One great battle had become dozens of lesser ones-more desperate and far more dreadful. Everywhere the Great Names looked, cohorts of Fanim rode hard across the open pasture. Where the heathen outnumbered, they charged and overwhelmed. Where they could not grapple, they circled and harried with deadly archery.

Overcome by dismay, many knights charged alone, only to be unhorsed by arrows and trampled into the dust.

Cnaiur rode hard, cursing himself for losing his way among the endless alleys and avenues of the camp. He reined to a halt in an enclosure of heavy-framed Galeoth tents, searched the northern distances for the distinctive peaks of the round tents favoured by the Conriyans. From nowhere it seemed, three women dashed northward across the enclosure, then vanished past the tents on the far side. A moment later, another followed, black-haired, screaming something unintelligible in some Ketyai tongue. He looked to the south, saw dozens of plumes of black smoke. The wind faltered for a moment, and the surrounding canvas fell silent.

Cnaiur glimpsed a blue surcoat abandoned next to a smoking fire-pit. Someone had been stitching a red tusk across its breast . . . He heard screams-thousands of them. Where was she?

He knew what was happening, and more importantly, he knew how how it would happen. The first fires had been set as a signal to those Inrithi in the field-to convince them they were truly overthrown. Otherwise the encampment would be closely inventoried before it was destroyed. Even now, Kianene would be encircling the camp, loath to lose any plunder, especially the kind that wriggled and screamed. If he didn't find Serwe soon . . . it would happen. The first fires had been set as a signal to those Inrithi in the field-to convince them they were truly overthrown. Otherwise the encampment would be closely inventoried before it was destroyed. Even now, Kianene would be encircling the camp, loath to lose any plunder, especially the kind that wriggled and screamed. If he didn't find Serwe soon . . .

He spurred off to the northeast.

Yanking his black tight around a pavilion panelled with embroidered animal totems, he broke along a winding corridor, saw three Kianene sitting upon their caparisoned mounts. They turned at the sound of his approach, but at once looked away, as though mistaking him for one of their own. They seemed to be arguing. Drawing his broadsword, Cnaiur spurred to a gallop. He killed two on his first pass. Though their orange-coated comrade had called out at the last instant, they hadn't so much as looked at him. Cnaiur reined to a halt, wheeled to make a second pass, but the remaining Fanim fled. Cnaiur ignored him and struck due east, at last recognizing-or so he thought-where he stood in the encampment.

A skin-pimpling shriek, no more than a hundred paces away, brought him to a momentary trot. Standing in his stirrups, he caught fleeting glimpses of figures dashing between crowded shelters. More screams rifled the air, breathless and very near. Suddenly a horde of camp-followers burst sprinting from between the panoply of surrounding tents and pavilions. Wives, whores, slaves, scribes, and priests, either crying or blank-faced, simply rushing where everyone else seemed to rush. Some screamed at the sight of him and scrambled either to the left or the right. Others ignored him, either realizing he wasn't Fanim or knowing he could only strike so many. After a moment their numbers thinned. The young and the hale became the old and the infirm. Cnaiur glimpsed Cumor, the aging high priest of Gilgaol, urged forward by his adepts. He saw dozens of frantic mothers hauling terrified children. Some distance away, a group of twenty or so bandaged warriors-Galeoth by the look of them-had abandoned their flight and now prepared to make a stand. They started singing . . .

Cnaiur heard a growing chorus of harsh and triumphant cries, the snort and rumble of horses . . .

He reined to a halt, drew his broadsword.

Then he saw them, jostling and barrelling among the tents, looking for a moment like a host wading through crashing surf. The Kianene of Eumarna . . .

Cnaiur looked down, startled. A young woman, her leg slicked in blood, an infant strapped to her back, clutched his knee, beseeching him in some unknown tongue. He raised his boot to kick her, then unaccountably lowered it. He leaned forward and hoisted her before him onto his saddle. She fairly shrieked tears. He wheeled his black around and spurred after the fleeing camp-followers.

He heard an arrow buzz by his ear.

His golden hair fanned in the wind. His white samite robe billowed.

"Keep down!" the Prophet commanded.

