Part Three

THE LAST WAR

FORTY

Elkhorn Castle had no throne room, just a grand hall that wasn't very grand.

Barely two weeks earlier, the hall had been filled with revellers, all celebrating the birthday of the royal twins. Today the hall was swelled with people once again, but there was no music, no lively dancing girls or children stealing sips of beer. Today, there was only business.

A table had been moved into the hall, a huge oval of polished ash that nearly touched the walls at its farthest ends. Around the table sat contingents from the Highland clans, wearing their colors and side arms, talking amongst themselves as they awaited their young host. The room was unbearably hot, made worse by the breathing of fifty bodyguards, for the three clan leaders had accepted Redburn's invitation warily. And though they usually got along with each other, the news of the latapi massacre had made them edgy. Now, with their entourages of standing soldiers, the clan heads chatted nervously. It was past the appointed hour and Redburn was late. Biagio wondered what the prince was doing.

"Where's your brother?" he asked Breena in a whisper. They were at the head of the table, sitting beside Redburn's vacant chair. The din of the hall made Biagio's voice barely audible.

"I don't know," replied Breena. "Just stop worrying. He'll be here."

The answer did nothing to relax Biagio. Lately, a wall had risen up between him and the woman, and it agitated him. So did the stares of the Highlanders.

The clan leaders and their kith looked at Biagio over their goblets, wondering why a Naren was seated at the head of the table. Biagio avoided their curious glares, dropping his gaze to his own wine glass. His ruby reflection revealed a worried visage. He took a sip of the liquor to calm himself, then noticed Oily Glynn grinning at him from across the room.

Besides Glynn, Cray Kellen had come as well, as had Vandra Grayfin, the only woman of the four Highland rulers. Biagio had witnessed Kellen's arrival from his window. In the Eastern Highlands, Cray Kellen was called the Lion of Granshirl, and his sizable territory was far removed from Redburn's own.

Sensing the importance of the meeting, he and his gold-braided bodyguards had come a long way for the council. Biagio was pleased to see him. But he was more intrigued by Vandra Grayfin. Tall and fine-boned, Grayfin was impressive, more like a queen than a clan head, with snow-white hair and impeccable manners. Her clothes were expertly tailored and when she spoke her voice was musical. According to Breena, the matron of Clan Grayfin had ruled her tiny coastal territory since the death of her husband. No one dared to challenge her, for she was fierce despite her demeanor and respected throughout the Highlands. Biagio liked Vandra Grayfin immediately. When she had arrived at Elkhorn Castle, she sat proudly on a horse, not a latapi, and waited patiently under her standard for Redburn's servants to greet her.

Oily Glynn, on the other hand, was her opposite. Glynn didn't let the hall's solemn mood spoil his thirst. He quickly downed beer after beer, leering at the serving girls and winking drunkenly at Biagio.

He knows who I am, Biagio surmised.

But no, that was impossible. To Oily Glynn and the other Highlanders, he was simply Corigido, a Naren noble from the Black City. Biagio recalled his brief conversation with Glynn at Breena's birthday, then laughed and shook his head, realizing that Glynn must be pleased. The slaughter of the elk had given him the excuse he needed.

Good enough. He'll be willing to fight.

As for the others, convincing them would be more difficult. Cray Kellen had a large territory to protect, but he was a very private man and prone to isolationism. And Grayfin was known as a woman of peace. Biagio and Redburn had discussed it already. Now they needed to make a credible argument. And they didn't have much time—the first day of summer was three days away.

"Vandra Grayfin looks like a reasonable woman," Biagio remarked. "I think we'll be able to convince her."

Breena merely nodded.

"I'm not sure about Kellen, though," Biagio went on. "I've been watching him. He carries himself stubbornly. And he has suspicious eyes."

"My, you're like a wizard, aren't you?" quipped Breena. "You can tell all that after just a few minutes?"

"No, after years of practice. I've made a life out of reading people. I am an excellent judge of character."

"Indeed. What am I thinking, then?"

"That's too easy. You're thinking that this meeting is folly. And your face is letting everyone in the hall know it. I suggest you sit up straight and stop pouting—unless you want your brother to fail, of course."

"You're very cross today," said Breena, picking up her wine goblet and sampling it absently.

"You don't have to believe in me, woman. But you should at least support your brother. Frankly, I expected more of you."

"Redburn!" cried Oily Glynn suddenly. The leader of the bear clan stood with a huge smile. One by one the others seated around the table arose, smiling deferentially as the young prince entered the hall. Biagio and Breena both got to their feet. Redburn said nothing. His face was taut, his expression brittle. But when he passed the chair of Vandra Grayfin he paused, giving the woman a welcoming kiss before proceeding to his chair. Cray Kellen nodded in approval, then began to clap. His entire retinue joined in, surprising Biagio with their solidarity. Redburn was beloved by the other Highland rulers.

When Redburn reached his vacant chair, Breena's smile lit up the room. She kissed and hugged her brother, whispered something in his ear that Biagio couldn't hear, then joined in the chorus of applause and cheers. Redburn's expression remained grim, as it had been since he'd discovered the murdered elk. He stood tall at the head of the table and raised his hands to quiet the crowd.

"Be seated, please," he told his followers. He seemed embarrassed by their praise, even surprised. "Please . . ."

Cray Kellen ordered his people to sit, then sat down and adjusted his golden cape around his shoulders. A hush swept over the hall. Oily Glynn was the last to be seated. He leaned forward in his chair, anticipating Redburn's words. Redburn himself remained standing.

"You honor me by coming," he told them. "You are all friends of Clan Redburn, and I thank you."

"You call, we come," said Oily Glynn. "Clan Glynn is here to serve you, my Prince."

Redburn nodded. "Your grace is a fine gift, Oily Glynn. And your allegiance to my family has always been unquestionable. But I warn you—I'm going to put your faith to the test today. This is no birthday celebration."

"We know why we're here," Glynn assured him. He looked around at the other clan heads. "Talistan."

Vandra Grayfin's expression grew dark. Cray Kellen sat as stiff as stone.

Biagio watched them both with interest.

"Then you understand," Redburn continued. "You all know about the atrocity in the latapi valley. And you all know who's to blame."

"Bloody Gayle," spat Oily Glynn. "Who else?"

"That's right," said Redburn. "Talistan has been a wolf at our door for decades. While Arkus was alive, they respected our borders. We even traded with them. But those days have been gone for a long time."

"A long time," Glynn echoed, nodding.

Cray Kellen rolled his eyes. "Glynn, stop being a lap dog and let the prince speak, will you?"

Everyone laughed, even Oily Glynn.

"Just so you hear him, Kellen," said Glynn.

"I am listening to every word. Go on, Prince Redburn, please."

Redburn smiled at his ally. "Oily Glynn is a good friend. I welcome his council. And today, at last, I see how correct he's been. Talistan has been harassing the Highlands, trying to push us into war. And now they've slaughtered our sacred elk. They want war. So I am going to give it to them."

Oily Glynn slammed a fist down on the table. "About time!"

"And I want you all to join me," added Redburn. "Now, I've always known Clan Glynn would join my family in battle against Talistan. And I know you others are loyal. But now I need to know how deep that loyalty goes." He looked at Vandra Grayfin and Cray Kellen in turn. "My friends, I need you both today, body and soul."

Kellen and Grayfin glanced at each other. There was uncertainty in both their expressions. Kellen bit his lip. "My Prince," he said, "I confess that I'm against this. So many times I have had this argument with Glynn, but what has changed? The latapi are dead, yes, but war with Talistan will not raise their bones. And we are still the Eastern Highlands, and Talistan is still Talistan.

They are stronger than us by far."

"No," said Redburn. "They were stronger, but no longer." His eyes flicked toward Biagio. "Things have changed, Kellen."

"Oh?" Cray Kellen sat back, intrigued. "How so?" His gaze fell on Biagio.

"Lord Corigido, isn't it? Are we to get help from the Black City at last?"

"Yes, Corigido, tell us," Glynn piped in. "Have you thought on what we spoke about?"

"Corigido?" Vandra Grayfin frowned. "Redburn, who is this Naren?"

"And why is he here?" added Kellen.

"He's a lord from the Black City," said Glynn quickly. "Maybe he's going to help us, eh, Corigido?"

Biagio was unsure what to say. Redburn hurried to the rescue.

"Friends," said the prince, "I have a tale to tell you, and I'm not sure where to start, or even if you'll believe me. But all is not what you think. We're not alone in our fight against Talistan."

"Aha!" cried Glynn. "You did it, eh, Corigido?"

"This is not Lord Corigido," said Redburn. "Friends, take a hard look at this man. He's a Naren, all right. But he's no minor noble."

Vandra Grayfin squinted at Biagio. "I do not know him, Redburn," she concluded. "Corigido, or whatever your name is—tell us who you are."

Before Biagio could answer, Redburn declared, "He is our Lord Emperor.

He is Biagio."

The room erupted in clamor. Glynn and Cray Kellen got to their feet, their eyes darting around the room. Their bodyguards swarmed in around them and everyone seemed panicked, unsure what to say or do. Redburn raised his hands to quiet them. But it was Breena who got their attention. She jumped up, banging her goblet on the table.

