'But, my lord, the agreementa"'

'The agreement demands he support the Council of Faltha on matters of war. He will not be left behind to threaten the vulnerable citizens of this City,' Leith declared. Behind him a few onlookers cheered, then put their heads back down to the discussions they had been part of.

'Such a decision will cost us valuable time, boy,' said Kurr quietly. 'Are you so determined to undo everything your brother counselled?'

Leith turned to face the old farmer, and for a moment the Arrow in his hand flared brightly, flames surging dangerously close to the old man, who stood there, his arms folded, an unreadable expression on his face. Then the youth visibly took hold of himself, and the flame receded to a yellow flicker.

'Hal is not the only Mahnumsen with ideas,' Leith said flatly. 'I think this is the right thing to do, but I can't predict how these people are going to react. A year ago I was just some peasant child, and you were a sheep farmer. Can you honestly tell me that you know what the King of Straux will do?'

Kurr pursed his lips, obviously biting back a retort, and nodded his head reluctantly. 'You may be right, boy, you may be right,' he said. 'We've taken a thousand risks up to this point. Why not take a few more?'

The next three days passed in a blur of meetings. It rained on and off outside, a cooling drizzle that signalled the end of warm weather to the locals, though to Leith the temperature still seemed agreeable. It sufficed to remind them all there was little or no time to spare if they were to beat the worst of the weather. Leith began to assume command. He was the only one who shared in the knowledge generated at each of the tables, and gradually earned the grudging respect of his commanders. He left the tent only to sleep in a luxurious chamber attached to the Hall of Lore, a room that made him uncomfortable with its richness, its velvet curtains, its tapestries and exotic rugs, and the servants who stood outside his door. Most discomfiting, however, was the loneliness. He missed the sounds of his brother stirring, of the discussions they had, of him shuffling across the room in the morning. He didn't know where Hal slept, hadn't seen him for days.

And now three days had passed, and he sat astride a tall white horse, weighed down by ceremonial armour, a sword held awkwardly in his left hand, the Arrow in his right.

Another duty to perform. It was a fog-bound morning, and the Falthan army - really three thousand of the Instruian Guard accompanied by ten thousand ill-trained civilians and the losian Army of the North - was ready to march. Ahead of him the mostly-rebuilt Struere Gate stood closed, awaiting his order to open. Behind him the Company sat uncomfortably on their mounts, none more so than Indrett. Though Leith himself, and Mahnum his father, begged her to stay behind, she was coming east with them. Beyond all expectation she had proven to be tactically astute, regularly defeating the generals of the Falthan army on the wargaming table through an unfathomable combination of conservative and outrageously risky tactics. A legacy of years at the Firanese Court, she explained. The defeated generals, far from being resentful, requested Leith to allow her to come with them. 'She may save many lives with her tactics,' they told him, and he relented, secretly pleased.

In the end none of the Company was left behind. Even the slave girl they had rescued from the markets of Ghadir Massab came with them, unwilling to be separated from Indrett, to whom she attached herself as though a long-lost daughter. The government of Instruere was to be managed by a committee of businessmen, all of whom had been made aware of the price of treachery. Most frustrating to Leith was the necessity of leaving behind a thousand of the Instruian Guard, but there had been no sighting of the Arkhos of Nemohaim since the Battle of the Four Halls. No one wanted to return, whether in victory or in defeat, to find the City held against them.

So now all was made ready for their departure. Or, at least, as ready as three days could make.

Leith stood up in his stirrups, raised the Arrow high above his head, and cried: 'Forward!' at the top of his voice. Crowds gathered in the square in front of the Gate, on the balconies of the tenements and all along the City wall, cheered and shouted as the Struere Gate opened and their army filed slowly out of the City and across the partially repaired Southbridge, soon to be lost in the swirling fog. All too soon.

The army vanished, and the citizens made their way home or to their places of work, steeling themselves for the long wait ahead.

