All felt the magic of it pull tight around them. Perhaps other people at other times would be able to resist the Lord of Bhrudwo, but not them, not now, not for as long as the Binding lasted. And when the Declaration was signed, the Binding would become immutable, lasting forever. A dreadful fate, they realised; but they had entered into this agreement freely, they had accepted his challenge, they had brought this on themselves.

Stella stood beside the Destroyer, her body aflame with pain as always, but sustained by his will so that she could not even move a muscle in relief unless he wished it - and he never wished it. As 1 am bound, so Faltha is bound. She considered the irony, but even thinking gave her pain. There seemed little of herself left apart from the hurting.

She had heard the Destroyer issue his challenge, and hope had risen within her despite the evidence she had of his duplicity. When Hal and not Leith accepted the challenge, hope had evaporated. But with surprised eyes she had witnessed the cripple fight with astonishing skill, and all through the match she had begged the Most High for Hal to emerge victorious. She poured out her soul to the boy from her own village, and had felt the same drawing she had experienced the day when Leith had been under attack by the Maghdi Dasht. The Fire that burns in me is somehow being used by Hal, she realised, even though the Destroyer continually taunted her by telling her that it was locked away beyond her capacity to use. With every blow she willed Hal on: it needed just one stroke of luck and she would be set free! It was so close she could almost feel the shape of freedom.

But that blow never came, and in a moment of horror she watched the Destroyer strike Hal down, saw him die. Hal, loving Hal, friend and companion, dying at the end of an evil blade.

She had closed her eyes and resolved never to open them again, so deep was her sorrow.

But in spite of herself she had opened them, if only to avoid falling in the dirt as his irresistible will dragged at her. She saw Leith embracing his brother's body, heard his cries of anguish and the low moans of fear that rippled through the Falthan army as they realised the war was over, that they had lost. She beheld the smile on her master's face, and wished she had the power to spit on him as she had done once before. She watched him wipe his blade clean of Hal's blood, foulness cleansing himself of purity.

The Destroyer seemed to give her no more thought after locking her into position just before the ceremony of surrender began. He had spent the afternoon using the blue fire to communicate with various of his traitorous allies - Stella was too weary and heartsick to note whom he had spoken to - and later the husks of the six Falthans he had drained of life for the fire were taken to the poles and burned there. In some fashion this had refreshed him, and the ceremony had begun soon after.

She wondered if the Falthans realised just how close the Destroyer had come to losing everything. His blood burned in her veins; thus she could sense his extremity. His illusory skin had faded as he expended all his energy on keeping Hal's sword at bay, and for a few moments all saw him as he really was, a wreck of a man, tormented by the contradictory powers running through him. But perhaps they thought this ghastly apparition was the illusion, designed to frighten Hal. So close! He would not have died, of course, but he would certainly have been stripped of his powers, freeing her and so many others. For a moment she thought of a man without a tongue. So close.

Helpless and hopeless, she watched the ceremony take place. The trumpets and the obeisance and the words of surrender were spoken by a woman from her own beloved village of Loulea.

Stella stood no more than a few feet away from them, but was not surprised that no one recognised her broken body as that of one of their former companions. At least, almost no one: the Haufuth occasionally cast glances in her direction, though since he had his forehead pressed to the ground it was difficult to tell exactly what he was thinking.

There was a document to sign, apparently, but the Destroyer did not intend to sign it here in Vulture's Craw. 'I will have the signatures of the leaders of Faltha from their own hands, as they grovel before me in the Hall of Meeting at Instruere,' he said, savouring the coming delight as though he experienced their humiliation and his glory already. The servant-girl could feel his eagerness, his vast hunger, his insatiable desire for revenge on anyone associated with the Most High. For him, the true moment of surrender would come when the Sixteen Kingdoms bowed before him. In spite of his longing, he was prepared to wait until then.

Now the ceremony was over and the Falthans left, each commander accompanied by a Maghdi Dasht to ensure obedience. Stella watched them leave without experiencing the feelings of abandonment and loneliness she might have expected. Instead, she realised that they had become just like her, each with a black shadow. Or, perhaps each of them now a pale shadow to a black-cloaked reality. This should not have consoled her, she knew, but it did.

