'I am, and I would add that stranger things than the Haukl are to be found within the kingdoms of Faltha. Indeed, one such wonder bums in the hand of my grandson no more than a few feet from where I sit.

Speak not to me of myths!

'The Haukl are a gentle race, far advanced in the arts of survival. I could not believe the cruel conditions in which they make their home, could not understand how anyone managed to stay alive in the white waste; yet they took me in and taught me their secrets, how to sense the rhythms of the land and align myself to them. For ten years I studied with them, the strangest, most ineffable people I have ever met, including all the races I encountered south of Jangela.

'1 learned that once they were the people of eastern Faltha and western Bhrudwo, and their stewardship extended unchallenged from the Wodranian Mountains in the west to the land of Birinjh in the east. They told me how the First Men drove them from their homes, killing many and forcing the rest into the mountains, there to be starved or frozen to death, so they supposed. Yet the First Men had not reckoned on the hardiness and will to live of the Haukl.'

Te Tuahangata stood, and his body trembled with rage. 'Again and again we hear this story!

The accursed First Men are found unworthy of their own lands, and so come north to steal ours! Is there no end to their evil?'

Prince Wiusago stood and laid a hand on his friend's arm, but Te Tuahangata angrily shook him off.

'You have every right to be angry,' the man from Sna Vaztha said to him. 'I learned far more than I cared to hear about the sins of the First Men from my gentle hosts. One day, they say, they will come down the slopes of their beloved mountains and share the plainlands with the First Men; but not until the First Men have grown, as they put it.'

Te Tuahangata sat down, but growled: 'One day we will come down from the Mist and murder every one of the First Men. Then will we win back our lands and our lives with honour.'

'That is not how the Haukl see it. They are listening to the mountains, they would say; and when they finally hear the mountains speak, they will descend and live with us. 1 fear for them should they ever leave their secret home. I fear what we would do to them.

'I came down from the high places reborn,' said Modahl. 'I entered the service of the new Queen of Sna Vaztha, consumed with the notion of preparing the way for the Haukl; but I found the courtiers and functionaries self-opinionated, braying their shallow thoughts to those around them as though no one noticed how empty those thoughts were. Though Sna Vaztha has vast tracts of unoccupied land, we could spare none for the land's original occupants. For three more years I served, until I could stand it no longer. I resigned and once again set out for the Aldhras Mountains, but this time the way was closed. I could not scale the Hauberk Wall, and no Haukl came to my aid, though my cries echoed among the cruel peaks. I lived for a year in the wild valley of the Diamant, witless like an animal, eating whatever came to hand, relying on my Haukl-learned senses to survive until I learned something of humility; then returned to Inmennost and begged the queen to let me serve.

'1 served as her Chief Minister for another year, until she learned her representative at the Council of Faltha, the Arkhos of Sna Vaztha, had died suddenly in a terrible incident, an act of sabotage by the Escaignian rebels. Apparently the Arkhoi of Sarista, Redana'a and Deruys died also, according to the official communication we received some time after the event.

This made my queen very angry because, unknown to the Council, the Arkhos of Sarista had sent a letter to loyal Falthan monarchs warning of treachery in Faltha, and named names.

We misbelieved the Arkhos of Sarista - as everyone knows, Sarista has long been our chief opponent in matters of state - but in his letter he named the very Arkhoi who died as the members of a loyalist group working to expose the treachery of the Council. Further confirmation came when a similar letter arrived from our own Arkhos, though by that time it was posthumous.

'In the light of this the queen felt my talents and experience would be invaluable in Instruere, and so appointed me as Arkhos to the Council of Faltha. I left Inmennost no more than four weeks ago, travelling with an Imperative from the queen authorising me to change my mount for a fresh one at every stage of my journey. I doubt the journey has ever been made more quickly. And so, here I am. Treachery I expected, and treachery I found. The Council of Faltha reeks like an open sewer, and its leader is a dark magician not above trying his powers on new members of the Council. But old friends and family members I did not expect to find.

I see that part of my mission here is to atone for the selfishness that drove me to search for enlightenment rather than return to my family.

'So now my story is finished. On behalf of my queen I ask you, bearers of the Jugom Ark and the Hope of Faltha: how may Sna Vaztha serve you?' And with that he raised his glass in a salute, and downed it in one long draught. The Company followed suit, acknowledging the old man's speech, though a few of their number choked on the sharp taste of the liquor Modahl shared with them. He laughed deeply, and poured himself another drink.

