A battle could be lost, but the war had to continue. That's what he would say. "Papa," she whispered, her heart aching as she stumbled along. Tears spilled down her cheeks, and she brushed them away.

She tripped over a man's legs and fell, landing hard on her knees and crying out. For a moment, she crouched there, gasping for breath, her emotions raw beneath the control she barely held.

When she tried to rise to her feet, she looked at the face of the man she'd fallen over. It was Count Lanyl Otverya, her father's squire, barely eighteen and still growing his first beard. The visor to his helmethad been torn away on one side. It hung twisted and b.l.o.o.d.y from the axe blow that had killed him.

Alexeika crawled closer and gripped his sleeve. His breastplate was dented and hacked open by the ferocious blows he'd taken. No shield lay near him; she supposed he dropped it in the charge. The blade of his sword had been shattered, and his dead hand gripped only the hilt.

Kneeling beside him, she bowed her head and wept. Lanyl had been fun, always laughing and playing pranks. His clear tenor voice could sing songs of old so sweetly that grown men wept. He should have led his own army, but his lands had been confiscated too. Deposed of his hold, his t.i.tle officially stripped away, his parents and siblings imprisoned or dead, Lanyl had escaped the purge with only his father's sword as his inheritance. He'd been so optimistic that one day King Muncel would be knocked from his throne and order restored to this weary land.

Lanyl had been like a brother to her. Gently, Alexeika closed his staring eyes, and in doing so stained her fingers with his blood.

When her tears stopped, she pulled the broken sword from his hand and with the tip of her dagger pried the square, thumb-sized ruby from its pommel. She pocketed the jewel, feeling like a thief. Yet they had to live. They had to eat. They had to keep the fight going somehow.

A sob escaped her. She choked back the rest and pushed herself to her feet, turning away from him while she still could.

Puffing heavily, old Uzfan caught up with her. "Alexeika, wait!" he said, gasping between words. "For the love of Thod. please wait." She slid her dagger back into its sheath and handed Uzfan the remnant of Lanyl's shattered sword. "Take care of him, please." Uzfan's face blurred through her tears. "I must go to my father."

"Child," he said, "there is no more time. Look yon."

She followed the direction of his pointing finger and saw movement atop the distant hills. She drew in a sharp breath, feeling ice in her veins despite the day's heat. Queer little p.r.i.c.kles ran through her skin.

"Soultakers," Uzfan said, his old voice quavering with fear. His hand shook visibly as he lowered it.

"They are riding with the looters. I feel them." She nodded, her mouth too dry for talking. "I, too."

"We must hurry. They must not catch us."

"Lanyl," she said. "Please."

Uzfan sighed and nodded. Taking the broken sword, he murmured the words of protection, then peeled away Lanyl's battered breastplate. He struck swift and hard, staking the boy.

Alexeika had already turned away, unable to watch. She heard the blow, and flinched as though the weapon had pa.s.sed through her own heart. Now Lanyl was freed, his soul severed from his body. The soultakers would not possess him. While Uzfan sprinkled salt over the body, Alexeika hurried on toward the center of the field.

"Alexeika, no!" Uzfan shouted. The old priest ran after her, caught her shoulder, and spun her around.

"No! The risk is too great." She glared at him. "And what will protect him? Would you leave him to those-" Her voice failed her. She gestured furiously, unable to say the words. "I will make a spell and cast it over the entire field," Uzfan said. "But come away. Now, child, while there is time." "I must give him rites," she said raggedly, refusing to listen. "I must take his sword. The looters cannot have it."

"His sword will lie where it lies," Uzfan said fiercely. His old, dark eyes glared at her from beneath wrinkled lids. "Your father is dead, child. His sword is of no use now. The war is ended."

Rage and protest and grief welled up inside her, building a force she could no longer contain. She slapped him with all her might, rocking him on his feet. Spinning from him, she strode away.

He made no further attempt to stop her, and she was glad. Stumbling and half-running, she forced herself to climb over the mound of dead men entangled together at what had been the last stand. A corner of her mind felt shock that she had dared strike a priest, much less Uzfan himself. But the rest of her was too angry to care.

She shoved and shifted and pushed her way through to where the banner lay trampled, its bright colors now stained and coated with blood-splattered dirt. Her father lay beneath the broken banner pole, his gloved hand still grasping part of it. The banner boy lay headless and disemboweled beside him. There was a horrible stink in the air, the stink of Nonkind, a taint that burned her nostrils and made her want to retreat. Shaking her head, she knelt instead beside the man who had sired her, raised her, and loved her enough for two parents.

