The Council was not yet restored to completeness after the purging of the loyalist group.

Replacements for Sna Vaztha and Redana'a were yet to arrive, having the furthest to travel.

The rest were firmly in his pocket, including the new Arkhos of Deruys, which had been a surprise: all the information he had suggested the Raving King would not send anyone corruptible. Yet this man suggested new strategies to the traitorous Council's advantage.

Deorc had taken him to the cells below The Pinion, seeking to test him, but the fellow had not been squeamish. Another one in the eye for the supposed purity of Faltha!

Talented or not, useful or not, this Council would be swept aside when the Master of All took Instruere for his own, as he would before the year was out. They would surrender the City to him, then find themselves bearing the punishment on behalf of the people for being Falthan.

Deorc already had the perfect place picked out, and would ensure the executions were public and prolonged.

They had barely resumed their seats when the first question came, from the mouth of Haurn the Craven. This was odd: he seldom spoke in front of his betters. He was barely tolerated here and he knew it. 'Forgive me,' he said quietly, 'but why did we not send the main force of the Guard against Escaigne? We have guards enough to put down Escaigne and to put out the fires. Why did we miss the chance to destroy them while they were out of their holes?'

The question gave Deorc pause. The identity of the one asking it, the content of the question, and that anyone would question him after the Wordweave he'd applied, all these things worried him. He was still weak, he realised. The magic he'd been forced to use last night, including the forbidding spell, had depleted his abilities more than he guessed. In his weakness he had broken one of his master's commands, though not badly. He'd found the wretch Stella with a smile on her face when he'd gone to retrieve her, and so nearly lost control. His level of attachment to the girl frightened him. Despite having ordered her taken down to The Pinion, her face still haunted him.

He dragged himself back to the moment. Damn his wandering thoughts! His powers were low, as evidenced by how easily the councillors shrugged off the Wordweave and asked their foolish questions. He could not afford to lose concentration.

'If we had committed our whole force to the extermination of the rats from Escaigne,' he replied stiffly, 'we would have been severely exposed here in the centre of the City. What would you have done, O master strategist, if they had sent a force here to deal with the Council? No, you didn't think of that. We needed to keep guards in reserve. The attacks by Escaigne may have been a feint designed to draw us out - as, in fact, was proven by the shameful assault on the Hall of Lore last evening, which I dealt with. That's why I sit here and you are fortunate to sit there.'

As the Keeper of Andratan leaned back, satisfied with his answer, the door to the Council chamber opened and Furoman, his personal secretary, stepped through. Deorc's annoyance flared. 'You are forbidden to enter the chamber while the Council is in session. What emergency do you announce?'

The man's face paled, but he continued into the chamber. 'My lord, the Arkhos of Sna Vaztha has arrived to take up his place at the Council. He has presented his credentials to the protocol officers, and the papers are in order. He awaits your pleasure.'

'Could you not have put him off until this session was at an end?' Deorc asked, again caught off guard. Sna Vaztha? How could the man have arrived so speedily? He should have been a month or more yet on his journey. The report on the queen's nominee had not yet arrived, even though his Sna Vazthan spies had been admonished to hurry. Was the man a loyalist?

Could he be bought?

'Is that the usual procedure for the Council?' asked a deep voice. A tall man in a white robe had padded silently into the room, unnoticed by Deorc in his preoccupation. 'No matter.

Please show me to my seat, and acquaint me with the business of the day.'

He waited, arms folded, until Furoman found a chair and seated him between Deruys and Haurn. Good, thought Deorc, recovering. Where I can keep an eye on him. Let's see what the Wordweave will reveal.

The Arkhos of Tabul, today's designated recorder, spoke quickly, reading through his notes.

When he finished Deorc stood, giving the newcomer a brief welcome, who responded by nodding respectfully to the rest of the Council. A man of few words, Deorc decided. Perfect.