They came for Leith after dark. Phemanderac made his way down into the dell, followed by two menacing Lords of Fear. The Bhrudwans seemed to have identified everyone who could operate in the realm of Fire, and had assigned each one a sinister guardian. Leith's jailer, the chief of the Maghdi Dasht and the most powerful of the Bhrudwans save the Destroyer himself, would hardly be necessary, Phemanderac thought as he lifted the insensible youth to his feet. Grief already held him prisoner.

Phemanderac himself was in mourning, and over such a trivial thing. They had taken his harp and smashed it, and the sound of the rosewood breaking was more than he could bear. It seemed to signify every fine thing that had been lost. Crafted by Mandaramus himself, he thought as he grieved; possibly the last of its kind, and he let the tears fall. As Hal was, as Wiusago and Te Tuahangata were, as many others had been. He wept for them all.

'Come, Leith,' he said gently, knowing that if the youth didn't respond, he would be made to obey. 'Time to let him go.'

The boy's hand slipped out of his brother's cold fingers. For as long as he dared Phemanderac stared at the features of the cripple, which registered no more than a mild surprise. The sword had been taken from the body, but the small entry wound was still visible, just below his heart. His face and hands were white as alabaster, as though he was a broken statue. Smashed like a harp, the Dhaurian scholar mused. He will be missed.

'Phemanderac? What did we do wrong?' The voice was hoarse, ragged.

He turned away from the body and towards the deep, wounded eyes of Hal's brother. 'Do wrong?' he echoed, unsure of the question, surprised that Leith could ask it so soon.

'Yes. Was it tactical? Should we have waited to gather a larger army? Or was it because we put our trust in magic and not in our own strength? That we trusted the arrow of unity more than the strength unity would bring?' The eyes were overbright, the face flushed.

'Leith, it is not a good timea"'

'Or was it what Kroptur said? Did I somehow bring this down on all our heads because I didn't love my brother when it mattered?'

'No more talk!' snapped a voice, and both Phemanderac and Leith found themselves carried out of the dell, slung over broad shoulders.

'What about the Jugom Ark?' Phemanderac asked their captors.

'Just another arrow now,' came the harsh reply. 'Leave it where it lies.'

'And Hal? Surely he at least will receive the honourable burial his skill and valour deserve?'

'He is carrion. He will feed the birds.' The two Maghdi Dasht reached out with their coercion, and Leith and Phemanderac were given no further opportunity to ask questions.

Over the next few weeks winter turned to spring. Few of the beaten Falthan army had the heart to see the new blossoms on the trees by their path, or the renewed activity in the sky above the great plains of central Faltha, or on the never-ending grasslands themselves. They learned instead to obey the severe discipline of their new masters, to live with hunger and cold as the best was taken by the Bhrudwan army, and to cope daily with humiliation. Even the discontents within the Falthan ranks were unsettled by the capriciousness of their captors, who seemed to take great delight in punishing their charges for the most minor deviation from the rules -but only after ignoring these infractions for days or longer, and sometimes taking one man and leaving unpunished another who committed the same offence. And the punishments were brutal. One man, driven beyond endurance, lost a hand for striking a Bhrudwan officer, while another suffered the same fate for respectfully asking for a misheard order to be repeated. The taking of a hand seemed to be their standard punishment. Worse, the punishments were public, and all close by were required to witness the swift and terrible judgments of the Maghdi Dasht, and learn thereby. They learned to hate.

Graig and his father Geinor walked into chaos, there was no other word for it. Graig was especially anxious to be reunited with Leith, the mighty and magical Arrow-bearer, who paid him such respect when first they had met. He had begged to be allowed to remain at Leith's side, but reluctantly saw the sense of travelling south with his father and the other messengers in search of support for the coming war against Bhrudwo.

Every day on the southern journey he took time to practise with the sword, remembering the jibes of the Arkhos of Nemohaim, and was determined to be accepted into the service of the Arrow-bearer. Geinor tried to speak to him of diplomacy and the workings of a king's court, knowing that this would be of more use to his son, but Graig had seen action in the Battle of the Four Halls and again on the dreadful night when the Ecclesia had been betrayed, and for now the glory of the swordsman closed his mind to everything else.

After four weeks of hard riding they reached the Bay of Bewray, to find the land in an uproar.

The humiliated King of Nemohaim had stepped aside a matter of days after Leith had spoken with him, and contention over the throne had swept across the country in waves of killing.