Leith sat quietly and listened to this strange man who said he was his grandfather. His grandfather! The word meant nothing yet; he felt a strange numbness in the place where joy should be blooming. What bothered him was the hurt his father obviously felt. Seeing his own father so angry about the neglect he had suffered made Leith feel better about him: there was no logic as to why this should be so, it hadn't changed what had happened to Leith - and Hal, he remembered grudgingly; and to his mother. Mahnum in his turn had left them alone for two long years, becoming no more to Leith than a wooden carving and the blurred memory of a face.

And something else ticked away inside his mind, connected in some way to the stories of the Haukl he'd just heard, to the Pei-ra and even the Children of the Mist. Something that took root on the quiet days spent sailing the Wodhaitic Sea, something . . . but no matter. Slow and methodical, his mind was; the thought would form when it was ready.

More important by far, at least as Leith saw it, were the questions facing them; issues so important yet so intertwined with politics, danger and death that even now the Company danced around them as though they were snakes rearing to strike. In a City as divided as this one, how were they to use the Jugom Ark to achieve unity and raise an army to oppose Bhrudwo? How had finding the Flaming Arrow advanced their cause? And was Modahl right when he acclaimed Leith as the Right Hand of God?

CHAPTER 4.

THE FLAMING ARROW.

THE COMPANY ROSE FROM their evening meal, their thoughts already turning towards sleep after a wearying day. Yet each of them knew many hours of debate lay ahead. The Jugom Ark had been brought to Instruere, and there was no one to tell them what to do with it.

Leith held the Flaming Arrow in his upturned left hand. So attuned to him was the talisman, it now no longer mattered how tightly or loosely he held it. No one else could come within an arm's length of the Jugom Ark without wincing in discomfort. Leith had hoped his return to Instruere might signal an end to his stewardship, so he could turn it over to someone braver and wiser than he; but it seemed appointed for his hand and none other.

If only, if only someone would step forward and claim the Arrow for themselves, he might then be rid of the voice in his head. If only. Failing that, he resolved not to speak to the voice, not to ask any questions of it. Certainly the voice had remained silent since the sacred island of the Aslamen, weeks ago now. Perhaps his growing familiarity with the Jugom Ark meant the voice was no longer necessary. He could only hope.

Or, more worryingly, maybe the voice was his own, the voice of a troubled boy trying to be heard. Perhaps he was crazed. Had he confessed his inner voice to his friends in Loulea, they would have considered him mad. He remembered a man with a young family from a farm near Garrison Hill who took to living in a tree, the better to hear the teachings of the Most High, most of which seemed to revolve around the care of cattle. His sons had been forced to run the farm. It was as though their father had left them and been replaced by another man, so complete was the change.

Feeling the stirrings of a strange pity, Leith left the tent without a word and went in search of his own father. The food lines had finally disappeared, either satisfied at last or maybe driven off by the light but persistent drizzle. Neither of his parents was in view. He cast about for them somewhat anxiously, wondering where they might have sheltered. Then he noticed the crowd.

They were gathered near the broken arch of the Struere Gate, huddled under the City Wall, which provided a measure of protection from the southerly showers sweeping over the City.

Leith raised the Arrow without thinking, simply seeking to shed some light so he might find his mother and father. As he did so a collective gasp rose from the crowd. Leith gasped in turn as he realised the magnitude of the gathering. There must be thousands! Twenty and thirty deep against the wall they stood, spilling out on to the street, quietly waiting for something; their numbers still being reinforced by others walking down the Vitulian Way or even coming through the Gate itself. Leith wandered over to them, wondering what they waited for.

'Look!' came a man's voice from the throng. 'There it is! It's the Arrow!'

'It is, it truly is!' a woman echoed. 'Hold it up again; let us see it!'

Other voices joined in. 'Please, sir; come and bless us! Shine your light on us! You fed us, you healed us, you rescued us from the swords of the wicked! Grant our prayers, we beg you!'

Within a moment the noise became deafening, and the crowd surged forward. Leith was momentarily overwhelmed by panic.

All of these people are standing in the dark, in the rain, to see me.

Then his parents appeared at his side, flanking him, right and left; and Mahnum cried out in a loud voice: 'Hold! Please, good people, hold back! The Arrow is dangerous. It will burn anyone who approaches too closely!' Indrett put an arm around Leith's shoulder and whispered in his ear: 'Be brave, my son. Remember these are people, not just a crowd.'