"Quiet now," she barked. "My brother isn't lying to you. This is Emperor Biagio."

"My God, it can't be," gasped Glynn. "I spoke to him myself!"

Biagio rose. "It is I," he pronounced. "I am Biagio, Lord Emperor of Nar."

The authority of his tone stilled the crowd. They gaped at him, dumbfounded. Cray Kellen was the only one who moved, shaking his head in shock.

"Redburn speaks the truth," Biagio continued. "So don't stand around like a bunch of mutes. We have important business."

"Yes, please," Redburn implored. "Everyone, sit down. There's nothing to be afraid of."

"But the emperor!" sputtered Kellen. "What . . .?"

"Sit down, Cray Kellen," Biagio commanded. "Now."

Cray Kellen's backside hit the chair instantly. The others dropped to their seats in quick succession.

"All of you, listen to me," said Biagio impatiently. "What I have to tell you is vital. And I don't have time for long explanations. You'll just have to trust Prince Redburn for that. The survival of the Highlands is at stake."

"It's true," said Redburn. "Emperor Biagio has given me remarkable news.

And he's right about our survival. I've been turning a blind eye to it, hoping it would go away. Well, it won't. Tassis Gayle has proven that now."

The clan leaders and their people all nodded in agreement. Even Kellen. The Lion of Granshirl rested his elbows on the table and put his hands together.

"So?" asked Kellen pointedly. "If there is to be war between us, what will the Black City do? Are you here to broker a peace, Lord Emperor?"

"No," said Oily Glynn. "He's here to offer Naren troops. Will you pledge your legions to us, my lord?"

"Neither," replied Biagio. "I'm not here to offer the Highlands help. I'm here because I need help from you. Talistan is not just a threat to your country, but to the entire Empire. I'm the one who asked Redburn to battle Talistan."

"What?" blurted Kellen. "You haven't come with any troops?"

"The emperor has no troops," said Breena quickly. "He's alone. That's why he needs our help."

The news silenced the crowd. Oily Glynn went blank, staring at Redburn for answers, while Cray Kellen fell back in his chair.

"I don't understand," said Vandra Grayfin. "How could you need our help?

You are . . ." She shrugged. "Well, the emperor."

"My lady, you do not know Nar as well as you should," said Biagio. "And I think perhaps that's my fault. We have shunned each other for too long, and now I need to explain myself. Things in the Black City are not as you imagine, and I am not as powerful as I should be. I am no Arkus, sadly."

"Biagio is under siege," Redburn explained. "He has enemies in the capital.

The legions won't follow him, and there are kings in the Empire who want him dead."

"Kings like Tassis Gayle?" guessed Grayfin.

"Precisely," said Redburn. "Gayle's whole reason for harassing us into a war is so that he can reach the Black City from our territory. He wants to conquer the Eastern Highlands, and then make war on Biagio."

"He doesn't know I'm here," said Biagio. "If he did, he would already have ordered his horsemen into the Highlands. So he's been taunting you, trying to get you to make the first move. It's his wisest choice, politically."

"The devil," spat Oily Glynn. "So we'll look like the villains."

"Just so," agreed Biagio. "After that, he wouldn't need an excuse for taking over the Highlands, and no other countries would stop him, or even complain."

"And once he had the Highlands," said Redburn, "he could strike against the Black City."

Biagio nodded gravely. "So you see? That's what I'm here to prevent.

That's why I need your help so desperately."

"I do not believe you," said Cray Kellen. "We all know you, Biagio. You're a trickster. You're more of a devil than Tassis Gayle. Why should we believe a word you say?"

Prince Redburn started to speak, but Biagio said quickly, "What choice do you have, Cray Kellen? Would you rather have Talistan rape your daughters as they gallop through on their way to Nar City? Because that's what they're going to do. Now that Gayle has slaughtered your precious elk, he's not going to wait forever. If you won't come to him, then he'll simply forgo politics and order the invasion."

The ruler of Granshirl shrank back, astounded by Biagio's venom. "Then we are trapped," he growled. "We can't defeat Talistan; their army is too strong. All of us together have maybe five hundred men. If we bring our youngest sons, maybe another hundred more—hardly enough to defeat Gayle.

And even if we attack, he will be expecting us."

"You're right," said Redburn. "He will be expecting us. That's why we won't be fighting alone."

Then, very carefully, he proceeded to explain Biagio's strategy. When he was done, Cray Kellen shook his head.

"Inconceivable," said the Lion. "To think that Richius Vantran would agree to help you, Biagio. You have his word on this?"

"No," admitted Biagio. "I have not."

"But you have spoken to him, yes?"

"No."

"No?" Kellen leaned forward. "Then how in heaven do you know he'll help us? I'm not going to order an attack on Talistan unless I have proof of this plan, Lord Emperor!"

"Be easy, Kellen," pleaded Redburn. "I also have my doubts. But Biagio is convinced Vantran will join us."

"And there's more," said Biagio quickly. "A dreadnought of the Black Fleet.

It will be off the coast of Talistan on the appointed morning. It has orders to open fire, to distract Tassis Gayle and his troops. We won't be alone, Cray Kellen, I promise you."

Kellen considered this, rubbing his chin. "The Black Fleet, hmm? How many ships?"

Biagio hesitated. "Just the one."

"One ship? That's all? It won't be enough!"

"It will!" growled Biagio. A flash of old madness flooded him, making him slam down a fist. "With the Dread Sovereign and the Triin army, Talistan will be trapped. They'll be closed in east and west, if you're not too cowardly to join the battle!"

Kellen jumped to his feet. "I'm no coward. And I'm not a madman, either.

This plan of yours is ludicrous. Redburn, if you listen to this lunatic, you are as insane as he is!"

"You still haven't answered me, Kellen," said Biagio. "Do you have a choice? You don't have to trust me. I don't really care if you do or not. I've given up trying to win the trust of strangers. But if you don't attack Talistan, if you don't take this one chance to beat back Tassis Gayle, then you'll lose this country, because you're all going to be dead!"

His speech finished, Biagio sank down into his chair. Silence filled the hall.

Biagio felt Breena watching him. He glanced at her, saw pain in her face, then glanced away, uncaring.

"Well, that's true," said Redburn. "The emperor makes his point harshly, but he's right. I don't want war, Kellen. But I saw what was done to the latapi, and I know Tassis Gayle isn't going to stop. And no amount of wishing can make it so."

But the Lion of Granshirl remained unconvinced. "This is a damnable puzzle. If the emperor is wrong, then we will be alone against Talistan.

Without help, we'll be slaughtered."

"We'll be slaughtered anyway," said Breena suddenly. To Biagio's surprise, she began defending him. "The emperor is right. We can't hide. So we can do nothing and be killed, or we can fight."

"Vandra Grayfin?" said Redburn. "What say you? We've heard from Kellen, and we already know Oily Glynn's mind. But I welcome your wisdom, old friend."

The head of Clan Grayfin pushed back her chair and stood. She spread her hands to the gathering, saying, "I have always dreaded this day. I had even hoped to be dead before it came. For years, Talistan has looked on us as savages. They call us wildmen, and they call our children tramps." Her gaze drifted toward Biagio. "Even in Nar City we are called barbarians. Isn't that so, Lord Emperor?"

Biagio stiffened. "Yes," he admitted. "I'm ashamed to say it, but it's true.

But I've learned about you, Lady Vandra. My time here has taught me much."

"That pleases me," said Grayfin. "But it's too late for us to ignore the truth of things. Tassis Gayle has done the unspeakable. He has slaughtered our latapi, the gentlest, noblest of beasts. I cannot see how any of us can turn away from such a crime. I'm sorry, Cray Kellen, but I'm with Redburn." She smiled grimly at the young prince. "I vote for battle."

A surge of triumph went through Biagio. Beside him, Redburn let out a sigh of relief. Oily Glynn cheered and banged his goblet on the table, and even Breena nodded. But Cray Kellen was silent. The Lion rubbed his forehead, looking down at the tabletop in thought, and everyone waited for him to speak. When the wait became interminable, Redburn pressed him.

"Kellen? Will you join us?"

Still Kellen said nothing.

"We need you, Kellen," said Biagio. "We need your men, your strength. We can't do it without you."

Finally, the clan leader lifted his head. "What do we do first?" he said.

"The first day of summer," said Redburn, "is only three days away. You have that much time to call your armies. On the dawn we will meet at the Silverknife."

"Three days," said Kellen sourly. "Not much time."

"And when we form our forces?" asked Oily Glynn. "What then?"

"Then we will cross the river into Talistan," answered Redburn. "And we will not stop until Tassis Gayle is dead."

Raucous cheering ensued. Oily Glynn jumped onto the table and danced.

Biagio rose and looked across the table at Vandra Grayfin.

"Thank you," he mouthed silently. Vandra Grayfin nodded. Then Biagio turned to Breena. "Thank you, too," he said softly. "This is not easy for me to say, but I appreciate your help."

Breena rose from her chair. "You want to thank me? Be right about Richius Vantran."

"I am right," said Biagio. "I know I am."

Breena leaned over and kissed his cheek. She whispered, "I hope so," then quickly departed the hall.

