'Oh, I don't know.' Steven still wasn't so sure. 'Except for dealing with Malagon's wraiths, I'm not sure I've done much more than a bit of conjuring.' He laughed suddenly. 'What the hell am I saying? How can I be so blase about something that shouldn't even be possible?' He turned to the pirate leader, who hadn't moved. Her jaw hung slack as she stared at the dancing flames separating her from her band of ruffians.

'However,' he said directly to her, 'I am not a sorcerer.'

'Then what are you?' she asked quietly.

'I'm a bank manager,' Steven said. 'Actually, I'm assistant manager, and if Howard ever retires, then I will become manager. I am only an assistant manager because I lack the skill to be a professional baseball player, and I lack the will and the self-confidence to risk becoming much more than I am or than I was six weeks ago. I appear to have been chosen by this staff to wield it in compassionate defence of myself, my friends and our cause, but other than that, I have never been able to produce, let alone understand, anything magical, mystical, or supernatural.' He would have continued parodying his former life, but she interrupted.

'What are you called?'

'I am called Steven Taylor, of the Idaho Springs Taylors. You can call me Steven.' He reached out to shake her hand, but she simply stared, unsure how to proceed. Giving up after a few seconds, Steven introduced his friends: 'This is Mark Jenkins, a teacher of history, our our history, so he finds himself with a head full of completely useless knowledge here in Eldarn.' history, so he finds himself with a head full of completely useless knowledge here in Eldarn.'

'An absolute pleasure to meet you,' Mark said. 'Sorry it had to be behind a wall of fire, but we're not keen on being slaughtered just at the moment.' He grinned.

'Mark Jenkins,' the woman echoed faintly.

Steven introduced Garec and then Brynne. He was about to suggest the woman reciprocate, and explain why she had ordered her crew of pirate ruffians to attack them without provocation when she interrupted him once again.

'Garec Haile, the archer. And you-' she pointed to Brynne. 'He said your name was-'

'Brynne. I am Brynne Farro of Estrad. I own the Greentree Tavern in Greentree Square, if you know the place.'

Mark added, 'We don't, Steven and me. We tried to go one night. I wanted a tuna sandwich, but a legendary, life-draining demon chased us out of town after eating a stray dog that happened by. Garec and Sallax have assured us that it's a nice place. Good food, and the kitchen's open late at weekends.' The woman wasn't paying him any attention; she didn't even query the English word weekend weekend.

Instead, she stared intently at Brynne, and Steven was sure he saw a look of relief pass over her face, although it was replaced almost immediately by the grim visage he was getting familiar with.

'Sallax,' she said under her breath, 'Sallax Farro of Estrad.'

'My brother.'

'Where is he now?'

Brynne's jaw tensed. 'He is making his way to Orindale.'

'Is Gilmour Stow with him?'

Garec perked up. 'Who are are you? How do you know Gilmour?' you? How do you know Gilmour?'

The woman ignored him and continued staring at Brynne. 'You must must tell me where Sallax Farro is right now. It is important.' tell me where Sallax Farro is right now. It is important.'

Steven broke in, 'As congenial as we are trying to make this little gathering, I think it's time to remind you that you are no longer in a position to be making demands or dealing out orders.'

Brynne ignored Steven and demanded, 'What do you know of my brother?'

The woman grimaced as she realised blood was still dripping from her mutilated earlobes. Then, grinning, as if she alone were in complete control of all their destinies, she said, 'When days in Rona grow balmy ...' Her voice faded. She looked expectantly at them.

Steven was getting annoyed; he thought he'd behaved remarkably decently so far, given the woman had been about to kill them all without a second thought. 'Being cryptic will get not get us anywhere. Now, answer the question. What do you know of Sallax and for that matter, what do you know of Gilmour?'

'When days in Rona grow balmy,' she repeated.

Steven grew more angry. 'We have tried to be nice about this, but I will suspend you and your entire band of bullies from the damned roof of this place for the next Twinmoon if you don't-'

Garec grabbed Steven's arm and hissed, 'Wait. Give me a moment.' He dropped his bow and began rubbing his temples, muttering to himself. The others caught bits of what he said, but with his head down and his eyes closed, he sounded more than a little crazy. 'Sallax, you rutter ... so pissing covert crazy old sorcerer, drunk that night ... it's always balmy down there- I remember! I remember it now, we were drunker than demon-spawn, but I remember!' He was shouting as a thin smile broke across the woman's stony countenance.

Then, taking them all by surprise the bleeding pirate included Garec threw his arm about her shoulders and drew her firmly to him in a warm embrace. Throwing his head back, he shouted, 'Drink Falkan wine after Twinmoon!'