But this illusion lasted only as long as it took the thought to form. The Arkhos of Sna Vaztha leaned forward, fixed them with his deep-set eyes, and began asking questions. 'What of the attack last night? I have walked the streets this morning, and heard it said that it was not an attack at all, but merely a gathering of religious fanatics called the Ecclesia. Why were they put down so severely?'

Deorc scowled. He'd tried to keep that information quiet, but it was bound to have spread sooner or later. 'It was indeed the Ecclesia, but they were dupes of Escaigne, nothing more.

Do you know of Escaigne?' Acknowledging the man's nod, he continued. 'Somehow they were persuaded it was in their interests to rid the City of the Council of Faltha. They were armed with a variety of weapons, and inflicted heavy casualties on the guardsmen I sent in to disperse them.'

'I took a walk on this battlefield this morning,' the infuriating old man continued, running a hand through his grizzled white hair. 'There were over seven hundred corpses there, the guards outnumbering the Ecclesia by more than two to one. How is it this group of untrained, poorly armed citizens were able to inflict such losses on your well-trained Guard? I assume they are well trained, for you receive a large sum annually from my kingdom to support them.'

His lined face showed nothing but steel.

'Really, Sna Vaztha, don't you think you might wait until you learn how this Council works before you have your say? the Arkhos of Straux said plaintively. Always a bit of a dandy, Straux was the person Deorc would least have liked to try putting the newcomer in his place.

'The Arkhos deserves a reply to his sensible question,' the leader of the Council bit off. 'I have not yet spoken to the captain in charge last night.' Nor would he, for the incompetent fool lay near the bottom of a large mound of dead, precisely where he belonged. 'But it is my reasonable guess the Guard operated under restraint, trying not to inflict fatalities among what are, after all, our own citizens, however misguided.'

'I visited the local apothecaries,' the hatchet-faced man said in his gravelly voice. 'There was not one single wounded person in their care, either of the Guard or of the Ecclesia. If the guardsmen tried not to kill, why are there no wounded/'

Deorc fashioned a strong Wordweave. 'Perhaps, my friend, the unfortunate Ecclesians took their wounded with them.' The time for questions is over. You will be satisfied with what you have learned. 'Now, we have many other mattersa"'

Astonishingly, the old man waved a hand in front of his face as though dismissing a persistent insect, then spoke again, interrupting Deorc. 'There are no matters more important than the welfare of our people. What is happening here in Instruere is symptomatic of what we hear throughout Faltha. My queen has sent me here to get to the heart of what ails us all, and I will do so. I respect no authority, no individual placing himself in my way, whatever his title, wherever the land of his birth. I have my orders, and as a representative of Sna Vaztha, I will follow them without compromise.'

Deorc was shaken to the core. The man was unaffected by his Wordweave. Even in his weakened state, there was not a man here, none in all of Faltha, who could resist him. Or was there? He remembered the magic he'd encountered the previous evening. Was this man the magician, sent here to undermine his position? Did the Undying Man have an undeclared enemy, one who might be a rival for Deorc, an inheritor of Andratan's power?

The handsome Bhrudwan cast off all civility, his face distorted into a frightening grimace as though something fought to explode from his skin. 'Tell me, old man, who are you?'

The man from Sna Vaztha raised his eyebrows, then told the Council of Faltha his name. The name meant nothing to Deorc, but cries of anguish came from around the table, faces turned red and his normally restrained Councillors, who had remained calm even in the face of the northerners' accusations a few months earlier, began shouting at the Sna Vazthan and each other. In the midst of the uproar, the white-robed man with the frightening name stood, bade them a solemn if unheard farewell, and left the chamber before a hand could be laid on him.

His feet took him south, away from the corrupt heart of Faltha, back to the devastated Granaries. How could men in leadership ignore the needs of those they purported to serve?

None of them had troubled to investigate the damage for themselves. All they had done was to send soldiers to fight with their own people.