Biagio's fingers went to his face. "I am right," he repeated. "God, let me be right about this."

Next to Biagio, Prince Redburn was shaking hands and making solemn promises to his followers. Biagio slipped himself between the prince and a man from Granshirl, taking the prince by the arm and pulling him aside.

"Redburn, a word, please . . ."

"What?" asked Redburn with annoyance.

"Your plan to cross the Silverknife—it won't work. Now that Gayle has slaughtered your elk, he'll be waiting for you. He'll be expecting your attack.

We won't make it across the river."

Redburn nodded grimly. "Then that will be our battlefield." He squeezed Biagio's shoulder. "Sharpen your sword, Lord Emperor. It's time for battle."

FORTY-ONE

Elrad Leth could barely believe his ears. "Dead?" he cried. "What do you mean she's dead?"

"She laughed at me, so I killed her." Tassis Gayle quit fussing with his garments and pointed at the bed. "There, when we were sleeping. I strangled her."

"What?" Leth's eyes danced frantically between the bed and the king. "She can't be dead! I saw her a week ago."

Gayle nodded. "That's right. That's when I killed her." He checked himself in the mirror, dazzled by his royal garb. The sunlight coming through the window made him gleam.

"I can't believe this," gasped Leth. "She's been dead for almost a week and you're only telling me now?"

"I wouldn't have told you at all, but I thought you should know. Anyway, that's not why I summoned you. I want to talk about the Highlands."

Leth put up his hands in exasperation. "Wait, goddamn it, just wait. What the hell happened to Ricter?"

Gayle sighed as if talking to a child. "I told you; she's dead."

"You told me you strangled her!"

"That's right." The king took a cape from his wardrobe and draped it over his shoulders. "What do you think of this one? I want to look my best for the troops."

"Tassis, are listening to yourself? You just said you killed the baroness."

"Stop clucking and help me with this," said Gayle, fumbling with the chain of his cape. His old fingers couldn't seem to work the clasp.

"What did you do with the body?" Leth pressed.

"Redd and Damot disposed of it. They threw it into the river, I think."

"Oh, my God. Are you mad? Have you lost your goddamn . . ."

The king looked up at him. It was all the warning Leth needed.

"My lord," he said carefully, "let's try to act rationally here, all right? You murdered the baroness. What do you think is going to happen when her men find out?"

Gayle shrugged. "I don't know."

"Well, neither do I! God almighty, aren't you worried?"

"No, I'm not. Her soldiers think she's gone back to Vosk to gather more troops. I told them our own people were accompanying her, so they wouldn't get suspicious."

"Oh, brilliant. Yes, that's very convincing."

"By the time her men realize she's dead, we'll have already taken the Eastern Highlands. Now help me with this bloody cape."

"The hell with your cape!" Leth tore the garment away from Gayle and threw it to the floor. "Haven't you been listening to me? We're in trouble!"

The king's expression became dangerous. "No, we're not. Ricter's troops know nothing of her death. Redd and Damot won't say a word, and I'm certainly not going to tell anyone about it. Will you?"

"Of course not," flared Leth. "But sooner or later they're going to find out.

And when they do, we're going to have a revolt on our hands. Are you prepared for that?"

"You worry too much," said Gayle. He picked up his cape and began arranging it around his shoulders again, admiring himself in the mirror. "When the baroness doesn't return to Vosk, it will be supposed that some horrible accident befell her. And who are we to argue with that?" The king smiled.

"Look at me. I'm still beautiful. I look barely half my age. I can't wait for them to see me!"

Elrad Leth was speechless. Was Gayle so mad that he couldn't see the shriveled reptile staring back at him? Worse, he had come at the king's behest to discuss the Eastern Highlands and Redburn's response to the slaughter of his elk. Tassis Gayle had even sent a carriage for the governor. Leth had spent the trip to Talistan fretting over Gayle's state of mind. Lately, the king had gotten worse. But Leth never expected murder. He watched Tassis Gayle primping like a bride before the mirror, preparing to meet his horsemen, whom Major Mardek had assembled on the parade grounds outside the castle. He was going to tell them all about Redburn's imminent attack, and how they needed to make ready. It would be like the old glory days for the king, and he was eager to get outside. But first he had to look perfect. In that strange way the insane have of obsessing over minutia, he couldn't seem to decide on an outfit. Leth's mind raced for something to say. Somehow, he had to reach the king's diseased mind.

"My lord," he said gently, "let's talk."

"Yes, let's. We have a lot to do. Major Mardek and his troops are waiting for me. I must address them, tell them to make ready. Redburn's attack could come any day."

"No, my lord," said Leth. "I want to talk about you. Here . . ." He eased the king away from the mirror and directed him to the bed. As Gayle sat down, he let out a sigh.

"Leth, I don't have time for this. I want to talk about Wallach and his ships."

"Yes, all right. But listen to me first. You're not well. You've murdered Baroness Ricter." He scrutinized the king, looking for a sign of recognition.

"You do realize that, don't you?"

"What the hell have I been saying? I know I killed her."

Flabbergasted, Leth said, "That's murder, my lord. She was a baroness!

She was your lover."

Gayle scoffed. "Some lover. She said I was old. Well, I am not too old!

And I intend to prove it to you!" He rose from the bed and shoved Leth aside, going back to the mirror. With a flourish he tossed the cape over his shoulders, his nostrils flaring. "You will return to Aramoor. Tell Wallach to have his armada set sail for the coast of the Highlands as soon as they are able. I want them to set up a blockade. I don't want Nicabar's navy interfering with our invasion."

"Nicabar is dead, Tassis."

"I know that. But his captains might still try to stop us. I won't take any chances. Zerio and his ships must set sail at once."

"My lord . . ."

"At once!" growled Gayle. This time it was he who tossed the cape to the floor. "Goddamn it, why won't anyone listen to me? Why all this bloody arguing? I've given you an order, Governor. Obey me!"

Leth struggled to subdue his rage. "I will obey you, my lord," he spat. "And I will give your message to Duke Wallach. Zerio's fleet will set sail, as you wish."

"Good," snapped Gayle. He turned to the mirror again, scowling at himself.

"I am the King of Talistan. You will follow my commands without question."

"And what are your orders for me?" asked Leth. "Am I to fight here against the Highlanders?"

"You, fight? No, I don't think so." The king chortled. "Fighting is a task for real men, Leth. Men like myself. You will return to Aramoor and stay there.

See to it that Wallach's navy sets sail as ordered. Then protect Aramoor from the Saints. Once they learn we're at war with the Highlands, they may try to attack. You're to see that they don't. Do you think you can do that without complaining?"

"Of course I can. I'm as much a fighting man as you are, Tassis."

"You are a flower, Elrad. Any Highlander would have no trouble pulling off your petals. Even Lady Breena could best you, I think."

"And what about you, my lord? What will you be doing when the Highlanders attack?"

"I will be where a king should be," declared Gayle. "I will be at the head of my army."

"So you're going to fight?"

"Of course."

"You're going to ride into battle?" Now it was Leth who was laughing. "Are you sure that's a good idea, my lord? After all, you're . . . well . . ."

Gayle turned on him like a cobra. "What? Too old? Is that what you were going to say?"

"You? Old? Don't be ridiculous. There are plenty of seventy-year-olds still clanging around in battle armor. Go off and ride into action, my lord," said Leth. Without waiting for the king to dismiss him, he started toward the chamber door. "Enjoy yourself. But if you get out of breath, ask the Highlanders if you could take a break. I'm sure they'll accommodate you."

"I'm not too old!" roared Gayle. "I'm not!"

But Elrad Leth was already out the door. Fuming, he stormed through the hall, pushing aside the servants who were waiting for their king and flying down the staircase in a rage. It didn't mean anything to him that Tassis Gayle wanted to ride into battle—if the old fool died, he wouldn't care a whit. But to be called less than a man was unthinkable. Leth's jaw tightened as he made his way to the courtyard. Outside, he saw Major Mardek and his ranks of green and gold horsemen prancing on the parade ground waiting for Tassis Gayle.

They were beautiful and compelling, even frightening in their demon-faced helms. When the battle with the Highlanders finally came, they would easily outmatch them. Beside them rode the hundred soldiers from Vosk, sitting tall in their saddles, ignorant of their mistress' murder.

Leth lowered his hand, his shoulders slumping. He was glad he wasn't riding into battle. Redburn's people were savages. They would lose, of course, but the clash would be bloody.

The governor walked quietly to his carriage. When he returned to Aramoor, he would order Zerio to set sail against the Eastern Highlands. Then he would go back to his usurped castle and wait. He didn't expect the battle against Redburn to take very long. And if the Saints of the Sword tried to interfere as Gayle feared, Leth knew he could deal with them. They were only a handful, after all.

FORTY-TWO

Inside the tower, Falger waited. A hush had fallen over Mord and the others, who stood very still as their leader contemplated strategies. Falger stooped beside his telescope, his eye fixed to the lens. He had trained the device on the outskirts of the city, and could plainly see what his scouts had reported—a huge mass of men and horses, slowly lumbering toward Ackle-Nye. They wore the grey of Reen and bore the standard of that territory, the hateful flag of Praxtin-Tar. Directly toward the city they moved, hundreds strong, their colors and intent unmistakable. Falger watched them silently, his mind and heartbeat racing. For months he and his people had lived in fear of this day.