The Company and the leaders of Instruere had thought hard and planned carefully for the campaign ahead, making the best of the experience they had and the little time at their disposal. But they had forgotten one man. That man now stood alone in the shadows of the Struere Gate, his blond locks hidden by a hood. Tall enough to see over the heads of the crowd in front of him, he directed a stare of pure hatred at the youth on the horse. This was not how die Most High had ordained it; the words he heard from the Most High himself had been sabotaged by the glory-seeking Company. But now they were gone, and he could make those words come true before they returned. With a sweep of his blue robe the man turned on his heel and strode away into the depths of the city. With luck the army would not return.

Stella awakened to a sickening motion. Everything around her glowed a bright white.

Disorientated, for a moment she thought she lay in a cave of ice, though she felt warm, not cold. As she came to herself she realised her dazzling surroundings were made up of pillows, sheets, lace, hangings and curtains; not the snow and ice she had taken them for. Everything was in motion, a regular rolling from side to side as she was borne forward in a conveyance of some kind. In the few moments before the awful memories flooded back, Stella imagined she was in a palace somewhere, a resting place on the Company's journey to Instruere, the sort of grand place she dreamed of seeing on her travels, not all those backwoods hovels the others seemed to delight in.

But then the cruel memories returned, and the Stella who now huddled in the small white chamber, arms wrapped protectively around her knees, was not the Stella who might have complained at the rustic accommodation of the Great North Woods. Her dreams had been pulled apart by a man infinitely more cruel than the boy Druin - now a distant and almost pleasant memory, a boy who did little worse than trapping moths and pulling off their wings.

She was a remnant, something discarded after the essence had been distilled from a person, something that found itself centred around an immense inner ache, a sea-deep sense of loss, and an uncontrollable fear of what was to come.

The curtain jerked aside and a round-faced, shaven-headed man smiled emptily at her. 'Is the Shining One ready?' His voice, soft and oddly high, was respectful.

'What shining one? What do you want? What is happening to me?' Each question was higher pitched, more frantic. Before the man could answer her, she pulled back from him and began to weep.

'No, no! No crying! Crying is not allowed!' He thrust a pudgy arm into the white chamber and pinched Stella on her shoulder. Instead of a mild discomfort, his touch sent a surge of agony through every joint in her body. It took fully five minutes for her to recover her breath and to relax enough that her muscles stopped twitching. Her shallow breathing seemed to rip through the serenity of the chamber.

The shaven-headed man waited patiently, seemingly unaware of her distress. 'Please!' she whispered hoarsely, as soon as she was able. 'Is the Destroyer nearby?' She tried to peer past his bulk, but found she could barely move. 'Could you help me escape?'

Abruptly his hands jerked wide, his face seemed to change its shape and his eyes rolled until only the whites showed.

'The Undying Man is indeed nearby,' said a voice from the man's mouth. A deep voice, the Destroyer's voice. A dark pit of despair opened up underneath Stella. She shrieked and shrieked, and all the while the Destroyer's voice laughed and laughed.

Stella tried everything. She refused to eat, but her shaven-headed keeper tickled her throat to make her swallow. She held on to the edge of her travelling cot, but with no seeming effort he dragged her wherever he wanted her to go. She fought her captor, punching, scratching, biting; he only had to touch her to turn her into a quivering wreck. On some occasions she fouled herself, trying any method to subvert whatever plan the Destroyer had for her, but with unflappable patience the round-faced servant would bathe her, clean her, change her as though she was a baby. Always she was returned to the white chamber, a litter carried by four bearers drawn from a pool of eunuchs, servants of the Undying Man, of which her keeper was one.

She learned to fear the chamber, to fear the high voice of her keeper, to hate her own helplessness. But most of all she feared the unpredictable moments when her keeper's large frame would stiffen, his eyes would roll up and his voice deepen. It was worse, she decided, than encountering the Destroyer in person.

