The Company now numbered over twenty. Kurr sat with the Haufuth, Mahnum and Indrett at one end of the table, with Leith and Hal to their left, along with Farr and Perdu, an empty seat in their midst to remind them that Stella was not with them. At the other end of the table the Arkhos of Nemohaim and his Captain of the Guard sat side by side, with Achtal the Bhrudwan flanking them to one side and Te Tuahangata on the other. And to their left Prince Wiusago had been joined by Belladonna and Maendraga her father, by the Escaignian woman who sat the slave girl on her lap, and by Phemanderac, who was currently speaking. Geinor and Graig his son sat on the floor behind them.

There came a knock at the door. Indrett opened it to find a woman she knew vaguely from the markets, and more recently from the Ecclesia meetings at the Basement. She held a burning brand in her hand, and a fever burned in her eyes. Indrett searched her mind for a name.

'Pelasia! What can I do for you - and what do you have in your hand?'

'Can't stay, dear,' she breathed excitedly. 'I know you used to go to the Basement branch, so I thought I'd pass on the word: the Most High has commanded us to attack the Council of Faltha! If you can still hear the Most High in your heart, He will confirm the truth of it.'

'Pellie!' came a cry from somewhere out on the darkening street. 'Come on! We'll miss the excitement!'

'Think about it,' the madwoman added. 'The world is changing, and we're the ones changing it!'

'Come on, Mother!' the voice called, and a hand reached out and pulled her away before she could say another word.

'Did you hear that?' Indrett asked the room. 'Something awful is about to happen.'

'Something awful has been happening all day,' a wheezy voice said from the far end of the table. 'My city is under attack from within, and I know who's responsible for it. I've listened to your stories with patience, forbearing to correct the more grievous of the exaggerations and untruths they contained. Are you willing to repay the courtesy and listen to me, and consider the advice I bring to you?' The Arkhos of Nemohaim adopted an air of studied reason that belied not only all the Company knew about him, but also the glow of excitement in his eyes.

Graig stood, clearing his throat. 'Begging your pardon,' he said diffidently, then waited, looking to Leith.

'You can speak, Graig,' the youth said gently. 'I am no king, and this is no king's court. We're all the same here.'

'But you have princes and chieftains here among you,' his father said incredulously, standing beside his son.

'And the former leader of Instruere,' Leith replied, 'who might have something important to say.'

'Yes, but - but we of Nemohaim know this man, and his behaviour and appetites shame us all.

He was able to coerce the king to appoint him as ambassador to the Council of Faltha, and now we learn he has betrayed us to Bhrudwo. He is ever scheming, ever on the watch for any advantage he can find. We dare not trust him!'

'1 wondered where I remembered you and your brat from,' the Arkhos replied amiably. 'The king's old counsellor, ever timid, and his famous offspring, so skilled with the blade he once stabbed himself in the foot without even unsheathing his sword. Did they put you out on the Southern Patrol where you could do no harm?'

Graig tried to restrain his anger. 'I was the first of Nemohaim to behold the Jugom Ark in its glory, and to look on the face of he who carries it. I could do this because 1 was not in Instruere plotting against my king!'

'Ah, but as a result of your.. . goodness, you have no insight into what is happening in Instruere today. I do. Many things Deorc said now begin to make sense, and I see his plans.

Now, youngster, for once in your futile life you might actually have some power. You can prevent these people listening to what I have to say. Tell them all the stories you know, about me, and make up some new ones to go along-side them. Nothing will surprise them. They know me well by now. Nonetheless, their goals and mine are the same for the moment. You want the man destroying Instruere defeated?

So do I. You want a chance to show the Council your Arrow? I'd like to see their faces when they behold it. Who else can give this to you? Or will you sit here waiting, discarding one plan after another, while people like the foolish woman who just knocked on your door die bleeding in the streets?'

'Let us hear the man,' Kurr said, and beside him the Haufuth nodded his head. 'Then we can decide what to do.'

The view from the top of the tower rapidly became truly appalling. Stella watched like an impotent god as The Pinion disgorged guards like ants abandoning an anthill. It was as clear to her as if Tanghin had left a script: a crowd had gathered on the lawn in front of the Hall of Lore, and the Guard were going to put them to the sword. There they were now, circling quietly around the massed group; hundreds of them, lining the shadows. She didn't know who the people were, but she could make out the smaller shapes of children in the flickering torchlight. Her captor often described the enjoyment he derived from the death of children.

