He held the cursed Arrow in front of him. Just over two feet long. . . He wondered how, if the Most High had towered over Kannwar of Dona Mihst in the moment he partook of the Fountain of Life, the Jugom Ark was so small. Isn't the scale all wrong?

The flames burned merrily, seeming not to reflect his anguished state of mind. Was it like Phemanderac said? Did the Arrow respond to his emotions? Or did he respond to the wishes of the Arrow? For a moment Leith considered asking the voice to speak to him.

Was this truly a decision he was free to make?. Or, like every other moment since he had begun this preposterous journey, was his path already mapped out? For a moment he rebelled: if the voice wants me to fight the Destroyer, then I will run and run and run and run.

But that was the path of madness. To flee from what a voice might ask him to do, a voice that no one else heard, a voice that now, in his time of need, remained steadfastly silent.

No. It was courage he needed, not advice. His life had been shaped, he could not deny it. He had been brought to this moment, and he could not avoid it. Perhaps if I get through, he told himself, I ivill make some choices for myself. Then he laughed. If I get through? He could not fool himself: today was likely the last day of his life.

He would fight.

A crunching of gravel wrested him from his thoughts: someone approached along the path.

Axehaft had his weapon ready to strike, and Leith realised how truly grateful he was for all the people who had guarded him.

'It is only me, your village Haufuth!' came a voice, distinctly short of breath. 'Leith, will you allow me to speak to you for a moment?'

'If you wish to give me advice as to what to do about the Destroyer's challenge, you are too late,' Leith said. 'I have decided.'

The Haufuth struggled up the last few steps and promptly sat down on the stony ground. 'I know you have,' he said gently. 'But there is something you must know now, for I fear that the Destroyer means to taunt you with it at some stage during your encounter.'

Leith looked on the Haufuth, a patient, compassionate man. 'What is it?'

The village headman told Leith what he had seen - who he had seen - and the bright flash that followed his dreadful words eclipsed for a moment the light of the sun.

Leith came to himself a moment later, unable for the present to think beyond the fact that Stella was alive, but in the hands of the Destroyer. Even as the news sank in, his attention was drawn to the battleground. Some sort of ceremony was beginning, judging by the noise filtering up from below. He wiped the tears from his eyes and tried to find the cause. For a moment he simply could not believe what he was seeing. When his brain finally registered what his eyes beheld, the Jugom Ark flashed incandescent for a second time, fit to burn the world to cinders.

And in the midst of the great light, one word reverberated through the sky, crashing from cliff to cliff, setting the trees to groaning.

'HAAAAAAAL!'.

The Destroyer stood on the lip of the dell, the tip of his tall sword planted in the ground between his booted feet. He was prepared to be patient, for he knew the Right Hand of the Most High would be drawn to the challenge. For what other reason did he exist?

But there were things these northern peasants did not know about conflicts such as these. The Undying Man remembered the first hundred years of his own reign in Bhrudwo, when his authority was challenged again and again by the most powerful thaumaturges of the land. He had beaten the best of them, and remembered every lesson he been taught. There had been surprises then, but now the tricks and stratagems of a score or more wielders of magic resided in his awesome memory. None had ever come close to overcoming him, and this untutored rustic would not do so now. Yes, he had the Jugom Ark, but that had been effective only in the hands of the Most High himself. It was a risk, but because of the words of that cursed woman spoken in front of his own army, he could not abandon the field of battle. There was no other way to achieve his objective.

I am immortal, he reminded himself. J have been gifted with life. 1 cannot taste death. The bargain was made at the cost of my own right hand.

He remembered the years spent growing up in Dona Mihst, and his dissatisfaction with the way in which the First Men acquiesced to every requirement of the law. Why were we given the Fire of Life, and all the wisdom attending on it, if not to make our own laws? No one could give him a satisfactory reply. Then had come the years of searching, when he wandered the wide world in a vain quest for answers, only to find them in himself. Such risks he had taken then, so desirous was he of knowledge, and the stand he took eventually cost him his hand.

More recently he had begun to wonder whether he was settling into exactly the same sort of complacency he had once found so distasteful in the citizens of Dona Mihst. Would the day come when, for all his care, he would be driven out of Andratan by some young risk-taker, left to lick his wounds and dream of his days of glory in some forgotten cave?

No, it was time to take a risk. But just to be certain of success, he began to wrap himself in spells, muttering to himself in a barely audible voice ...