The Bhrudwan army was on the march. Stella had no idea where they were, how far it was to the borders of Faltha or how long it would take them to get there. She did know that the army she had witnessed marching, drilling and preparing was invincible. Even she could see that. And on the long march westwards she learned the extent to which this army shared its Dark Master's ruthlessness.

A week or so on the road west - she quickly lost track of time, and truthfully it didn't seem to matter - the army halted early in the afternoon, not marching a full day as was their wont.

Stella was permitted to observe proceedings from her litter, no doubt as a further caution to her. Had she been forbidden to watch, she would most certainly still have heard enough to understand what was taking place.

During their westward progression Stella had noticed the army was divided by colour. Each soldier, whether cavalry, infantry or support, wore a coloured bib. Clearly this division was not rank-related, as generals and the lowest saddler might share the same colour. She guessed the colour referred to the land of origin. For the last three days her litter ended up beside a part of the army bibbed in blood-red, and the soldiers seemed to share an easy familiarity.

They certainly did not seem to be the evil, ravenous horde she might have expected, and the red-bibs were the friendliest to each other of all those she had yet seen.

The early halt was called when the general of the red-bibs, the Duke of Roudhos, a land far to the south, received a report from a mounted outrider. This scout was one of those whose task it was to keep the army well contained and marching in the right direction, to harry any stragglers (or apprehend any deserters, but Stella supposed there would be few of those) and to requisition supplies from the surrounding countryside. As they were passing through a folded land, with little sign of pasture, she guessed this last task would occupy most of their time.

And so it proved. The scout's report told of a village, half a day's ride to the south, which refused to supply the army. Their leaders spoke of a recent plague and the failure of their crops, but there was a suspicion this was merely dissembling, and the villagers were holding out for more money.

At that moment a black-clad horseman rode up. Stella had learned these black riders were the Destroyer's personal servants and, though they had no standing in the army, wielded more real power than even a general. He overheard the latter part of the scout's report, and his eyes glazed over for a moment. Stella could guess exactly what was taking place, and she turned away, fighting another wave of the fear that seemed to define her existence.

'We will round up their women and have sport with them, and then there will be a burning,'

announced the black rider.

'My lord?' The Duke of Roudhos stared open-mouthed at the messenger of the Overlord.

'Fortunate are the ones who have been chosen as the spearhead of our glorious invasion,'

continued the servant, as though he had not been interrupted. 'The Red Duke and his men will be the first to enjoy the fruits of our master's plans.'

'A test of loyalty!' the Duke growled, his proud, stern face growing pale. 'Your master knows my abhorrence of "sport", and seeks unquestioning obedience to trap me. Well, it had finally come to this. I always knew it would.'

He stood tall and pushed his chin forward. 'I am ready to invade this barbarian land, and shed the blood of its fighting men in the service of my Overlord,' he replied bravely. 'But I will not ravish the women, nor will any man under my command. I will not fight against people living in my lord's domain. And we will certainly not allow women to be burned.'

'My master anticipated your response,' said the messenger smugly, as though he himself had devised the plan rather than merely commanded to enforce it. 'He bids you know that any refusal will require the forfeiture of your own life. If you do not do what he commands, you will burn at the stake as an example to the massed armies of Bhrudwo that no one is above obedience to the Master of Andratan.'

'A clever plan,' the Red Duke said bitterly. 'My house has ever been a hindrance to the machinations of Andratan. He will gain land and power at no cost to himself, and with the support of my neighbours. Yet how can I set a torch to women? It is better to refuse some things and die.'

The red-bibbed man drew himself up even further. 'I refuse his command, as he expected I would,' said the Duke of Roudhos proudly. 'I would rather be slain by flame than use it to buy a craven life.'

The messenger struck him a blow across the mouth with his glove, and the massed army groaned as one. Though most had not heard the words, they understood their import.

'Let it be so,' declared the messenger. 'Any of your House who harbour similar rebellious intent should step out at once to share their master's fate. Otherwise, you will ride south in the morning and teach these villagers some manners. Are there any who will burn beside their foolish duke?'