'What the hell is happening here?' Mark was thoroughly confused.

The stranger smiled broadly at them, her arm now draped over Garec's shoulders. 'When days in Rona grow balmy-'

Garec completed the sentence, 'Drink Falkan wine after Twinmoon.' He laughed out loud, relief clear on his face.

The woman clapped Garec on the back, then reached out with her opposite hand to slap Steven firmly but good-naturedly across both cheeks. 'Welcome to Falkan, Steven Taylor, Mark Jenkins. My name is Gita Kamrec, of Orindale, and I lead the southern corps of the Falkan Resistance Movement.'

Steven looked at Gita and Garec while his firewall raged around them.

She smiled again and asked, 'Would you turn this off now, please?'

Garec nodded agreement and said, 'It's really okay.'

As Steven relaxed the wall of flame, Mark suddenly remembered the band of thugs assembled on the stony beach. His body tensed as the fiery shimmer dissipated, tiny flecks of fire dancing about them like orphan snowflakes after a blizzard. The pirates came slowly back into focus. Mark ground his teeth together and felt his stomach flop over. Warily, he reached for the battle-axe. Hearing Garec laugh and carry on with the stranger was not enough to make him entirely confident that they were out of harm's way. He held his breath, waiting for an attack and hoping Steven could retrieve their defences as quickly as he had released them.

As the flames withdrew, Gita lifted her left arm to the roof and made a fist. She then opened her fingers and rotated her hand a number of times; it looked to Steven as if she were trying to make sure every single one of her soldiers could see it. Mark tensed again; he was about to reach up and wrench Gita's hand back until her wrist snapped when he detected a sudden change come over the cavern. It felt as if the granite bedrock itself sighed with relief as the entire band of attackers breathed out the physical exhalation was audible. The sounds of daggers being sheathed, bowstrings released and swords sliding back into scabbards echoed around the vast cavern. Intimidating grimaces were exchanged for toothy grins, some still bloody from flying stones. People started to pull out scarves and handkerchiefs and bits of rag to clean each other's wounds and a low murmur rose, sounding like the last few moments before the curtain rises on a play.

There would be no attack. The cut-throats were chatting among themselves amiably, passing the time as if some of their number were not lying dead, scattered about the beach like bloody driftwood. Mark became less anxious as men began wrapping their fallen comrades in heavy wool blankets, then arranging the bodies in a neat row alongside the back wall.

Some of them were taking longer to recover from the shock of dealing with a magician as apparently powerful as Steven. Mark laughed to himself: how embarrassed these dangerous partisans would be if they knew the most dangerous thing Steven did most days was cross Miner Street against the lights.

He could hear laughter, and teasing, and Mark wondered at the alacrity with which this band had changed from being a deadly fighting force to a group of friends joking with one another at a beach party. Some had evidently drawn the Eldarni equivalent of a short straw and had dived into the freezing lake to retrieve those longboats that remained. Garec's campfire was reignited and wineskins, dried meats, bread and even cheese were being produced. Mark had no idea who Gita Kamrec of Orindale was, but her command of this group was impressive. He looked nervously back at her pale hands, wondering if he would recognise the go ahead and dismember them go ahead and dismember them sign. Catching him staring at her, Gita smiled and shoved both hands into her tunic. sign. Catching him staring at her, Gita smiled and shoved both hands into her tunic.

She was a small, thin woman, and Mark was astonished such a tiny wisp could command an army. Her hair, although wet and matted now, was long and looked as if it were usually well cared for. Instead of the solid leather belt most soldiers used to carry their daggers, knives or rapiers, Gita wore a woven and embroidered wool belt. It may have been pretty, and colourfully decorated with beads, but it served its purpose well, holding sheaths for two short daggers, a curved, dangerous-looking blade like a fillet knife, and a long sword with a decorative pommel. Looking closer, Mark noticed Gita's skin was tanned nearly to leather, as if she had spent a lifetime outdoors. Her arms, though skinny, were muscular, and Mark guessed she would be good with a knife, quick and low to the ground.

Gita's eyes were a soft brown; they bespoke wisdom and vast experience. Mark shivered at the thought of what she must have done to earn the respect and command of the crew now making camp along the beach; he found himself unaccountably excited at the thought of watching her work.

Gita said, 'You are pretty skilled with that stick, Steven Taylor; I am surprised Gilmour didn't bring you into this undertaking fifty Twinmoons ago.'

'We were not exactly brought in,' Steven started to explain, but she had already moved on.

'And you?' she asked Mark, 'what's your skill? Good with that axe, are you?'

Mark looked down at his hands, a little surprised to see he was still holding the weapon at the ready.

