The feet moved slowly forward: they came to within two paces of where Leith lay trying to pant out his hurt without making a sound.

He cannot see me. Why? Is he blind? Are the shadows too deep? But the edges of Leith's cloak gave a faint silver gleam. Why can't he see me?

Gradually the youth edged his body away from the black figure, crawling spider-like on hands and feet, his back just off the ground. Fast enough to avoid the feet still moving forward, slow enough not to make noise.

'Why can I not sense you?' the man said in the sort of snarl that Leith associated with the Maghdi Dasht. But this man- sounded too frightened to be a Lord of Fear. 'What manner of man are you? Where have you gone?' He turned to face Leith again, but seemed not to know he was there. Pale moonlight illuminated his cruel features, now distorted by panic. What had happened to make them so frightened? As he watched, the features composed themselves and the figure stepped back to where he had been standing.

He thinks he imagined hearing me, Leith realised.

An hour passed before Leith was able to fully compose himself. The tent peg had drawn blood, leaving a bruise just under his ribs. He was dizzy with relief that he had escaped, but his head filled with questions, confusing him. Finally he felt ready to examine the tent, and this time he watched carefully for any other guards.

It was without doubt the tent of the Destroyer. He remembered it clearly from the surrender at Vulture's Craw: the silver-on-sable device, the silk sides, the elaborate flaps now closed. He circled around it. One source of the Fire - by far the greater - he found in the main part of the tent, with the smaller source in a small annexe. Clearly Stella was housed in the annexe, but he would have to pass by the Destroyer to rescue her.

The probability he would be caught became a certainty in his mind. The Undying Man would know what he had in his possession, would squeeze what knowledge he had out of his head, would harm him like he had harmed Stella. He had watched her try to climb the stairs . .. Nearly his heart failed him, and nearly he turned and made his way quietly out of the camp. But she climbed the stairs in his mind still, and he could not leave her here if there was even the smallest chance she could be rescued.

Breathing shallowly - to reduce noise, Leith told himself, and not because he was afraid - he approached the door of the tent. The black figure stood not ten paces away, looking down the grassy path that led into the centre of the Bhrudwan encampment. He can't see me, he can't see me, Leith repeated under his breath, trying to make it true. Cautiously he opened the flap and slipped through.

Farr delivered the news of Leith's folly to his parents as soon as they returned to Instruere.

Mahnum simply closed his eyes and sighed once, but his face seemed to close up as though he had reached some kind of limit and wanted to receive no more bad news. Indrett staggered, dropping to one knee, and her eyes filled with tears. 'Why?' she sobbed. 'Why would he do such a thing?'

The Haufuth told them what he thought Leith was doing. Kurr nodded his head in agreement, but Indrett stepped right up to the old farmer as though she wanted to strike him. 'No!' she declared. 'He has accepted his responsibility as the Arrow-bearer. He would not leave us here so lightly!'

Axehaft held out the Jugom Ark, which burned brightly. 'He is alive still. Look! If he were to die, the flame would die with him.'

Phemanderac had said nothing, but his pallor had changed to grey. 'Right, you are right,' he said quickly, trying to persuade himself. 'The Jugom Ark is linked to him. We will know if he is killed or captured by the nature of the flame.'

'But what can we do?' Indrett cried, her anguish undisguised. 'We could - we could take the Southern army and break him free!'

'No, we could not.' The Saristrian admiral was firm. 'The risk of defeat is too great if we act without careful planning. We could end up leaving Instruere, and therefore all of Faltha, exposed to the Destroyer. Are you suggesting that we gamble thousands of lives to save one?'

'Yes!' Beside herself with grief, Indrett ground out her reply. 'Yes! He gambled his life to save ours!' But those gathered around her bowed their heads, and she knew no attempt would be made to rescue her son.

'Curse the day you were ever found!' she screamed, then snatched the Arrow from the hand of the startled Fodhram leader and slammed it point-first into the table. There it stood, quivering slightly, flame burning as brightly as ever. A dozen faces turned to Leith's mother, whose own face registered the enormity of what she had done. Then all eyes went to her hand, which she held out, palm up, to reveal no burn.