They had stockpiled food and Naren weaponry against Praxtin-Tar's arrival.

Today, at last, their good fortune had run dry.

"It is him," said Falger. He looked up from the telescope and saw Mord's stricken expression. His friend was barely breathing. "They are still a distance from the city. We have time, yet. Is everyone secure?"

Mord swallowed. "I think so. They have been told to find shelter and stay inside. But they are afraid, Falger."

Falger looked around the chamber at his friends. Most of them were dressed as he was, in surplus Naren uniforms and helmets haphazardly mixed with their own traditional Triin garb. Some had jiiktars, others imperial swords and maces. They stood at nervous attention, desperate for Falger's wisdom.

Falger wasn't sure he had any. "I know you are all afraid," he told them. "It is all right. We have the cannons to defend us. We will surprise the warlord."

His friends all nodded, murmuring agreement. The Naren flame cannons gave them confidence.

"Mord, you and I will stay in this tower, closest to the warlord," said Falger.

"We will work the weapon together. The others are ready?"

"I think so," said Mord. "Tuvus is in the western tower. He says he has the cannon working."

"And the eastern tower?"

"Ignitor troubles. But Donaga has gotten it to light. It should work."

Falger considered this. He would need all three flame cannons against Praxtin-Tar's army. The Naren attack towers rimming Ackle-Nye were their only defense, unless they resorted to hand-to-hand. One look at his ragtag defenders told Falger to avoid that contingency. The warriors from Reen would rip them to pieces. There was no shortage of terrible tales about Praxtin-Tar and his zealots; only the cannons would give them an edge.

Mentally, Falger congratulated himself for salvaging them, along with the other Naren weapons. Today, his foresight might save them. But none of them were skilled with the weapons, and that worried him. The fuel was very scarce, and they had never really practiced for fear of wasting the precious kerosene. It seemed like a straightforward design, however, and Falger was something of an engineer. Using only his imagination and his love for tinkering, he had discovered how to light the ignitors and aim the barrels. Now all he needed to do was pull the trigger. Praxtin-Tar and his horde would be burned to cinders.

At least in theory.

Falger called to one of his men. "Go down and make sure no one is on the streets. We still have some time before the warriors reach us." He turned to another pair of his comrades. "I want you both to go to the other towers. Tell Tuvus and Donaga not to fire until the warriors are in the city. Mord and I are closest, so we will make the first shots. Go now, quickly."

The men hurried out of the chamber, racing down the tower's steps. Falger went to the flame cannon and inspected its glowing ignitor. He put a hand over it, feeling its heat. The kerosene from the tank hissed through a gleaming metal line, burning off in a bluish flame. The weapon itself rested on a tripod, with levers and wheels to adjust its aim. It was the long-range type, the kind Falger had heard about in the Dring Valley but had never seen until coming to Ackle-Nye.

Next to him, Mord put his eye to the telescope and let out a little groan.

"They are closer."

"What of Praxtin-Tar? Can you see him?"

Mord shook his head. "No. But they are riding straight toward us."

"Then we shall have a surprise for them."

Mord looked up from the eyepiece. "We cannot win, you know."

"We can defend ourselves," said Falger. He ran his hand over the barrel of the flame cannon. "And we will."

"We are women and children mostly. Lorris and Pris, they will be ruthless.

They will punish us for fleeing Lucel-Lor."

"They will try," said Falger.

A great weight settled on his shoulders. Everything he had accomplished in Ackle-Nye had been a battle. Finding food, decent shelter, cleaning up the innumerable Naren corpses—these things Falger had done because he wanted a life of his own. Like the rest of his refugee kin, he wanted a place to call home.

"Make ready," he told Mord. He settled in behind the flame cannon, gingerly testing the trigger. "As soon as they are close enough, we fire."

In the center of Praxtin-Tar's lumbering horde, Alazrian rode beside Richius Vantran, watching him as he marvelled at Ackle-Nye. It had been a long, arduous day of riding, and the company had kept a brisk pace in hopes of reaching the City of Beggars by nightfall. They had spent the previous night bedded under the stars, just as they had since leaving Falindar, and the thought of decent shelter propelled them forward so that even Praxtin-Tar, who usually ambled proudly atop his horse, rode with smoke in his heels.

Using the Sheaze River as a guide and taking clean water from its banks at rest times, they had made remarkable progress. Now Ackle-Nye shone in the distance, its architecture reflecting the hot sun.

The sight of the city slowed their anxious pace. An expectant buzz burbled up from the ranks of warriors. Alazrian watched Richius Vantran, intrigued by his reaction. It had been nearly three years since the King of Aramoor had been this close to his homeland. Richius Vantran held the reins of his gelding stiffly, nearly motionless as he swayed in the saddle. On the other side of him rode Jahl Rob, a contented smile on his face. The priest nudged his countryman for a reaction.

"Well, my lord? We made it. What do you think?"

Vantran took his time replying. When he did, it was more like a shrug than an answer. "I don't know what to think. It's been so long."

"Look at the mountains," Jahl suggested. "A couple more days and we'll be meeting up with my Saints. Then Aramoor. God in heaven, it's good to be home!"

Alazrian was still eyeing Richius. "Are you all right, my lord?" he asked.

"You look pensive."

Richius turned. "A lot of memories, Alazrian. It's like hearing voices. I guess I'm just a bit nervous."

"Don't be. Once we get to Ackle-Nye, we'll be able to rest. Falger will have food for us, and a place to sleep."

But it seemed Vantran wasn't listening. "Ackle-Nye," he whispered.

"God, I never expected to be back here again. It doesn't look like it's changed much. You can almost hear the ghosts."

"You can smell 'em, too," joked Jahl. "I'd advise you to hold your nose, my lord. The place stinks like a Naren cesspool."

Richius laughed. "Like I said, nothing's changed."

Alazrian continued to study the Aramoorian, struck by his demeanor. For nearly two weeks they had travelled together, and day by day Richius lost more of his edge, growing increasingly wistful as they neared the Empire. It didn't surprise Alazrian, really. In a lot of ways, Richius Vantran wasn't what he'd expected. The Jackal of Nar was more like a house cat, not the military genius that legend had drawn. He was comfortable with Praxtin-Tar's troops, and he spoke Triin with fluency, yet he wasn't quite Triin and he wasn't quite Naren, and he seemed to recognize this duality. Over the course of their journey, Alazrian had come to like him immensely.

And Jahl Rob liked Vantran as well. He had told Alazrian of his fight with the king, explaining it as a cathartic, almost religious experience. Now Jahl Rob seemed a changed man. His tongue was still sharp, but there was a lilt in his voice and an eagerness that hadn't been there before.

Of them all, Praxtin-Tar remained the greatest mystery. Alazrian still couldn't fathom the warlord. He rode all day under the hot sun, sweating in his bamboo armor but never complaining. And every night he would go to Alazrian and sleep near him, so that he could protect him from unseen dangers. The warlord treated Alazrian better than his own son, making certain that Alazrian had all the food and water he could want. And no one ever complained about this lavish attention, not even Crinion. To the warriors of Reen, Alazrian was sacred.

Alazrian turned to look behind him, seeing Praxtin-Tar. The warlord's face was hidden behind his malevolent bamboo mask.

But he's not malevolent, thought Alazrian. He glanced at Vantran again, then at Jahl. None of them are evil. Not even Biagio.

They rode on, and when they reached the outskirts of the city and the first of Praxtin-Tar's warriors crossed into its shadow, Alazrian turned to Vantran.

He was about to speak when a sudden bolt of lightning exploded in his eyes.

The world erupted in a hot haze and the sky split open, torn with thunder.

Blinded and terrified, Alazrian struggled to control his horse. His head rang with the noise and he felt as if the air had been ripped from his lungs. All around him he heard the shouts of Praxtin-Tar's men. Next to him, Richius Vantran was on his horse, tall and unshaken.

"That's a flame cannon!" he cried. "They're firing at us!"

Still reeling from the explosion, Alazrian looked at the city ahead. A huge blast mark scorched the avenue, setting it ablaze. Praxtin-Tar's warriors rode in a frenzy, circling, unsure what to do. The warlord was shouting, shaking his fist at the city.

"The attack tower," shouted Jahl. "Remember, Alazrian? It's Falger's cannon!"

"Why the hell is he firing on us?" spat Richius. "I thought you said he was your friend!"

"He is, but—"

Another glow from the tower silenced Alazrian mid-sentence. The telltale boom made Richius signal for cover.

"Get down!"

This time the blast ripped closer, shearing through a crumbling wall. The avenue rocked with the report, sending rubble tumbling down from Ackle-Nye's ruins. A handful of warriors watched as the fist of flame descended. Alazrian screamed at them to run—but too late. The bolt slammed down, shredding their grey robes and setting their flesh aflame.

"My God!" shouted Jahl. He looked around madly. Praxtin-Tar was roaring, spitting orders and racing past his panicked men toward Alazrian. The warlord brought his horse to a skidding halt, shielding Alazrian as yet another blast flew overhead.

