The guards made to follow, but found their way barred by the Knights of Fealty.

Phemanderac ran to and fro on the battlefield, searching for Leith. Something was amiss, something clearly wrong. It hovered on the edge of his mind. Something to do with the old man's vision. The Dhaurian scholar had studied the ceiling of the Great Hall of Fealty for a time that evening, had memorised the images, and knew that what he beheld on the field this afternoon was but one image from the centre. Though they seemed to be heading towards defeat, the prophecy told of imminent victory. His mind could find no flaw, but his heart misgave him. His heart misgave him, and he knew that in this matter, if in no other in these days of confusion, he could trust his heart. His heart misgave him, and he could not find Leith to warn him.

The view from the top of the crag was one to rend the heart. The two armies were completely engaged for the first time since the bitter campaign had started, and the restorative power of two months without fighting meant, paradoxically, both forces had energy enough to slay each other more effectively. As the minutes passed, Leith counted the fallen. Already they numbered in the thousands.

He raised his eyes from the scene of death below. From this height he could see along the Aleinus valley. He looked out from the throat of Vulture's Craw, past Aleinus Gates and into the soft distance, where lay the rich heartland of Faltha. To his right rose the rocky heights of the Wodranian Mountains, shoulders thrusting into the grey clouds. Similar hills marched into the distance on the other side of the gut: the Taproot Hills, part of the country of Redana'a. He had seen them before; they formed the backdrop to the central image of the prophecy. Beside him Sir Amasian stood, wild-eyed and fey as his life folded back on him.

Opposite the bluff on which they stood rose another of similar height, and on the crest of this hill Leith could make out a figure. Two figures. Good. These had also been depicted on the hall's ceiling.

As he turned his attention back to the battle, as he began to wonder what part he would play, how exactly he would summon the efficacy of the Jugom Ark to their advantage, the singing began.

It was harsh, it was bitter; it was sonorous, it was bewitching. It echoed across the valley, swelling well beyond normal volume, sound multiplying on sound until to Leith it might have come from ten thousand throats. It was undoubtedly magical, and it was not of Falthan origin.

Then the singers came into view, marching left to right across the field of battle. Leith counted them without thinking. Thirteen times thirteen was their number, one hundred and sixty-nine grey-coated Lords of Fear finally revealed in all their terrible power. Each a magician of note, and a large part of the strength of their master lay in them. No mere acolytes, these: they were warriors, scholars, wizards all, mercilessly trained, inured to suffering. On they came, passing through the battle as though it did not exist, and their song rose up the valley wall, magnified beyond imagining. Above Leith the very sky groaned in pain with the sound.

Beside Leith, the old knight's hands dropped to his sides and his mouth fell open. 'No,' he whispered. 'It cannot be.'

Achtal fought at the edges of the wagons, as close to Hal as he could be while still remaining in the battle. As the sound of the Maghdi Dasht reached him, his face turned pale and his great sword fell from his fingers.

Stella lay grovelling on the hilltop, heedless of any danger to herself. The singing touched the pain locked inside her, sending it searing across her body as though skinning her alive. Beside her the Undying Man put forth even more of his power, and the magic that hid his ravaged face fell away, unable to be sustained. He knew this, and yet continued to draw on the combined will of his servants in the cauldron below, sending it up into the clouds.

'Water to quench the Fire!' the Undying Man cried in a terrible voice, his arm slashing downwards.

A few scant moments ago the cloud base had been an unmoving layer of grey; now it roiled and spun like the Maelstrom of the Kljufa River. From the vortex came lightning, crashing to earth with a roar, claiming Bhrudwan and Faithan alike indiscriminately. A heartbeat later came the rain, cascading down on Vulture's Craw in torrents, driven into the faces of the warriors by a sudden wind from the east, blinding them all in a stinging fury.

Hal stood alone at the edge of the dell, perhaps a hundred paces from the ranks of the Maghdi Dasht. Down in the valley bottom their song drowned out even the sounds of thunder and driving rain. It was not a binding like last time, Hal knew; they were creating something with this, something more than an illusion. This was real power, sourced from within the Lords of Fear, who willingly drained their own lives in the service of their master. Their power could not be used directly on the Falthans, but they could shape a weapon that might bring about a victory for the Destroyer. He could feel the magic building, and made ready to oppose it.

As did others. The Lords of Fear continued their chilling song; and as they did so, many Falthans were drawn to this place, the centre of resistance. All those who had previously fought the Maghdi Dasht made their way to Hal's side, all except Jethart who was a grievous loss. He alone of the strategists might have warned against being confined in such a place, of fighting a battle where there was only one way of escape, vision or no vision.