This dreadful chance meant that most of the soldiery in Nemohaim was otherwise engaged, and so Geinor and Graig had no king to entreat.

The two men spent fruitless weeks trying to enlist support for an eastern war, but such a nebulous prospect drew few away from the war of succession. Until the day, that is, when a fleet of tall ships under full sail ghosted up the Bay of Bewray and succeeded in gaining everyone's attention. Fifty ships with five hundred swarthy southerners in each, men with long dark hair and broad moustaches from ports such as Silsilesi, Kauma, Jardin and the pirate island of Corrigia. Sarista and Vertensia had thrown themselves behind the Jugom Ark: every seaworthy vessel they could call on now sailed the perilous winter seas for Instruere.

Geinor and his son rode down to the wharves to meet them. The admiral of the fleet, a small, effete man with a stammer, belied the image of a southern pirate so feared in Nemohaim, but his mind was sharp and his commission clear.

'We sail north tomorrow with as many Nemohaimians as we can raise,' the admiral stated in his lisping way. 'I would have expected the king himself to meet us. Are the men of Nemohaim so inured to the presence of southern ships that they care not we fill their harbour?'

Geinor explained the situation, and the admiral cursed loudly, sending the seagulls to flight.

'What sort of place is this?' he railed, then apologised when he saw that the aged courtier had taken offence.

'May I ask when you put to sea?' Graig asked him respectfully.

'The first ships left Morneshade, two days east of Kauma, nigh on a month ago. We've stopped at most ports on the way, gathering support for my king's quest.'

'A month ago?' Geinor responded quizzically, realising that his lessons had not been entirely wasted on his son. 'Then you cannot have set sail because of our emissaries.'

'Indeed not! And why would Nemohaim send emissaries to Sarista?'

Geinor's brow furrowed, then cleared. 'Not Nemohaim, but Instruere. I am one of the Arrow-bearer's men, sent south to raise an army to help oppose the Bhrudwan force we feel sure is coming west.'

Now the admiral wore a broad smile, and invited the men on board. There they ate and drank of the legendary Saristrian fare, and explained all about Leith Mahnumsen and the Jugom Ark; and how they had been written right into the heart of the story.

'My king heard about the coming invasion through his brave Arkhos, struck down by the evil now abroad in Instruere,' said the admiral. 'We come north to cleanse the Great City of that evil.'

'Then you travel north in vain,' said Graig stoutly. 'Leith has already cleansed the City with the Jugom Ark. But you can come north anyway, just in case, through some foul wizardry, the Bhrudwans passed through the Gap before the Falthan army arrived.' He supplied the admiral with the numbers he asked for: the date the army had most likely left Instruere, and the probable numbers it comprised.

'Your friend's army will be too late,' said the admiral shortly. 'We sent our own spies north many months ago, using a little-known path along the eastern edge of the Idehan Kahal, the Deep Desert as it is known in the north. Lately they have returned, and reported to the king of a large Bhrudwan force that was even then high up on the high plains of Birinjh, and would have made the Gap ere our spies returned home.'

'So they will be fighting now? Even as we speak?' Graig asked, his eyes sparkling.

'Aye, they will be fighting,' growled the small man, tugging at his moustache irritably. 'They will be fighting, and they will be dying like flies in winter. I would not expect more than a quarter of the victorious army to march back home. Think on it, lad: three chances out of four that you would be left lying unburied on some rocky field, a cast-off of an ill-conceived war.'

Graig was not sure he liked this man, but he and his father gathered as many countrymen as they could and accepted passage on one of the great southern galleons. The fleet passed northwards through dark, cold waters, landing once at Lindholm, the westernmost city of Deruys, to take on provisions. There they were joined by a few eager Deruvians who had been left behind by the main army. Somewhere north of Te One-tahua, an island at the northern extremity of the Pei-ra Archipelago, the fleet was hit by a huge winter gale from the Wodhaitic Sea, and the huge ships were scattered like seeds, driven towards the Deruvian coast near Derningen. One of the smaller ships foundered and sank before anyone could get near it, and two others were crippled to the extent that they were forced to make for the small harbour at Brunhaven. The normally carefully-composed admiral threw curses at the wind and the sea for a week, stopping only when the last of his seaworthy vessels was accounted for. Then, running before a flagging breeze, the southern army sailed east until finally the vast delta of the great river came into view, a brown stain on the pure blue sea.

