Brannog now had a full company of some fifty Earthwrought to accompany him on his search for Korbillian and his daughter. They led him through a remarkable system of burrows and caves, Ygromm explaining that many of these were the work of creatures long extinct, others were made by beings who had migrated far to the west and gone below the sea. At times it was impossible for Brannog to negotiate the narrow workings and detours had to be made, while at others the delvings were almost like caves. They came to one place where a vertical shaft about a hundred feet across sank down into what must be the very bowels of the earth. There were tunnels that they rushed past for fear of something unpleasant emerging, and others where the Earthwrought spoke with sadness of friends who had strayed and never returned. Ygromm insisted that it was yet safer to keep below ground until word came to them from above. Brannog was not certain how far-seeing the Earthwrought could be down here, but they had allies, it seemed, and had their own special communication with creatures of earth and sky. He had no reason to doubt them, but knew that they held the surface in great fear, having been mistreated there whenever they dared emerge. Yet now they were working their way nearer to the surface with every step, and Brannog could see far more complex and larger root systems about him. He was supplied with food from time to time, mostly a peculiar fungus-like growth, although he dared not eat too much of it as it seemed to put strange visions in his head. On the move, he felt at times as if he were gliding through the ground, and had to shake himself to escape the mild hallucinations. Any sleep he snatched down here was full of dancing lights and abstract shapes, so that whenever he felt himself on the edge of real sleep he dragged himself back, panic lapping at him.

At last Ygromm came to him, somewhat breathlessly, after he had sent scouts upward through a narrow funnel of earth to possible daylight. ‘They have been sighted!’ he said. ‘The scouts have spoken to the horned folk, who saw them, and the skywatchers say that they are in the gorge of the river Swiftwater. But there is great danger.’ Ygromm answered Brannog's rapid questions, and the latter learned that it was Korbillian and the others in the gorge, with two men he knew nothing about.

'One of these men is evil,’ said Ygromm with a shudder. ‘I have heard this from other sources beneath the land. This man was put into the earth.’

'Buried?’

'Not dead, no. He was put there to heal him of wounds he had received. The man Korbillian knows the old rituals and sought to draw strength from the earth. Yet something got the scent of the wounded man and instead of succouring him, the earth poured darkness into him, the darkness that the evil from the east controls. Now he rides with Korbillian, and from what I hear, none of them understand what it is that sits with them. Also above the gorge there is terrible evil. The stones-that-move.’ Ygromm described them and Brannog shuddered.

'How soon can we get to the gorge?’

'By evening at the earliest, with every speed. There is a cave system not far from us that will take us to the bottom of the gorge far more quickly than a surface journey.’

Brannog wondered if this were the truth, knowing Ygromm's fears. At night they would be far happier on the surface. He nodded, however, and encouraged the little figures around him to make all speed. ‘What are these stones-that-move?’ he asked Ygromm as they sped along.

'The eastern power can pour life into them like blood into veins. The power of this black blood gives a kind of life to the stones. I have never seen them, only heard of them and tales about them are probably distorted. But I am afraid that even the worst tales about the east, even the most exaggerated, may be less than the real truth, for the east is truly a bad place. Have you seen madness?’ he added.

Brannog thought carefully. ‘Once, in a village dog.’

'There is no reason in such a thing. The east seems to be invested with such a madness, and yet with a purpose. I cannot say why.’

'Korbillian does not realise this,’ said Brannog. ‘To him the east is like the mad village dog, wild and without purpose. Mindless. It is vital that he be told the truth.’

They made all haste, but Brannog feared they would get to the others too late to prevent their impending clash with whatever lurked across the Swiftwater. Even though they were now in well-worn passageways that made progress easier, Brannog and the Earthwrought knew that evening had come and that Korbillian had been in the gorge many hours before. Much depended on where they would stop for the night. Ygromm was hoping to have word from the surface, from the deer he called the horned folk, or from other wild creatures, but the land above was devoid of such. The skies were also empty. Something had long since frightened them all away from the gorge, leaving a residue of terror clinging to it.

'Can you hear?’ Ygromm asked Brannog at last, and the latter nodded. It was the roar of the river, surging through the bottom of the deep gorge. It sounded some distance away, but as they rounded a curve in the tunnel, they found they were very close.

The noise rose in volume and they had to shout to make themselves heard. ‘They will have crossed the bridge, high above us,’ said Ygromm. ‘When we learn if they have gone over, we can follow. Best for us to go beneath the river.’