'Oh,' she said softly.

The thin Dhaurian philosopher put a hand to his forehead as he finally realised how much he had not known. Kurr nodded, his own suspicions confirmed. The others wore masks of disbelief and incredulity.

'I can feel him,' Indrett whispered. 'He is out there, somewhere to the north, and he is frightened, but he is still alive. I can feel it!'

Slowly the small group found their seats and leaned forward, all drawn to the Jugom Ark. The flame continued to flicker unconcernedly in their midst as the night drew close around them.

Only the faintest of light penetrated the tent walls, but it was enough to give shape to a low pallet perhaps three paces from where he stood. A blanketed form twitched and turned on the pallet, asleep but perhaps precariously so. Knowing that any careless movement would waken the Undying Man, Leith began to edge to his left, making for the small annexe where Stella would be found. Step, listen; step, listen ...

Without warning a huge white shape reared up in front of him, arms wide and grappling, mouth wide open in a soundless cry. Before he could react, Leith found himself crushed in an unbreakable grip which took the wind out of his chest: he could not scream, he could not breathe. He tried to summon up thoughts of Fire, but no clear image could penetrate the haze of panic that built up inside him. The arms lifted him off the floor and over to the pallet, and even in his extremity Leith could feel the enormous power of the man lying there.

His captor loosened one arm, and Leith was able to take a shallow breath, but even with only one arm he was securely held. The other arm reached out to the head of the pallet, twitched aside a blanket, touched the exposed cheek of the sleeping one with a gentle, almost reverential caress .. . and placed a finger on the lips. The figure groaned, the head turned, the eyes came open, then widened until they seemed to fill the beautiful, ravaged face.

'Leith,' said Stella sleepily. 'How did you break into my dream?'

The captor placed a chubby finger firmly on Leith's lips, and withdrew his other arm. Even had the warning not been given, however, the boy from Loulea could not have spoken, such was his shock.

'Leith?' came the soft voice, full of wonder. 'You are here. Really here! Are you his prisoner too?'

'No, Stella. At least, I don't think so.' He turned to the big man who now stood beside him, one hand on Leith's shoulder, one hand on Stella's. The round head shook back and forth. 'No, I am not a prisoner. I have come to rescue you.' But with such Fire inside you, why should you need rescuing? Why have you not already escaped?

Stella sat up on her pallet. Leith could clearly see the deep scars on her face and neck, and his anger began to burn. He reached out for her, took her arm and began to draw her to her feet.

'Come on,' he said, his eyes brimming. 'Let's go home.'

'No!' she said, and he let her arm go in surprise, though he could still feel her coolness on his palm. 'No. I will not leave while my friend remains.' She indicated the huge man beside him, who looked on them both with his sad brown eyes.

'Then we will take him with us!' Leith said, reaching for her again. Maybe they could make it even with this man with them.

'No!' she said again. 'He is tied to this place and cannot leave it. He is bound to the Destroyer, and would die if he passed beyond the boundary of the camp. I can't leave him alone.'

'Stella, oh Stella,' said Leith desperately, unbelieving. 'Not even for me? Not for your friends who wait in Instruere? I cannot bear it! To have come so close - and you would send me away?'

'I want to come with you more than anything in my life,' she said simply, and he knew it for the truth. 'But I cannot abandon my friend now. If the Destroyer should awake to find me gone, he would punish him in ways you cannot begin to imagine. I can't, I can't let that happen. He's already lost his tongue for me.' And for an instant her eyes darkened, and in them Leith read a bleakness beyond anything he had ever known. 'Leith, go back to your friends. 1 saw their faces in the Hall of Meeting, I know how much they love you. No one will miss me, but your death would be too much for them to take. Please, Leith.' She reached up with her crippled hand and touched his cheek, tracing the path of his tears. 'I love you. Take my love back with you. My life will be more bearable knowing that you live.'