At once twenty men stepped out into the dry, sandy space in front of the army. The face of the Red Duke broke into a wide smile: he had obviously not expected anyone to share his death.

Then two, three more joined them; and, most surprisingly, one from the vast House of Birinjh, green-bibbed and strange of features.

'You are not on trial here!' the messenger shouted at the grizzled Birinjh warrior.

'Indeed I am not,' came the proud reply, in a barely recognisable rendering of the common tongue. 'It is you and the master you represent who are on trial - yes, you, he, and all of us. The deed you ask the House of Roudhos to do is abhorrent to the true soldier, and I will not stand by and let it pass unremarked.'

'Then join in their punishment, old fool!' cried the sable-clad messenger, a look of chagrin on his face.

'1 choose death with honour!' the old man cried as they bound him to a hastily-fashioned stake. The red-bibbed followers of the Duke of Roudhos let out a ragged cheer at this defiance, then they too were staked, branches and twigs brought and the fire set. Stella wondered at their bravery, but could not honour it by watching what transpired, instead seeking the refuge of her chamber. An hour later, as the last screams died away, she doubted her wisdom: surely what had actually happened could not have been as bad as the scenes her imagination conjured for her. Yet she knew that whatever the Destroyer had in store for her, death by burning would undoubtedly be preferable. It was a terrifying thought.

There was no way the King of Straux could have known the army of Faltha would descend upon him, Leith thought. But when they drew near the gates of Mercium, late on their second day out from Instruere, he was waiting for them, his crown atop his long flaxen hair, flanked by a ceremonial guard. I have a spy in my midst.

The king put on a brave face, but he was visibly shaken by the strength arrayed against him.

Mercium was a populous city - some said it was the second-largest city in Faltha, behind only Instruere itself - and Straux was the most populous of all the Falthan kingdoms, of that there was no dispute. It would take time to assemble an army to oppose that which now came to a halt outside his city. Nevertheless, the King of Straux brought with him a fair strength of arms, enough to inflict serious losses on Leith's own army.

'My lord, you are well?' the king inquired in his unctuous voice, clearly acknowledging Leith's superior forces, and just as clearly finding it uncomfortable to do so. 'And your adviser? The crippled one? He is well also, I hope?'

The king's gaze darted around the faces at the head of the force facing him, but he could not see the one he sought, 'My brother is well,' Leith responded, 'but I speak for myself today. In the name of the agreement we made, a copy of which I bring you as a reminder of your pledge.' An attendant held the sealed document up, then rode forward and placed it in the king's hand. 'I have come to request your help in a time of war. You will surrender your army to us, that we might have command of it. You may keep a tithe of your force here in Mercium to protect the city from any threat while you are gone.'

'Why, my lord, who are we to fight? I know of no enemy befouling the fair plains of Straux!'

Then the king realised the full import of what had been said: 'While I am gone? You cannot mean that Ia"'

'I do mean it,' said Leith reasonably. 'And before you humiliate yourself further in front of your men, you are invited to come and talk with us in our tent.'

In private the King of Straux blustered and argued, trying to dissuade Leith and the Company from their wishes, but in the end he had no choice. Leith was delighted to find that, though the king had learned of his army's approach only late yesterday evening, he had in the one day available to him assembled a force of four thousand warriors, with the possibility of four thousand more by sunset. It was a simple matter to commandeer this army. The King of Straux would accompany his soldiers east as a surety of his army's fidelity, and his eldest son was to rule in his stead while he was gone.

'Should I ever return,' the King of Straux said bitterly, 'I will require much in the way of goodwill in exchange for this day.'

'If you had chosen your allies more carefully, this day would never have happened,' Leith answered him.

In the midst of the evening meal, which the King of Straux reluctantly shared with the Company, one of his soldiers burst into the tent, despite being restrained by two of Leith's men. 'My king!' he cried, forgoing all the usual formalities in his haste, and grabbing the edge of the table to hold himself up. 'My king! There is an army to the south, marching on Mercium!'

