted.

Tathrin whirled around to vomit up his supper.

"This way no one can identify him as Arest's man," Sorgrad added with vicious satisfaction. "He's just another victim of Parnilesse's treacherous mage." He snapped his fingers and the sorcerous fire vanished. "Come on. We don't want to get left behind."

That prospect was too hideous to contemplate. Wiping his mouth, his throat seared with sickness and loathing, Tathrin followed Sorgrad along the alley.

The Mountain Man looked around warily as they emerged into a deserted street. "We should make sure no other friendly bodies need an impromptu pyre. Then we find Arest and whoever else comes safely through the night. We wait for Gren and Reher and then we head back to Evord."

"How could you do that?" Tathrin spat bile into the gutter. "Have you no conscience at all?"

Sorgrad looked at him, his angular features cold in the moonlight. He looked older than Tathrin usually thought him, more dangerous than ever. "Why do you think I'm helping you people?"

"What?" Unnerved, Tathrin retreated a step.

"I'm not just in this for the coin, long lad, or for the fun and games like Gren. How many friends do you think I've seen die? How many more do you think I've had to give a quick death like Jik? Or killed like that poor bastard who was only trying to defend his home? I've lived like this since I was younger than you. I've seen more bloodshed than you'll ever know and I've had a bellyful of it. Now come on, before I have to cut anyone else down just to save your lanky skin!"

The Mountain Man broke into a measured run. Dizzy and nauseous, Tathrin followed. What else could he do?

Chapter Twenty-Seven.

Litasse Triolle Castle, in the Kingdom of Lescar, 2nd of For-Autumn of For-Autumn

"What have you heard?" Litasse didn't wait to knock, shoving open the door to Hamare's study.

He looked up from his letter, his eyes blank with shock. "How did you know?"

"What?" She halted, perplexed. "The whole castle's in an uproar!"

She'd finally had to slap some sense into her maid, just so the silly girl would finish dressing her hair so she could leave her chamber.

"You're talking about this bridge in Draximal?" He looked down at his letter again.

"What else would I be talking about?" Litasse saw that Hamare's haggardness was far beyond his usual pallor. She closed the door. "What are you you talking about?" talking about?"

He set the letter carefully down and smoothed it out. "Karn is dead."

"You said he was travelling through the mercenary camps." Litasse sank onto a chair. "Those are dangerous places."

"Not for Karn." Hamare looked up. "Besides, he was among friends. One of them sent me word."

"What happened?" Litasse didn't want to think of Karn being dead. Hearing that nameless, faceless militiamen had died in Draximal was one thing. Knowing that hapless peasants had been burned out of their homes was distressing but a regrettable part of life. Karn was someone she had known, someone she had talked to.

"There's a woman called Ridianne who keeps a leash on some mercenary companies for Duke Ferdain of Marlier," Hamare began.

Litasse nodded. "I know all about that scandal."