The shocking news of the defeat of the vaunted Army of Faltha spread quickly across the wide plains of central Faltha, as bad news is wont to do. It was whispered that the Jugom Ark had been lost, and the favour of the Most High had been withdrawn, because the Arrow-bearer had refused a challenge from the Destroyer. This could scarcely be believed, but many people were prepared to take the risk to find out for themselves. Initially, farmers and town-dwellers lined the route as the captive army and their conquerors made their Way west from Vulture's Craw. Some of those who gathered decried their own soldiers, hurling abuse and sometimes stones at the ones whose failure had consigned them to Bhrudwan rule. These were the same people who had cheered them on their eastward journey, reflected many of the captives angrily. With typical inconstancy the Bhrudwans left this disrespectful behaviour unpunished, except on occasion when they would drag some white-faced peasant out from behind whatever hedge he had hidden, and give him or her the standard punishment. The hand would be left behind in the road, and the local populace would be forbidden to touch it.

At Ehrenmal, the largest Favonian city save the capital Sturrenkol, the Destroyer and his retinue were received by the King of Favony and his court, who begged to be allowed to accompany their new master westwards to Instruere. Their request was granted, they were told, but they would not be given the City. That gift was to be given to another. The king waited too long to offer his thanks for this favour granted him, and to him, also, was given the standard punishment. Or, at least, that was the rumour that made its way around the Falthan camp.

Leith and Phemanderac were not free to join the others, but were afraid to ask why. They were kept apart in a small tent and forced to eat, make their ablutions and sleep in the company of their two Maghdi Dasht captors. Sometimes they were allowed to speak to each other, and the long days and weeks of desolation were whiled away with small talk: of the trees that grew on the hills above Dona Mihst and what animals might be found in them, of the huntsmen of the Great North Woods, some of whom occasionally visited Loulea; of the singing in the Hall of Worship, where the Dhaurians gathered to worship the Most High, and of the rolling breakers that surged along the cold grey coasts of the North March. Things of value, things enjoyed without a thought for the future, things they might never experience again.

'Amasian was almost right, Leith,' Phemanderac said one afternoon as they drew close to Sivithar. The boy turned his head to stare blankly at the philosopher.

'Who?'

'Have you forgotten the prophecy on the ceiling of the Hall of Conal Greatheart?' He kept his voice low, knowing that the name of Conal might earn them a reprimand.

'Oh,' Leith responded, then turned his head away, clearly discomfited.

Phemanderac let the subject drop, but began again early the next morning. 'Sir Amasian saw truly, Leith. But his mind rebelled against what he saw. I have no doubt that in his vision he beheld the rainbow broken by the hand of the Destroyer. After all, the rainbow was the after-effect of the storm sung into being by the Maghdi Dasht. Amasian was unable to conceive of a prophecy of doom, so he turned defeat into victory by turning the two parts of the vision around.'

'He said something about the vision running backwards,' the youth acknowledged. 'But why was he granted a vision that predicted our defeat?'

'Perhaps it was a warning, or maybe we were supposed to accept it and not fight it.' The tall philosopher had no clear answers. So much of what had happened in the war against Bhrudwo was a mystery. For a long time they walked on, their grey shadows marching right behind them.

'My head is full of numbers,' Leith said suddenly, earning him a grunt from the powerful figure assigned to him. The youth repeated the words, this time in a much quieter voice, then added: 'Over seventy thousand Falthans dead. Thirty thousand Bhrudwans slain. One hundred thousand people gone, mostly good people, few who deserved to die. Perhaps three or four hundred thousand people who are grieving or who will grieve. Wiusago and Te Tuahangata slain. Jethart ambushed and tortured. Hundreds killed in Instruere as we fought over the city.

Wira killed! Stella gone! Hal dead! I have no more room in my mind! Thousands of feet walk through my head, their owners crying out for rest or revenge!

'Phemanderac, I have a question. To what extent am I responsible for the size of the numbers?

Would the numbers be much smaller if I had remained in Loulea?'

His friend looked with great pity on Leith's stricken face, and he shaped first one, then another answer in his mind. Rejecting them all, he gave the boy the truth, as far as he understood it.

