'That's something to be talked about later,' the Arrow-bearer answered calmly, unconsciously echoing the voice he had just spoken with. 'Is everyone safe?'

'We're not sure. Mahnum rounds them up even as we speak, but some have gone in pursuit of the Destroyer.'

'The Destroyer?' Leith had almost forgotten him. 'He will have found some way to use his magic to escape, surely?'

'We don't think so. We think the loss of his hand might have limited him. Most of his power was exercised through his hand. Remember?'

'If that is so, where is he?' Then he added, as his mind continued to clear: 'And where is Stella? Is she safe?'

'We have seen neither him nor her since the Arrow was loosed. We think she remains his hostage still.'

Mahnum put a hand on his son's shoulder. 'Something must be done about the enemies that remain,' he said, thinking things through as he spoke. 'The Destroyer appears to have allies in Instruere, and it would not surprise me to find him sheltering in their midst. However, you also have a City to speak to. The people of Instruere are no doubt frightened, and the sound of your words and the sight of the Jugom Ark will do much to comfort them. I do not know which you should do first, but if I was to advise you I would suggest that your prime responsibility is to speak to your people. Go to them, Leith, and leave the search for the Destroyer to others.'

Leith nodded, still half-dazed, but he recognised the wisdom of the counsel, even if it came from a father keen to keep alive the one son remaining to him. Already some of the commanders were running in pursuit of their enemies. As much as he wanted to find Stella, the Arrow burned in his hand. The Jugom Ark: the Arrow of Unity. Of responsibility.

His father leaned closer. 'And now I have a question for you, my son. I saw you talking to the Jugom Ark, and I swear I could almost hear it talk back to you. Would you tell me about it as we go? After the events we have just witnessed, I am prepared to believe anything, so make it as fanciful as you like.'

The southern Army had not expected to be opposed in their landing, so were taken by surprise by the blockade and the two siege towers. They had to endure another slow, frustrating week until the opposition could be assessed and worn down. Again the Saristrian admiral wore his discomfiture poorly, constantly cursing these ill-favoured lands for providing no true harbour.

His men were harassed by a flotilla of small boats, and had to be constantly on their guard against poorly equipped but fiercely determined raiding parties. Reluctantly - for these were Falthans who opposed him -he allowed the Corrigians among his crew to deal with this threat in their own ruthless manner. Raiding parties were much more reluctant to try to scale a ship's side when one of their fellows could be seen hanging over the side from a makeshift gibbet at deck level.

One of the ruffians was eventually caught, and under duress agreed to show them a way around the blockade. The admiral had been told that the swampland of the delta was impenetrable to anyone not familiar with it, but sent men anyway, none of whom had returned; so he was delighted at his good fortune. But first, at the cost of a precious extra day, he sent the man out with three of his best officers, just in case the whole thing was a carefully planned ambush.

Finally the route was mapped. The mercenary revealed the existence of a southern path which the admiral decided to take on trust. He divided his forces: nine-tenths of the men would cross the northern delta and make for Instruere and the Inna Gate through Deuverre, while a much smaller force of less than three thousand men would use the southern path and look to enter Instruere by the Struere Gate. The ships would be left to fend for themselves. This last was a grievous situation, but since there was no telling whether Instruere was already occupied by the Destroyer - and the presence of a blockade indicated this might be the case, and, further, that they were expected - the Saristrian admiral considered he had no choice.

By dawn the divided southern forces were well on their way across the swamps, north and south. Two days of stiff walking enabled Graig to regain his land-legs, and just before sunset on the second day he and the rest of the northern force could see Instruere's walls in the southern distance. And they could see something else: from a dozen places behind the wall rose plumes of black or grey smoke. The town had clearly been the site of a great battle.

The cautious admiral, the greatest tactician of his generation according to his king, sent out spies. And not just to Instruere: north and south he sent them, looking to find the trail left by the passing army, thus to estimate the force he might be contending with. Within half an hour one of his spies came sprinting back to camp with the surprising news that a large Bhrudwan force was camped less than a league east of them.