'What do you mean? What is happening?' But his voice was drowned by the crowd thronging towards him still. They parted left and right, taking Mahnum's warning seriously. Others of the Company drew up behind him, having heard the commotion, and it took only a moment for them to realise what was happening. Something they should have anticipated. Hundreds had been rescued from the Instruian Guard the previous night, hundreds more fed and clothed today: all of them had seen the Jugom Ark, and of all the cities in Faltha, this was the one whose inhabitants best remembered the legend of the Arrow of Yoke.

Here on this island, two thousand years ago, Furist and Raupa quarrelled and divided Faltha in two. They had argued over who should have charge of the Flaming Arrow, the symbol of the Most High's judgment on Kannwar, the Destroyer. Bewray emerged victorious from that, conflict, and from the island he had travelled southwards, the Jugom Ark entrusted to his safekeeping. Here the Bhrudwan wrath descended a thousand years later, a thousand years ago. The Destroyer hated Instruere, the unofficial capital and most powerful city of Faltha, to him a potent symbol of the regard the Most High held for the First Men. And to this great City the Jugom Ark would return, so the legends said; heralding a time of trouble, yet bringing unity to Faltha and giving true Falthans strength and light against their dark Enemy. So it was said.

And on this day, all over the city, it had been said again and again. People drifted together, talking in groups on the streets or meeting together as neighbours, friends or extended families. Those who had been there told of the miraculous intervention of the Flaming Arrow on behalf of the Ecclesia. In the afternoon the Arrow had been sighted again, this time in the company of a group supplying food, shelter and clothing for those affected by the fires. The largesse had apparently been wrested from reluctant businessmen, not from the City Fathers.

Word of the new sighting spread swiftly through these clusters of Instruians. In every knot of people discussing the strange events someone could be found who knew the prophecies of the Arrow and was only too willing to share that knowledge. The excitement and speculation grew with each retelling.

No one called them, but they came. The Jugom Ark was the talk of the town, the whisper in the darkest alleyways, the topic of discussion among the well-to-do, the subject of the moment in the markets and a distraction to all who wanted to conduct business. In the midst of their troubles, many Instruians believed their salvation was revealed. Some remembered how the northerners braved The Pinion a few months previously, and that deed was added to the list of reasons why it seemed a good idea to brave the rain and the dangerous streets to catch a glimpse of the flaming Arrow. In their thousands they came. And now they waited for the Bearer of the Arrow to speak.

'You'll have to say something to them, boy,' Kurr hissed in his ear. 'They're not here to look at your pretty face.'

'But - but I. . .' He could say no more. The truth of it, Leith realised, is this is more than I can bear. He would not ask the voice for help, and he could not think of words of his own to say.

'Leith! This is the moment! This is why we risked everything to find Kantara!' Phemanderac's voice whispered urgently, but Leith felt rooted to the spot.

Hasty whispers from somewhere behind him produced a wooden box, which willing hands placed in front of the crowd. In an instant Phemanderac stood on it, arms outstretched, pleading for silence. 'Citizens of Instruere!' he cried. 'In a moment you will hear from the Bearer of the Jugom Ark. But first, listen now as I tell you the tale of the Flaming Arrow.'

Even though his friend the philosopher had earned him a brief reprieve, Leith found it hard to breathe. What would he say to them? What hope could he offer these people? What counsel could he give? A thousand thoughts swirled in his head, like starlings seeking a field on which to alight.

Phemanderac raised his voice until it could be heard throughout the open space in front of the Struere Gate. Perhaps it's Hal enhancing again, or maybe the magician and his daughter, Leith thought. Whichever it was, the illusion made it possible to address the crowd.

'More than two years ago I left my home, the legendary land of Dhauria,' the tall philosopher told them. 'I have dedicated my life to studying the ancient prophecies of Hauthius, who foretold the return of the Arrow of Yoke, which would bind the peoples of Faltha together. I travelled the wide world in search of the Hand that would wield the Arrow, with few clues to help me in my search. "The one you seek will be found in a Lowly Vale, in the Cape of Fire,"

the old books told me. So I travelled towards Firanes, and on the way there was captured by a fierce tribe known as the Widuz, imprisoned in a dark dungeon and readied as a sacrifice to their gods.