But Martemus could only stand dumbfounded. The fields beneath seethed with dust and shadowy files of Khirgwi. Before them, the Warrior-Prophet jerked first one shoulder back, then the other. He ducked his head, swayed back from the waist, crouched, then bounced upright. It was a curious dance, at once random and premeditated, leisurely and breathtakingly quick . . . It wasn't until one struck Martemus in the thigh that he realized the Prophet danced about the path of arrows.

The General fell to the ground, clutching his leg. The whole world howled, clamoured.

Through tears of pain he glimpsed the Swazond Standard against the sun's flashing glare.

Sweet Sejenus. I'm going to die. "Run!" he cried. "You must run!" "Run!" he cried. "You must run!"

His black snorted spittle, gasped, and screamed. Tent after tent whisked by, canvas stained and striped, leather painted, tusks and more tusks. The nameless woman in his arms trembled, tried vainly to look at her baby. The Kianene thundered ever closer, galloping in files down the narrow alleys, fanning across the rare openings. He could hear them trade shouts, cry out tactics. "Skafadi!" they cried. "Jam til Skafadi!" Soon many were pounding along parallel alleyways. Twice he had to crush the woman and her child against the neck of his horse as arrows hissed about them.

He spurred more blood from his black's flanks. He heard screams, realized he'd overtaken the mass of fleeing camp-followers. Suddenly everywhere he looked he saw frantic, hobbling men, wailing mothers, and ashen-faced children. He jerked his mount to the left, knowing the Kianene followed him. He was the famed Skafadi Captain who rode with the idolaters. Every captive he'd interrogated had heard of him. He broke into one of the immense squares the Nansur used for drills, and his black leapt forward with renewed fury. He drew his bow, notched a shaft, and killed the nearest Kianene pounding through the dust behind him. His second shaft found the neck of the horse following, and an entire cluster of Fanim toppled in a plume of dust.

"Zirkirtaaaaa!" he howled.

The woman shrieked in terror. He glanced forward, saw dozens of Fanim horsemen streaming into the western entrance of the field.

Fucking Kianene.

He brought his ailing black about and spurred toward the northern entrance, thanking the Nansur and their slavish devotion to the compass. The sky rang with distant screams and raw-throated shouts of "Dt-ut-ut-ut!" The nameless woman wept in terror.

Nansur barrack tents hedged the north like a row of filed teeth. The gap between them bounced nearer, nearer. The woman alternately looked forward, then yanked her head backward to the Kianene-as did, absurdly her black-haired infant. Strange, Cnaiur thought, the way infants knew when to be calm. Suddenly Fanim horsemen erupted through the northern entrance as well. He swerved to the right, galloped along the airy white tents, searching for a way to barge between. When he saw none, he raced for the corner. More and more Kianene thundered through the eastern entrance, fanning across the field. Those behind pounded nearer. Several more arrows whisked through the air about them. He wheeled his black about, knocked the woman face-first onto the dusty turf. The babe finally started screeching. He tossed her a knife-to cut through canvas . . .

The air thrummed with hooves and heathen shouts.

"Run!" he barked at her. "Run!"

Veils of dust swept over him.

He turned, laughing.

Drawing his broadsword, he ducked a sweeping scimitar, then jabbed his assailant in the armpit. He swept his sword about and shattered the blade of the next, splitting the man's cheek. When the fool reached up, Cnaiur punched through his silvered corselet. Blood fountained like wine from a punctured skin. He caught the shield of the next, swinging his sword like a mace. The man toppled backward over his horse's rump, somehow landed on his hands and knees. His helm bounced from his head, between stamping hooves. Flipping his grip, Cnaiur stabbed down through the back of his skull.

He stood in his stirrups, swung the blood from his blade into the faces of the astonished Kianene.

"Who?" he roared in his sacred tongue.

He hacked at the riderless horses barring him from his foe. One went down thrashing. Another screamed and bucked into the knotted heathen ranks.

"I am Cnaiur urs Skiotha," he bellowed, "most violent of all men!" His heaving black stepped forward. "I bear your fathers and your brothers upon my arms!" Heathen eyes flashed white from the shadows of their silvered helms. Several cried out.

"Who," Cnaiur roared, so fiercely all his skin seemed throat, "will murder me? murder me?"