'What trickery is this?' roared the king, standing and upsetting his meal. 'You eat food with me, and at the same time send an army to take my city unawares?'

Leith leaped to his feet. 'We have done no such thing. Let your messenger speak. What banner did this army fly?'

The messenger looked to the king before he spoke. 'Frinwald, this is the new ruler of Instruere. That is the Jugom Ark in his hand. You may speak freely in front of him.'

The man's eyes widened, but his message was important, so he composed himself and replied.

'They flew a banner of green, with a yellow lion wearing a jester's cap. The lion on the green field I recognise, but.. .'

'The jester's cap must be a recent addition, one most befitting the Raving King of Deruys,'

finished the King of Straux, scowling.

It was all Leith could do to keep the triumph from his voice. 'This army is not unexpected,' he said confidently, as though everything followed paths of his ordaining. 'Deruys comes to support our cause. All the more reason for Straux to join its southern ally.'

The King of Straux nodded politely, but he could not hide the anger within as he bent his head to his food.

At dawn the next day Leith, along with the Company, the losian leaders and the King of Straux, went to meet the Deruvian army. The Raving King greeted them effusively, and beside him stood his son, Prince Wiusago, with a smile spread across his face.

'Five thousand elite soldiers march behind us,' he said to Leith as they rode back to the main army, 'and another five thousand wait at the northern border of Deruys. I will ride back to them, and with my father's blessing, lead them eastwards. They will march when the Children of the Mist come down from the forest.'

Leith did the sums in his head. No one quite knew how many warriors made up the losian army: the best guess put it at about twenty thousand. So, in total, including the soldiers waiting at the Deruvian border, his Falthan army had fifty thousand soldiers. He frowned. The lowest estimate of what the Destroyer would bring through the Gap was over twice that.

'Don't worry,' said Wiusago, as though he could read Leith's thoughts. 'The warriors from Deruys and the Mist are combat-hardened. The men of the Mist are worth ten of your guardsmen.'

But far from being reassured, Leith couldn't help thinking the warriors of the Bhrudwan army would be similarly hardened. More so, if Achtal is any yardstick.

Over the next few days the army settled into a pattern of sorts. They made their way almost due east from Mercium, crossing the plentiful plains of Straux. With the king's grudging permission the army took most of their provisions from the land around them, careful to make payment where possible and making sure they stripped no region bare. 'We want no enemies behind our backs,' the provisions master said. So each day a tenth of the army gathered food for the other nine-tenths, and no food was taken from the wagons that still streamed south and west from Instruere. The army would begin their march an hour after dawn, giving four clear hours on foot until halting for the midday meal. The afternoon saw six more hours of marching, ending just before the sun went down, allowing them barely enough time to make their camp. The fires were lit, the soldiers' kits were inspected and repaired where necessary, blisters and other injuries were ministered to; then the experienced men among them retired early.

But not all did so. Many of the younger men stayed up late by the fire, sharing songs and occasionally liquor purchased or stolen from a local farmer, even though this was expressly forbidden. A number of the soldiers were punished, severely and publicly, before the more unruly men calmed down. 'They're nervous, that's all,' some said; but others counselled the need to conserve all the strength they had. 'Get your sleep now,' they said, 'for there will come a time when you'll need it.'

And then there was the losian army. None of them went early to bed: young or old, they danced and sang late into the night, and marched as soon and as quickly as their counterparts.

Some of the Falthans grumbled, but their commanding officers would not relent, and so they had to lie in their tents, listening to the laughter and the shouting in the distance.

On the third night east of Mercium, and their fifth since leaving Instruere, Leith paid a visit to the losian camp. There, by a massive bonfire, he met with Axehaft of the Fodhram, Tanama of the Widuz and the Fenni clan chief. With them were Perdu, Farr (who jokingly told Leith he had 'gone native') and the unsettling figure of Jethart, who sat in the shadows like a dark cloud on the horizon.

