If the Journey to the Swiftwater gorge had been dreary and subdued, the one away from it and along the escarpment rim back towards the west was worse. Korbillian and his companions now sat astride their own horses, those steeds brought from the north where the Empire men had been cut down. Each of them, isolated from the other on instruction from Wargallow, had only his thoughts for company. Korbillian was the only one not tied, for no one had dared touch those sheathed hands. He was silent, his thoughts and mood closed in upon themselves. His concern was for the safety of his companions, but it seemed that the Deliverers would not harm them if he made no move to disobey any of Wargallow's orders. Wargallow's intention clearly was to take them all to the Direkeep, but Korbillian had decided that it would be best for him to confront the Preserver. Yet he wondered if, at some point in the future, at the Keep perhaps, he would be forced to resort to the unleashing of power.

Wolgren, his hands tightly tied, had taken a long time to cool his anger and frustration after being taken by the Deliverers, although he knew he could do nothing about it. His life was in their hands and at any moment they could dispatch him. It should have terrified him, but he was far more worried about Sisipher. The Deliverers watched her closely, knowing that through her they controlled Korbillian. They were ready, at a glance from Wargallow, to kill her. Wolgren reflected on the killing of Taroc. He had never killed before, never seen death, and there had been a disturbing pleasure in seeing his knife sink home. But Taroc had to die, he reasoned, and there must be no remorse. He had become somehow alien, either mad or possessed. Something had taken him, Wolgren thought. Since he had learnt that power did exist, he accepted other apparently supernatural things that his fellows in Sundhaven would have scorned. How narrow their world was! What he could not understand, however, was the fact that Wargallow, a man sworn to destroy belief in power, should have used power—evil power—to bring his enemies to heel.

Guile, no longer trembling with the fear that the dizzy bridge had poured into him, sat on his horse with mixed feelings. Death hovered very close at hand, for these Deliverers did not seem to have minds of their own and operated strictly as instructed by their leader. Why had Korbillian not unleashed his powers to destroy them all? Ratillic had told him that it would be simple enough. Korbillian seemed afraid to use his powers, possibly because of whatever consequences would arise, but he was also, so it seemed, prepared to be taken to the Direkeep. He wanted to meet the Preserver: that must be it. Guile brightened. Even though Korbillian would not allow himself to kill, he would not allow his companions to die. True, he had not been able to save Ilassa, but that had been unexpected. As long as we remain with him, Guile told himself, we are reasonably safe.

Sisipher had felt herself shaking for a long time. It was as though she had been touched by a night creature that had considered drawing her to its black domain. She could still feel the chilling nearness of the Deliverer's claw, so close to her neck: in vain she tried to put from her thoughts that frightful moment. Taroc had been terrifying, for he had not been human. She had read something vile in him, animating his body as if moving a dead thing. Whatever Korbillian had tried to do with the power of the earth had turned back on itself. And the evil shapes beyond the rim of the gorge, they had been even more awful. Wargallow's stronghold could not possibly harbour anything as grim, or so she told herself. The future was a dark pool to her, and though she sought to see into it, she could not. Pain swam there, alongside fresh fear, but at least she could not see deep enough down to foresee her death.

Wargallow rode at the head of the party with Djemuta beside him. He had not so much as glanced back at his prisoners since they had been taken. He wanted them, particularly Korbillian, to understand how confident he was that they were secure. Djemuta rode haughtily, a smug grin on his face: his master was quite excellent, he reflected. How cunningly he had used and rejected the Children of the Mound.

'We are not at the Direkeep yet,’ Wargallow told him quietly.

'Sire?’

'You seem to think our work is over. I doubt that it is.’

'You think those creatures will follow?’

'They want Korbillian dead. More than anything.’

'And you, sire?’

'I want him alive, for the Preserver. There is something uncanny about him. From another world, they say.’

'Ridiculous!’ snapped Djemuta, dutifully. I have to be careful, he thought. By law, these people should be dead, but Wargallow is in command.

'It concerns me,’ said Wargallow. ‘We have been taught that even such thoughts deserve instant death. The Preserver will not tolerate them, of course. But does Korbillian truly possess power?’