'You are responsible for every one who died,' he said quietly, and winced at the youth's agonised indrawing of breath. 'But,' he added, 'the numbers would have been far greater had you remained in your village. Try to count the numbers you saved, not the numbers who died.

Promise me you will try!'

The boy nodded, wiping his nose on his sleeve as he cried. Phemanderac gazed with love on the youth who had been destroyed by his willingness to follow the Most High, and found that he had a hitherto unacknowledged anger buried deep in his heart.

It ought not to have turned out like this, he thought.

He had occasion to repeat this thought during the weeks of their journey of disgrace, the long defeat, as they were marched towards Instruere and the sealing of their servitude to the Undying Man. Again the crowds came, and this time the Bhrudwans let their derision go unchecked. Even worse were the towns where the local burghers encouraged the citi' zens to cheer the Bhrudwan army, or to throw spring blossoms in front of their cruel feet. Men shouted their praise, and women offered their bodies.

It ought not to be like this.

The random punishments continued, and one afternoon, not long after they had crossed to the north bank of the Aleinus at Sivithar, the whole army halted to watch three executions. There had been a minor revolt within the volatile losian camp, and two Fodhram and a Widuz were burned at the stake. The Destroyer himself set the fire, and it burned blue, licking their struggling limbs with a hungry flame. One of the men looked like Shabby, the man introduced to Phemanderac as one of the Company's four companions during the southern run a year ago; but Leith watched the burnings along with all the others and did not seem to recognise any of the luckless men. Or, if he did, he did not acknowledge it.

Things should not have turned out this way.

Phemanderac was forced to admit that the life had gone from his friend. Where there had been inquisitiveness, a quick understanding and a naive, wholesome love, there was now only a void, a blankness slowly filling with guilt and self-recrimination. So much had been ripped from him: his brother, his arrow, his pride. And perhaps the boy imagined that he had lost much more. It might be that he thought he was despised, blamed for the failure of the Jugom Ark and the fact that the Destroyer stood less than a week's march east of Instruere.

Perhaps everybody does blame him, the philosopher admitted. Perhaps he is responsible.

Perhaps he was at fault.

It was all so terribly unfair. How could it have come to this?

The Destroyer would have come to claim a city set against him, had it not been for my intervention, the Arkhos of Nemohaim reflected as he busied himself with the buttons on his red robe. Larger than ever, he had been forced to obtain a new robe from one of the markets.

That and the unexplained loss of his favourite chair irritated him, though in truth very little could upset him in these exciting days. The Undying Man had been agreeably surprised to find his old ally in charge of Instruere, and had agreed to the broad sweep of his plan for the City's defence against anyone looking to support the Falthans against Bhrudwo. It had been hinted that a great reward lay in store for him, and it was mentioned in passing that the Destroyer might leave a regent to rule in his stead.

Everything he had planned for. Deorc! The black voice inside him howled. Where are you now?

Correctly predicting that the callow, conservative southern kingdoms of Sarista, Tabul and Vertensia would offer their support to the Bearer of the Jugom Ark, the Arkhos of Nemohaim concentrated his defences on the place a few miles downstream where the great river divided into many navigable channels. Here he built two giant towers, from which arrows and rocks could be hurled at any ships foolish enough to brave the river. Just seaward of the towers he organised a blockade, hiring mercenaries and seamen skilled in ship-fighting, supplementing their numbers with those who had lost their source of income now that no trade came up the Aleinus.

And, as he had predicted, the allies of the Arrow-bearer had come. Where would the Destroyer's plans be if it hadn't been for me? First to attempt the blockade was a ragged collection of canoes bearing strange men from the outer islands, but they were beaten back.

More recently they had been joined by the tall ships of the south. 'I cannot destroy them, my lord,' the Arkhos reported through the blue fire. 'They are too many, and it would not be prudent to leave the walls of the City unmanned in order to grapple in earnest with them. But I can hold them where they are. Would this be in line with your will?'

Yes, the blue fire had replied. Hold them until 1 come, then together we will sweep them into the sea.

Together, the Arkhos remembered as he fastened the last button on his robe. He liked the sound of that.

The Hermit and the Presiding Elder waited nervously in the corridor, and both greeted him effusively when he finally emerged. 'Latest reports have them two hours' walk from Longbridge,' the thin-necked Presiding Elder informed him with all the officiousness of a secretary.