'Oh no, Stella, please . . .' Leith sobbed, but nothing he said could move her. 'You don't love me,' he said through his tears, but he knew the accusation was false even as he said it. She had decided what she must do, and Leith himself was aware of what it was like to carry guilt for the suffering and death of others. Would he not return to Vulture's Craw if it meant he could rescue some of those who had died in the snows? Was his guilt not the very reason he had taken this mad risk?

The next words he said were the most difficult he had ever made himself speak.

'I love you, Stella; I love you so much more now than ever I did. I want to drag you away from here, but I know that I would destroy whatever might grow between us. I will return to Instruere and tell all who love you of your courage and your beauty.' His voice was fierce.

She smiled weakly. 'Beauty? Leith, I have been marred by my own foolishness and the evil of my possessor. I am no longer beautiful, if ever I was.'

'You are beautiful, and you are powerful. I can feel the Fire burning within you. Harness it, Stella. Perhaps you might be able to challenge the evil that holds you here.'

Her face changed suddenly, and it became suffused with panic. 'Go, Leith! He wakes! Go now!' And Leith heard a stirring from the annexe.

He jerked back in fear, but forced himself back to the small form on the pallet; then bent down and kissed her on the cheek. His tears fell on to her ravaged skin. 'Goodbye, Stella,' he whispered. 'Goodbye.'

She touched her lips to his, then pushed him away with her good arm. 'Go!'

Heartsick and unheeding, the youth from Loulea slipped through the opening and out into the night. He could see nothing in front of him but her face, and did not step aside to avoid the dark figure standing guard. Instead he struck at it with all his might, his arm guided by fate or desperation, and knocked the Lord of Fear senseless to the ground.

A roar came from behind him, from somewhere in the tent, and the sound spurred him on into a dead run. Down the path he ran, careless of those who might be abroad, not looking back to see whether he was pursued, running from the roar but running also from the face and the whispered words and the cool lips and the glistening tears.

The perimeter guards heard him coming, but could see nothing. Expecting any attack to come from outside the camp, they were slow to react, and their pikes came around too late. The pounding of feet, the sound of laboured breathing, a gust of wind and he was gone.

Indrett looked up at those who sat around her. The Arrow had dimmed for a time, and all hope had failed, but now it blazed brightly. 'He is coming home,' she said, and smiled.

CHAPTER 20.

CEREMONY.

IT WAS MIDWINTER'S DAY, and all over the frozen North people gathered to celebrate the shortest day and the promise of spring to come. Here in Instruere the mild weather continued, though a light rain marred the perfection of the day. Those fortunate enough to be attending the day's big event held brightly-coloured parasols above their heads as they streamed down the Vitulian Way and across the close-cut lawns towards the Hall of Meeting. Inside the hall Leith Mahnumsen, Lord of Instruere, fiddled nervously with the silver buckles on his boots as he sat and waited for the ceremony to begin.

Nine months had passed since the surrender of the Bhrudwan army, nine long months in which the city of Instruere had been reborn. Fire-damaged tenements were torn down and rebuilt, funded by the little gold remaining in the City's coffers and a great deal of borrowing, and all the damage done by the Ecclesia in pursuit of their wayward vision was put right. Lest the City come to think of the Ecclesians only as misguided fanatics, Leith caused the lawn before the door to the Hall of Lore to be dug up and planted with seedlings from the northern forests in remembrance of the many people betrayed by Tanghin-Deorc and cut down by his guardsmen. Craftsmen from the capital city of Straux were summoned to Instruere to rebuild the Struere Gate, which was renamed Mercium Gate in honour of the rebuilders. Thus were the suspicions and resentments of the King of Straux at least partly assuaged. The one truly unpleasant task had been the dismantling of The Pinion, with the attendant draining and filling of the dungeon below. Leith seriously considered erecting a memorial to those drowned there, with the names of those unlucky enough to have found themselves dismantling it also listed, but decided that there were some things the City did not want to be reminded of.

Today the Hall of Meeting was filled with the citizens of Instruere. Leith had worked hard to ensure that not only the business leaders and the wealthy found seats: a whole section of the hall was reserved for those who came from the poorer areas of the City, including the poverty-stricken Granary district, still struggling to recover from the sabotage of the Escaignians.