She went on, 'You look a bit dark for a South Coaster, but I know many of that territory are deadly skilled with an axe.'

Mark tensed, feeling a dormant but familiar sense of rage flood his system. They do it here, too, the racist bastards. They do it here, too, the racist bastards.

When he didn't answer right away, Gita asked, 'You good with that axe, Mark? It was Mark, right?' She checked with Garec, who nodded.

He decided to let it pass. There had been nothing acrimonious in her voice.

'I am-' he shot Brynne a look and felt better, 'I'm a horseman.'

Recalling Mark's equestrian ineptitude, Brynne stifled a laugh, and added, 'He has taught us all a great deal about how to handle our mounts.'

'Good.' Gita failed to pick up the joke. 'Idaho Springs. I have never been there wherever it is; Rona? but Gilmour knows more than I ever will, and if he wants you two along, I am sure you must bring some powerful resources to the fight.'

'Gita,' Steven began, 'I think we need to explain-'

The Falkan leader continued to ignore everything any of them said, asking, 'Where is Gilmour, anyway? Why did he send you all down here on your own? This is a dangerous place to be if you've never been through here before.'

'He didn't send us down-' Brynne tried this time, but got no further than anyone else: this woman could apparently talk both both hind legs off a donkey, let alone one. hind legs off a donkey, let alone one.

'Anyway, there is plenty of time for us to catch up with your progress down there in Rona. I sent a rider out your way before the last Twinmoon. He just returned. I hope you managed to get your weapons and silver out of the old palace before it fell. Still, when that old mule Gilmour gets here, we'll have a few drinks. I'll buy just as soon as he coughs up the five silver pieces he owes me.' She slapped her hand against Garec's chest and added, 'Garec remembers that night, don't you?'

Garec forced a smile. 'Gita, Gilmour is not-'

She waved three of her men forward, cutting Garec off in mid- sentence. 'This is Hall Storen, Brand Krug, and Timmon Blackrun. They each have a command within our resistance force. Hall's from Orindale, Brand hails from the Blackstone Forest, and Timmon's soldiers come to us all the way from the east, along the coast near Merchants' Highway.'

Steven nodded to the three, all of whom were eyeing him with suspicion. These were obviously battle-tested fighters; they had most likely faced Seron and an array of otherworldly creatures, compliments of Prince Malagon, over God knew how many Twinmoons. The fact that Steven had stood against them on his own, and could have readily dispatched the entire company with just his wooden stick, had obviously made them wary. He had no doubt they would have preferred a straightforward hand-to-hand brawl rather than grappling with flying stones and rogue waves. He smiled anyway. 'Nice to meet you all,' he said.

Timmon and Hall nodded, and Brand asked, 'What news of Sallax? Where is he?' Brand Krug was a small, wiry man, with narrow eyes and a pinched nose; he wore a brace of throwing knives and a short sword strapped across his back. When no one answered immediately, he repeated his question.

Brynne began, 'Sallax has-'

'Gone on ahead to Orindale,' Mark interrupted, 'he's travelling on foot, and we're not sure how far he's got.'

'Why did you not go with him?' Timmon spoke up. He was a large man, tough-looking, despite a little softness about the midsection. While Brand had long hair, drawn back tightly into a ponytail, Timmon Blackrun's short curly hair looked as if it were gripping the top of his head so it didn't blow off. Although the cavern was cool, the man was sweating profusely, and Steven started to worry that Timmon was just a few minutes away from a massive heart attack. He still carried his weapons, an enormous war cudgel like a hammer with a nasty allergy and a short dagger. Steven could only conclude the big Easterner wanted to be ready in case it became necessary to bludgeon someone to death at a moment's notice.

He tuned back into Mark's convoluted tale of Sallax's determination to find them a safe route into Orindale, their ensuing trip downriver, and eventually their wrong turn into the cavernous tunnel leading down to the lake.

'That was smart of him,' Gita spoke up. 'You wouldn't have made it into Orindale together, not this Twinmoon, anyway.'

'Why?' Steven was relieved they'd made it safely past the topic of Sallax's disappearance. It was obvious that he was well-respected by the band, and telling them he'd turned odd and helped slay Gilmour probably wasn't their best move right now.

'The Malakasian Army has been dispatched along the eastern border of the city. It's an enormous blockade, almost as though they were trying to find someone or something coming into town.' Gita beamed knowingly. 'Sallax might make it on his own, but all together, you would have been stopped, captured, and probably killed outright.'

Brynne asked the question that was on everyone's mind. 'Was it just soldiers, or were there ... other things?'

Gita looked at the Ronans. 'So you've met the enemy along your way as well, my friends.' To Brynne, she added, 'Yes, there were more than soldiers. There were warriors, but not men or women. It was as if they had been changed-'

'Seron,' Garec said, matter-of-factly.