'But I was rescued by a brave and valiant warrior, a member of a company of northerners travelling to Instruere to warn Faltha of a great danger. One of their number had learned that the Destroyer plans an invasion of Faltha. Even now the Black One amasses his evil armies, and aims them at Instruere, the heart of Faltha. Before year's end, perhaps, the Undying Man and his army will be camped outside your gates.'

He pointed to Mahnum. 'Here is the man who spent two dangerous years in Bhrudwo uncovering the Destroyer's plans. He braved the dungeons of Andratan and wrested the knowledge of our fast-approaching doom from the hand of the Destroyer himself. Without his courage we would be ignorant of the black tide drawing near our borders. And my rescuer, the one who saved me from the Widuz execution pit, is this man's son. It is he who holds the Jugom Ark. His name is Leith, son of Mahnum, and he is the Bearer of the Arrow.

'The northerners came to Instruere to warn the Council of Faltha. But the Council of Faltha, your rulers, would not listen, for among them were traitors, men who sold their souls to Bhrudwo in exchange for promises of wealth or power to be delivered when the Destroyer takes the City for his own.

They have gained control of Instruere, and even now plot to render her defenceless when the brown hordes are thrown against us. They are prepared to expend your lives, and those of your children, to curry favour with their new master.

'Leith and his father were thrown into The Pinion by the Council of Faltha, but they escaped, eluding the Instruian Guard and setting others free in the process. Perhaps there is someone here tonight who was rescued by their bravery?' Three or four voices called affirmation from near the rear of the crowd; heads turned to look. 'For a time Escaigne hid them from the vengeance of the Council of Faltha, and sought to enlist their aid in the overthrow of the City.

However, it is not their desire to replace one regime with another, but to unite all Falthans in opposition to our great enemy. The northerners rejected Escaigne's offer, instead setting out in search of the jugom Ark.

'Citizens of Instruere! It is obvious the quest for the Jugom Ark was successful. Leith Mahnumsen is the first man to hold the Arrow of Yoke in two thousand years, the first since Bewray hid it against this very hour. So I need not regale you with our many adventures, or the suffering and loss we endured, in order to find and redeem the one hope of Faltha. It is here, it is truly here, and we are saved!' A great cheer arose from the crowd.

Phemanderac, arms raised, waited for quiet. 'Yet not completely saved.' He paused. 'If our leaders were loyal servants of Faltha, we would gladly turn over the Arrow to them and trust them to find ways to use it to deliver us from the evil about to fall upon us. But they are part of that evil. We must take up the Arrow of Yoke ourselves and try to raise an army to defeat the menace of the Destroyer.

'Listen to me! We are like insects drawn to the light of the Jugom Ark. Yet I do not believe it has any magic of itself that will heal all the divisions between us. We have much to do before we can present a unified front against the cruel enemy that comes our way. Look around you!

Struere is set against Inna, Escaigne opposes Instruere, and northerners and southerners still treat each other with suspicion. It is time to put aside the things that divide us - money, old quarrels, misguided loyalty to the place of our birth - and unite under the banner of the Jugom Ark. Thus we will drive out the traitors in our midst, and raise an army to defend Instruere and all of Faltha from the hatred and greed of Bhrudwo.

'So be ready! Prepare! Await the call of the Flaming Arrow, and together we will go into battle!'

Phemanderac stepped down from the impromptu platform amid the cheering and excitement of the crowd.

'A stirring speech,' the Haufuth told him. 'Maybe this is how it will begin. We will find our army amongst those who have been oppressed by the rich and powerful.' Others of the Company gathered around the philosopher, congratulating him on his oratory. Clearly assuming that the evening's entertainment was over, the crowd began to disperse, perhaps turning their thoughts to the journey home through the light rain that continued to fall. The flames from the Jugom Ark reflected from every puddle, every rain-slick surface, until it seemed that the whole neighbourhood had caught alight.

Everyone had forgotten Leith. He stood there, a little apart from his friends, surrounded by thousands of faces flickering in the supernatural light of the Arrow, yet no one looked at him. Those who remained gazed at the bright light they saw as their salvation. The figure bearing the Jugom Ark might as well have been a torch-holding stanchion.

It's not right, Leith realised. That's not how it's meant to be. Phemanderac's got it wrong.