"Alazrian isya Maku!" he cried. Frantically he pointed toward the back ranks. "Maku!"

"He wants you out of here," Richius explained. "Ride away!"

"No," said Alazrian. "It's Falger. He thinks you're invading, Praxtin-Tar!"

The outskirts of Ackle-Nye sizzled with heat. Two more frenetic shots fired down from the tower, mushrooming before them. Warriors shouted and rode through the avenues, desperate to escape the cannonade.

"Richius, make him understand," Alazrian pleaded. "Tell him Falger's only protecting himself!"

"Alazrian, just go!" Vantran ordered. "Get to safety!"

"Goddamn it, no! Praxtin-Tar, listen, please . . ."

"Come on, Alazrian," shouted Jahl. He spun his horse around. "We have to get out of here!"

Jahl was about to gallop off when a coordinated scissor-strike of fire sizzled overhead. Two mammoth booms detonated, turning the air red. Trapped between the blasts, Jahl's horse whinnied, nearly tossing the priest backward.

The thunder of the attack rattled Alazrian's teeth. He glanced around in a daze, squinting to see past the glowing smoke, then realized that two more flame cannons had joined the assault.

"The other towers!" he shouted.

"All of you, get back!" cried Vantran, waving his arms and riding through the throng. "We can't cross the city! Go back!"

"Falger!" cried Alazrian. "Stop!"

His voice disappeared in the noise and fire. Around him, warriors circled, trapped by the narrow avenues and the incessant hammering from the towers.

The long-range guns bore down, spewing out their blazing poison. Alazrian's face burned and his eyes gushed tears. Praxtin-Tar was still on his horse, still shielding him, trying to push him toward safety. Alazrian's little horse brayed and shook against its bridle.

"We're trapped!" shouted Jahl. "We can't retreat!"

The nearest flame cannon had changed its aim, concentrating fire on the back ranks while its sisters in the flanking towers pommelled the horde's center. Great chunks of bricks fell from Ackle-Nye's frameworks, pelting them with debris while the cannons went on devouring warriors, sending them screaming for cover. The lucky ones retreated into buildings or fled the city through safe streets, but most avenues were choked with men and flaming pits, ensnaring the army in the cross fire of the towers. Richius Vantran cursed and directed the warriors with his arms, trying desperately to herd them out of the killing zone. But they were too many, and their escape routes too few.

"Jahl, we have to find Falger," shouted Alazrian. He turned his horse toward the central tower, staring down its lethal barrel. "We have to stop him!"

Jahl Rob didn't argue. He wheeled his mount around and maneuvered through the press of horseflesh. Praxtin-Tar reached out and grabbed hold of Alazrian's horse by the bridle, roaring at him to stop.

"I have to, Praxtin-Tar," said Alazrian. "It's the only way. Please, let go!"

Praxtin-Tar shook his head, ducking under the nonstop barrage, refusing to release the horse.

"Vantran, tell him!" cried Jahl. "Tell him we have to find Falger."

Richius hurried to explain, mixing his appeal with Naren curses. Still Praxtin-Tar wouldn't relent. Finally, Alazrian took hold of his hand and willed a violent union, almost striking the warlord with the force of his mind.

I have to go!

I will come with you, replied Praxtin-Tar. I must protect you!

No. Falger's afraid of you. I have to go alone. Alazrian squeezed his protector's hand harder. "Please, Praxtin-Tar. Let me go!"

The warlord released Alazrian's horse, swearing and making a quick shooing gesture. With Jahl close behind, Alazrian galloped off down the narrow street, flying headlong toward the tower. As he rode he kept his head low, calling Falger's name. Jahl, too, cried out for Falger, but their voices were drowned beneath the hoofbeats and the endless streams of fire. The central tower loomed in their view, dominating the deserted streets. At its peak the bluish glow of the flame cannon flashed, tracking the chargers as it drew its deadly bead.

"It's firing!" warned Jahl.

Up ahead, the street exploded as the cannon came to life, sending down a plume of flaming fuel. The blast stopped their horses, blinding them and shooting shards of rubble at their faces. Alazrian put up a hand and felt the debris slicing flesh. He screamed and fell from his horse, hitting the pavement hard. A fog of pain and smoke gripped him. Groggily he lifted his head, trying to locate Jahl in the haze.

"Jahl!" he cried. "Where are you? I can't see!"

"Here, boy!" came the priest's reply. "Are you hurt? I can't find you!"

Another explosion boomed nearby. Alazrian's ears popped with pain. He staggered to his feet, screaming, his hair singed. Nearly in tears, he bumbled toward the shadowy figure of Jahl Rob's horse and collided with a wall instead.

"Jahl!" he cried. "Help!"

The smoke grew thicker. The fire licked at his feet. Jahl's voice sounded, but he couldn't find the direction. One more blast and he would die. Alazrian tried to run but tripped and fell face down in the street. His hands reached out into a puddle of fire, scorching them. Riddled with pain and pounded by fear, Alazrian lay in the street, paralyzed, screaming for Jahl Rob to find him.

Up in the attack tower, Falger looked past the long barrel of the flame cannon, waiting for the smoke to clear. He had delivered a deadly barrage and had damaged the warlord's ranks, but two warriors had broken free of the horde and had ridden for the tower. Falger peered into the smoke lingering in the avenue, wondering what had become of his targets. In his zeal he had squeezed off several shots, but he realized suddenly that their fuel was running low and he didn't want to waste it. Nearby, Mord fumbled nervously with the telescope, trying to see the burning street below. Falger waited impatiently for his report.

"Well?" he asked. "Do you see anything?"

"Wait," Mord cautioned. He focused the eyepiece. "I see something," he said. "But the smoke is too thick."

"Hurry," urged Falger. Past the smoke-filled avenue, he could see the army of Praxtin-Tar still running, caught in the fire of the other cannons. The warlord himself remained out of sight, hidden somewhere in the melee.

"There!" cried Mord suddenly. "I see them. They are hurt. One is in the street."

Falger came from behind the cannon and went to the giant window. The murk in the street was beginning to fade. "Are they alive?"

"They are moving," replied Mord, "but they are off their horses. I can see . .

."

Mord's voice trailed away. He stood and put a hand to his mouth.

"Lorris and Pris . . ."

"What?" asked Falger. "What is it?"

"Narens. The Narens that came to the city . . ."

"What? The boy?"

"There." Mord pointed to the scope. "Look for yourself!"

Falger rushed to the telescope, squinting to focus the lens. He saw two figures in the view field, one lying in the street with fire all around him, the other bent over, comforting his comrade. Because they were still and much closer now, Falger could see that they weren't warriors at all—they were Naren.

"Oh, no!"

He went to the opening in the tower, hung out over the ledge and shouted,

"Alazrian Leth! It is me! Falger!"

"What are you doing?" asked Mord. "They are leading the warlord to us!"

"No, impossible," said Falger. "He would not do it!"

"Falger . . ."

"We have to stop," ordered Falger. "Mord, get down and tell the others to stop firing. Do it now!"

"Falger . . ."

"Do it!"

Falger practically shoved his friend toward the stairs, then leaned over the ledge again, waving and shouting to the wounded boy below.

"Alazrian, stay! I am coming for you!"

Driven by horror he ran for the stairs, forgetting that Alazrian couldn't understand a word he'd said.

Alazrian lifted his face to the foggy figure of Jahl Rob standing over him.

The priest had his hands on Alazrian and was talking, but Alazrian could barely make out the words. His skull was aching from the constant bombardment and his hands screamed with pain. Tears burned his eyes. He began to cough and then couldn't stop himself, expelling saliva in great hacks.

Jahl put his arm around Alazrian and looked about fearfully. Mercifully, the fire from the central tower had ceased. Slowly, Alazrian's world came back into focus.

"Jahl," he croaked, "am I all right?"

"I don't know," said Jahl. "How do you feel?"

Alazrian did a mental check of his body. All the pieces seemed in place.

"My hands; I burned them. And my head . . ." He touched his fingers to his skull, lightly probing the bruises and wincing. "I hit my head."

"We have to get out of here," said Jahl. "Can you stand?"

"I think so," said Alazrian. With Jahl's help he rose unsteadily to his feet, then looked around for their horses. The beasts were gone, hidden somewhere in the smoke and fire. Behind them, the deadly cannonade continued. "We have to find Falger," Alazrian gasped. "He's at the tower . . ."

"Easy," scolded Jahl. "You need to rest. I have to find you someplace safe, some shelter."

"Jahl, I'm all right. We have to find Falger."

"Stop arguing and listen to me! You're hurt and you need rest. And we need to get the hell out of here before that gun starts up again. Now come on, lean on me." He wrapped an arm around Alazrian's ribs. "Let's go."

"Which way? We can't go back to the others. The cannons . . ."

"Damn it, there's got to be shelter around here. Anything! Just walk, Alazrian, hurry."

Jahl led Alazrian through the avenue, avoiding the numerous fires and the debris falling around them. They hurried toward a stand of buildings, all shuttered but away from the worst of the flames. When they had almost reached them, a piercing shout made them jump.

"Alazrian! J'kan a hiau!"

Jahl stiffened. "What the hell?"