Stella did not want to see him derive any enjoyment this night. She cried out through a dry, swollen throat, but the desperate noises she made were swallowed by the evening breeze, and she knew she could not make herself heard.

A figure stepped forward from the shadows, a hated figure. Raising his arms, he stood in front of the crowd. Strike him down! Don't let him live! Even if she was to remain chained here as a result, unknown and unregarded until she died of hunger or thirst, it would be a small price to pay for his death, especially if she could witness it.

By some perverse trick of the wind, his voice drifted up to her, faint but clear. 'Citizens of Instruere! Members of the Ecclesia! You are here tonight to confront the Council of Faltha, to demand their evil be cleansed from this City of God. As your leader, I will deliver your demand to the leader of the Council!' He turned and knocked on the door of the House of Lore, which opened and swallowed him. The crowd moved uneasily.

The Ecclesia! He is Tanghin - and he is Deorc - and he betrays the Ecclesia to the Instruian Guard! Oh, Most High!

The door opened, and the figure re-emerged. But it was Deorc, not Tanghin, who stood before the stunned Ecclesia. Dressed in a sable cloak and with a cowl over his head, he lifted his arms high.

'Hear me, scum of Instruere!' he screamed. 'I am Deorc, leader of the Council of Faltha, keeper of Andratan and servant of the Destroyer, the mortal enemy of all Falthans. I am Tanghin, the usurper of the Ecclesia. 1 am here to declare your doom. The fire will fall on Instruere tonight, and you will be the first to burn!' With that, he lowered his arms and the Instruian Guard streamed out from the shadows, swords raised.

Stella wept burning tears, her body shaking as grief and pain racked her, even before the slaughter began.

CHAPTER 3.

THE MAN FROM SNA VAZTHA.

THE MAN FROM SNA VAZTHA rode his white horse at a measured pace towards the City and the dark cloud that hovered over it. The setting sun illuminated the dense pall of smoke, rays of light spreading through the upper cloud like a vision of paradise, though the flicker of orange and red at the base of the cloud might have heralded the portals of the underworld. The situation in Instruere had obviously deteriorated since the messenger left over two months previously. The man nodded: it was to be expected. Indeed, it was to be welcomed. If things were now in the open, it would make his task much easier.

The guards at the Longbridge Gate were in a panic, as were their Southbridge counterparts, and had been since mid-morning when word of the happenings in Instruere began to filter out.

An increasing stream of refugees from the City had, at first, been held at the northern end of the bridge, but as their numbers increased it became pointless to hold them back, despite the absence of instructions. So the gates opened and people allowed to leave, whether or not they carried a yellow identification card.

Night now lurked just below the horizon, their relief had not appeared and they had grown anxious, having been forced to watch the rising columns of smoke and gouts of flame rising from within their city's walls. Frightened people hurried across the bridge, adding further tales of fire and destruction to those the nervous soldiers had already been told. The Granaries were destroyed, they heard, and the Docks razed. Fighting in the streets. A rain of fire and death.

Escaigne had arisen at last to challenge the Council of Faltha. No one could escape south of the City, some claimed, because the Southbridge was burned to the waterline. Every boat in the City had either borne their owners far away or were making fortunes for those greedy enough to ferry others to shore for profit. No orders were forthcoming from the Council of Faltha, and the City lay open to its enemies.

And now someone approached from the north, a lone rider on a dusky mare. Hardly the threat to take advantage of a vulnerable City, but such a one might carry news of that vulnerability to its enemies. The rider reined in at the guardhouse, dismounted briskly and waited by his horse.

'No one's getting into the City today, card or no card,' he was told. The guard spoke in a nervous voice, tinged with worry. His house lay on the southern edge of town, perhaps half a mile from the Granaries.

The stranger pulled back the hood of his cloak. The face revealed was old, startlingly so given how he carried himself. Heavy brows and deep-set blue eyes were capped by a close-cropped shock of white hair. His mouth appeared little more than a slit in his face and his nose an eagle's beak. His stare was that of one used to mastery.

'I have no card,' the man said in an astonishingly deep voice.

'Card or no, you cannot cross. The City burns. Can you not see it?'

'I have been summoned by the Council of Faltha. I must cross.'

'Friend, no one may cross. None have gone into the City since the ninth hour. Perhaps in a few days.. .'