Here, in the old city of Struere, a smoky haze still covered the sky, making it difficult to breathe. He recalled the last occasion he spent time in this district, over four decades earlier.

He remembered the tall tenements, built close together here, some well over a thousand years old, having been occupied continuously since well before the Bhrudwan invasion. He had stayed in a five-floored tenement on this street, if he remembered rightly - yes, there it was - or, at least, there was a pile of smoking timber where it had once stood. It, and the buildings to either side, had fallen victim to the fires that still burned in places throughout the old city. A line of people ferried buckets from the river, perhaps half a mile away, trying to damp down the smouldering ruin. He watched them for a moment, people who knew little more than the fact that their homes and possessions had been destroyed; then he walked quietly over to them and joined the line.

The choking smoke made talking difficult, but after a while the scope of the devastation became clear to him. It was not quite of the scale of the burning of Inverlaw Eich - he'd been through the ruins of that city less than a month after the fire razed it to the ground - but it seemed to have struck hardest at the most vulnerable citizens, people with menial jobs and nowhere else to live. Apparently a group of outsiders was coordinating a resettlement effort through the local markets. The old man smiled. Leadership would always arise in the absence of good government. He worked for a while longer, then moved on.

All over the old city the picture was the same. Struere always suffered most in times of devastation, the old man reflected. Instruere began life as two separate settlements, Inna and Struere, founded by Raupa and Furist on the northern and southern shores respectively of the large island located near the place where the River of rivers ceased being tidal. These settlements fought with each other for centuries, until they grew together, sharing in the prosperity generated by their advantageous location and casual disregard for the rules of fair trading. However, in the fifteen-hundred years since the island had been walled around and known as Instruere, the northern city of Inna had become the resi' dence of choice for the wealthy and respectable, while Struere was used as a dumping ground for the less respectable of the city. It was this that contributed in large measure to the destruction, the Sna Vazthan observed as he walked the unpaved lanes. Houses built flimsily, too close together, with no water supply save the open sewers. Warehouses set cheek by jowl, so fire in one spread easily to the next. Narrow roads, making escape difficult for the residents. So much different to the clean, wide streets of Inmennost of the Snows.

The man spent a further hour with another group of neighbours trying to douse a burning building. The bravest among them would take it in turns to rush up the stairwell and tip his or her meagre bucket over the flames. Here again the people were too weary to say much, but they, too, told him of a small band of northerners who were trying to organise everyone's efforts, so the people in most desperate need might receive help first. He shared a flask of wine with the firefighters, accepted their grateful thanks, bade them farewell and moved on.

It was near sunset when he came upon a gathering near the ruin of the Struere Gate. Perhaps five hundred people stood patiently in a series of lines moving slowly forward. The man from Sna Vaztha joined one of the lines, and without betraying his ignorance learned he was waiting in line for some bread. Apparently a group of people - not from Struere, but where they were from was unclear; some said Deuverre, some said further north - had organised food and shelter for those who had suffered loss in the fires. These were the same people, said one woman, who had rescued the Ecclesia last night. It was true, a young man agreed. He had been there, having been promised a part in the cleansing of the hated Council from the City.

But the whole thing turned out to be a trap, he said angrily. The Instruian Guard had been waiting for them. On and on the boy talked, painting in their minds a graphic picture of the confrontation. The youth told them how his sister had been struck down by a guard, though she had begged for mercy. He himself received a wound to the leg, he said, though when he was pressed, he showed them a scar that looked weeks old. He had been healed, he claimed, along with many others. No, he wasn't imagining it, he wasn't making the story up. He repeated these claims in spite of the scepticism of those around him.

The Sna Vazthan found himself puzzled by the boy's story. Though it seemed to verify much of what he had heard, and hinted that serious questions needed to be asked of the Council at their next meeting, it contained elements that were clearly fantastic. A great light? A swordsman who raised a mound of dead guards around him? Ghosts of the dead causing the guards to flee? A man who healed with a touch of fire?