'I guess around fifty thousand souls,' the spy gasped out. 'We would have run into them had we continued on our course.' Graig sighed heavily: if that number were left outside the City, how many more might be hidden within?

'Possibly none at all,' the admiral replied with a frown, and the young Nemohaimian was mortified to realise that he must have spoken aloud. 'The reports my king received suggested no more than that number were in the original Bhrudwan army. So,' the man continued, counting off the possibilities on his carefully manicured fingers, 'the Bhrudwans might have done some forced recruiting.' He turned to his spy. 'Did you see any evidence of Falthans among the Bhrudwans?'

'Sir, there were a large number of men - perhaps two-fifths of the army - sitting on the ground without cover. I did not think to look more closely, but they could have been captives.'

The admiral went back to his fingers. 'Might the whole Falthan army have surrendered? That is another possibility, though unlikely in my opinion. More likely is that the Bhrudwans have yet to lay a proper siege to Instruere, and that the fires within are the result of some sort of incendiary missile used in an initial assault.'

He paced about for a moment, then stopped, legs wide apart as though he stood on the deck of a ship. First he addressed the spy. 'You will return to the Bhrudwan camp at dawn tomorrow, and this time make a full observation. I expect your report an hour after sunrise.' Then he turned to Graig and Geinor, who stood with the officers of the southern force. 'Meanwhile I will send some men to knock at the gate of this City. Let us see exactly what condition it is in, and who rules it, before we decide what to do. Graig, at first light I want you to take your father and ten thousand of my men. Go and make it a loud knock.'

It took even the Lords of Fear a few seconds to react when the Arrow of the Most High struck their lord. They all felt the enormous power of it lacerate their souls, and grovelled witless where they stood as the Jugom Ark burned beside their master's hand. The crushing power eased when the Falthan boy picked it up, but access to their inner powers still proved impossible. Fortunately, they possessed many other abilities in no way limited by the burning of an arrow, however magical.

Swords out, they summoned up all their hard-earned discipline and locked their pain behind walls of their iron wills, as taught them by the ancient practice of Mul. A signal from their leader sent all those who had recovered sprinting towards the rear of the hall, where their lord had sought temporary safety in a small annexe. By day's end they would undoubtedly be far fewer than thirteen thirteens, but such losses were acceptable if they could bring their master through the snares of the enemy.

They moved swiftly, with an unmatched grace, only to find the way to the annexe held against them.

'Nu Achtal ennach tupic!' their leader cried to the figure who barred their way. 'Nu Achtal tupic!' But the man did not move, instead slowly raising a sword he'd found somewhere and readying himself for combat.

This man was one of theirs. They had heard rumours. It was known that Deorc of Andratan was himself an adept. Though rejected for Dasht training, he found himself another path into the Undying Man's service, and had given four Maghdi orders to pursue a man westwards into Faltha. It was assumed these orders came from the Lord of Bhrudwo, but it transpired this was not so: Deorc wanted news of the Right Hand for his own purposes. It was believed the four men had met dishonourable deaths at the hands of mere peasants, failing to carry our the orders they had been given. Now it appeared that one of the men lived, and to his shame he would be forever branded ennach, an outcast no longer of the order. But, impossible as it seemed, the man had been turned, and now set his will against theirs.

He would not survive, of course. He was a mere acolyte, not yet one of the thirteen thirteens, and the sword was clearly not his own. Nevertheless, because the Maghdi Dasht seldom fought each other in earnest, there was keen interest in who would be given the chance to match with him. The chief of their order, a man from whom many had received their first scars in training, had killing rights. He unlimbered his own sword and beckoned the others to step back. His opponent would not be allowed to use the onlookers to cramp him.

The two men came together with a crash that sounded like an explosion. For Achtal the encounter was pure joy. He watched the chief of the Maghdi Dasht look in vain for fear in the eyes of his adversary. Left and right he pivoted, now blocking, now sending his weapon forward like a snake seeking its prey. He was at a disadvantage, he knew, as he did not want to move aside from the opening and allow his brothers to help their master.