'I am the Sria Vazthan replacement on the Council of Faltha,' he said, holding up a piece of paper. 'I must cross today. If there is strife in the City, I should be there to assist.'

'You are not yet of Instruere, my lord,' the guard said respectfully but firmly, 'so I am not required to obey your commands. Once you have stepped foot in the City, thus confirming your commission, then I will be authorised to obey you and convey you to the City.' The guard crossed his arms on his chest, clearly pleased with himself. His fellows exchanged smiles behind him.

The Sna Vazthan pursed his lips, then without warning his hand flashed to his waist and a shining blade lay across the guard's throat. The movement was impossibly fast.

No one moved.

The stranger raised a questioning eyebrow. His captive signalled frantically with one hand and the other guards made way.

'You shall come with me to the City to verify my commission. I shall then return to this guardhouse and you shall issue me with a card. I would not wish to do anything illegal.' The words were all the more menacing for their gentleness.

'Actually, it seems that this may not be necessary after alla"'

'No, it is necessary, I assure you. I want no one to claim I am here illegally.'

'They won't let you in at the gate.'

The stranger smiled then, the gap-toothed grin of an old man. 'That is another reason you are coming with me.'

So, much to the consternation and embarrassment of the guard, he was forced to lead the man and his horse first to the Inna Gate, through the guards' entrance and into the city proper, where by setting foot on Instruian soil he activated his commission, and back out across the bridge to the gatehouse. The procedure took half an hour, by which time dusk had descended.

'You have not yet checked my letter of appointment. It is signed by Her Majesty Ylisane, Queen of Sna Vaztha. See, here is her seal.' He handed the letter to the guards, who looked over it for what they guessed might be an appropriate time, then gave it respectfully back to him, along with a yellow card. He turned then, mounted his patient horse and trotted away across the bridge towards the gate.

'Will they let him in a second time?' one of the younger men asked.

'If they have any sense,' answered his captain, rubbing his throat.

The Company arrived at the Hall of Lore at a dead run, spurred on by the awful sounds growing clearer as they approached the open, grassy space. Leith held the Jugom Ark high, and his anger and shock at what he saw caused the Arrow to flame like the sun. The Arkhos of Nemohaim had been right. In the brightness they beheld a scene of terror. The guardsmen present that night were specially chosen for the task. Deorc knew many of the Guard would object to killing their own people, no matter how the command was phrased, so he had asked his newly-appointed captains to choose those whose lack of personal scruples would permit them to take part. The names of the others were recorded. Deorc had plans for them, plans involving placing them at the forefront of the next battle.

The guards rushed the stunned Ecclesia, ensuring panic. The first brutal wave felled perhaps a third of those gathered there, some of whom had not seen the transformed figure of Deorc emerge from the Hall of Lore and so died without understanding how they were betrayed. The screaming drowned out the shouts of those few who kept their heads, who tried to organise people into groups, the better to be protected by the few men and women who knew how to fight.

The glare of the Jugom Ark revealed three knots of people bravely, hopelessly resisting the guards. In the brightness of the moment, a tableau that branded itself on Leith's memory, he heard a woman cry: 'Please, not my childa"' but the plea was ended mercilessly. A raw sound came from behind him, and he realised it came from Farr, from deep in his throat. It was the sound of purest anger. Then he realised the sound came from his own throat as well.

'They are skilled at killing the innocent,' said Wiusago. 'Let us see how skilled they are at facing real warriors! Come, my friends!' And with a cry, the Company pitched themselves into the battle.

Leith transferred the Arrow into his left hand and drew his sword with his right. Again for a moment he wondered about using the Jugom Ark as a weapon of war, but again he forbore, afraid of what might happen. Along with Wiusago, Te Tuahangata and Graig, the last of whom attached himself to Leith like a liegeman, he rushed towards a ring of guardsmen so busy harrying a knot of poorly weaponed people they did not see their doom approaching.

With a cry Leith launched himself at them, aggression making up for lack of skill. Graig fought at his side, deflecting any well-aimed blows away from Leith. Swiftly they interposed themselves between the guardsmen and the Ecclesia, then turned and faced the ranks of the Instruian Guard.