They emerged now from the earth, and Brannog blinked. Daylight was fading and hardly reached down to this great gash in the rock. He stood on a broken slab that jutted over the foaming water, watching in fascination the mad plunge, the boiling foam. The sides of the gorge seemed to rise up forever, their tops lost way overhead. ‘Is there no word?’ he asked.

'Scouts are searching,’ replied Ygromm, scowling at the river. But there is no life here. Only the river, and it has nothing to say to us.’

'And the stones-that-move?’

'Gone, I think. Eastwards.’

'In pursuit?’

Ygromm shrugged. They waited, deafened by the waters, until the various scouts came back. Some had scaled the rock walls, nimble as spiders, some had gone under the river to tunnels there, but all reported the same thing, that there was no life. Ygromm said they must go up to the Swiftwater Bridge. Only there could they know for sure that Korbillian had passed by.

Brannog stared up into the darkening fastness above. ‘Can I climb this gorge? You have skills that I do not possess, Ygromm.’

Ygromm pointed down the gorge. ‘There is a way that is easier.’ As he did not elaborate, Brannog assumed that he referred to a path of some kind. Possibly wild goats lived here and had made a path up, just as the wild sheep of the mountains behind Sundhaven did. If not, the climb would be bad enough by day, but at night, not one he wanted to contemplate. His role as champion of these little people was a fragile one, he knew.

A few hundred yards down the gorge they stopped. Another scout was coming towards them from down river, his scowling face anxious. ‘Here!’ he barked. ‘I've found one!’

Brannog's heart pumped and his body froze. At once he went over the rocks, moving dangerously quickly, for there was always the threat of a fall, a smashed limb, and yet his feet were surprisingly sure. Which one had been found? Dead? There was no time for talk. High above them they could just discern the span of the Swiftwater Bridge, but there was no movement.

The scout pointed to a place among the rocks where sand and shingle had built up over the centuries, forming a basin, a miniature beach trapped in walls of rounded rock. Brannog had his axe ready, for he trusted nothing in this ominous landscape. There was a body there. His heart pounded. It was a man. With Ygromm beside him, he went to it, scrambling down the slippery rocks to jump into the shingle. Carefully he turned the body to see the face, but it was that of a stranger.

'A man of Strangarth's kingdom,’ Ygromm said, and explained. ‘He was with Korbillian, one of the two strangers.’

'The evil one?’

But Ygromm shook his head. Brannog started to examine the body. He found bruises, but no wounds. ‘He must have fallen from the bridge,’ he said, peering up again at the span high above. ‘A fight?’

Ygromm had stiffened, his head bent upwards like that of a scenting wolf. ‘Blood!’ he hissed. ‘On the bridge.’

Brannog felt caged, trapped down here without knowing what had happened. Were they all dead? Prisoners? ‘We must get up there as fast as we can.’

Ygromm scowled down at the body. He bent to it, putting his ear to it, then gasped, and the sound came clearly to Brannog in spite of the roar of the waters so close to them. ‘He lives!’

'It's not possible.’

'It may not be for long.’ Ygromm gave a great shout and the Earthwrought scampered towards them from where they had been keeping watch. Ygromm hissed instructions and at once as many of them as could gathered around the body of the fallen man. Brannog could not see clearly, but they all appeared to put their hands on the man. Ygromm began a deep rumble, which was quickly joined, and the Earthwrought worked together. Brannog shook his head. Here was another aspect of power, magic, whatever it was, that he had been taught did not exist in Omara. But he knew now, could feel in his own bones, that it was very real.

Long moments passed, until eventually Ygromm drew back. There was a unified sigh from the Earthwrought, which Brannog felt like a ripple through his body. The little men relaxed, slumping back on to the rocks, breathing heavily as if they had all been running for many miles. Ygromm beckoned Brannog to him.

'Can you save him?’

'We have read things,’ said Ygromm. ‘There was a fight on the bridge. Swords.’ He was able to tell Brannog everything that had happened up to the moment that Ilassa had fallen from the span. Beyond that Ygromm could not say. ‘I think,’ he ventured, ‘that Korbillian and the others must be prisoners, not of the east, but of Simon Wargallow. Unless he has already given their blood to the earth. But I doubt that. We would know.’

'Whose is the blood on the bridge?’ said Brannog.

'It is a man's. It may be the blood of the man Taroc, the evil one, who sent Ilassa over the edge, or it may be the blood of a Deliverer spilled in the fight. We must climb to find out. There will be a trail to follow.’