There they sat, eyes bright, some of them having waited in a long queue since the previous evening, under cover in the Hall of Appellants but nonetheless cold. Against the advice of their officials, who worried about the propriety of such things, Leith and the Company had brought soup to those who waited early in the morning.

Leith himself sat on a low chair positioned at the base of a marble stair, newly-made for the ceremony. At the top of the stair was another chair, far more decorative. A throne of gold leaf and red velvet, impossibly elaborate, which the people of the City had made for him. Behind the stair lay the Inner Chamber, now unused; indeed, it had been decided to wall it off, the better to encourage people to forget the old Council of Faltha.

There had been other changes made in the Hall of Meeting. The Iron Door had been cut up for scrap, its wondrous engineering now forgotten, the great expanse of steel propping up some of the damaged warehouses in the Granary district. In its place stood magnificent wooden doors, carved by men from the Mist with a variety of fantastic motifs: it served as a memorial to their brave warriors. The signing table, on which the Destroyer's severed hand had lain, was now repositioned directly under the huge carvings on the west wall.

The carvings themselves had been left untouched. Leith allowed a scaffold to be erected so that men of lore could study them. Phemanderac had not long returned from Dhauria, where he had gone to bring back with him the best scholars of his land. Two men and three women had come, and strange and secretive they were, shocked by much around them; but none of the loremasters could explain the face on the carving of the Most High, the face that looked so much like Hal, nor could they offer an explanation for the absence of the Jugom Ark from the wall carving. The scaffolding had been taken down the previous day, and now the carvings looked down on the gathering with the same patience they always had.

An expectant hush fell. Leith stopped his absent-minded fiddling and looked up to the musicians' balcony. A herald flung open a window, and a single trumpeter stepped forth, then set his instrument to his lips and blew a sweet fanfare, a call to celebration that lifted the heart. Perhaps twenty seconds only did it last, with the final note ringing in the ears and then fading, to be replaced by a timpanist quietly repeating the rhythm set by the trumpet. Again the instrument played for a few seconds, with the following silence filled by the swelling of strings.

'The first part of the piece is a celebration,' Phemanderac had told him proudly. The musicians had been practising the philosopher's piece for weeks, and the addition of five skilled Dhaurians had given the music an added life. The strings settled into a sedate melody, a calm assertion of the continuation of Faltha no matter what was brought to bear against it.

Leith was borne away on the wings of the music. Yes, he was prepared to concede, they had been victorious. A few days after he returned from his unsuccessful attempt to rescue Stella, the Bhrudwan army suddenly, inexplicably, surrendered. When questioned by the surprised Falthan captains, the Bhrudwan officers spoke of unrest and insubordination in the ranks, of no orders from their superiors, of the absence of the Undying Man and his Maghdi Dasht. The entire encampment was searched, but no sign of the Destroyer or his retinue could be found, and no one would admit to having seen them leave the camp. Though someone must have been concealing the knowledge that might have enabled Leith to track his enemy, no amount of questioning could uncover any information. Despite this, the surrender was counted by most as a great victory, and the end of the war with Bhrudwo.

Now the strings echoed the theme first announced by the trumpeter. Stella had not been found, of course, and Leith could not conceive of calling such loss a victory. Nevertheless, the numbers had begun to fade from his mind in a way he knew they would not have, had he forced her to accompany him back to Instruere. If he had been able to. Where was she now?

What indignities did she suffer? What new kinds of courage would she author as she tried to survive? The great Hall filled with the soaring sound of Phemanderac's composition, and the strings again recapitulated the main theme, this time accompanied by the original trumpeter. Who could not fail to be moved by such music?

Sixteen richly-dressed figures marched down the double-width aisle towards the stairs by which Leith sat. Each of the figures wore a crown. Fifteen men and one woman, four of them newly sworn to Faltha after renouncing their alliegance to Bhrudwo, a further five only a few months into their reign, replacing monarchs who chose death rather than repentance. The King of Favony had hanged himself, leaving a letter detailing his delight at the effects of his treachery, expressing regret that any of the Falthans survived the snows of Vulture's Craw.