'Seron?' Brand asked. 'What do you know of these creatures?'

Gita interjected yet again. 'They fought like animals, biting and scratching, many without weapons, others with just a dagger or a knife, and it took three, sometimes four shafts to bring even the smaller ones down.'

'They are Prince Malagon's creation, his pets,' Garec explained. 'Their souls have been excised from their bodies and they have bred new generations of Seron. Apparently, they were employed in battle many Twinmoons ago, as was the almor, the, uh- the demon.'

Gita shook her head despondently.

Garec went on, 'We believe Malagon keeps each Seron's soul in the form of a ghost-like wraith, and these in turn are powerful creatures themselves that can kill with a touch: the wraiths are an army that battles its foe from the inside out.' Garec's voice was flat.

'Well, that explains their tenacity,' Timmon said.

'How many did you face?' Mark asked.

'Only a few hundred,' Brand said, 'but there were probably twenty thousand encamped on the eastern edge of Orindale.'

'Twenty thousand Seron?' Mark thought he might pass out.

'That's right,' Gita replied, 'and that's not counting the occupation forces already stationed at Orindale.'

'We'll never be able to fight our way through.' Garec stated the obvious.

'Fight? Ha!' Timmon's corpulent frame trembled as he laughed. 'We had three thousand, boy, and we were hacked to pieces by those beasts. We were lucky to get away with the three hundred we have here. Fighting is suicide; stealth is the only way in or out.'

Brand shuffled nervously back and forth on the balls of his feet. 'It was not just the Seron.'

'What else?' Steven asked.

'There was worse,' Gita said quietly.

'Worse?' Garec pursued.

'Demon creatures, life-draining beasts, that struck without warning, deep within our ranks. It was terrifying. Many of our men bolted and ran, fleeing into the forests, but one or two of those things followed. We found bones, weapons and maybe a few bits of tattered clothing. No bodies.'

'Jesus,' Steven whispered, 'I thought there was only one.' Mark put a comforting hand on his friend's shoulder.

'And then there is the dark mist.' As Hall Storen finally spoke, all eyes turned towards him. 'There were clouds, misty and insubstantial, but held together by some unseen force. They drifted above the battlefield aimlessly, until whomever or whatever controlled them sent them in to attack. They came during the day, they came at night, but it didn't matter; there was no defence.'

Hall looked to be the youngest of Gita's lieutenants. Like Timmon and Brand, he had the stone-hard look of a seasoned warrior, but there was something else about him that piqued Steven's interest. He watched him closely as he described their encounter with the deadly mist. Even Gita remained silent while he spoke.

'We were on the far left flank, almost to the Ravenian Sea,' he started. 'We had been fighting since dawn and had taken heavy losses. We were using bowmen and foot soldiers working together to punch a hole through their forward line so we could break off the flank, encircle their men and open a passageway through to the beach, and then north into the city.'

'What would you have done in the city?' Mark interrupted. 'Attacked from the rear?'

'No, these creatures can't be routed. They can only be slaughtered, until the last one lies dead. If we had reached the city, we would have gone into hiding, regrouped, and prepared a series of guerrilla strikes against them and their supplies.'

'But you never made it.' Steven skipped ahead one chapter.

'No, we didn't. We were pushing through; all our energy focused on one slowly expanding break in their ranks, when someone started shaking me, tugging at my arm and screaming my name.' He took the wineskin Timmon offered and slugged back a mouthful. 'It's funny: you're so intent on one thing that you lose sight of everything else. I heard nothing. Everyone was screaming, the wounded and the dying were crying out for help, or water, or for their loved ones. Buildings were on fire, people running everywhere and yet I heard none of it.' Gita gave him a look of knowing compassion.

Drawing a breath, he continued, 'Then it was there, a cloud. It looked harmless enough, just a cloud, and I thought nothing of it. Half the place was on fire and it could have been smoke but then it attacked. It hovered overhead, and I had a premonition, that it would produce not water, but stinging acidic rain. The fighting slowed almost to a stop as everyone even those Seron creatures looked up at it.'

'What happened?' Brynne whispered, gripping her tunic in both hands and clenching her fingers.

'I was right. It dropped down. It fell from the sky like a chest-shot gansel. I was lucky; I was out on the periphery, and I closed my eyes, held my breath and ran.' Everyone was looking at him expectantly, but Hall shook his head. 'It was worse when it came after dark,' he added.

A heavy, brooding silence fell over the small group. After a long moment, Gita broke it. 'So you see the only way into Orindale is to sneak your way in. Once Sallax sees the forces awaiting you, he'll be back.'