Not my brothers, he told himself. Hal is my brother. He had heard Hal's voice when the burning dart landed on the signing table, and had not been surprised.

His opponent swung vigorously at his front foot. Instead of jerking back Achtal moved only fractionally, then followed the blade with his own, pinning it to the stone wall. It burst from its wielder's fingers and fell to the floor with a clatter. A deadly silence descended as the renegade Bhrudwan pressed his sword-tip against the throat of the Lord of Fear.

'Hal died but I still hear his voice. I die and I meet him again,' Achtal said to the head of his order. 'Who will you meet?'

In went the blade and with a great sigh the chief of the Maghdi Dasht fell.

Angered beyond reason, another black-cloaked warrior threw himself at this traitor to their brotherhood. After a period of furious fighting four bodies lay at Achtal's feet, but they all knew he had been fortunate in at least two matches. They could see that he was tiring, yet still approached him one at a time.

Farr grabbed the arm of Axehaft, the Warden of the Fodhram, drawing his attention to the fighting at the far end of the hall. 'The Destroyer has escaped into the Inner Chamber, by the look of it. Hal's pet Bhrudwan is besieged by the Maghdi Dasht. Have you ever wondered what it would be like to cross swords with them?'

'Ever since one of the Fear-Lords took Mulberry's hand for nothing more than sharing a joke, I have not wanted anything else,' the small man said grimly. 'But we have no weapons.'

'No; but I can see four Lords of Fear who won't be needing theirs. If we are very careful, we might be able to snatch them up before their fellows know we're there. Then Achtal would have a chance.'

'Four swords? Why don't we find two more sword-arms? I know just who to ask!' he cried, and hurried off towards the Iron Door.

A few moments later he returned with three other men. Two were Widuz, the third an enormous Fenni who was easily the biggest man Farr had ever seen, and who carried a pole he had found somewhere like it was a twig. Together the five of them crept towards the massed Maghdi Dasht, the lust of battle in their blood, uncaring of the outcome.

Her simple spun cloth dress turned red from the blood, but his twinned forearm grip was unrelenting. He stood close behind her, with her head wedged between his forearms, and the two stumps - one old, the other new - jutted out either side of her head. His touch burned her just as it always had, and she struggled in his grip.

'Stay still, wretch!' he hissed, and each breath he took seemed to her to be paining him as though he had a throat full of knives. He was drawing on her somehow, taking advantage of the link he had forged between them with his blood. He must have lost his magic! she realised, but once again she could do nothing to free herself. The old frustration washed over her: she had been within feet of them all, had so nearly freed herself from his compulsion in the moments after the blessed Arrow had struck him down - but why, why, why couldn't it have taken him in the chest! - only to be dragged by pure force down the hall, past frightened people who did nothing to help her, and into the Inner Chamber, where the Company had met the Council of Faltha.

He began drawing on her as soon as he wedged the door closed. Some sort of spell to prevent the door being opened, no doubt. Now he worked at the shuttered and barred window, trying to force it open. 'It is just a window!' he growled at one point, frustrated at his lack of power.

His sweat ran down the back of her neck. Again and again he bent his will, and hers, on the metal bars, until he stepped back with a gasp of satisfaction.

'Ah, Stella,' he said fondly, turning his ruined face towards hers. 'What would 1 do without you?' And with no warning he heaved her forward into the window, which collapsed outwards and downwards on to the sunlit lawn. She was unconscious before she hit the ground.

The crash echoed through the locked door. Achtal jerked slightly, and rather than sliding inside a ferocious blow from his sixth opponent, he caught it on his left shoulder. A roar went up from the gathered throats.

At that moment four figures rushed from right and left, dived at the dead warriors and claimed their swords. One of them, clipped by a blow from one of the Maghdi Dasht somewhat more alert than his fellows, crashed to the floor and did not move. The other three stood facing the assembled might of Bhrudwo's warrior cadre, and to Farr at least the idea of facing the Lords of Fear suddenly seemed less sensible than when he had first suggested it.