Others were drawn to the scene. Common soldiers who knew nothing of magic, but felt an intense anger against the song, obeyed the inner prompting and came to oppose the singers. A number of the losian came, though their fellows were still heavily engaged on the far western edge of the battlefield. Even a few of the servants and wagoneers found themselves standing with Hal on the lip of the dell, facing the Lords of Fear, wondering why they had been so foolhardy.

Leith looked down into the cauldron, a blue-grey swirling pattern of rain and wind, running and falling figures, punctuated by lightning lances hurled down into the chaos. This is not what 1 saw! Sir Amasian was on his knees, his face lifted into the storm, eyes wide open and staring at something not of this world. 'It is all.. . running backwards!' he screamed.

Down on the plain a small group stood in opposition to the Maghdi Dasht. Leith's gaze was drawn to this stalwart group. As he watched they appeared to ripple for a moment, as though suddenly heated by a smith's furnace, and began to glow faintly. At the same time the Lords of Fear seemed to solidify. The gaps between the individual warriors vanished. One body, one throat, one song.

Raise the Arrow;, came a voice into his mind. Raise the Arrow!

For a moment Leith hesitated. Was this the voice he knew? In the midst of the wind and the rain, the fire and the water, he could not think. Below him the Falthan group pulsed orange and yellow.

Raise the Arrow;/ Something within him wanted to resist the command. Why should he obey? But he had been too stubborn for too long, and his own reckless decisions had cost thousands of lives. Time to stop questioning, to put doubt aside. He raised the Jugom Ark.

Instantly a surge of raw energy burst from the glowing group below, rushing up the wall of the bluff. Before Leith could react, the Arrow in his hand flared white-hot, the two flames combined into one immense conflagration, and raced into the sky, finally detonating against the base of the cloud vortex with a huge explosion. The sky flashed white, then black as the two powers met, and Leith expected the world to start coming apart, so incredible was the blast.

The noise rumbled around Vulture's Craw for a minute or so, then faded into silence. Leith opened his eyes to see the maelstrom above him gone, the tattered edges of cloud fluttering like shredded cloth as a rising west wind dispersed them. Beside him Sir Amasian lay on the ground, hands over his eyes, groaning as though in the throes of death: 'No, no, no.. .'

Did I burn him with the Arrow? Leith wondered, and went to check, but a flash of colour caught his eye. He straightened and looked out over the valley.

There it was.

There hung the vision, the prophecy, the image on the ceiling of the hall of Conal Greatheart.

Behind him the Destroyer's storm fizzled and flickered, driven away eastwards by the power of the Arrow. Below him men and beasts struggled to rise from where they had fallen, but already cheers rang out from Falthan throats, eyes raised to the heavens, arms pointing to the sign hanging in the sky.

Over the valley of Vulture's Craw hung a great rainbow, a many-coloured arch anchored on the hills right and left. It was so close Leith imagined he could reach out and touch it. The colours shone with a bright-washed joy, a symbol of victory. The Bhrudwans seemed to be running, all fleeing to the western end of the field. A fierce exultation sprang up in Leith's heart. It has all been worth it! The many deaths were not in vain!

'Behold!' he cried, and his voice carried across the valley, magnified by the magic that still hung in the air. Every eye looked skywards, every man and woman on the field of battle saw the figure holding the blazing Arrow. 'Behold the victory of the Most High!' And the Falthans cheered.

A gasping voice from the ground at his feet spoke into the silence that followed the joyous shouts. Each word seemed purest agony.

'What. .. happened ... to the fist?'

Phemanderac ignored the cheering. His feeling of unease had been growing all day. For a while he thought it was just because Leith had spurned him, having not sought his counsel or teachings since the siege on the rock, but the tension continued to grow in that still place he had created long ago, the place he had learned to trust. Though he had no idea what might be amiss, and little hope that the Arrow-bearer might listen to him, he sought Leith - but had not been able to find him.

His eyes were drawn upwards by the rainbow, and for a heartbeat his spirits lifted: perhaps he had been wrong! But then he heard Leith's cry of triumph, and in that instant he knew. He had studied the prophecy, and he knew.