The crowd's attention turned to the man in the white robe. Who was he, they wanted to know, and where did he come from? The Sna Vazthan admitted he was a stranger to the City, but told them he had spent the afternoon labouring to put out fires. Dubious glances followed his words, until he was able to satisfy them of the truth of what he said, supplying them with names and descriptions of enough local identities to finally be believed. By the charcoal stains on his expensive robe, by the cuts and bruises on his hands, and by the way he listened to their tales of woe, he convinced them he was a friend.

The sun set, and still the line crept forward. Children cried from hunger and from fear, adults bore their grief stoically, dirty bodies rubbed together uncaring as the tide of citizens, ignored by the rulers of the City, sought a morsel of bread and whatever else could be spared. Ahead of them someone had installed a torch which shed much-needed light over the food distribution area.

Finally the Sna Vazthan arrived at the head of the line. In front of him half-a-dozen trestle tables contained what this committee had managed to gather: bread, clean water, some fruit, dried meats, a treat or two for the children. He glanced up: the light he assumed was coming from a torch actually came from something a young man held aloft. He looked more closely . . .

An arrow. On fire. Not burning the boy who held it. The obvious explanation took some time to work its way into his mind, steeped though he was in the history of Faltha. This cannot be, it cannot be. Not here, not in the humblest part of the City; not novo, when the borderlands are at peace . . . unless. ..

A great chill passed through the man's spare frame. A hundred unconnected incidents came together in a rush, the signs and portents aligned themselves into a clear message, and suddenly the man realised he was in the presence of the Jugom Ark.

'Would you like some bread?'

'What? Pardon me, what did you say?' His normally unflappable mien shattered into a thousand pieces. This is why he had been called out of retirement, this explained the appointment to the Council of Faltha. This is what he had trained his whole life for. The years with the Haukl, the decades as a Trader, the service in the court at Inmennost; all pointing to this moment. To take service with those who wielded the Jugom Ark.

'I asked you if you would like some bread,' the woman repeated gently. She was forty, perhaps, still a beauty, a cheerful face framed by long dark hair. He read patience in her face, and long-suffering, but also joy. Right now she waited for him with the pity of one who had served many who suffered from the shock of seeing their homes, and perhaps their friends and family, consumed by the flames.

'No, no, I need neither food nor shelter,' he said to her. 'What I need is to speak to the people in charge here. If you are one, I apologise for my rudeness. And I also need to speak to the one holding the Jugom Ark. I would dearly love to hear his story.'

At the mention of the Arrow the woman's face paled, and she turned and signalled to a man standing some distance away. 'Mahnum,' she called, 'this man wants to know about the Jugom Ark.'

'Tell him to come back later tonight. We'll be talking about the whole thing then.'

'I think he's from the Council,' she said carefully.

At that, the man called Mahnum put down the parcel he had been holding and came over to where the white-robed Sna Vazthan stood. He looked up into the old man's eyes, his own widened in shock, and for ten long seconds neither man moved a muscle. Indrett moved forward, about to speak - there were many people to be fed, and the hour grew late - when Mahnum spoke.

'It is you,' he said in a flat voice. His face had gone grey.

The old man nodded, his countenance in turn drained of all colour.

With a snarl of rage, Mahnum leapt over the food-laden table and tackled the old man, driving him to the ground. There he began to beat the man where he lay, fists pumping, arms flailing, shouting incoherently all the while. Shocked members of the Company came to the old man's aid, dragging their maddened friend from on top of him. The stranger had not raised a hand in his defence. One eye was already swollen shut, and as he stood, aided by Hal, it was clear his right arm had been damaged in the unprovoked onslaught.

'Mahnum! Mahnum! What are you doing? What has this man done that you would attack him so?' Indrett held on to her husband; along with Kurr, she was barely able to restrain him from renewing his assault on the old man.