The warrior who had just dealt Achtal his first wound held up his hand, then cried something in their language. Instantly the entire group pivoted as one and sprinted away down the hall, knocking people over left and right as they went. Achtal slumped to the floor, absolutely spent, his broad hand pinching the shoulder wound closed.

Farr turned to his fellows. 'One of you see to this man. He is a hero.' He then instructed the big Fenni warrior to break down the door, which he did with little difficulty. 'Closing spell gone,' mumbled the Bhrudwan warrior. 'Lord of Bhrudwo gone also. Maghdi Dasht seek him.'

'Then they had better not find him,' Farr said, and dashed into the Inner Chamber. 'This way!' he called. 'He can't be far ahead!'

Leith wanted to find Stella with all his heart. Too many lost, his soul cried at him, ready to provide the numerical evidence. No more! However, the hand of duty rested heavily on his shoulders. Once again the Jugom Ark laid claim to him. He ran lightly over the ruins of the Iron Door, then negotiated the corridor and burst out into the open.

Thousands of confused and frightened people had gathered there. Many more would even now be seeking any way they could find out of the City. He could imagine the chaos down at the Docks and at Struere Gate. But these citizens stayed to find out what their City's fate would be. He had no great speech to offer them, drained as he was. Instead, he pushed into their midst and held the Jugom Ark above his head.

'Behold!' he cried, and the Arrow amplified his voice. 'The Destroyer is defeated! The surrender remains unsigned, and he binds us no longer!' His words brought a cheer, but not as great as he expected. Some of these may be the people who cheered the Destroyer, and others may be too stunned to receive the news.

'The Destroyer lives still, and is at large in the City,' he warned them. 'We will find him and drive him out! Return to your homes and do not venture put until morning. And another warning: if you are one of those who chose to cheer the arrival of our great enemy, consider your options. There will be no place in this City for you unless you change your allegiance.

Or do you think you can hide from the all-consuming Arrow?'

Unbidden, his mind flashed back to when last he had addressed an Instruian crowd. Then there had also been fear, but that fear had been held in check by optimism: the battle was to be fought so far away, and they believed in the Jugom Ark. Now the reality visited them all in its full terror, and numbness replaced hope. The great Falthan army was somehow lost, and they did not yet know what had happened to their soldiers. Apparently even the burning Arrow could not bring them much cheer.

Leith told them about the battles at the Gap and Vulture's Craw, finishing by explaining where the army was now held. Some of his hearers were encouraged by the news, but not many.

Most figured the odds, and realised the chances of seeing their loved ones again were less than even.

Gradually the crowd scattered, many heading to the northern walls to maybe catch a glimpse of the captive Falthan army. Leith turned to go back to the Hall of Meeting, and was startled to find the Falthan leaders standing behind him. Before he could open his mouth the questions came, ail variants on 'What are we to do now?'

'Too many things,' Leith said sharply. 'The Great Enemy is loose in Instruere, and may have already escapeda"'

'Is that not what we want him to do?' asked the Captain of the Instruian Guard.

'Not while he has Stella!' Leith said, and the Haufuth shouted his agreement. 'We must find him and make him give her up!'

Some of his allies knew nothing about whom they referred to. 'We must drive him out or, better, see him dead,' the Ice Queen of Sna Vaztha said with feeling. 'We gain nothing if he remains alive.'

The Arrow-bearer turned wearily to Kurr. 'Old friend, would you organise a group to track the Destroyer?'

To his surprise, the old farmer shook his head. 'Farr Storrsen has already left in pursuit of the Dark One, taking strength of arms with him. Farr will find him, if he can be found at all.

'I must speak with you, Leith,' Kurr said, with gentler speech than the boy had ever heard him use. 'Please. I have . . . not told you all the truth about myself. There are things that you must hear, so you will understand what has happened.' Leith looked at the old man more closely.

Grey and tired, the farmer looked his age and more for the first time Leith could remember.