The path to the top of the bluff was guarded by the Knights of Fealty, and they barred his way with their swords as he approached. He begged and pleaded with them, but they would not hear his arguments. There is no time for this! he thought, and fashioned the most frightening illusion he could remember from the teachings of his Dhaurian master. Snakelike, the wide-mouthed apparition snapped at the knights, who scattered in confusion. Phemanderac darted between two of the armoured figures and along the path, but staggered; and as he lurched to his feet he felt a blow across his shoulders, accompanied by sharp pain. Can't stop! Forcing himself onwards, he stumbled up the steep path. But before he had gone more than halfway he knew he was too late.

The rainbow hung in the sky, a banner of light. Then, like a desecration in a temple, the singing began again.

Immediately Leith's eyes flashed down to the battlefield below, but the thirteen ranks of Maghdi Dasht were no longer visible, having scattered all across the valley floor. Yet the song swelled anew. No! Be quiet! We have won!

Rasping laughter reached his ears. The figure across the river stood facing him, his right arm held aloft by the second, smaller figure. Leith could feel the evil in them both. They were more than a league away, yet the laughter continued to echo in his head.

Groans of dismay floated up from below, mixing with the Maghdi song to create a dissonance like the swirling of ravens in a farmer's field. Leith was held a moment longer by the Destroyer's laughter, then jerked free and turned to the battle . . .

... where a giant fist rose high into the sky, solidifying by the second.

Dumbfounded, the Falthans watched as the vast hand opened, the gnarled fingers extended, with nails as long as claws, ready for rending. Groans turned to shrieks of fear as for a moment it appeared that the hand was about to reach down and scoop them all up: instead, it moved up the valley until it hovered next to the rainbow.

The singing changed, taking on a deeper timbre, and the ground shook. With incredible slowness the hand closed around the rainbow, squeezing it, squeezing it tight. Then, accompanied by an earth-shattering shout, the hand tore the rainbow loose from the hills and crumpled it in its fist like a piece of multicoloured parchment. Shards of colour and light spiralled downwards towards the upturned faces.

The singing stopped, the fist disappeared; the broken shards of the rainbow hung in the air a moment longer, then they, too, vanished.

A few seconds later Phemanderac arrived at the top of the pinnacle. There Leith knelt, face drained of all colour, breathing heavily. Beside him lay the body of the seer, slain by the vision he had misinterpreted. A profane laughter swirled all around them.

'Behold!' a great voice boomed, filled with inhuman glee. 'Behold the victory of the Undying Man!'

Leith pulled himself to his feet, his heart still beating, his mind still spinning, unsure as to why the Destroyer's power had not ended his life. Phemanderac placed a hand on his shoulder, a support for the unsteady youth. Within the philosopher rose a genuine fear that Leith might fall from the bluff, so badly was the boy disoriented.

Below, on the field of battle, everything had changed. Many of the Falthans cast down their weapons in fear and stood with lowered heads, uncaring of their fate. Others ran blindly, overwhelmed by panic; a number of these blundered into the river. The Bhrudwans recovered more quickly, and made short work of any Falthan who stood fast.

'All is lost,' Leith whispered, and the despair in his voice hammered into Phemanderac like a blow. 'My army is no more. The way to Instruere is open. We are defeated.'

'Not so!' the tall scholar argued. Taking Leith's hand, he pointed into the distance. There, on two low hills, perhaps ten thousand Falthan warriors fought with the bulk of the Bhrudwan army. 'They fight still! Take heart!'

But Leith could think of nothing except the destruction of the vision. 'What went wrong?'

Leith groaned. 'What happened to the prophecy? How could we have been dealt such a blow?'

Phemanderac ran his hands through his hair. Just when he needed the soothing tones of his harp the most, he'd left it behind. Lost now, no doubt. 'Leith, the vision of Sir Amasian was flawed. He saw truly up untila"'

'Son of Mahnum!' called the voice of the Destroyer from across the gorge. 'Son of Mahnum!

Lay down your Arrow! Surrender to me and I will guarantee the safety of your warriors. Your friends and family will be allowed to go free!'

The words battered at Leith like hammers. The Wordweave, he thought. He is using his power to strike at my despair. Yet even with this knowledge, the words were difficult to resist. So easy, so easy to put down the Jugom Ark. All this time I've wanted to a" and now no one would blame me if I did ...

'Are you watching, Son of Mahnum? Do you see what happens below? With every moment that you delay the inevitable decision, you take more of your countrymen's lives! Can you count to ten thousand? Twenty thousand?'