Mahnum shook an arm free and pointed at the stranger. 'That man - that man,' he said, breathing heavily, 'that man is my father.'

'Is it true?' Indrett said, unsure which man to ask. 'How can it be true?'

The old man nodded. 'It is true. I am Modahl. Mahnum is my son.'

'But you are dead! You were executed for your part in the war between Sna Vaztha and Haurn!'

The Sna Vazthan spoke through swollen lips, his voice heavy with irony. 'This is manifestly not the case, though some here might wish it.'

'They tied him to a chair, weighted him down and put him out on the thin spring ice of the Preuse River to wait for the afternoon sun,' Mahnum said bitterly. 'Apparently even that was not enough to finish the old demon off.'

'That story effectively ended the life of Modahl the Trader of Firanes.' The old man accepted the offer of a chair. Others of the Company made their way over to the scene of the altercation, leaving Geinor and Graig, the Escaignian woman, Perdu and the former captain of the Instruian Guard to serve the lines of people. 'It allowed me to begin a new life, which by a fateful irony has brought me here to face my old life, and the fully justified wrath of my son.'

'Excuse me,' said Kurr roughly, 'but are you saying that you are Modahl of Firanes?'

The old man nodded wearily.

'I remember Modahl clearly,' the old farmer said. 'I remember bidding him farewell, one Watcher to another, as he set out for Haurn to take their part in a hopeless defence of their little country against the might of Sna Vaztha. I remember his anger at what had already been done to that land. I remember hearing about the day the mighty Modahl, the finest Trader ever to have lived, was taken captive on the very summit of Tor Hailan in a battle so fierce the midwinter snow would not settle, such was the heat of combat. I wept to hear it. I heard he was borne in chains to Inmennost and executed on the day of the spring equinox, his death the finale of the events celebrating the Sna Vazthan victory. I feel sure I would recognise such a man if he still lived.

Come, stranger, and step into the light.'

But the light came to the stranger. Leith walked quietly over to where the two old men stood, and the jugorn Ark bathed them both in its flickering light, giving their visages the look of legendary heroes.

'It is you!' the old farmer cried. 'By the Most High, it is!' 'Yes it is, friend Kurr. Do you want to attack me too?' Kurr's reply was lost as the two men embraced, slapping each other on the back. Eventually they separated, and the Company could see tears sparkling on their cheeks.

The Sna Vazthan turned to Mahnum, 'You and 1 need to talk, my son.' Mahnum spat and turned away. 'You wear a great sword,' the old man continued, undeterred. 'I have seen that hilt before. It belonged to my old friend Jethart of Treika. You attacked me with your fists when you could have cut me down with his blade. Does that not say anything to you? It says to me that you know we have unfinished business.'

Mahnum spun around on his heels and stabbed a finger at the white-robed old man. 'My father is dead. It makes no sense to kill him again. He has sullied my soul enough! Who you are, old man, no longer interests me. Go away and wander the earth! Go and delve into still more secrets, go and interfere in the politics of yet more countries! But don't ever talk to me again. There is only one person to whom you need to talk, and she's been dead for twenty years. She now lives in a country that even you can't return from. Go and talk to her!'

'Son, Ia"'

'Don't call me son!' cried Mahnum, and lunged at his father once again. This time Kurr was ready, and he and the Haufuth kept the two men apart. The younger man squared his shoulders, turned and stalked away.

The older man sighed deeply, his face lined with regret. 'I fear there is too much between us for me ever to find his heart again. We have much talking to do. I owe him an explanation.'

He looked up, and the light of the Jugom Ark was reflected in his eye. 'Might I be permitted a question?' Taking silence for assent, he asked: 'Who is the boy who holds the Arrow of Yoke?' The glittering gaze rested on Leith, who took a step towards the old man.

'I am Leith Mahnumsen, and I seem to be the only person who can hold on to this thing without getting burned.'

'Then you are my grandson,' Modahl of Sna Vaztha said simply, 'and you are the Right Hand of the Most High.'