'Yes, of course,' he replied. 'Just as soon as we find the Destroyera"'

'You are wasting your time if you think to corner and kill him,' Kurr continued, voice low enough that even those nearest to them could not hear clearly. 'You heard the voice; you heard him tell us that the Destroyer cannot be killed.'

'That doesn't mean we shouldn'ta"' Leith stopped and stared at the old farmer. 'How do you know? How did you hear the voice? Do you know who it is?' Leith's mouth remained open in surprise.

'It took me a while,' said the old man sadly. 'But yes, I know who it is. You see, in a way, I was his father.'

The Maghdi Dasht found their master staggering along an open sewer with his servant-girl slung over his shoulder, clearly near the end of his strength. It was an indication of just how thoroughly he had them in thrall that none of them thought to seize the moment and supplant him. Instead they emerged from the shadows on either side of the street and surrounded their lord.

A dozen of them knelt before him and offered their lives. Their master knew spells to sustain him, maybe even to break through the grip of the Truthspell that had rebounded on its caster, and perhaps set him free to reclaim all his old power. But the spells would require strength from somewhere. The Destroyer considered a moment, then nodded; and in the middle of a narrow Instruian street he drained dry three of his most loyal servants in an attempt to regain his strength, and left their bodies lying by the sewer.

He failed to break the Truthspell, as he had known he would - hadn't he himself woven it? - yet enough power was made available to spin an illusion of invisibility, which he cast over himself and his Lords of Fear. One of his warrior-servants reached out to take the burden from him, but he shook his head and held on to her legs, even though the effort clearly took a severe toll on him. 'No one touches her but me,' he spat. They backed away from him, in awe of his fierce pride.

'Take me to the nearest section of the wall,' he commanded. His Maaghdi Dasht began a slow walk down the street, heading eastwards. 'You can go faster than that!' he hissed at them, and they broke into a trot. Stumbling and bent, but not broken, the Lord of Bhrudwo struggled along with his men. Not broken.

Down street after street, keeping to the narrow alleys and avoiding open spaces. Hurrying to beat the onset of evening. Dragging himself across the last square before the wall. Too tired to sustain the Net of Vanishing. Up the stairway that led to the path along the top. Along the wall to where he could see the Aleinus River. 'Now, each of you put forth your power,' he told them. 'I hear the Arrow-bearer caused the river to run dry. We will do better. Then when we reach the far side, we can begin to plan our revenge!'

Farr and his companions clattered across the square. Their quarry were silhouetted against the darkening sky, clearly visible as they moved along the battlements. Amazingly, Achtal rejoined them as they ran across the City, bringing all the losian leaders with him. His wound was closed, though the jagged tear in his cloak remained. To Farr it seemed as though the Bhrudwan had emerged fresh from days of rest, rather than having just been involved in a series of duels with the most deadly warriors in the world. When Achtal saw his former master he cried out like a hound on the scent of a fox.

With a gesture the Vinkullen man divided his force in half, sending one group to the left to find a way up the wall behind the Maghdi Dasht, while he took the rest to the right, meaning to appear on the wall ahead of them. He could not tell if those on the wall had seen their approach: he assumed they had. There would be no surprise attack, and the inevitable confrontation would undoubtedly cost many of them their lives.

Up the stairs they pounded, and then along the wall. But where had the enemy gone? One black figure remained: as they watched, it leaped from the battlement out into space. Farr rushed to the nearest crenellation, to see the figure slow somehow in the air, then settle down on the grass as though he had simply stepped off a stair.

'Magic,' a voice behind him breathed.

'Yes,' said Achtal, dragging a limp body with him and dumping it in front of Farr. 'Magic costs them much.' Horribly fascinated, Farr stared at the corpse, which looked as though someone had sucked out its bones and innards, leaving little more than a skin. The eyes were blank, windows into emptiness.