Simplistic black-and-white rhetoric, the philosopher's words papered over the huge cracks in Faltha's facade. Faltha's not like he said. He told no lies, but what he said wasn't the truth. He continued to worry away at it. We're not entirely good, he admitted. And if we're not entirely good, then the Bhrudwans aren't entirely bad.

The thought opened something in his mind. Words and thoughts flickered in his head; slow at first, then faster and faster. 'You five are the fingers of a gatherin hand,' he heard Kroptur say, in the house under Watch Hill. A hand has five fingers,' the voice of Phemanderac explained, as they hid together, planning their journey south to find the Jugom Ark. Another voice hissed: 'You are First Man. You say you were first, but you were last.' He recalled the feel of the knife held to his throat, the sweet fragrance of the sacred island in his nostrils, sharpened by the moment. The memories quickened: Te Tuahangata's anger, the cruelty of the Widuz and the cowardice of the people of Inch Chanter, the glorious, all-encompassing laughter of the Fodhram;. and through it all like a discord came the voice of Farr of Mjolkbridge, angrily declaiming in the inn at Windrise; 'Losian! Losian to a man, the abandoned of the Most High, discarded misfits who rejected the Way of Fire! Arrogant, ill-tempered half-breeds! Save your dealings for descendants of the First Men, and keep yourself purel' Images swirled through each other, finally resolving to a warm night in a forest, Leith sitting with two old ones by a fire, and hearing the old man say: 'We wanted to ask you a boon' and hearing the old woman say: 'When you come into your own, remember the Children of the Mist. Remember all those peoples who live in Faltha, yet are not of the First Men'.

Pressure began to build in his chest. The voice was about to speak to him; Leith could feel it.And in a flash of insight he knew what the voice was going to say. The words had been forming in his mind for months, making him uneasy, making what seemed a simple battle between good and evil into something much more complicated, much less certain, where the heroes grew black wings and inflicted sickness and suffering on others, or kept dark secrets from each other, little different to the villains. He would speak now, before the voice had a chance to echo through his head, robbing him once again of his own will, of his self.

He stood. Thoughts coalesced in his mind, a multitude of memories coming together to form a single idea, and he shook with the enormity of it. The Arrow responded by exploding into life, burning with a fierce, white-hot flame. The crowd moved back, stunned. None of the Company could brave the heat and flame to get near the youth from Loulea, who stepped on to the box and stood before them enveloped from head to foot in a pillar of fire.

'Leith! What is happening?' Kurr cried, his face a surprised mask, his eyebrows singed. 'What are you - what is it doing?'

Flames roared in Leith's ears. He heard the old farmer, but could not make out what he said.

The flames distanced him from the others, as though he was some mad prophet in the grip of a supernatural ecstasy. These are my words. My words! he told himself. Nobody else's!

'I am Leith Mahnumsen from the village of Loulea in Firanes,' he said. His voice carried over the crowd, which quieted to hear his words. Truth, tell the truth as I see it. My words. 'I am the bearer of the Jugom Ark. It does not belong to me. I carry it on behalf of the Arkhimm. It's just that I seem to be the only one who can pick the thing up,' he said, indicating the Arrow in his hand, which continued to blaze like a captive star. 'But I do have a question for us all to think about, and it is this: how do we unite Faltha?'

He paused, taking a moment to look about him. To his right and left stood the Company, which had grown from the original five members to a large group of people from most parts of Faltha - and beyond, thought Leith, glancing at Phemanderac, who watched expectantly.

They were all there: his family, enlarged so dramatically by Modahl's reappearance; friends old and new; a few acquaintances, even an untrustworthy adversary with whom they had a temporary alliance; all gathered to debate how to make use of the Jugom Ark. Before him, spread out until it filled the open space between him and the Struere Gate, waited the crowd.

Some had made their way into the adjacent tenements, and now leaned out of windows and sat on balconies and even roofs, the better to see and hear what the people with the Jugom Ark had to say. They will expect more inspirational speechmaking, Leith realised. They will expect me to instill courage in them, courage to face their enemy. They will expect us to lead them. They want someone to follow.

And, with a suddenness that shocked him, Leith realised what he was about to say might ruin the whole quest. Might cost them the war. Might damn them all to defeat. He took a deep breath.

My words. Mine!