The Company invited the Sna Vazthan to dine with them. On hearing Kurr issue the invitation to his old friend, Mahnum announced angrily that he would take his place serving food to the homeless of Struere. Indrett accompanied him, though obviously torn between trying to comfort her husband and finding out more about this legendary stranger who happened also to be her long-dead father-in-law. The serving lines had thinned somewhat, although a large number of people milled about in front of the gaping hole that had been the Struere Gate, so Mahnum and Indrett were sufficient to take care of their needs. Good, the Haufuth thought, he needs a chance to talk to someone.

The weather drew in and a light drizzle began to fall, taking the edge off the late summer heat.

The waxing moon made little impression on the heavy overcast, being only a few days past new. Willing Instruians had that afternoon erected a pavilion of sorts, open to the south, at the juncture of the Vitulian Way and a narrow side street, not far from where the lines still lingered and within sight of the Struere Gate. Under the canvas shelter the Company took their meal, gathered around one large board formed by putting four tables together. Basic fare, of the kind handed out to the locals, supplemented with two dozen honey cakes baked that morning by Hal, hindered more than helped by Prince Wiusago. A veneer of good cheer ruled at the table, derived in part from the work they shared and from their happiness at being together again. During the meal Maendraga was asked to repeat the story of his and Leith's adventures, and the slightly embellished description of the drunken soldier at the King of Nemohaim's unruly court set them all to laughing. But underneath the laughter and jollity lurked a sombre mood. Farr spoke of his frustration at what he saw as the lack of activity in Instruere while the others had been away, emphasising their failure to find Stella. While he spoke, the thoughts of many drifted to the Firanese Trader and his reaction to the appearance of his long-lost father.

Modahl stood. 'I wish to thank you all for your welcome,' he said, without a hint of irony.

Indeed, he sounded genuinely glad, as though he considered he deserved the anger his son had offered him as a greeting.

He reached into a small pack and drew out a bottle of clear liquid. 'In Sna Vaztha we celebrate the reunion of friends long separated by sharing a special drink. Actually, we celebrate anything with this drink. To be truthful, we drink it even when there is nothing to celebrate. I would be grateful if you would share it with me. Pass it around, and let each one here mix a small amount into their drink. A small amount, mind: it is very strong.'

As he began to talk other conversations dropped away, and gradually the night drew quiet. 'I have heard only a few of the tales of this Company tonight, and yet already I am amazed at what you have done. Nowhere in Faltha were there people like you when I was younger, particularly in places like Loulea. Or, perhaps, people like you were everywhere but not yet called out by the needs of the time. It seems much has changed! I am eager to hear more of your stories, and I have many, many questions for you all. But before 1 begin to ask for your tales to be told, I believe I need to tell you mine.'

'We know your tale, Great One,' Geinor said, deep respect in his voice. 'The greatness we see in your village, as manifested by the Five of the Hand, and in your son and grandsons, is explained by who you are. We of Nemohaim have heard the stories of your journeys, of how you, alone of any of the First Men, travelled through Jangela and the swamps that kill, south to new lands where vast cities are built entirely in the branches of trees, and where in one kingdom the entire capital city is made of solid gold; and how you brought home to Faltha precious metals, rich spices and news of exotic peoples as proof of your journey. We have heard of your exploits in the Borderlands of Rhinn and Bannire; of how you forged a treaty in the Lankangas, uniting warring cities; and of how, at the last, you were made captive while a general in the army of Haum, defending the smallest of Faltha's Sixteen Kingdoms against greedy Sna Vaztha. You have lived many lifetimes, it seems to us, or had adventures enough for many at the least. Your name is known and revered throughout the Sixteen Kingdoms.'