Prince Ilymir Volvn, general of the king's army, protector of the south. His t.i.tles had once been prestigious and many. His victories, his decorations for valor, and his honor had all shone brightly until King Muncel declared him a traitor and stripped him of everything. For years now he had lived with a price on his head, a prince turned outlaw. But his dream of restoring the throne to its rightful king had never dimmed.

Her father had been a tall, lean man with a jutting beak of a nose, bushy gray eyebrows, and a harsh gash of mouth. He was gruff and plainspoken, relentless, and a perfectionist, yet this was the man who had taught her to swim in icy streams during childhood summers, holding her around the middle while she laughed and paddled. This was the man who had braided her hair for her, who refused to let her cut it, who had taught her to dance and given her secret deportment lessons suitable for a lady at court, mincing along in the privacy of the woods while he held up the train of an imaginary gown. This was the man who had given her the set of daggers, taken her to a man who taught her how to throw and handle them without cutting herself. Prince Volvn had trained and tempered her as best he could. Never had he been unkind or unfair, despite his high standards. He wanted her to grow up capable, strong, and able to think for herself.

She had loved him with all her heart. Never again would they walk together under the evening stars, plotting campaigns and strategy. Never again would she feel his strong arm across her shoulders. Never would she hear his gruff voice softened to that special tone spoken to her alone, while he murmured, "My pet, do not be so fierce against Lanyl. He is only a boy in love with you, and therefore a fool."

"My pet," he would say, "put aside your temper and think. What is your brain for, except to be used?"

"My pet," he had said this morning just before he rode into battle, "I depend on you if anything goes wrong. Keep Severgard out of the hands of the enemy. Never has it been held by a dishonorable man.

Protect it as you would your life, and someday give it to your son."

"Don't say such things!" she protested, full of courage then. Her blood was on fire to be with the men;her heart felt certain they would win. "You'll have a victory today. I know it!"

"Follow your orders, daughter," he said, his voice cracking like a whip.

"Promise me you'll follow them."

And now she would have to.

"Oh, Papa," she said. Sinking to her knees beside him, she lifted his visor. He had never known defeat in his long and distinguished career. His valiant name alone was enough to fill the hearts of men with courage. Five times in the past five years he had led the small rebel forces in skirmishes and battles, and each time they won. But today, he had faced the king's real army, one supplemented with hard-bitten Gantese mercenaries and Nonkind, and he had lacked sorcerels to protect his men.

In the distance, the looters now came. She felt the thunder of their approaching hoofbeats shaking the valley floor, but she did not lift her gaze from her father's face.

Although his eyes were shut, he looked stern. Already death had made his face a stranger's. She touched his cheek, but it did not bring him closer or keep him with her. He was gone.

Weeping, she drew her hand back and curled her fingers into a fist. The noise of the galloping horses grew louder.

A hand gripped her shoulder. She jumped, screaming, and whirled around to attack, but it was only old Uzfan. Gasping with relief, she sagged down to her knees again.

"Swiftly, child," Uzfan said. "Use the salt you brought. I have no more in my pouch."

Frowning, she reached for the small, heavy pouch hanging at her belt.

He took it from her, sighing and plucking at his white beard. "Your father's presence is very strong.

They will seek him for the power of his life."

She shivered and swallowed hard, trying not to think of the horrors that awaited his body if she and Uzfan failed to protect him now.

Muttering incantations and prayers, Uzfan began sprinkling the salt across Prince Volvn's body.

Alexeika reached down and pulled Severgard from her father's hand. The great sword had been handed down through seven generations of her family. Long and heavy, it had been forged by a dwarf swordmaker who used magicked metal mined in the Mountains of the G.o.ds. The blade was made of black steel, and runes were carved along it. The hilt and guard were wrapped in gold and silver wire, and a great flashing sapphire was set in the pommel. She struggled to lift it. Gore was drying on the blade, and its stench was rank and tainted. She wrinkled her nose in revulsion. Nonkind had died today on this blade. She wiped it clean, knowing it would have to be scrubbed with both salt and sand and oiled later.

Tugging off her father's belt, she choked back a fresh sob, but she slid into its scabbard and knotted the ends of the belt together before slinging it across her shoulder.

By now Uzfan had finished with the salt. He poured the last of it on Prince Volvn's tongue.

"Is it enough?" Alexeika asked. The looters were close enough to see them. In their sinister black cloaks, they yelled and cursed. She could smell their evil, a stink as foul as that which had been on . It made her want to run.

"Is there enough time for his soul to leave?" she asked. Uzfan shook his head sorrowfully. "Nay, child.

His presence is too strong. It does not want to accept failure."

She felt sick to her stomach, but she was her father's daughter. She knew what had to be done.

"Child, shall I-"

"No," she said firmly, swallowing hard. She drew her father's dagger and held it aloft. This was a son's duty to a father who fell in battle. She told herself to be strong.