.. . which is why he did not hear the approach of booted feet until the voice called to him from across the dell.

'Undying Man, do you wish to challenge the son of Mahnum?'

His proud head jerked upwards, where he saw a solitary figure on the other side of the shallow depression.

'What is it you want of me?' he growled, angry to have been interrupted. He thought to put this man to death, but decided to wait. Perhaps he was an emissary.

'I asked you if you were prepared to challenge the son of Mahnum. I am Hal Mahnumsen, older brother to the Arrow-bearer; and, by right of law, the proper recipient of your challenge.

By the ancient law of primogeniture you cannot fight Leith until you have defeated me. I know the magics you have used in issuing the challenge, and know that it cannot be withdrawn or changed, only refused. And, as you can see, I do not refuse it.'

What trick was this? But then he remembered how he had phrased his challenge, and exactly what Words of Binding he had spoken into the air. The man was right.

'But I am at a disadvantage,' the Destroyer said smoothly. 'I have but one hand, and I see that you have two.'

'My brother also has two hands, and it was him you intended to fight. But even now you reach out to me, trying to gain a measure of my strength. Does it surprise you to learn that I am strong?' He waited, and saw the Destroyer's eyes widen in surprise.

'Strong in Fire and in Water,' the Undying Man breathed, the thin tendrils of doubt searching for purchase in his soul. How could this be? He kept the doubt at bay. 'But you are a cripple.'

'I am. It will be an even contest.' The young man's voice was firm, with no wavering, no hint of fear. Nothing for the Destroyer's magic to take root in. His spells had been woven across the dell, ready to entrap anyone who expressed even the slightest fear or doubt.

'Very well, then. We will fight, then I will take your brother and make him my right hand, as has been fated for a thousand years. 1 have studied the prophecies, obviously more closely than the sages of Faltha, judging by the recent premature proclamation of victory we all witnessed yesterday. I will turn him, and he will serve me gladly. Now: are your fellows coming to watch you die - or do they even know of your challenge?' He laughed then, recognising the last desperate gambit of an army on the brink of defeat, and shook off any doubt. 'You will die alone and unmourned, and the birds will fight over your carcass!'

'I accept your challenge,' Hal declared, then exerted his power so that the words were binding.

'As the rightful elder son of Mahnum and his legal heir, 1 accept the challenge issued by the Undying Man, including the terms as they were spoken,' he intoned. 'By this Truthspell are they sealed!'

As soon as he uttered the words, he strode forward into the dell. The Destroyer matched him stride for stride.

'You do not walk like a cripple,' the Undying Man remarked as they drew nearer to each other.

'Not today,' said Hal grimly.

A great shout came from somewhere behind him, beyond the rim of the small dell. Achtal had uncovered his master's deception, but it was now too late for anyone to do anything about what was going to happen.

The discussion in the Falthan tent had come around to the length of time Leith was taking.

The Haufuth had gone to inform the Arrow-bearer the hour was nearly up, and that he would soon be required to answer the challenge, and others in the tent were becoming impatient, unable to deal with their tension.

Suddenly one whole side of the tent caved in, and a deep, accented voice cried: 'Hal! Hal fights the Destroyer!' Achtal extricated himself from the tangle of cloth and animal skin, then repeated his cry to a stunned group. 'Come! Come quickly! He will die!'

Within moments the Falthan command stood at the edge of the small dell. Stretched tight across it, like the skin across the top of a storage jar, was a shimmering layer of light made of yellow and blue strands. Twice already Achtal had thrown himself at it, and twice he had been repulsed.

'It is the Truthspell,' Phemanderac said. 'Halkonis wrote about this. It seals the fighters together in single combat, ensuring they receive no outside help, until the challenge is completed. In this case, that will come with the surrender or death of one of the contestants.'

He sighed, then turned sorrowfully to Achtal. 'I think the Destroyer would have accepted Leith's surrender,' he said. 'But I think he will kill Hal'

Nearby stood Mahnum and Indrett, in each other's arms. 'Stubborn Hal! Thus he seeks to redeem himself in his brother's eyes!' Mahnum shook his head.

'There is more to it than that,' his wife replied. 'He wishes to . . .' Her voice faded to silence, and a great hush fell all around the rim of the depression. Hal and the Destroyer now stood face to face, weapons drawn.