'You cannot believe that, sire? Power does not exist.’

'I cannot believe it, no. But those creatures that serve the Mound, what are they? Not allies, for all their help. I cheated them, of course.’

'The Preserver will decide.’

'Of course. If there is doubt, we must go to him and confess our doubts. If doubting is itself a sin, he has the power to absolve it. That, or we must accept punishment for our doubting. If you can do that, Djemuta, you are a true Deliverer.’

This must be a test, thought Djemuta, trying to understand, knowing that he must pass it if he were to gain favour with the Preserver, whom he saw as supreme. ‘These people are clearly transgressors, sire. Why not kill them now and give their blood to the earth?’

'Because I feel that it is for the Preserver to decide. He may wish to make a supreme example of Korbillian, and by so doing, silence many doubters. He may have many secret followers.’

Djemuta accepted this: he had no doubts about Wargallow's loyalty to the cause. Wargallow smiled within his hood, having at last concluded that Djemuta would take the course that best served the Preserver. Whenever he had tested the man, it was clear he was committed to the Preserver and saw in his loyalty advancement. No, he would not be worthy of consideration to that inner circle of Deliverers, chosen by Wargallow to be his own Faithful, most secret of men. Wargallow had another reason for not killing Korbillian: he doubted his own ability to kill the man from Ternannoc. Ternannoc! he thought. Show me the door to this other world. Can it really exist? Has the Preserver hidden certain truths from us all?

They reached a place on the escarpment where it looked possible to descend to the plain below and where they could see the first of the Three Rivers winding westwards to the sea. Wargallow's plan was to cross the Camonile and follow its southern bank to the east before branching into the rugged foothills that led to the Direkeep. Wargallow thought briefly of the east and the powers there. He would have to take a strong force to investigate in the future, for the threat there could be more dangerous than was realised. He did not want to dwell on what he had seen of it, for it spoke of power, grim power, which could not be ignored.

The descent of the escarpment was difficult but not impossible, and the party managed it without injury. Once beyond the lower slopes, they soon rode into a vast expanse of woodland, leafless and bare, and their passage across the plain was easy enough. The skies brightened and all hint of storm dissipated, with even the eastern horizon free of cloud. Wargallow was making for a small trading post where there was a long bridge across the Camonile. The people at the post would not be troublesome, as they knew of the Deliverers and were careful to abide by the Word. Like many of the inhabitants of Omara, they wanted as little to do with the Deliverers as possible. Wargallow did nothing to dissuade them from their attitude.

On the journey through the forest, Wargallow called an overnight halt, ensuring that the captives were secured. He still kept them all well apart from each other, knowing it would add to their despondency. None of them had been able to speak to each other since the journey on horseback had begun. Wargallow made himself comfortable some distance from his men, wrapping up in a blanket; he fell asleep quickly.

Djemuta briefly checked to ensure that the prisoners were secured, then sat by the spluttering fire. It was the girl who fascinated him, for her features, especially her eyes, were like no others he had seen. He felt drawn to her, but knew she was a transgressor; to touch that fair skin, the dark flowing silk of her hair, would surely ensnare him. It is a natural longing, he thought, and yet another voice warned him that a more subtle force was at work. It would not be easy to give her blood to the earth. For a while he brooded, urging the dawn closer.

Sisipher had closed her eyes, but was not asleep. Many times she had tried to find Kirrikree with her mind, but had failed. There was only the darkness and silence beyond the trees. In the camp she could sense the sluggish thoughts of their captors, like creatures below the ground, not certain of themselves. Perhaps Kirrikree had gone for help, she wondered. Yet where would he find it? The owls of Ratillic? Would any of them have journeyed this far from the mountains?

A sound out in the woods brought every head snapping up. The guards bristled like hounds. There was movement at the edge of vision, and in the shadows all around the camp, figures waited. The clink of accoutrements sounded as clearly as a bell, and everyone came alert. Steel sang, flashing in the fire-glow.

'Who's there?’ a Deliverer challenged. They all feared the grim beings of the east. Wargallow was up and at the centre of things, studying his men, though all were prepared for conflict if necessary. He was pleased.