'We read your rising in the stars,' said the clan chief through Perdu, who interpreted for him.

'The Five great Heavenly Houses have arisen to oppose the blue fire coming from the East.

The clash of fires is coming, and we have been called out to support the First Men with the gifts the gods have given us, the secret gifts of the vidda known by no man save ourselves.'

'What gifts are these?' Leith asked, and the clan chief answered briefly once the question had been interpreted.

Perdu shrugged his shoulders, puzzled. 'He won't say, and I know nothing of them. I do know the people of the vidda use fire, but do not worship it. They see themselves as people of the Air, from where the snow comes, and in which the mighty eagles soar in search of their prey.

There are many secrets the Fenni would not share with me, a child of Fire as they called me. { never knew what they meant,' he said, then glanced at the Arrow in Leith's hand. 'Perhaps I do now.'

Leith thanked the Fenni for making the long journey east. 'You must have left not long after we departed your lands,' he said.

'We left as soon as the priests could meet,' was the answer 'Your coming confirmed the signs in their mind. We march eastward to see the fire fall' And nothing clearer than this cryptic answer could Leith obtain.

Axehaft and Tanama sat down together, side by side, seemingly allies, yet Leith could clearly sense the tension between them. 'It was not my idea to join with our enemy,' said the Warden of the Fodhram. 'That gem came from our friend from Inch Chanter, sitting apart from us, as though this had nothing to do with him.' He laughed, a deep chuckle that reminded Leith of pine-scent and the dark depths of forests, or water foaming at the bow of a canoe. 'He turns up one evening, as pleased with himself as a bear having found a honey-tree, as though he was anything but a stranger to our lands, having neglected them for twenty years and more.' Again the laugh, softening the words. 'He had the remnants of the Widuz leadership in tow, suing for peace. Seems they pay him the same kind of respect we do. Anyway, there was nothing we could do but accept. Shamed into it, really.' He saluted the stern-faced Widuz chief sitting next to him. 'We were barely back from avenging our dead at Helig Holth, but Jethart gathered us up over the summer, and we marched together as an army as soon as the leaves turned. Fenni, Fodhram and Widuz. Who could have guessed?' And he laughed at his own credulity.

'What?' Leith managed. 'Jethart just told you to march, and you marched?' He risked a glance into the shadows, but the hunched-over figure gave no indication he was attending to the conversation.

'He explained what the hidden signs meant,' said the Widuz leader. 'He told us of the Earth and of the defeat of the fire. He spoke with the authority of a priest. He drew us out from Adunlok, from Frerlok, from Uflok; from our fortresses and sacred dancing grounds. He promised we will look on the day of our freedom. He told us what we would see in your hand.'

Then, before anyone could shout a warning, the man leaned forward, casually stretched out an arm and, with his gaze firmly fixed on Leith's face, placed his hand on the shaft of the Arrow.

Leith cried out, startled, then his eyes opened wide in shock as the Widuz leader showed no sign of hurt. Behind him the Company gasped in dismay. 'But - but...' Leith spluttered, astonished. 'How can you touch it? Is the Jugom Ark yours?'

'No,' came a deep voice from the shadows. 'No, it's not. Haven't you yet guessed, youngster?

The Arrow is of the Fire, and can hold sway only over those that are of the Fire. He of the Widuz can touch it, but cannot control it, It is just an arrow to him. How is it you do not know this?'

The old man stood up and stepped forward into the firelight, facing the Company. Though very old, he still retained the shape of a fighting man, and fixed them with a fierce eye. That eye settled on Phemanderac, whom he addressed, speaking right over the top of Leith's head.

'Why did you not tell him, offspring of the House of Sthane? Why else were you called across the desert, if not to instruct the boy?' There was heat and power in the voice, and Leith felt the pull of the Wordweave - now he had a name for the strange power he'd felt time and again since this adventure began -even though it was not directed at him.