The letter horrified the Captains of Faltha, but strangely it had lightened Leith's heart to know that yet another shared the blame. The sixteen figures maintained a stately walk, and Instruians both noble and common marvelled at the power and dignity that descended upon them, come to pay homage to their new leader.

Leith took his eyes off the sixteen kings and instead surveyed the first row of seats. Sitting there were the people now collectively known as the Captains of Faltha: the surviving members of the Company, the leaders of the losian Army of the North, the admiral of the Southern army and other leaders of the Falthan army.

Near the aisle sat his parents. His mother's eyes were clear in a way they had not been since the death of her elder son, but even as Leith looked on her, he saw her glance up to her right, to where Hal watched over them all.

Modahl had taken the seat next to his son, whose bitter anger at his abandonment by the famous Trader had moderated. They seemed at least to be talking, and Mahnum had willingly acted as his father's second at the grizzled old man's recent wedding to the Ice Queen of Sna Vaztha. Indeed, Mahnum seemed proud that he would have kings for both father and son.

The music gentled, the strings softened, the trumpeters took their seats and were replaced by flutes and recorders, supported by the plucked strings of Phemanderac's new harp, of Dhaurian make.

Leith gazed at the people he loved. Farr would leave in the morning, accompanying the remaining commanders of the losian Army of the North on their homeward journey. He had stated his intention to visit Mjolkbridge to report the death of his brother and how he was avenged, but then he would return to Vindstrop House to take over the trading post recently left empty by the death of its proprietor. Maendraga and his daughter Belladonna had made their home in Old Struere, in the heart of the poor district, having taken lodgings with Foilzie who had used the money given her by her Escaignian friend to purchase one of the rebuilt tenements. Bella had made clear her affection for Phemanderac, and struggled to accept the friendship that was the best the Dhaurian could offer. Nevertheless, her laughter could often be heard echoing along the corridors of the Hall of Lore, overlaying his mock exasperation at her antics as they rummaged through the archives of Instruere. As the harp rang clear through the hall, her face lifted towards the musicians' balcony, her rapt intensity a clear message of the feelings beneath. And beside her Perdu sat with his family, his girls giggling at some joke, or perhaps at the bright clothing worn by the monarchs who now stood unmoving at the base of the stairs, clothing so unlike the plain but serviceable garments of the Fenni. They were to return to the vidda, and Leith would be sorry to see them leave.

The sixteen sovereigns turned and faced the gathered crowd, and the music mellowed, transmuting to a sedate waltz. As if conjured by magic, thirty-two costumed dancers sprang down the aisle on light feet, dresses and capes swirling as the music settled, then began to build. The celebration was drawing to a climax.

Leith had listened to Phemandefac's piece many times, had even offered untutored suggestions during its composition. But he had never heard it like it was being played today.

The dancers were being drawn up into the music as the notes ran together and climbed the scale, suddenly and unexpectedly to repeat the main theme in a glorious acclamation, this time with ten trumpets swelling the call to celebrate. Recognising his cue, he stood and ascended the stair as the music itself ascended, and took his seat on the great throne of Faltha as the trumpet-call rang out. He could no more keep the tears from his eyes than he could prevent the chills of awe from running down his spine. The orchestra came down from the heights, bringing their heavenly theme back to earth as they signalled the end of celebration and the beginning of Phemanderac's lament.

The King-designate of Faltha looked out over his subjects from the vantage point of his throne. Beyond the Captains of Faltha he could see a number of Pei-ratin, and recalled their story, perhaps the strangest of all. Forgotten by the Arrow-bearer, they had come still to offer their services in the hope that the kai-nan would be honoured, but had been held up by the blockade instituted by the Arkhos of Nemohaim. Finally they had broken through, and after resting for a day they had paddled up the Aleinus River until, some time after nightfall, they literally collided with a small flotilla of rowboats manned by the Lords of Fear, shepherding the Destroyer back to his army. The fighting had been short but vicious, and both sides had taken many casualties. In their magic-weakened state, and with a disabled master to protect, the Maghdi Dasht suffered their worst ever defeat, losing more than eighty warriors to the river-craftiness of their foe. A small graveyard had been laid out on the northern bank, and it was visited by the Pei-ratin when they returned from burying the names of their friends. The treaty had been concluded with the long-delayed meal, and Leith hoped that soon Astraea would be inhabited once again - though if the rain that had fallen when he had passed through it was the norm, his visits might be infrequent.