A piercing, feminine cry. Cnaiur glanced back, saw the nameless woman swaying at the entrance of the nearest tent. She gripped the knife he'd thrown her, gestured with it for him to follow. For an instant, it seemed he'd always known her, that they'd been lovers for long years. He saw sunlight flash through the far side of the tent where she'd cut open the canvas. Then he glimpsed a shadow from above, heard something not quite . . . piercing, feminine cry. Cnaiur glanced back, saw the nameless woman swaying at the entrance of the nearest tent. She gripped the knife he'd thrown her, gestured with it for him to follow. For an instant, it seemed he'd always known her, that they'd been lovers for long years. He saw sunlight flash through the far side of the tent where she'd cut open the canvas. Then he glimpsed a shadow from above, heard something not quite . . .

Several Kianene cried out-a different terror.

Cnaiur thrust his left hand beneath his girdle, clutched tight his father's Trinket.

For an instant he met the woman's wide uncomprehending eyes, and over her shoulder, those of her baby boy as well . . . Somehow he knew that now-that he was a son.

He tried to cry out.

They became shadows in a cataract of shimmering flame.

One space.

And the crossings were infinite.

Kellhus had been five when he'd first set foot outside Ishual. Pragma Uan had gathered him and the others his age, bid them all hang onto a long rope. Then without explanation he led them down the terraces, out the Fallow Gate, and into the forest, stopping only when he reached a grove of mighty oaks. He allowed them to wander for a time-to sensitize themselves, Kellhus now knew. To the chattering of one hundred and seventeen birds. To the smells of moss along bark, of humus wheezing beneath little sandals. To the colours and the shapes: white bands of sunlight against copper gloom, black roots.

But for all this roaring and remarkable newness, Kellhus could think of nothing save the Pragma. In fact, he fairly trembled with anticipation. Everyone had seen Pragma Uan with the older boys. Everyone knew he taught what the older boys called the ways of limb . . .

Of battle.

"What do you see?" the old man finally asked, looking to the canopy above them.

There were many eager answers. Leaves. Branches. Sun.

But Kellhus saw more. He noticed the dead limbs, the scrum of competing branch and twig. He saw slender trees, mere striplings, ailing in the shadow of giants.

"Conflict," he said.

"And how is that, young Kellhus?"

Terror and exultation-the passions of a child. "The tr-trees, Pragma," he stammered. "They war for . . . for space space."

"Indeed," Pragma Uan replied, his manner devoid of anything save confirmation. "And this, children, is what I shall teach you. How to be a tree. How to war for space . . ."

"But trees don't move," another said.

"They move," the Pragma replied, "but they are slow. A tree's heart beats but once every spring, so it must war in all directions at once. It must branch and branch until it obscures the sky. But you, your hearts beat many, many times, you need only war in one direction at a time. This is how men seize space."

As old as he was, the Pragma seemed to pop to his feet. He brandished a stick.

"Come," he said, "all of you. Try to touch my knees." And Kellhus rushed with the others through the dappled sunlight. He squealed with frustration and delight each time the stick thwacked or poked him back. He watched in wonder as the old man danced and swirled, sent children flopping onto their rumps or rolling like badgers through the leaves. Not one touched his legs. Not one so much as stepped into the circle described by his stick.

Pragma Uan had been a triumphant tree. The absolute owner of one space.

Wrapped in tattered brown cloth, bearing shields of lacquered camel hides, the Khirgwi beat their lurching camels forward, brandished their wild scimitars. The air screamed with their ululations.

Kellhus raised his Dunyain steel.

They laughed and sneered. Desert-dark faces, so certain . . .

They came galloping toward the circle described by his sword.

Cnaiur kicked at his saddle and the blasted hulk of his horse. He pushed himself from the ash, blinked stinging smoke from his eyes. Ringing. Aside from smoke and the stink of scorched meat, the whole world was ringing. He could hear nothing else.

He found the burnt husks that had been the nameless woman and her child. He retrieved his knife, holding it gingerly by its charred grip.

It burned and did not burn, in the strange way sorcerous heat seeped into the real.

He began walking northward, passing among the sagging, curse-embroidered pavilions of the Ainoni. Pictogram banners fluttered in the wind. Behind him, Scarlet Schoolmen strode across the sky. Pillars of fire whooshed soundlessly. Lightning sheeted the distances. It seemed that men should shriek.

