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  "I am Byrnak, Warlord of Honjir." His smile widened and he laughed loudly, a brutal sound that echoed from the steep mountainsides. He glanced at the woman beside him. "Perhaps I shall take a new title, eh, little hawk?" He lifted her lolling head. "Look, there's your prey. Study them well."

  The woman gazed across at Suviel who shivered at that empty, void-like regard. Then those eyes moved to look at Keren, the unconscious warrior, and quivering alarm crossed the woman's features as her mouth tried to frame words.

  "Hush," said Byrnak. "Be calm. That one is a creature of evil, a thief who stole my prize and my trust, and who means to steal your very soul. Hear me.." He turned her head and stared into her eyes, "...your name is Nerek and you are my handmaiden. I will teach you things that will help you exact vengeance - "

  "Stop this...!" Suviel cried.

  " - and retribution against those who would deny us our destinies."

  With an arm round her waist, Byrnak led her back to the waiting riders, helped her onto the horse used by the youth, then mounted his own. Without a backward glance he led the band away at a gallop, heading up the track by the riverbed.

  Suviel watched them ride out of sight, scarcely able to believe what she had witnessed. The creation of a mirrorchild was a violation of nature, an abomination that would have been impossible before the obliteration of the Rootpower. She had only ever heard of such a thing from her tutors, so what could Byrnak's brazen demonstration of Wellsource power mean?

  Her hands were shaking. She clasped them together, knuckles whitening as she forced the turmoil of her thoughts to recede, allowing the canto of Clarity to grow in strength. Composed once more, she laid calm hands on Keren's face, massaging the temples, stroking the closed eyes.

  As she worked, Keren's companion, the wounded boy, mumbled and shifted where he lay, pushing himself up on his good arm. Suviel looked at him and saw in his face a mixture of fear and exhaustion.

  "Is he here?" he said in a wavering voice, and Suviel knew immediately that he meant Byrnak. "I heard him...please help me, don't let him do it again, please, oh, please..."

  "It's all right," Suviel said soothingly, swallowing her pity and rage. "You're with friends. He can't get you here.We're safe." He relaxed and sank back a little. "What's your name?" she went on.

  "Tauric dor-Barledh," he said hesitantly. "My father is...was the Duke of Patrein."

  "That's in eastern Khatris," she said. "How did you come to be in Honjir?"

  "The warlord Gizehr attacked our keep. He claimed that we were aiding another Mogaun chief, Vashad, but we weren't, we wouldn't dare. My father's priest smuggled me out before the attack began..." His voice broke and tears spilled from his eyes. "They hung the dead from the walls!...My father!..." Weeping, Tauric lay down again, face buried in the crook of his good arm. Suviel felt helpless in the presence of such sorrow and, sensing that Keren was beginning to recover, she reached out to gently stroke the boy's hair.

  "In the Mother's name," Keren groaned, holding her head as she sat upright. "What did that bastard do to me?"

  "Stole some of your essence," Suviel told her. "Oh, not much, just enough for his purpose." And she told Keren what Byrnak had done, and all that had happened. When she finished, the warrior looked pale and shaken.

  "A mirrorchild," she muttered. "That's only a fireside tale."

  "You saw Byrnak throw that fireball," Suviel said. "I assume you've never seen him do that before."

  "No, I - " Keren paused, warily eyeing her. "That was clever. All right, I rode with Byrnak's warband for a few years, shared his bed, too, for a while. Does that make me untrustworthy?"

  Suviel shook her head and indicated Tauric, now semi-conscious again. "You rescued him from whatever foulness was being inflicted on him. That tells me a lot about you." She regarded Keren. "It also gives me some idea of your resilience."

  Keren stood up, wiped hands on her grubby tunic and massaged her neck. "So Byrnak is a mage of some kind, like you - "

  "No! He's nothing like me!" Suviel said sharply. "What he did was with the aid of the Wellsource. I, however, am a student of the Lesser Power."

  "I see," Keren said uncomfortably. "Well, we'd best be on our way. When Byrnak promises revenge, he's usually impatient to taste it."

  "The boy Tauric really needs proper tending," Suviel said, bending closer to look at him. "But you're right - it is too dangerous for us to stay here much..."