The Falthan soldiers on the two hills were now hemmed in by Bhrudwans. The Destroyer's men had finally been joined by the Maghdi Dasht, fighting as warriors and not as magicians, each Lord of Fear worth a hundred men. Leith could make out a group of barechested warriors in the midst of the fighting. His heart fell as he realised that the Children of the Mist were trapped along with the rest. Where Tua is, Wiusago will not be far away. Sure enough, there fluttered the Deruvian banner, green against a sea of brown.

Themanderac!' Leith groaned. 'Surely that cannot be all who remain? I do not see the Instruian Guard, nor the losian Army of the North. Have they escaped? Are they destroyed? Do they fight on still?' The philosopher's grip on Leith's hand tightened until the youth cried out with the pain of it.

They watched as the battle raged across the twin hillocks below, trying to ignore the taunts coming from the southern bluff. At one stage it seemed the Falthans might break free: indeed, a few score warriors drove through the Bhrudwan ranks, having chosen a place where no Maghdi Dasht fought, and might have escaped had there not been a company of Bhrudwans patrolling behind their own lines, waiting for just such an occurrence. They were cut down within minutes, and their piteous cries echoed in the ears of the Arrow-bearer and his friend.

The voice across the gorge fell silent, and Leith glanced at the far bluff. There seemed to be some sort of struggle on top of the pinnacle, as if the smaller figure battled the larger. But it could not be, could it? Would the Destroyer have brought an enemy to watch the battle with him, one with power enough to challenge him? The bright southern sky made silhouettes of the figures, rendering them difficult to see.

When Leith's attention returned to the battle below he was shocked to see how quickly the Falthan numbers had dwindled. Perhaps half the force remained, clearly without hope of escape or rescue.

'I cannot watch this,' Leith said, but he did not move. To his left the sun admitted defeat and sank towards the Taproot Hills, while below him the remnants of the Falthan army were systematically destroyed.

Prince Wiusago lowered his bruised and battered shield arm. For just a moment, he told himself, trying to catch his breath. It took the next challenger a few precious seconds to clamber over the bodies piled up in front of him, enough time for the Prince of Deruys to cast a hopeful glance around the battlefield.

'We Deruvians and Children are the last of them, Tua,' he said grimly to the man standing behind him. 'There is no other fighting anywhere on the battlefield.'

Te Tuahangata swung his mighty club with as much vigour as ever, catching a skilled Bhrudwan fighter behind the knee. 'It is fitting that we are the last,' he replied. 'We may die, but we are not disgraced.'

'Defeated only by weight of numbers,' Wiusago agreed, laughing despite himself. 'Ah, Tua, I am glad it is you I fight alongside. I am proud to call you my friend.'

The next opponent finally reached him, and for a few moments Prince Wiusago struggled to stay alive against a man at least his equal in skill, and much less weary. Not a Lord of Fear, as none of the Maghdi Dasht had come their way, much to Tua's disappointment. The Mist-man had even tried to attract their attention. The Deruvian's only advantage against his current opponent was a hard-earned one: the Bhrudwan had to be careful where he placed his feet, for fear of stumbling over his dead comrades. This one really was very good, light on his feet and with a sword that flicked in and out more quickly than the blond-haired man could match.

'Friend Tua, I might need help with this one.' 'Friend, is it?' the Mist-child growled from behind him. 'Friend?' he repeated, as though running the word across his tongue, checking to see if he liked the taste. 'More of a friend if you were a better warrior.'

Wiusago laughed again, so unexpected a sound in such a dark corner that his opponent jerked up his head - right into the path of the prince's tired and ill-timed stroke.

'More luck!' Tua said. 'But it will not last. We die here.'

'Yes,' the Deruvian said sadly. 'Here we die. But not yet!'

Despite his bravado, the Prince of Deruys groaned inwardly.

Their enemy numbered so many - or, more accurately, their own numbers were so few - that now two warriors climbed the hill of the slain to match swords with him.

'You are not a friend,' came the voice from over his shoulder, and for the first time Wiusago could hear the exhaustion in it. 'You are a brother. You are my brother! I name you husband to my sister, and one day we three will walk in the Glade of True Sight and talk with our ancestors.'

Perhaps it was the tears filling his eyes, or the sound of laboured breathing behind him signalling that Te Tuahangata had taken a hurt, but the prince could not avoid the stroke that came without warning from his left. It glanced off his shield and crashed into his upper arm, opening a horrific wound. One final, futile parry . . . Prince Wiusago did not see the slashing blow that took his head from his body.

Tua gave a great cry of anguish, threw down the three men opposing him, and turned to his brother's slayers - but spun too quickly and tripped, ending on his back with three blades at his neck. One of the men lifted the visor on his helmet, and a muffled voice spoke, the common tongue harsh but identifiable: 'We honour you. You are a mighty warrior!' His arm drew back for the final thrust.