Near the Pei-ratin sat a lissom, brown-skinned woman and her father, chief and princess of the Mist, both in mourning dress. The bodies of Te Tuahangata and Prince Wiusago had been found side by side on the fields of Vulture's Craw, surrounded by the many husks of their enemies. The stern face of the chief had not been softened by news of his son's heroism, and he had refused to talk to anyone until the proper rites of passage had been performed. Leith still held hope that the conflict between Deruys and the Mist might be resolved, but any such resolution had been dealt a severe blow by the deaths of the two young men. Leith's heart ached whenever he thought of them. He missed their arguing and their passion, two men trying to make sense of the complex grievances handed them by their fathers. For such things as these the Destroyer should be required to pay.

Now the Lament of Phemanderac took hold of all those gathered in the hall. The strings slowed, and their melody settled into a haunting melancholy. Leith took the time to remember those who had given their lives in his quest. Wira, Parlevaag, the unnamed Escaignian, Sjenda of Deruys, Jethart, Shabby the Fodhram - and Hal.

One further name he would not add to the sombre list. He would not. She had not died. He would mourn for the others, but not for her.

Other names rose to the surface of his mind. The blue-robed Hermit had died a madman, but for a time had served the Company well. His Ecclesia was disbanded, and all but a few of the fire-raisers dealt with according to the City's justice: less harsh than that dealt out by the chasing mob on the night Instruere burned, but still firm. Disturbingly, Leith had heard rumours in the last few weeks of small cadres of worshippers reviving the Ecclesian fanaticism, this time under the name of Hal Mahnumsen. Something would have to be done about them.

The Presiding Elder of Escaigne had met with the fate his actions deserved, crushed under the feet of the citizens he despised. Leith felt no pity for him, but had expended much effort to integrate the surviving Escaignians into Instruian society. True-hearted Foilzie and her bald-headed friend from Escaigne devoted themselves to this cause.

No one spared a thought for their erstwhile ally, the Arkhos of Nemohaim, who even after his death continued to haunt those trying to repair the damage he had done to the great City. The Instruian Guard was subjected to intense scrutiny, and a number of recalcitrants exiled. Two men who were demonstrably involved in the killing of unarmed Ecclesians were hanged, and others accepted back into the Guard on probation. The Captain of the Instruian Guard reported some remaining animosity against what was seen as the usurping of the old Council of Faltha, and indicated he still had some work to do.

The threnody continued, a minor-key echo of the celebration, reminding those gathered there that victory and loss were inextricably entwined. Such a bittersweet moment it was, the loss of friends like the loss of limbs, but knowing that at least some remained alive to feel the loss. Joy and sorrow wounded and healed them all at once, as the music enfolded them like the consoling arms of a friend.

The strings and the trumpets united in a final extended fanfare, and the Raving King of Deruys stepped forward, mounting the marble stairs with a golden crown in his hands. Silent for once, and with tears streaking both cheeks, he stood beside the throne and waited for the final consummation of lament and celebration when, as agreed by the Sixteen Kingdoms, he would crown Leith the first King of Faltha.

The notes rang out, the Raving King lowered the crown - and just before the glittering assemblage of gold and jewels settled on Leith's head a shaft of light appeared in the middle of the aisle below, catching his eye. The light came from the place where the double wooden doors had just been opened; where, as the music reached its final crescendo, a small figure limped into the vast hall, a walking-stick in one hand.

'Two rotting salmon and five stale loaves, of bread,' said the grass-stained man nervously in the tongue of Andratan. 'The villagers would not part with more. It has been a hard summer, my lord, and the harvest will be poor.'

The ravaged face looked up from the filthy cot. 'Feed me,' said the mouth.