  "We still need somewhere to go," Keren went on. "Somewhere close because I don't think the lad here can stand a long ride. Our escape from Byrnak's camp just about killed him..."

  Suviel was not listening. She had squatted down beside Tauric and was carefully brushing the hair away from the back of his neck with trembling hands. And there, exposed to her disbelieving eyes was a purplish-brown birthmark the size of her thumb. It resembled a wolfhawk with its swept-back wings outstretched, and the last time she had seen such a mark was sixteen years ago on the bare shoulder of the Emperor Korregan as the master of the arsenal helped him into his armour before leaving for the plateau of Arengia.

  "What's wrong?" said Keren. "Is he - "

  "No," Suviel said, her thoughts whirling. "No, he's just sleeping."

  She stood, looking down at Tauric. How could this be? she wondered. Every member of the Imperial family, no matter how minor, had been hunted down and slaughtered by the Acolytes soon after the Mogaun invasion. Was this boy the result of an Imperial indiscretion, perhaps, sent in secret to be brought up by this Duke of Patrein? He looked to be about seventeen, so it was possible. One thing was certain - she sensed in Tauric not a spark of the mage ability that was the blood heritage of the Imperial line. Clandestine enquiries would have to be made to discover just who he was, and there was only one place in the entire continent where such questions could be asked in safety.

  Suviel straightened, breathed in deeply and glanced up at the sky.

  "There'll be rain soon," said Keren. She was attending to her and Tauric's horses, tightening their saddles, wiping down their flanks. "Another reason to be on our way. North of here is the Forest of Varadin - that would offer some shelter."

  "We should head south," Suviel said, smiling her best wise smile when Keren frowned. "I know a place where we will be safe from Byrnak and his like."

  "Really? And what is the name of this wonderful bolthole?"

  "In the old tongue it was called Krusivel but you might know of it as the Redoubt."

  Keren paused, eyes widening for a moment then narrowing. "Another word out of legend. I suppose the Emperor lives there, waiting to ride out and retake all his lands."

  "There are no ghosts there," Suviel said. "Except the ones we carry with us." She studied Keren whose mouth was set in a bitter line as she repacked the saddlebags. "I realise that I'm asking you take a lot on faith. It must be difficult learning how to trust someone, or relearning."

  Keren made no answer, buckling the bags shut with a firm grip. Then she sighed and looked Suviel straight in the eye. "Very well," she said simply. "We will go with you. But if he comes to any harm, I will kill you."

  Suviel met her level gaze and nodded. "I hear what you say," she said formally. "Now, I think you and I had better lift Tauric onto his horse together."

  * * *

  Holding the reins of Nerek's horse with his own, Byrnak rode on at the head of his riders as they cantered along a bushy ravine. He was weary to the bone yet driven by an energy that burned in his head like cold fire and gave him strength. He sensed the uneasy looks from his men and heard their whispers, but felt contempt for their fears. What could they know of the changes he was undergoing? It was as if a mighty maelstrom had snatched him into its inexorable inward swirl and was drawing him slowly into its vast heart. They were right to be afraid, for a part of him was afraid too.

  He could not help recalling the dread nightmare of the three masked riders and their groaning horses. Had he been possessed by some fragment of the Lord of Twilight back at the c
hasm? The things he had done...he had not paused to think of creating a ball of fire in his hand, he had merely reached for it and it had appeared. Then there was Keren's double - a calculating fury had come over him and his mind, suddenly quicksilver and pitiless, had sorted through a number of possibilities and decided upon the creation of a mirrorchild. All done with a ruthless and cruel delight, which struck joy and fear into him in equal measure.

  He glanced at her swaying drowsily in her saddle, and shivered pleasurably. His thoughts seemed bigger and stronger and the world was less daunting, more willing to be altered, directed. Byrnak grinned, wanting to throw his head back howl with laughter, to dare the mountains, the sky, the day and the night to oppose him...

  A horseman, one of the advance scouts, came trotting round a bend in the ravine up ahead, approached Byrnak and reined himself alongside.

  "Lord, we found four men in a clearing further along. Their leader says he wishes to speak with you."

  "What are they?" Byrnak said, staring into midair as he rode on.

  "They dress as merchants," the scout said. "But only their leader leaves his face uncovered."