Te Tuahangata closed his eyes, content.

'They are down . .. the last of them is down. There, the standard is captured. It is over.' The philosopher's voice sounded hollow. 'It is over.' The voice of the Destroyer drifted over from the far side of Vulture's Craw, offering the use of some of the Bhrudwan warriors, since their own had proven so inadequate.

'What now?' Leith said quietly, ignoring the gloating. 'Should we try to escape, hide somewhere, and maybe one day raise another army to drive the Destroyer out of Faltha? Or do we simply surrender?' He could not imagine handing the Jugom Ark over to the owner of the smug voice. He would die first.

'We do not surrender!' came a voice, one he knew well. Leith spun around and there, at the top of the path, stood his mother.

'We are bested today,' Indrett said, steel in her voice, 'but we are not defeated. Things have happened even the Destroyer does not know about.'

The young man regarded his mother, but did not allow hope to stir, not yet. 'What things?'

'We will talk as we go,' she replied, 'for we are not safe here. But one thing I will tell you.

More than half our army remains alive, and is hidden from our enemy's sharpest eyes.'

CHAPTER 16.

SINGLE COMBAT.

TAKING GREAT GULPS OF air, Stella tried to find some way of getting to her feet without using' her ruined hands. The skin on her fingers bubbled like boiling fudge where she had touched him, yet he had been the one to cry out in pain. A reckless impulse, a desperate reaction to the slaughter below and the final ruination of her last hopes, had driven her to try to cast the Destroyer from the top of the bluff. It had come so close to working! She waited until he had his full attention on the battle, then lunged for him, hands and arms first but with all the weight of her body, hoping to carry him into the depths; and hoping that she might fall with him. Oblivion was the best she could hope for now.

But it seemed the gods had not yet finished punishing her. If she understood correctly the forces at work, she should have been able to at least touch him without harm, perhaps the only person alive who could do so if he did not wish it. But he burned her, the excess of power he contained almost consuming her as she tried to make him fall. For a blessed moment he had stumbled, dislodging a rock which tumbled into the gorge below; but then he turned and, with a snarl, cast her backwards to the ground. She tried to move, to continue her attack, only to discover the Destroyer had pinned her to the ground, though she could see nothing holding her down.

In her mind she followed the imagined progress of the rock as it spun slowly towards the waiting river. Rock-face, sky, ground, river; all tumbled through her mind as she visualised herself falling. Her arms spread wide, hungrily seeking the finality. A moment of pain, then bliss . . .

She managed to get herself into a sitting position by using her knees and elbows, scraping the skin raw as she tried to deal with the blisters and the still-awkward misshapenness of her right side. When finally she could raise her head to see what had happened, the Undying Man stood over her.

Stella braced herself for pain . . .

'You continue to amaze me,' the Destroyer said lightly, as though discussing the ability of a child to cause trouble. 'Your power is walled off where you cannot use it even if you knew how, you are bound to me so tightly I should be able to read your every thought, you are in so much pain you ought not to be thinking of anything else - yet you can still take me by surprise. Do you know, girl, that I came closer to failing just then than at any time since I wrested the Water of Life from the Most High?'

He jerked his hand, and she sprang to her feet under the influence of his power. His eyes were perhaps a hand's-breadth from her own. 'There is something about you, Stella, that remains a mystery. I am not angry with you. How could I be angry when you have already provided me with so much -and with so much more left to discover? 1 may revise my plans for you after all, particularly if the boy with the arrow continues to walk into my traps. He may govern Faltha in my stead, while you rule as queen in Andratan, enthroned beside your eternal king!'

Then he closed his fist, and her mind burst into multicoloured shards of pain. 'But don't touch me again,' he hissed. 'Not until I find out how you resist my will.' She nodded, eyes filled with proper fear, and he grunted his satisfaction.

'We will return to our army, O queen,' he said. 'Now the destruction of the Falthan army is complete, we will receive their surrender. The boy will place the arrow into the hands of my representative. Assuming her hands are not too troubled by pain, that is,' he added, and laughed. 'Come on!' His power compelled her forward. 'I have a triumph to share with you,'

'Half our army remains alive?' Leith regarded his mother with scepticism. 'Is this real? From this place I saw the whole battle. No one escaped. They all died. Where is this army? How is it hidden?'

'Alive and uncaptured,' Indrett told her son as they made their slow, careful way down the hill.