A single rider trotted out of the trees, garbed in the tunic of an Empire man. He bowed gently and gazed at the company, a grin that was a little scornful and a little amused on his face. He was young, confident, sure of his strength. ‘I am Ruan Dubhnor, from the Chain of Goldenisle. With me are a good many soldiers of the Emperor. In fact, your camp is surrounded by them.’ He looked as though he would chuckle.

'For what reason?’ said the hooded Wargallow. ‘Do you seek a conflict?’

Ruan laughed gently, almost politely. It was a measure of his confidence. ‘You appear ready for one. Who are you?’

'You are strangers to these lands,’ said Wargallow. ‘From the west, I understand. I cannot see that you have any rights here. In fact, it would be well for you to declare your purpose.’

Ruan's smile remained. He did not seem prepared to answer Wargallow's challenge. Instead he stared, now arrogantly, about him, noticing for the first time that there were prisoners here. ‘Well, well. Who are these unfortunates?’

'I owe you no explanations,’ insisted Wargallow coldly. ‘Take your men and ride away.’

Sisipher stared across at Guile, but he had turned his face away. Did he fear these men more than the Deliverers? Korbillian was also silent, watching with feigned disinterest.

'Well, now,’ said Ruan, apparently enjoying himself as he trotted his horse slowly around the ring of Deliverers. ‘You owe me no explanations, you say. I say in reply, that you are mistaken.’

Though Wargallow's face was hidden, his anger and malice were not.

'You have no business with us.’

Ruan turned on him, leaning forward. ‘Some days ago I sent a party of men northward into Strangarth's lands. They have not reported back. You wouldn't have seen them on your journey?’

'It seems that any number of your men ride across these lands at will. Perhaps this party you speak of is one of those we have seen.’

Ruan nodded. ‘You think so? And what happened to them?’

Wargallow did not answer.

'It seems at some point,’ went on Ruan, circling again, and his voice growing less warm, ‘that they became separated from their horses.’

Djemuta tensed, ready to kill. One gesture from his leader and he would hamstring Ruan's horse and finish this arrogant rider within moments. Wargallow felt the trap closing, knowing that the horses his men had been riding were those of Ruan's soldiers.

'Why should this concern me?’ he said, continuing the bluff while he prepared his mind for what would have to be a fight. As long as the numbers against them were not too great, they would survive.

'You see,’ smiled Ruan affably, ‘we found the horses. Tethered out there in the trees. But not the men.’

'So you are declaring us to be thieves?’

'You are the Deliverers,’ said Ruan. ‘I have heard many things about you. How you give blood to the earth.’

'That is so,’ nodded Wargallow. ‘There are laws that have to be upheld at any cost, evils that must be cut from the body of the world.’

'And my men? Has their blood fed the earth?’ Ruan's smile had been replaced by a cold stare.

'Not by my hand, nor by the hands of my Deliverers.’

'Then by whose?’

'We found the horses wandering loose, riderless.’

'All of them?’

'Indeed. Not a man with them. I assume Strangarth disposed of them. He is not a king who enjoys trespassers in his lands.’

Ruan snorted derisively. ‘Killed the men and released the horses? Good horses such as these?’

'Strangarth breeds better. He is renowned for it, though you seem to know little about him and his country. Otherwise you would not have been so foolish as to send such a small party into his lands. You have no rights there.’

Ruan thought about this, certain that the Deliverer was lying about the death of the men.

'Since the horses are yours,’ Wargallow told him, ‘you may take them.’

Again Ruan laughed. ‘Rest assured that I will.’

'When I have finished with them. For the moment I need them.’

Ruan stared in surprise, as though not quite able to comprehend what he had been told.

Wargallow ignored his expression. ‘I am in haste to return to the Direkeep. Once I am there, I will see that the horses are returned to you.’

'And if I demand them now?’

'Why should you? Do you not have enough?’