'To the east?’

'The stones-that-move are not commanded by Wargallow, and yet—”

'You fear an alliance?’

Ygromm grimaced. ‘We will know when we reach the bridge.’

Brannog looked down at Ilassa. The man was white, one side of his face badly bruised, swollen and blackened. ‘We should bury him, or is it dangerous?’

'We will carry him. He still lives, but it will need many more workings to save him.’

'Then he can be restored? Is that possible?’

'I cannot promise it.’

'Then you must try.’

Ygromm nodded. Soon afterwards he called to his fellows and they took up the burden without a hint of complaint. Ygromm told them sternly that this was to be an important test for them, to see if the new sharing with the overmen was to be approved by whatever powers watched over them all. ‘Do well with this fallen one,’ he said, ‘and it will bring great favour with the Wormslayer.’ If circumstances had been different, Brannog would have smiled at the little man.

They began the long climb, and although it was tortuous and hazardous for Brannog, he surprised himself, drawing on strength he had not been aware of previously. The land held no terrors for him, and the Earthwrought made light work of the climb, even with their burden. They reached a place where they could join the path that led along to the Swiftwater Bridge. Once on this path they moved quickly, surrounded by darkness. There was no moon, and a thick screen of cloud to hide any peering stars. Brannog found he could see better than he would have expected. What is happening to me? his mind whispered.

As they came to the span, Ygromm held him back. ‘Someone is there,’ he said.

Brannog's lips drew back in a silent snarl. ‘If it is an enemy,’ he breathed, but did not finish.

They went forward cautiously, but saw no one. The bridge was deserted. Ygromm sniffed at the air in each direction. He whispered to Brannog. ‘The stones-that-move have gone, back to the east. I sense them, but far beyond the rim.’

'Then who is here?’

'I cannot say. But it is evil. A solitary watcher. A guard set by the east. But alone.’

'The bridge, then.’

Keeping together, the party moved on, watching every shadow. They came to the ancient stonework. Ygromm insisted on going to the bridge alone, saying he would be safe enough from attack there, although Brannog was not so sure. He watched the stooped figure cross the bridge, pause, then return. The roar of the river came up from below, but nothing moved to suggest an attack. Ygromm trotted back, keeping hunched over, making himself a tiny, difficult target. Again he stopped on the bridge before returning.

'The blood is the man Taroc's. There is no other. And I have more heartening news.’

Brannog gripped his shoulder. ‘Yes?’

'Korbillian and the others did not cross to the east. The trail will be confused here, with so many comings and goings. But I feel sure that Wargallow took them away. He would have sacrificed them here if he had been going to. They must be alive. Korbillian and three others, one a girl.’

Brannog jerked upright. ‘She is well,’ he breathed.

'She is a gifted one,’ said Ygromm. ‘And special to you?’

Brannog nodded. ‘Yes, she is. But where would they go?’

Ygromm's face twisted into a deep scowl. ‘It can only be to the Direkeep'.

'Surely we can catch up with them now?’

'We can try. But it will be more difficult. They have horses.’

As they moved away, Brannog felt tiredness gnawing at his bones. The party would have to rest. Surely the Earthwrought were tired too. But if Wargallow had horses, how could they make up time on them? Only by night, when the Deliverer would rest. Ygromm confirmed that the Direkeep would be many days’ ride away, so there was yet a chance of overhauling them. Brannog knew that if they did not catch them before they got to the Direkeep, there would be little hope of getting into the place.

They did rest briefly, but long before dawn were on their way again, picking up the trail of Wargallow's party easily. Ygromm had decided that it would now be quicker for the Earthwrought to travel overland, although they were frightened of the unfamiliar daylight and could not see well in it. Ygromm told his men that it was something they would have to get used to. ‘One day,’ he said, ‘your children will live by light and not under the ground. Remember, we are the forerunners.’ Although they had made a rough stretcher for Ilassa, they were still able to move much more quickly than Brannog would have expected, and he was relieved when Ygromm told him that Wargallow's horses were obviously not being ridden hard and were travelling at a gentler pace in general. Brannog ate more of the Earthwrought food and his own strength pulsed, renewed.

At their midday rest, Ygromm drew Brannog aside. ‘Ilassa grows stronger and will survive. There is a river to be crossed, the Camonile. Better if you take Ilassa to the villagers at the trading post and leave him there. We can do little more for him. It is best if the Earthwrought go under the river, rather than over the causeway. The villagers may well attack us, or delay us at least. It is the way of most overmen, you understand?’