The voice could not be disobeyed. The servant ripped a hunk of bread from the end of a loaf, placed it in his own mouth and chewed vigorously, then spat it out and fed it to the hideous man. At least water was in plentiful supply. It was a wet autumn, certainly by Bhrudwan standards, and they continued to drink their fill at the nearest stream even after Lord Uchtana had died from the gripes. Water followed bread, nervous fingers holding the cup for the one who could not, and eventually the tortured face signalled satisfaction and sank back into its torpor.

Five months of continual hiding, of begging for bread, of rejection by the people he aspired to conquer, had turned the Lord of Bhrudwo into a spitting, whining animal. These days he had little to say that could be considered intelligible. The loss of a large part of his former power had robbed him of the personable facade he had formerly employed when it suited him: his anger was capricious and spiteful, and his attendants kept him hidden whenever they were forced to have dealings with the locals of whatever land they were currently passing through.

Although the Destroyer had folded in on himself, noticing little beyond his limited reach, his retinue remained faithful. Such as they were. Seven Lords of Fear and four servants - including the tongueless eunuch - accompanied Stella and the Undying Man on their agonising journey eastwards through the heart of Faltha.

For the first few weeks of his journey the Lord of Bhrudwo seemed largely unchanged, outwardly at least, apart from his handless arms, of course. His power had diminished somewhat, they were all aware of that, but his continued command of magic was attested to by the compulsion that sat heavily on their shoulders. This compulsion roused them from their beds late on the night after everything went wrong in Instruere, had closed their mouths but made it clear what was expected of them, had cloaked them in invisibility and enabled them to flee from the safety of their own camp. None of his servants, save the Falthan girl, who would not say, understood why their master had suddenly abandoned their camp, and the two who had asked had paid for their temerity with their lives.

For many days they hustled north-eastwards across the wheatfields of Deuverre, stealing and coercing food from those around them, leaving a trail of misery and death in their wake. Then their lord faltered, and only Stella guessed he had drained dry his reservoir of magical power.

His face grew older and more haggard by the hour, just as it had done when almost overmatched by Hal in the single combat; in the course of one afternoon he became a walking cadaver, parchment-thin skin stretched over ancient bones, but pulling away from his pain-encircled eyes.

He could not spare any energy to maintain his bodily illusion, but he still exercised enough power to hold his servants in thrall. For a wild moment Stella had thought her chance had come, that his vigilance might fail and that she and the eunuch might escape, but the tie between herself and the dreadful figure remained intact, though she could feel the strain. Or, more correctly, she could feel the link between them draining her strength, as though he drank from the well of her spirit.

They struggled eastwards for four more months. At Barathea they crossed the deep blue Branca, of all Falthan rivers the largest save the Aleinus, then struck out across the pathless plains for the town of Bis, which liked to claim it was part of none of the Sixteen Kingdoms, but in fact lay on the border of Asgowan and Favony. That they eventually made it to Bis with the loss of only two Lords of Fear and one servant was due more to good fortune than to their own survival skills. Food was scarce out on the pampas, where trees would not grow and the ferocious west wind would come sweeping down from the Remparer Mountains a hundred leagues to the east. The Bhrudwans lived on horse-meat and wild vegetable roots from Barathea all the way to Ehrenmal, where they finally found a family who took pity on them. After disposing of their bodies in the Aleinus, they crossed the great river by boat and made their way east on the southern shore.

And now they huddled, hungry and drained, in their one remaining tent and gazed eastward at the towering Aleinus Gates. Wreathed in stormclouds, the huge cliffs seemed to lean towards them like a warning carved in rock. Below the cliffs stood something equally forbidding: a contingent of armoured men in Instruian livery. Naturally they would be here, thought Stella.

Let the Destroyer find his way across the vast plains of central Faltha, waste no time looking for him there, but wait at the entrance to Vulture's Craw, where all eastward travellers were bound to come eventually.

'Go . .. and count them,' the Undying Man rasped, saliva running down his chin. 'Find a way .

. . past them.' His Lords of Fear bowed, then left the tent.