The Undying Man held his sword with the aplomb of a seasoned fighter, but knew that his stance, designed to impress a gifted opponent, was wasted on the youth standing in front of him. His two-footed stance, the way he held his short blade far too tightly, even the choice of blade - surely they had better weapons in Faltha, he wondered - all told the Lord of Bhrudwo he was dealing with an unskilled adversary. He stood unmoving for a moment, reinforcing the link between his sword and his will. That was all that really mattered. The stance and even the armour were merely for show. Then he opened his mouth as if to talk, and struck with his blade, heavy with purpose. It should have been enough, but the Falthan deflected it with a perfectly placed block. Thrown off balance, the Undying Man barely recovered before the counter-thrust whistled in front of his face.

Thus chastened, he settled down to fight in earnest. There were no accompanying bursts of magic power, as all their art was focused on the blades they wielded. Even so, both men moved more swiftly than ought to have been possible, limbs unencumbered by the doubt and fear that slows the merely mortal fighter. Back and forth across, the dell they danced, thrust and parry, combinations of blows endured patiently, eyes searching for the opening that surely must come.

Eventually the two combatants sprang apart. 'Who taught you to fight, boy?' the Destroyer rasped, striving to keep weariness from showing in his voice. 'You have a style that reminds me of the swordsmen of Birinjh. Where do you come from?'

Hal laughed. 'My teacher is a Maghdi Dasht from a village on the High Plateau,' he said.

'Impossible!'

'Nevertheless,' came the reply, 'it would take far longer than two thousand years to be aware of everything happening in your domain even at one moment. What conceit leads you to think that you can trust your own knowledge, when it has proved to be so partial?'

He knows the magic, the Undying Man reminded himself. He's trying to sow doubt. In answer he hurled himself at the Falthan, raining blows on him from every direction; and could feel the youth faltering.

'Knowledge isn't everything, youngling,' he panted. 'Sometimes strength and desire are what count in the end.'

The two armies crept closer to the bowl, knowing their fates were bound up in the conflict being played out below them. Each small advantage was cheered, each step backwards greeted with a groan of concern.

'How is he doing this?' Modahl asked his son and his daughter. 'From where does he draw the power? How can he stand against the Destroyer?'

'There is more to Hal than anyone knows,' Kurr replied, and many nearby heard his words. 'It is not my story to tell, but the Most High made no mistake when selecting him as one of the Arkhimm.'

'I thought it was a brave but foolish gesture!' Farr said in genuine wonderment. The swordplay was so crisp, so fluid, so beautiful. 'Had he fought this way in the Battle of The Gap, we might have driven them back to their own lands!'

'I do not think he could have,' said the Ice Queen of Sna Vaztha. 'He uses his life-strength to do what he does.'

'He fights like his teacher,' Kurr remarked, indicating the Bhrudwan acolyte standing on the lip of the dell, eyes empty like a lightless room. 'But there must be something more, for even Achtal could not stand against the best of the Maghdi Dasht, and surely they are but shadows of their master.'

'There is power enough down there to reshape the world,' Phemanderac gasped. 'The Destroyer draws on reservoirs of power laid aside over millennia. But upon what does Hal draw?'

Down in the dell the two combatants closed yet again. Without warning, a light brighter than the sun seared across the vision of everyone there; then, just as they were able to open their eyes, the light exploded again, this time accompanied by a shout. 'HAL!'

The first flash of light momentarily blinded them both, but they recovered in seconds. The Destroyer came forward swinging, trusting senses other than sight. Hal was ready for him, and struck a blow across the Undying Man's right side, opening up a wound at least a forearm-span in length.

But the Lord of Bhrudwo did not slow down, and instead revealed his great advantage. As Hal watched, the wound healed itself. 'Did you think that you struck at anything but illusion?' the Destroyer mocked. 'Perhaps two thousand years of life is not sufficient to know everything.

But twenty years is barely enough time to learn how to stand upright!'

'But - your body is there,' Hal gasped, on the edge of exhaustion.

'Wrapped in illusion. You may strike me, but only if you are lucky. You, on the other hand, are about to bea"'

The light flashed again, and both men knew it to be the Jugom Ark. Hal heard his name shouted in anguish, and for an instant he turned in the direction of the one who called his name, feeling the intense need in the cry.

The opening was small, but it was enough. Though he was half-blinded by the light, though he had been driven further into his hard-won supply of strength than ever before, the Undying Man still had enough energy remaining to drive his blade forward and into the breast of his opponent.

Hal cried out, his voice bubbling into silence as he fell to the ground.