'The Undying Man of Bhrudwo is bringing a vast, well-trained army to take Faltha and make it his own,' Leith told them, his words echoing in his own ears, the squeaky voice of a nervous youth. 'Half of the kings of Faltha have gone over to him. Yet we will need the strength of a united Faltha if we wish to defeat the Dark Lord of Bhrudwo.' Good, so far. They're listening. 'You recognise the Jugom Ark, the ancient heirloom of the Most High, and are willing to put your trust in it.

It is his promise that he will not forget us in our time of trial. But many of our leaders will not recognise the Arrow. They will refuse to acknowledge the leadership of a group of peasants from lowly Firanes. Or they will try to take the Arrow from us, and bend it to suit their plans.

'So what do we do to win over the kingdoms ruled by traitorous kings? How do we get the message out to the furthest corners of Faltha, and gather an army swiftly enough that we can meet the Destroyer before he brings his force through the Gap? How can we make our army powerful enough that it can defeat the might of Bhrudwo? These are the questions we must answer. My friends will tell me this should be talked about in secret, that there may be spies of the enemy right here in the crowd. But I say nothing should be hidden! I tell you we have choices, and tonight we can decide how this whole war is going to proceed.'

His father came as close to him as he dared; Leith could see the heat drawing sweat from his face. 'Leith! Leith! What are you saying? What are you doing? Should we not talk about this first?'

Leith spoke no word to him, untouchable in his fiery cocoon, and continued. 'We could ignore the kingdoms of the traitorous kings, and halve the potential size of our army thereby,' he told them. 'Or we could somehow subvert each kingdom, perhaps by identifying people still loyal to Faltha, and encourage them to begin a rebellion; but this will take far too long, and will result in Falthan deaths long before we face the might of the Bhrudwan army.'

Leith sighed. Now for it, the vast risk, the great idea that had been building in his mind for months, though he had not been aware of it until a few moments ago. He began to shout, aware how he must appear to the crowd: smothered in fire, flames coming from his mouth as he spoke, like an apparition of the Most High.

'There is another way, a way to bring together an army so vast it will outnumber the Bhrudwans, so fierce it will cause them to fear. This way arises from the meaning of the Jugom Ark itself. The Flaming Arrow was given to Falthans as a symbol of unity. It is a brightly burning idea which, if we have the courage to accept it, will bring together all true Falthans for the very first time. It is an idea so large its effects will be felt far beyond the end of the battle with Bhrudwo, no matter who is the victor. It is an idea so frightening in what it asks of us I would not suggest it unless we were in the last extremity - but that is where we are.

'Who are the true Falthans? Are true Falthans the same as First Men? No, they cannot be, for we know many of the leaders of the First Men have betrayed Faltha. They are not true Falthans. So what makes a true Falthan? I declare to you by the Flame that burns brightly in my hand - may I be consumed to ash if it is not so! True Falthans are those who remain loyal to the land and the people of Faltha, no matter where they live.'

'Where do they live?' a man called out.

'How can we tell the true Falthan from the traitor?' asked another.

'True Falthans don't short-weight their goods, that's for sure!' yelled some wag who clearly knew the previous speaker. A section of the crowd laughed, but were shushed by those around them.

'Let the boy speak!' they cried. 'Listen to the Arrow-bearer!'

The disturbance barely registered on Leith's consciousness, so far into his message had he gone. As soon as the crowd quieted, he continued.

'Where do we find these true Falthans? Not only within the walled city of our own small prejudices. True Falthans also live beyond the borders of our Sixteen Kingdoms. They live in secret valleys where we drove them. They remain in hiding on small islands on the fringes of Faltha. They dwell in the deep forests as yet unexplored by the so-called First Men. They occupy hot southern deserts and icy northern wastes. They were once free to roam throughout Faltha, but now are penned in their small lands, the lands we First Men have not yet claimed for ourselves. That is where we find our army. They are under threat just as we are. Their ancestors died just as ours did a thousand years ago when Bhrudwo last defeated Faltha. They will fight for their people and for their land: but unless we make room for them, they will not fight alongside us.

'Where are the hidden armies that will come to our aid? Who are these true Falthans who live on the margins of what we call civilisation? They are the losian. They are the real First Men - and First Women - of Faltha.'

His pronouncement was met with stunned silence.

'Anathema!' an old man cried into the void. 'Anathema! The losian refused the Fire of Life!

How can we fight alongside such as they?'

'We ain't joinin' with losianV came another voice from the back of the crowd. 'Animals, that's what they are!'