The rest of the battle seemed to Leith a terrible dream. Some of the guards plainly recognised the Arrow for what it was, and abandoned the field in fear. Others fought halfheartedly. Few there were who could call upon more than their training; none had the recent battle experience of the Company. From time to time Leith held up the Jugom Ark. In its light he could see that though the guards were being turned from their purpose, the inroads the Company made were too slow. Too soon their captain would call for reinforcements, if he had not already. Leith could see no way for the Company to stand against the full Instruian Guard, and the remnants of the Ecclesia proved more of a hindrance than a help. At any moment one of the Company might fall, whatever charm that had protected them up to now having run out. He reached out in thought to the Arrow in his left hand, and again considered how it might be used as a weapon.

Then his eyes opened wide in disbelief as one of the slain Ecclesia lying in front of him rose to his feet and, with a shout, pulled a broadsword from thin air. To his left, a dead woman rose from the ground and joined him, her ghastly wounds gaping, her face bloodless. To his right, a third; then many more, even children, each the ghostly simulacrum of someone who lay dead on the grass. Joining them, flanking this army of the dead to left and right, stood Maendraga and Belladonna. The magician laughed, and then Leith understood. Illusion. The looks of concentration fled the faces of the guardsmen, replaced by superstitious fear.

'You have taken our lives without just cause!' boomed a voice, somehow amplified beyond normal human volume. 'So now we return to take yours!' To a man, the Guard turned and ran from the phantom army, many casting their weapons aside in their fright.

'It's an illusion, you cowardly fools! Return and fight!' The shout, equally loud, came from the sheltered entrance to the Hall of Lore, some distance across the open ground. A man stood there, a man dressed in black with his arms spread wide in frustration, or in a gesture that summoned a mighty power.

Maendraga's laughter changed to a grunt of effort, then he was on his knees, supported by his daughter. The phantom army flickered and disappeared. 'There is a magician here -very powerfula"' He groaned, then fainted away. Leith's gaze fastened on the figure in the doorway, whose arms were now raised. Could this be the man the Arkhos of Nemohaim had told them about? The Keeper of Andratan?

Others in the Company asked themselves the same question. 'Achtal!' the Haufuth cried. 'That man, he is the magician pitted against us!' The Bhrudwan warrior already realised this, Leith saw, for even before the speaker finished Achtal turned from the opponent he faced, leaped lightly over the large mound of dead and dying guardsmen surrounding him, and began sprinting across the lawn towards the door.

Deorc could not believe what he witnessed. From the safety of the entrance to the Hall he directed the slaughter; in fact, early on he had snatched a spear from the hands of a reluctant Guard and thrust it through a small figure trying to flee. Within moments the attack seemed certain of success. He savoured the pleasure of watching the fool who, last night, offered a self-satisfied prophecy about an arrow approaching Instruere, struck down by a double sword blow. So much for your God.

Then things changed for the worse. First, a great light turned night into day, then a new force charged into the battle. For a time he thought this might be some fighting brigade from Escaigne come to join the Ecclesia: if so, all the better. Deal with all the rats in one trap.

Soon, however, he was firmly disabused of this happy thought. The fighters were too fierce, too well trained, to be from that source. Some unknown enemy? Some rival for his place at the Council?

At that moment two things happened: the Arkhos of Nemohaim appeared in the midst of a group of fighters, and someone somewhere on the battlefield began to weave a powerful illusion. The explanation for the night's disaster suddenly became clear. The Arkhos has found powerful new allies. Someone in Bhrudwo plots to overthrow me as the Undying Man's right hand.

He watched as the shades of the dead chased his guardsmen from the field of battle, and cried out at their stupidity. He knew he wasted valuable time, but frustration overwhelmed him.

Getting control of himself, he probed the illusion which, for all its power, was diffuse, hastily constructed and lightly held; probed, and attacked it with a raw magic drawn from deep within himself. He could feel it draining him, knew he would pay the price, but he had no choice. Even as the wraiths disappeared, he looked on the ruin of his plans - the temporary ruin, he told himself firmly - and one thought burned itself into his brain.

Someone will pay for this. Someone will pay.

As he stood, indulging his anger, he caught a glimpse of a figure rushing towards him, sword held in a manner he knew only too well. Tip forward, angled just so. Without conscious thought he leaped back through the open door and bolted it firmly shut. Then, just to be sure, and in spite of the extra strength it drew from him, he placed a sealing spell on the door.

Swords were held like that in only one place: at the cruel training grounds of the Maghdi Dasht. Impossible as it might seem, he had been about to confront one of the Lords of Fear.