Modahl laughed, a full, rich sound that seemed to come from deep within his soul. 'The passage of time makes legend of many a person,' he said, 'but twenty-five years ago I was barely tolerated in the Court of Firanes, and hated in many other cities by those I had bested in trade or diplomacy, including Bewray, I must say.' He nodded to Geinor. 'I made powerful enemies in this very City, defying the Council of Faltha a number of times after they ordered me to stop interfering with their rule. My journeys in the Southlands were held up to general ridicule, and at home my wife and child wanted nothing more than for me to retire from my adventurous life and return to them for good.

'Ah, that 1 had! And yet - no, that is a tale best left for the time when he who needs to hear it is ready to listen. Instead, I will tell you of my supposed death, and what happened to me after.

'As my friend Kurrnath said, I went to Haurn because I had for some time been troubled by rumours that Sna Vaztha once again planned to extend their borders by swallowing up their small neighbour, in spite of the treaty I helped them devise. I arrived there at winter's heart to find the Sna Vazthans had taken the capital city of Hauthra and held the king hostage. A small band of brave men aided me in his rescue; but we could not save his family from the stake.

The king was driven mad by the bitter news, and climbed to the top of Verenum Spire, from whence he cast himself to his death.

'Within a month the Sna Vazthans pinned the remnants of the Kingdom of Haurn inside the ruined city of Tor Hailan. Their general agreed to spare the women and children if I would surrender only myself, which I did; but after he made me captive he scoured the city, leaving not one soul alive. Over five thousand were killed, the corpses fed to the wolves. He then carried me off to the Sna Vazthan capital, a trophy of his famous victory against a peaceful nation one-tenth the size of his, and with no standing army.

'What I did not learn until much later was that this general was an ambitious man, and his conquest of Haurn was conducted without the authority of his king, as part of a campaign to win the throne for himself. His king was greatly angered at the news, and was made more so when I supplied an account of the darker deeds done in Haurn, which his general omitted to mention.

'The king faced a dilemma. How was he to rid himself of a famous and well-loved general without risking public wrath and a possible revolt, but at the same time make use of his prized captive, Modahl the Trader? His answer was ingenious. The general found himself enthroned on a chair in a mock ceremony, placed on the thin ice of the Preuse River, and left there to await the afternoon thaw, as my son Mahnum rightly told it. The crowds were told the man on the chair was me. None could approach close enough to tell the difference without risking death themselves. The bells of the great Tower of Inmennost rang when finally the ice cracked and the Robber of Firanes, as I was known to them, disappeared into the icy waters. I cheered along with the crowd, for the man on the chair was responsible for atrocities that should not be perpetrated even on the hateful battlefields of war. I cheered from the king's balcony, for I had not been released, but rather taken into the old king's service. And there for ten years I was forced to stay.

'In truth I found my time there a great delight, even though my heart was heavy with the knowledge that my king, my friends and my family would all have heard the news that I was dead. I longed to return to them, but as that was not allowed, I threw myself into the governance of the king's affairs. I became the shadow behind his throne, his closest and most secret adviser, and within a few years I was making policy for the most powerful, proud and independent of all the Kingdoms of Faltha.

'Ten years after my capture and enslavement (for that is what it was, however kind), the old king died. In his will he granted me my freedom, and here I reveal my sinful heart, for I was afraid to return home, afraid of what my loved ones would think of me. I took enough food for a week and, with the new queen's blessing, went up into the Aldhras Mountains, the highest in Faltha, there to await the judgment of the gods - or, most likely, death.

'I will not tell you of the great storms that came, of the days I spent in a snow cave by the banks of the frozen Diamant River, nor of my scaling of the precipitous Hauberk Wall. What I will say is, I was rescued from starvation by a mysterious race of people who called themselves Haukl, and taken to their city of Dukhobor on the shores of the ever-frozen lake.'

'The Haukl!' Kurr cried. 'My friend, I do not doubt you, but everyone knows the Haukl are a myth, the bastard offspring of men and the giant she-bears who live on the Roof of the World.

Are you saying the Haukl are real?'