Brannog agreed.

'There is some bad news. We are followed. Whatever was watching us at the Swiftwater Bridge. An emissary of the east.’

'The solitary guardian?’

'Yes. I have had scouts circle back, but they have not found it.’

They moved on, passing out of the slopes of the escarpment, following Wargallow's route down to the forest. They decided to stop for a longer rest that evening, gathering together in a camp. Ilassa, remarkably, had murmured in his sleep, and Brannog saw that the bruising on his face had subsided. He was still pale, but not the ghastly white he had been when they had dragged him from the edge of the river. It still seemed miraculous that he had not died, and again Brannog wondered at the power of the Earthwrought.

Some of Ygromm's people had been in favour of camping under the earth, but Ygromm told them they must learn to accustom themselves to living on it. Even so, they never made a camp without first inspecting the surrounding terrain for potential tunnels into the earth—old animal lairs, or landslips, ancient delvings, anything that would give them an easy access to whatever workings would be found below (for there were inevitably some). Near this camp they had found the abandoned lair of a bear.

After they had eaten, one of their scouts came bursting into the camp. ‘To earth! To earth!’ he growled anxiously. ‘Soldiers!’

'Whose soldiers?’ called Brannog as they all made hasty preparations to flee. But the scout could not tell. They were not Strangarth's men, and they were not Deliverers, was all he could say. Quickly Ygromm got his men ready for the flight to the old lair, but as they reached the place they drew back in consternation, knowing at once that something was there before them.

'The creature that has been following us,’ said Ygromm. ‘It has gone inside!’ He had no sooner spoken than a figure came shambling to the overgrown portal. It was a man, or had been, for its face was misshapen, bestial, the eyes yellowed, the mouth feral. A look somewhere between savagery and cunning twisted the features in the way that no human could have, and its clothes were caked with earth, torn and rotting as if it had clambered up from its own grave. Ygromm pointed to its throat where something gleamed.

Brannog felt himself weakening. It was the hilt of a knife, and the point was lodged in the creature's throat. The darkness on its shirtfront was dried blood. How could this thing be alive? It stepped forward and gave a sudden horrific howl, which seemed to fill the very world. And it waited.

'Stay clear!’ hissed Ygromm. ‘One touch from that thing is death.’

Brannog was appalled. This was the power of the east, far worse than he had imagined.

'It is the man I spoke of,’ nodded Ygromm. ‘Taroc. The power that fills the stones-that-move has filled him. We dare not go near it.’

Behind them came the drumming of hooves. There was no escaping them, and Brannog got the Earthwrought to form a tight circle. They wanted to break and flee, but he would not let them. He held his axe at the ready and they took what strength they could from it. As the horsemen arrived, the creature that Taroc had become withdrew into the lair, as if it had fulfilled its purpose in trapping the Earthwrought. In a moment they were ringed. A score of soldiers rode around them, and they wore yellow tunics with the edges trimmed in a double bar of black. Ygromm whispered to Brannog that he did not know them.

Horses snorted, dust flew. ‘What have we here?’ called one of the soldiers. He pointed with a short sword at Brannog. ‘What are you, wild man? And what in the name of the Empire are these creatures?’

'None that will harm you. They are the Earthwrought. I am Brannog of Sundhaven, in the west.’

'Is that a wounded man I see there?’

There was no denying Ilassa's presence. ‘Aye. And who are you? You speak of the Empire. Surely you cannot mean that of Goldenisle?’

'The same. Servants of Quanar Remoon to the last,’ laughed the man, with a mock bow, and each of his soldiers laughed with him. Brannog was even sure that one of them spat.

'You're a long way from home,’ he told them.

'So, it seems, are you. Sundhaven, you say. Where's that? Not in Strangarth's lands?’ As he was speaking, other horses were coming up from beyond the trees. This must be a larger party than Brannog had realised. But what were men of the Empire doing here in the east? He tried to recall the things that Guile had told him, but that now seemed so long ago. One of the soldiers beside the spokesman leaned over to speak quietly to him and he seemed annoyed by what the man had said.

'Your wounded man—where is he from?’

Brannog said nothing, trying to think for a moment. ‘I have no idea,’ he said at last. ‘We found him in the woods.’