And he thought, Serwe . . . Serwe . . .

People, elated, terrified, bewildered, crowded about him. Though their mouths opened and their tongues flapped against their teeth, Cnaiur heard only ringing. He pressed them aside with hollow arms, continued walking.

Something ached in his left hand. He opened it, saw his father's Chorae. Dull even in sunlight, cluttered with senseless script, a grimy iron eyeball. Twice it had saved him.

He pressed it back beneath his girdle.

Then he heard the crack of lightning. The ringing faded into a piercing whine-almost inaudible. He paused, closed his eyes. Screams and shouts, this one far, that one near, very near. They etched the distances, sweeping out to the horizon of his hearing, finally vanishing in the ambient roar of battle and sea . . .

After a time he found Proyas's elaborate pavilion occupying a small knoll. How weathered it now looked, he thought, and sadness welled through him. Everything seemed so tired.

He found the old pavilion he'd shared with Kellhus nearby, creaking and flapping in the wind. A kettle sat next to the blackened pit. Smoke spiralled across the ground, raced between neighbouring tents.

Cnaiur's heart hammered. Had she gathered with the other followers to watch the battle from the southwestern edge of the encampment? Had the Kianene taken her? A beauty such as hers was sure to be taken, pregnant or not. She was a plaything of princes. An extraordinary gift! A prize!

The sound of her voice made him jump. A shriek . . .

For a moment he stood dumbfounded, unable to move. He heard a masculine voice, soft, cajoling, and yet somehow insanely cruel . . .

The ground dipped at Cnaiur's feet. He stumbled backward. One step. Two. His skin prickled to the point of stinging.

The Dunyain.

"Please!" Serwe screamed. "Pleasssse!"

The Dunyain!

How?

Cnaiur crept forward. His ribs seemed rock. He couldn't breathe! The knife trembled in his hand. He reached out, used the dagger's shaking tip to part the canvas flap.

The interior was too dark to see at first. He glimpsed shadows, heard Serwe's hitching sobs . . .

Then he saw her, kneeling naked before a towering shadow. One eye swelled shut, blood pulsing from her scalp and nose, sheeting her neck and her breasts.

What?

Without thinking, Cnaiur slipped into the gloom of the pavilion. The air reeked of foul rutting. The Dunyain whirled, as naked as Serwe, a bloody hand clamped about his engorged member.

"The Scylvendi," Kellhus drawled, his eyes blazing with lurid rapture. "I didn't smell you."

Cnaiur struck at his heart. Somehow the bloody hand flickered up, grazed his wrist. The knife dug deep just below the Dunyain's collarbone.

Kellhus staggered back, raised his face to the bellied canvas, and screamed what seemed a hundred screams, a hundred voices bound to one inhuman throat. And Cnaiur saw his face open open, as though the joints of his mouth were legion and ran from his scalp to his neck. Through steepled features, he saw lidless eyes, gums without lips . . .

The thing struck him, and he fell to one knee. He yanked his broadsword clear.

But it had vanished through the flap, leaping like some kind of beast.

With their horses dying beneath them, the scattered masses of Ainoni knights soon had no choice but to stand their ground. More and more, the Kianene rode howling into their midst, making targets of their white-painted faces in the sunny murk. Blood clotted luxurious square-cut beards. Pictogram standards were toppled and trampled. Dust transformed sweat into grime. Seriously wounded, Sepherathindor was carried from the forward ranks, where he "laughed with Sarothesser," as all Ainoni caste-nobles strove to do when certain of death.

Some, like Galgota, Palatine of Eshganax, charged down the slopes to escape, abandoning those kinsmen and clients who'd been unhorsed. Some, like cruel Zursodda, bled his people with reckless counterattacks until scarcely a mounted man remained. But others, like hard-hearted Uranyanka, or fair Chinjosa, the Count-Palatine of Antanamera, simply awaited each heathen onslaught. They bellowed encouragement to their men, disputed every dusty step. Again and again the Kianene charged. Horses screamed. Lances cracked. Men yelled and wailed. Scimitars and longswords rang across the slopes. And each time the Fanim reeled back, astounded by these defeated men who refused to be defeated.