Down by the river's edge the remaining Maghdi Dasht were doing something. Their eerie chant rose up to the ears of those watching impotently, unable to jump the many feet to the ground and knowing that the nearest gate was much too far away. And as they watched, the river began to solidify in a line stretching from where the Lords of Fear stood across to the far bank.

'They make a bridge of water,' Achtal commented, listening to the song. 'They freeze the water and will walk across on the ice.'

'How do they have the power, when their master is injured so badly?' Farr asked him.

'They are of water, so work it more easily,' came the reply. 'But look! They still die to feed the bridge.'

It took everything they had. One by one the Maghdi Dasht collapsed, falling into the river from the fragile bridge they had conjured. Less than a hundred remained when finally the Destroyer stood safely on the southern shore.

He turned then and raised both his arms, facing the city that had once again bested him. Fires glowed in the darkness, making the water shimmer at his feet. 'I curse you, City of Faltha!' he cried, pouring two thousand years of poison into the words. 'May your rulers never find peace, and may your people die unsatisfied!' Then the Lord of Bhrudwo, still with Stella on his shoulder, spun on his heel and set out, no doubt to try to find what was left of his army.

The Hermit of Bandits' Cave sat down on a box marked 'Dates/Sarista/17 Days' and took stock as he tried to regain his breath. The sound of pursuit had lessened out here in the Docks: people seemed to have taken refuge in their homes, and his pursuers were obviously content to have driven him and his followers away from the houses and tenements of Instruere.

Burn.' They will all burn! The word of knowledge must be. fulfilled!

'Oh, but it has, and you did not see it.'

No! The Hermit fell to the floor of the storage shed, clutching his head in his hands. No! Get out of my head!

'When was the first time you put aside my voice for your own, yet claimed it was me you heard? Why did you not heed my warning when I came to you in your cave?' The blue-robed body jerked across the dirty floor as the inner battle raged. When did you come?

'You would not accept my rebuke, and you will not accept it now. Thus you will be destroyed by that which might have saved you.'

You never came! Get out of my head! I never saw you! Don't leave me!

The Hermit rolled on the floor, trying to shake the voice from his mind. He crashed into a small table on which a trader's accounts were kept, knocking over the torch with which he had fired all those houses in the City . . .

He and his few remaining followers had run from the Destroyer's fall, snatching up burning brands and seeking places to set alight in fulfilment of their vision. Instruere must be cleansed; the corrupt rulers and evil-doers must be driven out. Somewhere on their flight from the Hall of Meeting a mob gathered, trying to stop them from their fanatical task. The Presiding Elder fell to them, unable to keep up, and was crushed under their feet. Across the City the Ecclesia had run, heading west towards the Docks, stopping whenever the pursuit dropped back to put their torches to another tenement. The shrieks of those trapped by their flames seemed to them the cries of the wicked, and the smoke and flames the evidence of judgment.

One by one his followers had been taken by the howling mob, until he was the only one left.

Through the unguarded Dock Gate he had run with a torch in each hand, barely twenty paces ahead of his chasers. Ahead was a maze of small buildings and narrow, dead-end alleys; but he could not stop to consider his path. Could not stop . . . my path had long ago been set before me. He laughed raggedly, then turned and pitched one of the torches into the following crowd, dragging more shrieks from the throats of the unclean, seeing once again the bright, clean flame blossom like a spring flower in freshly ploughed ground . . .

For a moment he came to himself. The wicked voice had left him weak and shaking: he pressed his eyes tightly shut until the words it had spoken faded from his mind. Eventually he rolled over on to his side and manoeuvred himself into a sitting position, then opened his eyes. Immediately he shaded them against the flickering light that seemed to surround him.

I was faithful! he raged. I spoke only the words I heard! Hundreds came to hear me speak the words of the Most High. But few would heed my warnings, and so their punishment is just! 1 am the Anointed One! The Fire falls at my command!

Behind him came the crash of timbers as the small shed began to collapse, consumed by the flames from the Hermit's torch. His eyes came wide open, and he realised the peril he was in.

His robe caught fire, and flames dripped down on him from the thatched roof above .. .