Leith came flying down the path. 'Hal! Hal! What are you doing?' he cried as he smashed through bushes and knocked aside boulders in his haste to reach his brother. 'What are you doing?'

'What I must,' said a voice in his mind; and then: 'Goodbye.' The Arrow-bearer reached the bottom of the path and hurled himself across the muddy field of The Cauldron. 'No, Hal! No! NO!'

There were the two armies standing strangely silent as they faced each other. There was the dell where he had spied on his brother. There was the barrier of shimmering light, which faded even as he approached it. There were the two figures at the bottom of the dell, one with his arm raised in triumph, one lying prone on the ground. He threw himself down the slope, his legs barely able to keep up with his body, and neither able to keep pace with his will. 'Hal!

HAL! No, Hal!'

He cast himself on the body of his brother, taken by a madness that drove him into a black pit of despair from which there seemed no escape. Blood, his brother's blood, soaked into his robe.

'Please, Hal,' he whispered. 'Please don't die.' But his brother was beyond listening.

'I love you, Hal,' Leith rasped brokenly, too late.

Discarded carelessly on the ground beside him, the Jugom Ark flickered one last time, and went out.

CHAPTER 17.

THE RIGHT HAND OF GOD.

THE CEREMONY OF SURRENDER, effectively handing control of the Falthan army over to the Destroyer, took place just before sunset. Leith Mahnumsen did not attend, nor was his absence questioned. His mother was there, though his father was not. Throughout the short ceremony Indrett seemed to be having difficulty standing, and leaned heavily on the arm of Modahl of Sna Vaztha. Forty or so Falthan commanders stood in front of the Bhrudwan tents, representing the defeated force, trying to keep the desolation from showing on their faces. On the far side of the depression waited the remnant of the Falthan army, now its true size with the illusory extra warriors removed.

Earlier the commanders had been sent to explain the terms of their defeat to the Army of Faltha. The combat between the son of Mahnum and the Destroyer had been hedged about with spells, they explained. The loser's army was now bound by a Truthspell, and could no longer oppose or deceive their adversaries. When the Declaration of Surrender was signed, the magic would become binding for all time.

'The Sixteen Kingdoms will resist him, each one,' said an Instruian soldier to the man standing next to him, who happened to be of the Instruian Guard.

'There is hope yet.' He kept his eyes on the open space in front of the Bhrudwan encampment, where the ceremony was being held.

'Aye, there is hope,' came the gruff response. 'But not much. You have heard the rumours that half the kingdoms have already gone over to the Destroyer?' The soldier nodded eagerly; he always kept an ear open for rumour. 'The tales are true, and more. There are many as would welcome the Bhrudwans with open arms,' said the Guard, and waited for the reaction.

'Are you saying you know guardsmen who would betray Faltha? That you are a traitor yourself?' The words were offered in a shocked undertone.

'I'm sayin' nothing of the kind,' said the guard, 'but how could the Bhrudwans be worse than the Arkhoi we've had running Instruere?' Seeing the doubt on the other man's face, he continued. 'I've done service in the Hall of Lore, and I've seen things that would turn your stomach.'

'But what about the burnings this afternoon? Those soldiers surrendered properly. They shouldn't have been executed for it.'

'That's what the army needs, a little more discipline,' the guard said, running his tongue over his lips. 'How else did fifty thousand of them defeat a hundred thousand of us? Faltha is soft, mark my words; soft and weak. This war has weeded out the weaklings, and only the strong like us remain. We'll be wanted in the new set-up, no question.'

The soldier shook his head and moved on, trying to get a better view of the ceremony, but the words of the guard stayed in his head.

Trumpets blared, and the Destroyer - the Undying Man, we have to call him now, Kurr remembered bitterly - strode forward, resplendent in his black robe, a silver crown on his brow, his sword resting on his hip. As they had been instructed, the Falthan commanders fell to their knees and pressed their foreheads to the dirt. The losian commanders had refused to consider this demand when the details of the ceremony were relayed to them, and some even spoke of killing themselves before acquiescing, but the Haufuth suggested quietly substituting First Men for their absent allies. So far it seemed to have worked.

Kurr remained kneeling along with the others, watching out of the corner of his eye as Indrett stood, then approached the slayer of her son. So hard, the old farmer thought; so cruel to ask her to do this. Yet she knelt on one knee in front of the Undying Man, and spoke the words of surrender in a strong, clear voice. So much courage.