The cry came again, from the direction of the tower. At first Alazrian thought it was Praxtin-Tar, come looking for him, but then he recognized the voice. Falger was gasping in his effort to reach them. Alazrian pulled free of Jahl's embrace and stumbled toward him.

"Falger!"

Falger skidded to a stop in front of them and started talking wildly, stringing together one foreign phrase after another and pointing at the two watchtowers.

Completely lost, Alazrian took hold of Falger's hand and made the connection. The union was explosive. Falger's face fell in astonishment.

Alazrian looked deep into his eyes, imploring him to listen.

Don't be afraid, he commanded. Stop your attack now. Stop firing. We are friends.

After a moment of shock, Falger's voice replied, What are you doing?

What is this magic? You are gifted?

I can't explain— no time. Can you stop the attack?

Falger nodded then began speaking again in Triin. Still holding onto the man, Alazrian understood every word.

"It will stop. I have given the order. But what is this? Why are you with Praxtin-Tar?"

Out of breath and about to collapse, Alazrian smiled crookedly at the Triin.

I will explain it to you, he thought wearily. And I have a message for you, Falger. Dyana Vantran sends her greetings.

An hour later, Alazrian, Jahl, and Falger met in one of Ackle-Nye's abandoned strongholds, a castle-like structure on the east end of the city, protected by a dentate wall and a handful of Falger's guardians. With him were Richius and Praxtin-Tar, who had survived Falger's attempt to kill them and who, despite Alazrian's claims to the contrary, viewed the refugee leader as an enemy. Falger had food brought into a meeting chamber where they sat and rested, and where Praxtin-Tar conferred with his warriors, counting up their dead. Falger's attack had diminished the warlord's horde; twenty-two dead, all incinerated by the flame cannons. Praxtin-Tar had removed his helmet and Alazrian could see him clearly as Crinion gave him the bad news. The warlord looked abou weep. Falger watched him nervously from the other side of the room.

Richius Vantran was talking in between great mouthfuls of food, and Jahl was beside him, taking it all in. So far they had decided that the warlord's army would remain in Ackle-Nye for two days. They would rest and tend their wounds, and Falger would provide them food, he nodded as Richius spoke, half ignoring the king as he eyed Praxtin-Tar across the chamber.

"Falger?" Richius prodded. "Are you listening to me?" Mord translated, and Falger nodded.

"Falger is listening," said Mord. "He has agreed to give you shelter." Mord leaned across the table and added, "What else do want, Naren?"

"I want his assurance that he won't try anything else." Richius turned to Falger with a finger. "Look at him. Even now he looks to be plotting murder."

"We do not trust the warlord," said Mord.

"Mord, I give you my word," said Alazrian. "Praxtin-Tar is not what you think."

"I was fighting him myself," added Richius. "You know that, can't you believe our truce?"

"We believe," said Mord. "Mostly."

Grudging acceptance was better than none at all, Alazrian supposed. He flexed his hands to test the pain. They had been washed and dressed with bandages, and Falger had put a salve on them to ease the burn. As for his skull, Alazrian still had a wicked headache, but it was healing. He reached across the table and poked Falger to get his attention.

"Falger?" he said softly . . .

Falger smiled and said something in Triin that Alazrian couldn't understand.

"Falger apologizes," Mord explained. "He regrets your injurt."

"No need to keep apologizing," said Alazrian. He was careful not to touch the man again. So far, Falger had accepted his explanation of his powers. It was the one thing convincing him of Praxtin-Tar's sincerity, for he knew the warlord's ardor for heaven. "We thank you for your help," Alazrian told him.

"We will not be a burden to you or your people."

Falger nodded, understanding. Then he returned to staring at Praxtin-Tar.

Praxtin-Tar dismissed Crinion and the others, strode over to the table, and put his hand into Alazrian's.

"You are feeling better?" he asked.

"I am fine," replied Alazrian. "Thank you."

Praxtin-Tar frowned. "You are headstrong. How can I protect a foolish boy like you?" He shook his head ruefully. "You worry me like my own son. If you die, I will be very angry." His eyes flicked toward Falger. "And this one.

He is an even bigger fool. I will be glad to be gone from his foul city."

Falger gave an angry retort.

Alazrian looked at Praxtin-Tar. "What did he say?"

"That he will be happy to see us go. So be it. I will leave you now, Alazrian Leth. I must go to my men. You may stay here for a bit, but do not linger.

You need rest."

"Yes, father," said Alazrian jokingly.

Praxtin-Tar's face glowed for a moment, then returned to its normal, stony facade. He left the room in silence. Falger let out a breath when he saw him go. So did Richius.

"Well, that's it then," said the Aramoorian. He got up from the table and smiled at Falger. "We'll try to stay out of your way," he told the Triin. "We won't stay long, I promise. Just long enough to get some rest."

The king gave them all a quick good-bye, then followed Praxtin-Tar out of the chamber. When he was gone, Falger smirked and whispered something.

"What was that?" asked Jahl.

"Kalak is not what Falger expected," translated Mord. "Not what I expected, either."

Falger nodded sadly. "Piy inikk."

Mord agreed with his friend. "Troubled; yes, he is."

The observation irritated Alazrian. Didn't Richius have the right to be troubled? Didn't they all? Perhaps it was his proximity to home, or perhaps the shock of nearly dying, but suddenly Alazrian didn't feel Triin at all, not even half Triin. And he didn't like them gossiping about Richius, either.

"Jahl, I'm going," he said as he rose from his chair. "Praxtin-Tar may need my help."

FORTY-THREE

Halfway through the Iron Mountains, Richius caught his first glimpse of Aramoor. It was very far away and shrouded in a haze, but the sight of it caught his breath. For more than a day they had ridden, leaving behind the grudging hospitality of Ackle-Nye for the cheerless confines of the Saccenne Run, snaking through the passage and filling the canyon with the noise of their hoof-falls. Praxtin-Tar's horde stretched out behind them, while ahead lay nothing but endless rock and emptiness, cut through by a single, defiant roadway. But now Richius stood on a mountain ledge, alone but for Jahl Rob, and felt the first pangs of homecoming.

Aramoor was just as he had left her. This high up, he couldn't see the scars of Talistanian occupation. Instead, she was verdant, almost virginal. Her beauty forced a lump to his throat. Beside him, Jahl Rob stretched out his hands and took deep gulps of mountain air. The priest crossed himself, then closed his eyes and spoke a prayer of thanks. "We're home," he said. "Or very near."

Richius thought of Dyana suddenly, and how she had never seen Aramoor.

If all went according to plan, he might finally be able to bring her here. And Shani would know her other half, and realize that not all life was Triin.

"It's so beautiful," he said. "I feel . . . strange."

"Strange?"

Richius knew he could not explain it. He glanced around at the mountains, daunted by their sameness. "Can you see your stronghold?" he asked. "Are we close?"

"We are. There, beyond that ridge. That's where the Saints hide."

"It's very near Aramoor, isn't it," Richius observed. "I'm surprised Leth hasn't come to rout you out."

"Oh, he's tried," said Jahl. "And I've been gone a long time. I'm afraid to see what's left of my friends. Before Alazrian and I went off to Lucel-Lor, Leth had discovered our stronghold."

"Yes, Alazrian told me," said Richius. "The bodyguard."

"Shinn, the bastard. We were all sure he'd come back with an army. I told my Saints to flee if he did."

"Well, then, there's only one way to find out if they're still here." Richius smiled grimly. "You ready?"

"Are you?"

Another tough question. Richius felt he'd never be ready to face Aramoorians again. "Yes," he lied. "Let's go."

Carefully they slid back down the rocky slope to where Alazrian and Praxtin-Tar were waiting. The odd pair looked at them expectantly.

"Did you see it?" asked Alazrian. "Are we almost there?"

Jahl nodded, saying, "Just a bit farther. Alazrian, I think you and Praxtin-Tar should wait here with the army. If the Saints haven't seen us yet, I don't went them spooked by seeing a horde of Triin coming at them."

"Oh, but they must have seen us by now," said Alazrian. "There must be lookouts, right?"

"There should be, but I don't know what's left of them, and I don't want to take chances. Wait here with the warriors, will you?"

Alazrian agreed, then explained it to Praxtin-Tar. The foursome walked back toward the army. Praxtin-Tar's slave Rook waited at the front of the column next to Crinion, eagerly awaiting news as he held Praxtin-Tar's horse.

"Well?" pressed the slave. "Did you see Nar? Are we almost there?"

"Almost," said Richius.

"Your answer, my lord, I must have it. What will happen to me when we get back to Nar?"

"I'll talk to Praxtin-Tar," said Richius. "I'll see what I can do. But no promises."

Rook whispered angrily, "But he'll be watching me. I won't be able to escape without your—"

"Eesay!" yelled Praxtin-Tar, slapping the top of Rook's head and sending him scurrying off. Then he nodded at Richius and Jahl. The two Aramoorians climbed back onto their horses.

"We won't be long," Jahl promised Alazrian. "Look after yourself, and don't worry. I'll be back in a couple of hours, once I've made my explanations."

So Richius and Jahl rode off, Jahl taking the lead and driving steadily through the Saccenne Run, leaving behind Alazrian and his Triin protectors.