'One of Strangarth's rabble?’ said the man, coming closer. ‘Better to let him die, if he is.’ He was about to give orders to his men, but was forestalled by the arrival of the new party from which a single rider detached itself. This rider was cloaked and wore a hood to mask itself, for the air was not cold in spite of the coming of night.

'What have you found, Ruan?’ it asked the leader of the first party mildly.

'Something that has crawled from the earth I think, sire. Here! Bring torches!’ Ruan bellowed, and at once brands were brought forward. The cloaked man rode very slowly up to Brannog's company of Earthwrought. Brannog could feel their fear. Silence fell, and none of the soldiers seemed prepared to break it. Their respect for the cloaked man was quite plain.

'I have done no harm,’ said Brannog. ‘Neither have my companions.’

The cloaked man gasped audibly. ‘I know that voice!’

'And I know yours, thought Brannog, trying to place it. The man threw back his hood and grinned, leaping down from the horse. ‘I did not recognise you, Brannog!’ He clapped the latter on the back before the big man had moved. ‘It is you!’

Brannog's confusion deepened. ‘Guile!’

Guile turned to Ruan who also looked baffled. How was it that this earthy, dishevelled man of the woods could be greeted with such joy by Guile?

'Go back to the camp,’ Guile said. ‘Prepare food, whatever is needed. These are no enemies. They have my protection, is that clear?’ He turned back to Brannog, who watched in further amazement as Ruan did as he was told, shouting orders to his men.

'You command these men?’ said Brannog.

Guile laughed. ‘I have some explanations to give you. I told you that my only gift is my tongue. But first I must have news. What are you doing so far from Sundhaven? Where have you been? You have changed so. And these people—”

'They are the Earthwrought,’ Brannog told him with pride, and he introduced Ygromm and his followers. Ygromm bowed, hiding the trembling fears in his chest.

'Sisipher,’ said Brannog. ‘Is she safe?’

'So you followed us?’

'It's a long tale. But, my daughter—I must know.’

'Safe as yet. But a prisoner. We both have much to explain.’

Ygromm's ears picked up. So the girl was the Wormslayer's own child. Why had he not said so?

'What do you know of the Deliverers?’ asked Guile.

Brannog told him as much as he could, speaking quickly, talking of the pursuit and of the creature in the lair. Guile scowled at that, at once suggesting they get to his camp. He gave men orders to flush out and destroy Taroc, and they readied torches for the grisly work. The camp was less than a mile away and Brannog was able to persuade Ygromm and his people that they were in the hands of friends, overmen who would be only too glad to join their own cause. Ygromm expressed anxiety about Ilassa, as the man Ruan had seemed keen to have him dead.

Guile suddenly realised whom it was they had saved. ‘Ilassa! Alive? How is that possible?’

Again Brannog explained. They reached the Empire encampment, which was unexpectedly huge, boasting well over a hundred tents. There was an army here, Brannog realised. But why?

'Korbillian may be in danger,’ said Guile, when at last he was able to sit with Brannog in the privacy of a long tent. Ygromm and his people were now treated with deference by the soldiers, for Guile's orders had gone around the camp quickly. There was no mistaking his position; he was respected here. Brannog wanted to question him on that, but knew it would have to wait.

'You are speaking of Wargallow?’ Brannog said.

'Yes, Simon Wargallow. An icy customer, Brannog. What he seeks is beyond me. But he has your daughter, and the youth Wolgren (and there's a lad who deserves honours) and Korbillian. Wargallow declined to make sacrifices, blood to the earth. He is taking them to the Preserver, and Korbillian seems to welcome the meeting. He has no fear of it, and thus I feel your girl is safe. Korbillian has faith in his own power, and we have both seen something of it.’

Brannog nodded. He had not forgotten the wave at Sundhaven.

'But the Direkeep is a stronghold and infested with Deliverers. Even so, I have a mind to put that place to the test.’

'With this army?’

Guile laughed. ‘Why not?’

Brannog remained perplexed, yet he managed a smile. ‘Why not? And we are no longer alone. Let me tell you more about Ygromm's wonderful people. They are more than ready to lend their powers to this conflict.’

The flap of the tent was abruptly flung back and into the tent walked a tall, muscled warrior, dressed in light armour and with eyes that would have shrivelled a less stout heart than Brannog's. He gazed at the latter and then at Ygromm, finally chuckling to himself, privately amused.

'Ah, Morric,’ said Guile calmly. He turned to Brannog. ‘I must introduce you. This is Morric Elberon, Supreme Commander of the armies.’