'Then we'd best make ourselves ready,' he snarled at them. 'I trust your followers are well presented and have been briefed on what is required?'

'Most certainly,' the Hermit replied. 'This day the Fire will finally fall on the city of iniquity, and all evil, all worldli-ness, will be purged away.' His words sounded reasonable, delivered in a level tone, but in his eyes madness burned. 'His chosen instrument will bring low the wise and elevate the humble. My prophetic vision will be confirmed when fire burns on the hand of the Servant of God!'

Something settled on the Arkhos as the words were spoken. He'd felt similarly uncomfortable on his last sojourn in Andratan, but he had expected magic there, and had not been disappointed. Just superstition, he told himself. This fool cannot know the secrets of the Wordweave.

'Yes, yes,' he said irritably, waving his hand to indicate that the others should follow him.

'We've heard it all before.' And soon we will have heard it for the last time.

The three men emerged from the Hall of Lore to the cheers of the gathered crowd. They think they come to see the triumphant return of their army, the Arkhos told himself, and suppressed a chuckle. They are in for a surprise.

Today was the day the great Army of Faltha returned to Instruere, the people had been told.

Eager to welcome their heroes home, citizens lined the Vitulian Way, dressed in their most colourful spring clothes. The rich rubbed shoulders with the poor; babies and their great-grandmothers, equally unaware of the day's importance but keyed up by the general excitement, had been carried outdoors to various vantage points. Bright banners were readied, and those without banners brought strips of cloth in yellow and orange to honour the Bearer of the Arrow.

It had been an almost impossible task to keep the citizens of Instruere ignorant of the true result of the war between Faltha and Bhrudwo, but it had been achieved through a combination of control of the bridges and judicious misinformation fed at intervals to certain key people in Instruere. Once or twice someone slipped through the net, but the Arkhos knew where assassins could be hired. A rumour that the Arrow-bearer had been slain took hold in the poor district, so the Arkhos of Nemohaim put his second plan into action, and paid people to exaggerate the rumour until even the most credulous of citizens scoffed at it. Within days the rumour had disappeared, and eventually everyone believed a great victory had been won 'out east'. Not without cost, they were told, and many of those in the crowd waited with nervousness and fear lest their loved ones did not walk through the Inna Gate with the other conquering heroes. Mid-morning came and went, and the muttering increased, just before noon a shout went up: someone had seen a cloud of dust from the wall, and for a while it was thought the army was here at last; but it was soon pointed out that the man who had seen the dust was stationed on the west wall, and so could not have seen them.

Noon passed, and still the restive crowd waited.

The troops promised to the defenders of the Aleinus Delta by the Arkhos of Nemohaim had not come, and their latest rider had returned from Instruere with yet another refusal. Instead the southerners had renewed their attack, driving through the blockade with their tall ships. They had still not found a way past the siege towers, but the remaining Instruian soldiers now knew they did not have long to live. Anger spread through the camp. Why should they lay down their lives in the service of one who refused to supply them with the arms and people they needed?

It did not take long for the Instruians to decide on surrender as their most prudent course. One by one they clambered down the long ladders and made their way along the reed-lined river bank, hands in the air, hoping for mercy. They halted by the blockade. A hundred fishing boats, half of which were now sunk, had been stretched across the only navigable river channel, so that the entrance to the Aleinus River could be held against the armies of the south. But now the boats were empty, the mercenaries hired to man them having been slain, taken captive or perhaps run off - the latter the most likely, the soldiers from the siege towers considered. There were no bodies visible, and little blood to be found on the boats or in the water.

No defenders, but neither were there attackers. No one remained to surrender to. The tall ships stood at anchor, and a number of small boats had been beached some distance downstream of the blockade. Had the southerners taken the risk of trying to find a way through the pathless swamps of the river delta? Or had they found a guide who, willing or unwilling, would lead them to dry ground and ultimately to Instruere?

'Well, boys, we could have stayed in our towers after all,' said the commander of the Arkhos's western force. 'It seems our southern friends have found another path to their goal. Any of you have kin in Instruere?' The majority of the Arkhos's recruits were from Mercium, but a very few men put up nervous hands. 'Then you take the horses and ride,' the hoary old veteran told them.