How many others were out there, serving his enemy? And he was so weak, so recently drained!

This confirms my belief, he told himself. Someone high in the service of my master seeks to destroy me. But is it with or udthout His blessing? No matter, f will be just as dead either way if I make a mistake. He turned and made his way swiftly to the tower, resolving to think on this further when he was out of danger.

Out on the field the Company herded the shocked, terrified remnant of the Ecclesia away from the Hall of Lore and back towards the roads leading to the southern areas of the City.

Wiusago had fallen victim to a dreadful wound in his chest; he bled freely, and was ghostly pale. Te Tuahangata hovered over him, raising his head to call for help. Leith wondered, distraught, where Hal might be. The wound, though, looked beyond healing. Then he remembered the Arrow still alight in his left hand. He transferred it back to his right, stepped over a broken body and bent down to examine the stricken Deruvian.

'I told him not to be fancy,' Te Tuahangata growled. 'But no, he has seen the Bhrudwan fight, and suddenly the way he was trained is not good enough. He is lucky not to have been killed outright, but I think he is dying. Can anything be done?'

Leith desperately tried to remember how he did it before, how Geinor's hand had been healed. He had used ointment, he remembered. Had it really been necessary? No time for ointment. Time to find out if the Arrow could work its magic without it.

Not magic, came a thought. Enhancement. Speeding up the natural healing of the wound.

Many wounds heal without ointment.

He placed the Jugom Ark on the dying man's chest, and the Arrow flamed in response. When he lifted it away, the wound had closed, leaving nothing but a fresh scar.

Exultation flooded through Leith, along with a strange bitterness: again he had been used, a conduit for the power of another. But he could not afford to let his pride cause the deaths of others, so he turned from the open-mouthed Child of the Mist and went in search of other injured people.

The Company surrounded Leith as he went about his task, swords outward in case the Guard returned; but the streets remained eerily quiet, the shadows empty of foes. The only sound was that of sobbing and crying as the newly-healed wept over their dead.

Maendraga supported the strange young man from the north, the chosen vessel of the Most High. Though many were healed of their wounds, Ecclesia and guardsmen alike - some argued against the restoration of the guardsmen, but Hal would have insisted on it, and Leith agreed with him -the Jugom Ark could do nothing for the dead.

'I raised them up as an illusion,' Maendraga said sadly. 'If only they could be raised up in truth.'

Finally the last child was healed. The Company looked at each other, at the sweat and grime that covered them, then turned as one and left that terrible place.

'I've gathered you here this morning to discuss the events of yesterday,' Deorc said to his fellow Council members, his voice deep and resonant in the inner chamber behind the Iron Door. I'm here to placate your fears, to reassure you that everything proceeds as planned. But a stray thought leaked into his Wordweave. Is everything really under control? Am I safe even here!

'We've had a minor disturbance down by the Granaries, an accident and subsequent fire that unfortunately saw a number of workers killed. Our friends from Escaigne, miscreants and rascals all, decided to take advantage of what was for a while a confused situation. My captains faced a difficult choice. They knew whether they chose to fight the Escaignians, thus following our Council decree of two months past, or helped the worthy residents and businessmen fight the fires that threatened the buildings of Old Struere and the Docks, they would be criticised for having chosen wrong. So, alas, they decided to divide their forces, which left them prey to the Escaignians, and a number of our brave guardsmen met their deaths yesterday. I propose that we do not leave their deaths unavenged; and to remind us of their bravery, we will all stand for a moment's silence.'

The rising Councillors scraped their chairs back and stood silently while Deorc took their measure. The Arkhos of Nemohaim deserved credit, he acknowledged. He had wooed the most intelligent and gifted men of the Council to the Bhrudwan cause. Some of them still did not appreciate what that meant, how completely they had been bought, and the price they would pay when their master came calling. Nevertheless, there were two or three here who, if circumstances had been different, might have served Bhnidwo long and loyally. Firanes, there, proved himself an expert with figures, having bled the City's reserves dry without anyone realising it, including the powerful House of Commerce. Favony, who stood beside him, spent money as fast as his colleague saved it; but as a consequence of his gambling developed an extensive and useful network of informants throughout the City. It turned out one or two from Escaigne liked to gamble and had amassed large debts, which provided Deorc, through the Arkhos of Favony, a way to whisper his plots to the inner council of Escaigne.