Uzfan did not argue with her. He pulled off Prince Volvn's helmet and the mail coif beneath it. The hot, dusty wind ruffled the dead man's gray hair. Uzfan tipped back his head, exposing her father's muscular throat. She crouched, her fingers holding the dagger so tightly her whole hand shook. Tears filled her eyes anew, stinging them. "Forgive me," she whispered, and plunged the dagger through his throat.

Something pale and gossamer-light floated upward from his body. It encompa.s.sed her for a second, bringing with it a sensation of warmth and well-being. Then it was gone, his soul, gone to the safety of the third world. She wept, but there was no time. Shouting at her, Uzfan gripped her shoulder and pulled her upright. She stumbled and started to run, then turned back and grabbed the tattered banner.

"Hurry!" Uzfan shouted.

The riders were too close. She heard them whooping and yelling shrilly. All around her darkness seemed to be descending. A bugling roar of something unearthly made her glance back. She saw a darsteed coming after her, bounding with a stride twice as long as a horse's. Its nostrils blew flame, and next to it ran a hurlhound with fangs bared and dripping yellow poison. It bayed at her, and her heart lurched in fear.

Uzfan shouted, and a great cloud of dust whirled up between them and the riders. The swirling cyclone caused the darsteeds and horses to rear to a halt. Two of the hurlhounds came running on, straight into the cloud. They were swept off their feet and flung high into the vortex.

Alexeika saw the look of strain on the old priest's face and knew he could not hold the spell long.

Gripping his arm, she ran with him, pushing him when his old legs faltered. At the far edge of the field, Shelena waited on her pony, holding the reins of Alexeika's frightened mount. Larisa and the boys were already fleeing, the boys beating the heavily laden donkey with sticks to make it run.

Uzfan stumbled and fell, despite her efforts to catch him. She crouched low and pulled him upright.

Dirt streaked his face and coated his beard. He was gasping for air, his face purple with exertion. Behind her came a triumphant cheer as the cloud dissipated and the looters surged through.

Most of them fell on the bodies with a savagery that sickened Alexeika. The hurlhounds tasted salt and fell back with yelps of pain. "Come on," she muttered to Uzfan, pushing him forward. She thought the looting might distract the horde enough to allow her and the old man to escape. But the sound of pursuit came again. Uzfan looked back and murmured something that made her ears ring. A column of fire blazed up behind them, cutting off the pursuers a second time. The smell of magic filled the air, makingAlexeika cough. She urged him on, hoping he did not kill himself with such exertion.

"Hurry!" Shelena called. Her pony was rearing with fear. She barely managed to control it.

When it whirled around beneath her, she flung the reins of Alexeika's pony at her and galloped away.

Alexeika lunged forward and caught the reins just in time to keep her own mount from bolting as well.

Talking to the frightened animal, trying to soothe it while it reared and pulled back, she got Uzfan astride it and jumped on herself. Wheeling the pony around, she let it run.

An arrow grazed her shoulder blade, stinging harshly though giving her no serious harm. She glanced back, but the looters did not follow her away from the battlefield. The man swathed in black who had shot at her lowered his bow and gave her a mocking salute, then turned his darsteed around and headed back to the carnage.

The pony ran and ran, over the hill and up the next, until the woods swallowed them and they slowed to a jouncing, weary trot through the cool shade. "I don't believe it," Uzfan muttered in his beard. "We got away. We got away. Do they not know what they let escape? There must have been no Believers controlling them. They let us get away."

"No," Alexeika said firmly. "You frightened them with your magic. Are you feeling better now? Should I find a stream so you may drink?" "No," he said, his voice sounding weak and shaky. "Do not stop. We dare not stop."

By the time they reached camp on the banks of the fjord, it was late afternoon. Alexeika could hear the women keening, the sound rising and falling like a brutal wind. She bowed her head, struggling with her own emotions, but she refused to wail and tear her clothing and mourn in the way of female serfs. The camp was a large one, although it did not contain all the families of the men and boys who had died today. Many had come to join the war, leaving their homes to fight the darkness. But now, those who remained-the old men, the women, the children-sobbed and grieved in their tents or else stood as though turned to stone in the midst of some task, their faces ravaged with sorrow. A few gathered around as Alexeika drew her weary pony to a halt. They stared at her in silence, watching as she carried her father's sword into her tent. Draysinko, a man no older than thirty but spared from fighting because of his crippled leg, was waiting when she came finally outside again. She had washed her face and eaten the few bites of food she could choke down. Severgard, now clean and oiled, lay in its scabbard atop her father's cot. Tonight, she would light the Element candles and pray for him the same way he had taught her to mourn her mother, in dignified privacy. Not for her the grieving of the serfs, the women sitting outside their tents and keening for hours or perhaps even days. It was the custom of the peasants to show how much they had respected a loved one by mourning for as long as possible before exhaustion claimed them. Sometimes, Alexeika almost believed they were competing with each other by displaying the most grief.