  "Then let us not keep them waiting." And he urged his mount into a gallop, as did the rest of the warband.

  The clearing was dim from the ancient trees that sheltered it. Above the canopy it was raining and here and there a few rivulets of water splashed on the flattened grass. As Byrnak entered the clearing he took in the strangers in a single glance: four men in cloaks over leather armour, three of them seated on a log and wearing face-concealing helms. He dismounted swiftly and walked over to the fourth, a tall, helmetless grey-hair who stood apart from the others, head bowed.

  "Who are you?" Byrnak demanded.

  The tall man raised his head and Byrnak had to force himself to show no reaction: the man's eyes were completely white.

  "I am Obax," he said in a deep, steady voice. "I was sent by your brothers to greet you in their name."

  Nightmare images filled his mind's eye, masked riders, the horses whose eyes were chalk-white orbs...Without looking away from those narrow, lined features he stretched out one hand and pointed at the man's three companions.

  "And these?"

  "My servants and guards."

  "Since you are now under my protection, you have no further need of them." He turned to one of the company sergeants. "Kill them."

  The fight was short but brutal. When it was over one of Byrnak's men was dead and another had lost a hand, but the three guards were slain, their helms torn away to reveal snouted, bestial faces. And through it all, the man calling himself Obax displayed no emotion of any kind. Byrnak ordered his men to make camp, then detailled two of his best fighters to stay with him as he dragged the unresisting Obax off into the darkening wood. Once out of sight of the clearing he turned to Obax.

  "What are you? Why are you here?"

  "I am honoured to be an Acolyte, a Nightbrother of the Twilight Path." The pale, milky eyes seemed to stare through him. "My duty and pleasure is to become your thrall, to carry you across the Realm of Dusk, and to show you the Great Source."

  Byrnak slowly licked dry lips. "How will you do this?"

  "I can show you - " Obax raised a long-fingered hand between them, " - now."

  He almost stepped back but held his ground, saying to his two men; "Draw your blades and stand either side of him - if I seem to be in danger, kill him."

  When they were ready, he stared at Obax for a long moment then nodded.

  "Begin."

  * * *

  By the time they returned to the clearing, night had fallen and most of the men were asleep, blanket-wrapped forms clustered around a couple of campfires. Byrnak dismissed his guards and told Obax to help himself to whatever food was available and find a place to sleep. The Acolyte wordlessly bowed his head, went over to the nearest fire, ignored the gently-steaming pot that rested among the coals and sat on a log, pulling his cloak tightly about himself.

  Byrnak walked heavily across to his tent, the only tent, stumbled past the flaps into the lamplit interior and slumped down on the end of his fur-heaped pallet. There was movement beneath the furs and the woman sat up at the other end, startled gaze fixed on him. But his eyes were still seeing the hazy regions of the Realm of Dusk, the pale forest of skeletal trees whose brittle branch ends broke into twisted shards which scurried away into the undergrowth, the two immense towers whose pillars wept ghosts, the crumbling, hollow stone colossus with its half-mouth whispering rhymes in an unintelligible tongue. There, in the Realm of Dusk, Obax took the shape of one of the deathly steeds and had carried Byrnak past all these sights and more, finally bringing him to a shattered, peakless titanic mountain and to the awesome wonder that pulsed at its core - the Wellsource.

  Now, when he tried to recall its form, only fragmentary images would come to mind - was it a heart pumping iridescent flame, or a fountaining column, or a moaning whirlwind veined with lightning, or a cloudy thing of levers and crystalline planes? He did remember how it called to him, to the cold fire that blazed in his head. It had known him, and his destiny.

  Byrnak became aware of the woman's unwavering stare, moved up the pallet and pulled the furs aside. She was naked, her pale-skinned, rounded form sending lust rushing through him. Then he took her, sating himself, and she made no sound. Only when he was done did she say, in a voice desperate with need: "Who am I? Please tell me - who am I?"

  Chapter Five

  Towards the glutted margins of battle they ride,

  With their greying hair and rusting blades.