When the warriors were far in the distance, the air took on a silent quality, unbroken by the footsteps of men. Richius' mind flashed back, summoning memories of the run. He had left Aramoor to rendezvous with Lucyler, under the vague promise that Dyana was still alive. He had abandoned everything and everyone, and he had never returned. Decisions and politics had fated him. Now his blood stirred as he neared his birthplace. The growing anxiety that had plagued him through the journey started gnawing at him relentlessly.

Maybe he shouldn't have come . . .

But Jahl had been so convincing, and Richius had desperately wanted to return. As they rode on, scanning the hillsides for the hideout, Richius steeled himself. Jahl was slowing, watching their surroundings.

"There," he said, pointing at a cliff face on the south side of the run. "Up there is where we stay." He looked around at the run, studying it for hoofprints and debris. To Richius, no one appeared to have come this way for many weeks.

"Where are your sentries?" Richius asked. "It's very quiet."

"The Saints have to be quiet," replied Jahl. "We'll go on. We'll find someone soon."

"Jahl Rob!" came a sudden cry. The voice broke into triumphant laughter.

"You made it!"

Richius looked skyward and saw a figure hanging from a high ledge. It was a man with a bow, but more than that Richius couldn't tell. He didn't recognize the man whose face was thickly bearded and whose clothes were in rags. The figure stood up, waving and calling down to them. Jahl Rob waved back, grinning broadly.

"Ricken!"

The priest rushed his horse forward as the man scrambled down the hillside.

Richius followed at a more cautious pace. Jahl hadn't spoken much about his Saints, probably because Richius had been too afraid to ask. Details like that only depressed him. And the sight of the man called Ricken was depressing indeed. As he met up with Jahl, embracing the priest as he dropped from his saddle, Richius could plainly see his wretched vestments and pallor. He was emaciated, thin as a reed. But his eyes leapt with joy at the priest's return.

Richius trotted toward the pair, staring down at the stranger from atop his horse. The man looked up and all the pleasure drained from his expression.

"God in merry heaven," he gasped. "I don't believe it . . . Is this him?"

Jahl's voice was somber. "It's the king, Ricken. It's Richius."

Ricken couldn't take his gaze from his king. Suddenly Richius recognized him.

"Ricken Dancer," he whispered. "I know you. The horse breeder."

"My God," said Ricken in disbelief. "It really is you. Jahl, I can't believe you got him to come back!"

Richius' heart hardened. "Believe it," he said. "I've returned."

"The King of Aramoor, back to preside over his peasants." Ricken's lip trembled with anger—the same anger that had once tainted Jahl's face.

"You've got iron balls, Vantran."

"Easy, Ricken," scolded Jahl. "That's your king. You'll treat him with respect."

Ricken finally shifted his glare to Jahl. "Yow say that? This bloodsucker betrayed us!"

"That was the past," said Jahl, "and it's forgiven. Or would you rather call Tassis Gayle master?"

Before Ricken could answer, Richius slid off his horse and faced him. "I didn't come back for your forgiveness, Dancer. I don't want it, and I don't deserve it. I'm here for Aramoor; that's all."

His face softening, Ricken said, "I can't call you king, Vantran—not yet.

God in heaven, I can't even believe you've come."

"He's here to help us," said Jahl. "And he's brought Triin with him. A whole army. They're still in the run, about a mile from here."

"You've brought the lions?"

"No, no lions. But an army of Triin warriors, led by a warlord named Praxtin-Tar. Now listen to me, Ricken—this Praxtin-Tar is no one to trifle with. He's like a king in his country, and he'll gut you for the smallest insult. I want you to go back to the camp and tell the others . . ." Jahl stopped himself suddenly. "There are others, aren't there? The Saints are all right?"

"Mostly," said Ricken. "Parry's been sick through the spring, and Taylour took a tumble down a slope and broke an arm. But Leth has left us alone. It's been real quiet, Jahl. It's got us all nervous."

Jahl Rob slapped his comrade's back. "Well, it's about to get a hell of a lot more noisy around here! Go now and tell the others we're coming. Tell them not to make a move against Praxtin-Tar or his people. We've got a war to fight, Ricken! And we don't have much time."

"How much time?" asked Ricken, alarmed.

"Check your calendar," said Richius. "It's two days before the first of summer. That's when we ride for Aramoor."

"Jahl? Is that right?"

"Afraid so, Ricken," said Jahl. "We've got to get our plans together fast.

And that horde of Triin is aching for battle, and for food. We have to take Aramoor before we all starve to death. Now don't stand there gaping at me.

Tell the others we've come!"

Ricken started back up the slope, but as he began climbing he paused, glancing up at a small figure perched high above. A youngster was staring down at them, his mouth open in surprise. Richius looked back at him, perplexed. Did Jahl have children in his Saints?

"Oh, hell," growled Ricken. "Alain, I told you stay put!" he shouted at the boy. "Don't be following me down here."

Richius was stunned. "Alain?" He hurried to the hillside, studying the boy.

"Alain!"

The boy blinked, his face familiar yet so much older. "Richius?" he called.

"Richius, is it you?"

"Alain!" Richius cried. He forgot Ricken and Jahl completely and began clawing up the hillside. Alain shouted gleefully, nearly losing his footing as he scrambled down to meet Richius. For Richius, it was like seeing a ghost. He paused on the slope, opened his arms wide, and let the brother of his dearest friend tumble into his embrace.

"My God, Alain!" Richius cried, lifting the boy high. "What are you doing here? What . . . what happened?"

"Richius, it's you!" squealed Alain. "It is!"

Richius led Alain down the hill. He had gotten so much bigger, so much like Dinadin it was frightening. Jahl hurried closer, his expression anxious.

"Richius, I'm sorry I didn't tell you. I couldn't. I . . ."

"Jahl, what happened?" Richius demanded. He turned to face Alain. "Alain, where's your family? Where's Del?"

Confused, Alain glanced at Jahl. "You didn't tell him?"

"No," said Jahl. "I couldn't."

Richius let out a groan. "Oh, no. Dead?"

The youngest Lotts nodded. Richius reached out again, wrapping him in his arms. "God, I'm sorry, Alain. I'm so sorry . . ." Richius glared at Jahl and mouthed a silent curse.

"What could I say?" asked Jahl. "You didn't know, but you didn't ask. It was hard for me. Del was my friend."

"He was my friend, too," spat Richius. "And so was Dinadin. You should have told me."

"I was going to. I was just . . ." The priest shrugged. "Waiting, I guess."

Richius took Alain by the shoulders and gave him his broadest smile. "God, it's good to see you, Alain. And look at you. You've gotten so big!"

"I can't believe it's really you," said Alain. He reached out and brushed his fingers against Richius' face. "You've changed."

"More than you know. But you look hungry. Are you? We brought food with us. You want some?"

Jahl cleared his throat. "Richius, this isn't the time for a reunion. We have to get back to Praxtin-Tar. Go on now, Ricken, and take Alain with you."

"No," said Richius. He took hold of Alain's hand. "He's coming back with us."

"Richius, please . . ."

But Richius walked off, leading Alain to his horse. "I'm not letting him out of my sight, Jahl," he said. "I've already lost two of his brothers. I'm not going to lose this one." He helped Alain onto Lightning's back, then climbed into the saddle behind him. Taking the reins in his hands, he told Ricken, "Get back to the others. Tell them we're on our way. Tell them I've returned to Aramoor."

Astounded, Ricken said, "Are you here to stay, my lord?"

Richius heard the hope in his voice. "I'm here to take back what's mine," he declared. "In two days, we're going to win back our country."

That evening, Jahl knelt alone by the edge of a cliff near the mountain stronghold of his Saints. Far in the distance, the fir trees of Aramoor stood like dark sentries across the shadowy horizon, barely visible despite their height. Night brought a cool breeze through the canyons, stirring up dust and whispers, and the stars slowly popped to life. To the east, the army of Praxtin-Tar had set up camp in the run, their cooking fires deliberately kept small, their horses and supply carts secured for the night. They had met with the Saints to talk of the coming war and to share their provisions, and to begin planning their invasion of Aramoor. There was much to do and too little time.

The first of summer was only two days away. Praxtin-Tar's warriors were exhausted from their trek, and the Saints of the Sword looked in no shape to fight, but both groups had willingly put their pains aside. There was an eagerness in the stronghold and throughout the ranks of Triin, a palpable desire to follow Richius Vantran into war. Even now the Jackal was using his influence to win the loyalty of his subjects. To Jahl, it was like witnessing a miracle. Vantran blood was persuasive.

Facing Aramoor, Jahl knelt with his eyes closed, praising God. The Lord had watched over him during the long journey to Lucel-Lor. And He had brought back the Jackal. Jahl had prayed mightily and had been heard, and his gratitude to heaven was overwhelming.

"Thank you, Father," he declared. "Thank you for protecting my Saints.

Thank you for bringing back our king. Thank you for Praxtin-Tar, though he be a heathen. Thank you for taking the heaviness from my heart."