Ruan looked away, circling again. His horse seemed nervous, as if the smell of so much steel frightened it. Ruan knew that he had the upper hand in this business. He had enough men surrounding the camp to force any issue, no matter how good these Deliverers were (and word had it that they were superb fighting men). Wargallow's coolness worried Ruan. What trick did he hold? Why was he so calm? I must act with care, Ruan told himself. There is no need for blood, and they may not have killed our men. He studied the prisoners, and for the first time noticed them properly. He almost toppled from his horse, but controlled himself at once. What a blind fool! he shouted inwardly. They are here! Right under my nose. The man of power that I was told to send men to find—and the one called Guile. Sitting before me. Now I must step very gently.

He turned back to Wargallow. ‘I see these people are prisoners. Might I know who they are and why you hold them?’

'The horses you may have, in time,’ said Wargallow. ‘But that is all I will give you. My business is the Preserver's only.’

'You are testing my patience.’

Korbillian, who had been sitting beneath a tree, now stood up. It was impossible to prevent him from speaking, Wargallow knew.

'Who is your master?’ Korbillian asked Ruan.

The question fell like an axe, and Ruan stared at him as if he had said something offensive. ‘Quanar Remoon, Emperor of Goldenisle.’

'And who commands you here in the east?’

'Morric Elberon. Why do you ask?’

'Why is he here?’

Ruan laughed, throwing back his head, but the tension in him grew tighter.

Wargallow had come forward. ‘If your Emperor thinks to conquer this continent, that is his affair. Who rules these lands is immaterial. But the Preserver is not to be disobeyed. The Abiding Word is his law. If you conquer, you must yet accept the Word and be bound by it.’

'Keep your wilderness!’ Ruan chuckled. ‘And your laws.’

Korbillian frowned. If these men did not want the land for conquest, what did they seek here? Still it was a mystery.

'I say again,’ said Wargallow, ‘that the law must be kept.’

'And if not?’

Wargallow gently let his killing hand slide into the firelight. ‘Those who transgress will forfeit.’

Ruan felt a deep instinctive terror, although he masked it well. ‘I think not,’ he said, but his voice had dropped, the words hardly formed. Slowly he dismounted and stepped toward Wargallow, though he felt as if he were approaching his own execution. ‘We must speak privately. I see no reason for blood to be spilled here,’ he said, so that only Wargallow could hear.

'I agree,’ nodded Wargallow equally softly, but he had not retracted his killing hand. ‘Leave us alone. The horses will be returned.’

They walked a little way from the others, but the Deliverers watched every move closely. ‘This man you have with you,’ said Ruan, his voice now little more than a whisper, ‘he whose hands are sheathed. Is he your prisoner?’

'It does not concern you.’

Ruan fought down his anger at this repeated stubbornness. ‘I think it does. You see, Morric Elberon has issued orders that we are to search for two men who have fled from the Emperor. You serve the Preserver, while I serve the Emperor. These men have, in some way, defied the Emperor. I have not been told how, but evidently it is in some way that has greatly angered him. Have they also defied the Preserver?’

Wargallow saw now the real reasons for the persistence of the man before him. ‘I cannot release the man Korbillian to you. He must go before the Preserver in the Direkeep. Should you seek to take him by force, we will not be easily overcome, and each Deliverer will fight to the death.’

'I understand that. It is commendable. As a soldier, my actions would be the same. But I have no wish to involve my men in a bloody exchange. I also have no wish to offend the Preserver. Morric Elberon has issued orders that the Abiding Word is not to be abused.’

'Then perhaps we understand each other,’ said Wargallow.

'I must ask you, though, about this other man, Guile. What is he to you?’

Wargallow considered carefully. It seemed as if Ruan was prepared to compromise, even though he must believe Wargallow's men had killed the men whose horses they now rode. Yet unless Ruan was foolish, or lying, surely his prime target would be Korbillian and the secrets that he possessed. What could he want with the other, who appeared to be little more than an opportunist?

'If he means little to you,’ Ruan went on, ‘I would be prepared to leave you in peace, if you give him to me. Morric Elberon particularly wants him.’

'What has the man done to warrant such interest?’

'As I told you, I have not been informed. But nothing light, I assure you. You can assume that once the Emperor has him, his blood will be spilled. Give him to me, and I'll report to Morric Elberon that the other is dead. Forget the horses. Keep them.’

'You will tell Morric Elberon that Korbillian is dead?’