  —Kovalti, Ode To The Warrior

  It was a cold, grey autumn morning in the Bachruz Mountains, cold without being icy, grey without the promise of an imminent downpour. Mist veiled the cruel crags and pinnacles and hid from view the few streams that wound along ravines and gorges worn deep by uncountable summers and winters. One of these streams, a river almost, came down from the highest snow-wrapped slopes, tumbling through mossy,boulder-strewn gullies till it reached the upper reaches of a high, sheltered valley called Krusivel. There, the waters slowed and widened towards the north of the valley where they fed a small lake and the town gathered around its banks. A runoff stream led away from the lake's northeast bank to a notch at the edge of a sheer drop, near the foot of a natural rock tower rooted in the cliffs themselves. The stream flung itself over the brink and into the air, falling from such a height that it bathed the barren rocks below in never-ending spray.

  A philosophically-minded townsperson might have pondered that long journey and wondered why anything would travel so far only to leap into oblivion.

  That morning, two men sat on a boulder near the edge of those falls. The taller and older of the two wore thick woollen breeches and a battered-looking black jerkin of quilted leather. His companion, a short, burly man in a trader's many-pocketed tunic, poured pale wine into a wooden beaker which he then handed over.

  Ikarno Mazaret, Lord Commander of the Knights of the Order of the Fathertree, accepted the cup and took a mouthful. He let the pungent savour fill his head before swallowing, then whistled.

  "What a vintage," he said. "That has to be the finest cup of Ebroan white I've ever tasted." He ran his tongue around the inside of his mouth. "What a difference from these Honjir ales, which are fine in their way, you understand. And as for asmirith, that distilled furnace-milk..."

  His companion leaned forward with the bottle but Mazaret shook his head.

  "One's enough this early, Gilly," he said. "Besides, you didn't come all this way just to bring me a flask of wine."

  "Well, I also happen to have a piece of Cabringan cheese," said the man called Gilly, producing a wax-paper package from a pocket and unwrapping it. "But if you'd rather not..."

  "Daemon in human form," Mazaret growled with a smile, reaching for the cheese and breaking off a piece. As he chewed, enjoying the sharp tang, he regarded his companion levelly.

  "So the news is bad, then?"


  Gilly shrugged, then poured himself a cup of wine. He was a round-faced, bearded man whose affable demeanour belied his lethal abilities with the broadsword.

  "Depends on your definition of 'bad'. Our sympathisers in the east have all promised to keep sending supplies through our people in Scallow, but the Sejeend and Oumetra cabals have decided to reduce their contributions."

  Mazaret's heart sank. "Why?"

  "They're impatient, Ikarno. Damn it, everyone is impatient. They all seem to think that you're sitting up here in charge of ten, fifteen, twenty thousand hardened warriors, each ten feet tall and able to blow arrows from their nostrils!" He gave a lop-sided grin. "Of course, I couldn't confirm or deny such speculations, being a mere messenger."

  Mazaret sighed and ran a hand through his bushy, greying hair. "What about the Mogaun troop strengths? Any reliable numbers?"

  "Some, yes. In Cabringa the tribes can field about four and a half, five thousand, mostly light cavalry; in Kejana, about three and a half thousand split equally between cavalry and foot soldiers; and in Dalbar it comes to roughly nineteen hundred, again half cavalry, half on foot. The Ogucharn Isles scarcely matter - there's only a couple of minor tribes there, totalling maybe eight hundred."

  "And Yasgur?"

  The trader smiled and examined his fingernails for a moment before looking up. "At least fourteen thousand, of which two thousand are heavy cavalry, another four thousand light cavalry, and the rest foot troops."

  Mazaret looked away, not wanting Gilly to see the dismay in his eyes. Instead he gazed at the nearby stream as it rushed away over the edge of the cliff and tried to make sense of the numbers and totals that filled his head. Since the invasion sixteen years ago, the military strength of the tribes had waned, some by nearly half. Except for Yasgur.

  Son of Hegroun, the Warchief who led the Mogaun invasion seventeen years ago, Yasgur had held northern Khatris and all Mantinor during the chaos that followed his father's death just months after the fall of Besh-Darok. In the years since he had forged an alliance with several noble families, initially as a response to the incursions and raids by neighbouring warchiefs eager to grab Hegroun's prize. His army was now the largest of any warlord, its ranks filled with recruits drawn from the native Khatrisian and Mantinoren peoples as well as his own tribe.