When she emerged from her tent, an uneasy delegation, consisting of Draysinko, five old men, and two gray-haired court ladies determined to look as stern and regal as ever despite their plain linsey gowns, was waiting politely for her. Draysinko stepped forward, limping on his crooked leg, and bowed to her.

"Your father is dead?" he asked.

Formality required her to make an official announcement. The camp now lacked a leader, and she wondered who would be named to take her father's place. She had filled in during his absences before.

He had traveled often to secret meetings with other rebel leaders, trying to raise an army, trying to obtain weapons and armor where and when he could. But this time, the absence would be permanent. Her heartached, and she swiftly turned her thoughts away lest she break down. Her father had taught her that a good commander did not betray weakness to his followers.

"Excuse this intrusion," Draysinko said politely, although his eyes looked impatient. "As the daughter of the House of Volvn, you must officially make the announcement."

It irritated her that he sought to instruct her in her public duties. Her head lifted high on her graceful neck.

She squared her shoulders. "Consider the announcement made," she said. "Prince Volvn is dead. The battle was lost."

The men of the little delegation exchanged glances. All except Draysinko removed their caps and bowed to her. She saw tears run down the withered cheeks of Lady Natelitya, but neither of the two older women changed their bleak expressions. They had lost so much in recent years, perhaps they could not feel this most recent blow.

'Tonight," Alexeika said, "I shall speak to the junior auxiliary. We will step up their training. In a month, they should be ready to march on Trebek as-" "No," Lady Natelitya said. "My husband is dead. My eldest sons are dead. Now my youngest son is dead. You will not kill my grandson as well." Alexeika frowned. She had not expected opposition, especially not from the fierce Lady Natelitya. "The plans have already been made. My father-" "-is not here to lead the next skirmish," Lady Natelitya said.

"You will not risk the children."

Alexeika drew in a deep breath. "Very well. We will have to send word to the forces at Lolta. We can join them or go to-"

"No," Lady Natelitya said. "It is over."

"But-"

"Over, Alexeika," the woman said. Turning her back, she walked away. Alexeika stared after her in dismay. She started to go after Lady Natelitya, whose support was important, but Draysinko blocked her path. "We must talk," he said.

Hope came back to her. She smiled at him and the others who remained. "Then you agree with me that we must continue our strategy? With delays, of course, to recover fighting strength-" "There will be no more fighting," Draysinko interrupted her. She could see in their eyes that they were united against her.

"Explain," she said sharply.

"The war of rebellion is over," Draysinko announced. "We lost. Today's ma.s.sacre ends everything."

"No!" she cried. "It cannot. It must not. If you-if we give up now, then everything we lost today was lost in vain. You would make a mockery of their deaths."

"Word has come to us from our friends in Lolta," Draysinko said. "It came too late to stop today's fighting, but there is hope for the rest of us." "What is this message?" Alexeika asked suspiciously.

"King Muncel offers a royal pardon to all rebels who surrender themselves."

A scornful laugh escaped her. "And you believe this? It's a trick." "No. It is a chance to live. The messenger from Lolta says some have already accepted the offer. They have not been killed. They are tobe serfs in the southeast lands."

Near Gant, she thought with a shudder. "Serfs?" she echoed, disdain harsh in her voice.

"Do not look so unhappy, Princess," Draysinko replied sharply. He had been born a serf, she remembered. "There is hard work, but what is harder than living like this, hand-to-mouth, always in danger of betrayal or capture? It is a chance to make a new beginning. A chance to start over."

"Impossible," she said, shaking her head. "The king seeks to trick us. Tleska, you surely do not believe this offer will be honored?"

The old man she spoke to knotted his face in consternation. He was gripping his cap in his gnarled old hands. They trembled visibly. "We can't go on without the general."

"Yes, we can," she said loudly.

Other people, drawn by their argument, began to gather around. "We must!" she continued. "One defeat is not enough to stop us-" "Yes it is!" Draysinko interrupted her. His dark eyes snapped with anger. He looked like he wanted to shake her. "This wasn't just a defeat." "It was a ma.s.sacre," Tleska said. "There isn't an able-bodied man left among us."

"Who will hunt for us this winter?" asked a woman from the rear of the crowd. "My Slan was the best with a bow in the camp. Who will feed me and his children now? Who will hunt for the rest of you?"

"I can hunt," Alexeika said proudly. "The older boys can hunt."