'Whatever you prefer.’

'Say he has gone to the north, to the ice fastnesses. But that he is not dead.’

'Very well.’

'Wait here.’ Wargallow brushed past him and went to his prisoners. Korbillian had been watching with interest, but had heard nothing. Wargallow stopped beside Sisipher and spoke to the Deliverer who was never more than a step away from her side. Slowly the man let his killing hand drop close to the girl's neck. It would have taken an instant only to sever it. Korbillian could read treachery in every move.

Wargallow crossed to Guile, who now looked at him dubiously. He would like to have heard the private discussion he had seen. The Deliverer bent down and in a move so swift that it defied the eye, sliced through Guile's bonds. Guile stood up, massaging his wrists. The steel had not touched his skin.

'I understand you are from the Chain,’ Wargallow said to him.

'I've been there,’ Guile said defensively.

'Really? It does not concern me.’

Guile looked strangely at Ruan as he remounted his horse. Once astride it, he put one hand on the hilt of his sword. Korbillian came forward, knowing at once that the threat of violence was over. Something had been decided, and there would be no bloodshed.

'What is happening?’ he said.

'This man is to go with the Emperor's soldiers,’ said Wargallow diffidently.

'Why?’

Wargallow had already turned his back. ‘It does not concern you.’

'He travels with me,’ said Korbillian.

Wargallow pointed with his killing hand at Sisipher. ‘As long as you desire the girl's safety, you are in no position to make demands.’

Korbillian's face clouded, and for one moment it seemed as though he would erupt with fury. He looked up at Ruan, who had brought his horse closer. ‘Why do you want him?’

Ruan shrugged. ‘I have my orders.’

'From whom?’

'Enough!’ snapped Wargallow. ‘Take him away.’

Ruan pulled out his short sword. He gestured to Guile. ‘Come!’

Guile turned to Korbillian. ‘They'll kill the girl if you argue.’

'Why do they want you?’

'They'll not tell you. These damned troops are loyal to a man. But I cannot believe Quanar Remoon wants me. You know he was glad enough to dismiss both of us. I have enemies at court, but they, too, would be happy to see me as far away from Goldenisle as this dreary place.’

'Enough chatter!’ snapped Ruan, beginning to sound irritable.

'I dare not use force,’ Korbillian breathed.

'You must think of the girl,’ Guile agreed softly. Then he turned to his captor, making a show of putting on a brave face. ‘Very well, lead on. I'll come without bloodshed, though you'll appreciate I cannot do much harm with only my bare hands.’ He held them up with a forced grin, but no one smiled. He glanced again at Korbillian. ‘I'll likely be in better hands with these men of Empire than the Deliverers.’ As he went, he gave Wolgren a cheery wave, but the youth did not grin back. He imagined Guile was going to his death.

Sisipher wanted to cry out, but the icy blade at her neck kept her rigid. In a moment the night had taken both rider and captive. Guile was gone, and there had been no finger raised to save him.

Korbillian came angrily to Wargallow. ‘If he dies—”

Wargallow did not answer, nor seem perturbed by the threat.

'Why did they want him?’ Korbillian persisted.

'It does not concern me. But it seemed prudent to avoid conflict. Your companion has bought our safe passage, so perhaps you should be grateful. He may survive, but I think the Preserver would have killed him.’

'You hold life cheaply.’

'That is not so. We are alive.’

'And my other companions? Will the Preserver attempt to kill them?’

'It is not for me to say.’ Wargallow moved away, soon afterwards returning to his bed.

Korbillian would have spoken to the girl, in spite of the steel at her neck, but she had slumped forward, not asleep, but deep in thought. She appeared abjectly miserable. Wolgren, too, seemed to be succumbing to despondency, his youthful zest worn down by the coldness of Wargallow's purpose. The loss of Guile was like a blow to their faith in Korbillian. Korbillian went back to his own place, aware that each move he made was closely watched.

I had little choice, he told himself. I saved the girl, whose gift I need. But what will happen to Guile? I was responsible for him, and I have not served him well in this business. Yet I could not afford a battle. There may yet be a chance to win him back.

Reason told him otherwise.