Jahl opened his eyes and gazed heavenward, remembering something that Bishop Herrith himself had said—that some angels rode on chariots and carried swords. If he looked very hard, perhaps he might see them on this night of miracles. Jahl was sure the angels would be with them during the battle. Nothing would stand against them—not even Tassis Gayle.

Suddenly a shadow darkened the starlight. Over his shoulder, Jahl heard footfalls.

"Richius," he presumed. "Come ahead."

"You're praying," said Richius. "I don't want to bother you."

"I'm done for now." Jahl turned and waved the young man over. "Come. Sit with me." He gestured to the ground beside him. "We can talk."

Hesitantly, Richius inched closer. He was troubled and doing a poor job of hiding it. His eyes flicked toward Aramoor, but only for a moment.

"I came to talk about the attack," he said. "You weren't at the meeting with Praxtin-Tar."

Jahl shrugged. "I thought you should handle it yourself. I want the men to get used to following you again, and to stop looking to me for answers.

You're the king, after all."

"They've all agreed—the day after tomorrow. Praxtin-Tar says he'll be ready. We've only got one real chance at this. We'll have to surprise Leth at the castle. We have to take him before Talistan can send reinforcements."

"Talistan's going to be rather busy, don't you think? Gayle won't be sending Leth any help; not if Biagio does as he says."

"Oh, Biagio." Richius rolled his eyes. "I don't know what to think about that one. Alazrian trusts him, but, well . . ."

"It's impossible to trust him," said Jahl. "I know what you mean. But my lack of faith in Biagio is made up by my faith in Alazrian. He's a good boy, Richius. And I know he's not lying."

"He doesn't have to be lying," said Richius. "Maybe he's just been taken in by Biagio. You don't know the emperor the way I do, Jahl—he's a trickster.

And he can be a real charmer."

"Alazrian says he's changed." Jahl grinned. "Don't you think a man can change, my lord?"

"Don't lay traps for me, Jahl. You know what I mean. Biagio is going to have to prove himself. As far as I'm concerned, we're alone in this."

"Maybe," said Jahl. "But we have Praxtin-Tar's horde, and we have you to lead us. And we have God. Not a bad army, that."

Richius nodded absently. Jahl looked up at him.

"My lord?"

"Uhm?"

"You didn't come here to talk about the attack, did you? Why don't you tell me what's on your mind?"

Richius chuckled. "Now you sound like Biagio. Am I so easy to read?"

"When you walk around with such a long face, yes. Sit, please."

Richius sat beside Jahl, crossing his legs beneath him like a boy and staring into the night. He did not speak, but rather let the silence grow around him as he contemplated Aramoor. Jahl said nothing, giving Richius time to collect his muddled thoughts.

Finally, Richius said, "They have accepted me again."

Jahl nodded.

"I didn't expect it. I don't think I deserve it."

"You are their king," said Jahl. "They always wanted you back."

"King," scoffed Richius. "A real king wouldn't have left them."

"A real king would return. As you have."

"This isn't easy for me. I never thought I'd see Aramoor again, and now I can hardly bear to look at her. She's too beautiful."

"She's waiting for us," said Jahl. "She needs us."

Richius put his hands together. "Then I hope I don't disappoint her again."

Jahl glanced down at his clasped hands. "Praying, my lord?"

"No."

"No? Well, you should. God can help you."

"God and I aren't on speaking terms, I'm afraid."

"You should talk to Him. He can ease your burdens. He can take away your guilt."

"What guilt?" asked Richius sharply. "I don't feel any guilt."

Jahl looked at his king. "I see the struggle in you. You're wondering why the Saints have accepted you after what you've done. You're feeling guilty for abandoning us. You think you've sinned."

"I'm not a sinner."

"God can take away your sins," said Jahl. "If you let Him. Ask Him to forgive you, Richius. You'll feel reborn."

Richius shifted. "No. I don't think so."

"Why not? You believe in God, don't you?"

"I don't know what to believe."

"So then? What have you got to lose?" Jahl sat up straight. "Unburden yourself. Let me hear your confession."

"I have nothing to confess," said Richius. "I'm just . . . nervous."

Jahl poked him forcefully. "You're the King of Aramoor," he said. "We have all forgiven you. Now you need to know that God has forgiven you, too." Jahl closed his eyes, preparing himself. "Your confession, my lord.

Speak it."

"Jahl, let's talk about our plans," said Richius impatiently. "We've got a lot to do. And your men have been asking about you. You should be involved.

Come with me; we can meet with Praxtin-Tar."

"Later," said Jahl. "First, we pray for God's guidance."

"Jahl, we've only got two days left!"

"There's always time for prayer, Richius. Now, ask God to forgive your sins."

"I'm not a sinner, Jahl. I'm just a man who made mistakes. I'm not going to beg forgiveness."

Jahl kept his eyes closed. "I'm waiting."

For a moment he thought the king would speak, but then he heard the scraping of dirt and the sound of departing footfalls. When at last Jahl opened his eyes, Richius was gone.

"Ah, forgive him, Father," sighed Jahl with a smile. "But one step at a time.

At least we've gotten him back."

FORTY-FOUR

Of all the ships in Wallach's fleet, the Gladiator was the finest. Built a dozen years ago in the shipyards of Gorkney, she had carried gold and rubies up from the Casarhoon coast and along the Empire's eastern shore, making countless runs with pirates on her tail and captains of the Black Fleet dogging her for bribes. She was square-rigged and triple-masted, and had served for a short time in Gorkney's navy before the government of that principality abandoned the idea of its own military for reasons of expense. Because of the Gladiator's brief career as a ship of the line, fitting her with weaponry had been remarkably easy. Now she sported ten cannons port and starboard. She was the most dangerous, well-armed ship in Zerio's armada, and that was why he had made her his flag.

On Elrad Leth's orders, Zerio had set sail from Aramoor, heading south toward the coast of the Eastern Highlands. With the Gladiator at its head, the armada sailed in formation, each ship following its sister. Once they reached the Highlands, they would take up positions offshore. They would be the opening volley in a war that would tear the Empire apart, setting nation against nation, and Zerio couldn't be happier. For a privateer, nothing was as profitable as war. He had gladly endorsed Tassis Gayle's plan, because he knew that he would be safe aboard the Gladiator, even if the King of Talistan lost his life on the antlers of a Highland elk. There was money to be made and Zerio and his crews had been well paid from Duke Wallach's coffers. And when the duke's money dried up, they would find other employers. The Black Fleet was in chaos, war was coming to the Empire, and Zerio thrilled at the possibility of gold. For a full day they had sailed south, leeward with the wind at their sterns. Until this evening, they hadn't sighted a single other vessel.

Then they saw the dreadnought.

Captain Zerio leaned against the bow of the Gladiator, peering through a spyglass at the windward-tacking warship. The sun was low in the sky, but the opposing vessel was obvious. She was a dreadnought of the Black Fleet, but she struck no flag or colors. Zerio chewed his lip as he spied her, wondering at the vessels sailing abreast of her. He had never seen the golden schooners of Liss, but he had always imagined he would know them if he saw them.

"Sweet mother of God," he whispered. "I don't bloody believe it . . ." Next to Zerio, his "first officer" and drinking comrade Duckworth stomped his feet anxiously. The crew of the Gladiator had gathered on the bow.

"Are they Lissens?" asked Duckworth. "I think so," said Zerio. "I . . . I'm not really sure." "They must be," cried a mate.

"What the hell are they doing here?" demanded Duckworth. "And what's a dreadnought doing with them?"

"God almighty, how should I know?" snapped Zerio. He closed the spyglass and handed it off to one of his mates, a boy from Gorkney no older than sixteen. The boy's face had gone from seasick green to a terrified white.

"All of you, get back to work!" Zerio barked. "This isn't a circus. Man your stations!"

The crew of the Gladiator slowly scattered from the bow. Behind the flagship, the other privateer vessels were slowing. Duckworth looked at Zerio blankly.

"What do we do?" he whispered. "They've already seen us. They're heading right toward us!"

"Shut up and let me think." Zerio looked over the bow, gauging the distance. The dreadnought and its Lissen escorts were still a mile away, far enough for Zerio to plan a defense. Though he struggled to make sense of it, he couldn't imagine why the Lissens were so far north, or why they were led by a dreadnought. But it really didn't matter. His commission was to protect Talistan. Wallach had paid good gold for his services, and despite his reputation as a pirate, Zerio intended to honor his bargain. He would not let the Lissens pass without a fight.

"Duckworth, signal the other ships for a line of battle formation. We lead.

Turn port and get us broadside."

"What?" sputtered Duckworth.

"We're not going to let them through," said Zerio. "Not while we have this kind of firepower."

"Zerio, those are Lissens. Let's get out of here!"

"And go where, Duckworth? Back to Talistan? Don't you think that's where those cursed devils are heading?"

"Then let them go without a fight. Damn it, Zerio, I didn't sign on for this!

This isn't our business."

"It is now."

"But . . ."

"Follow my orders!" Zerio exploded. "Get these ships in line of battle.

Now!"

Duckworth fell back, then gave the order. Slowly the Gladiator began its turn to starboard. Zerio rubbed his hands together, trying to think. He was a smuggler, not a tactician, and he had never been up against a dreadnought before. Or a Lissen. But something compelled him to fight this battle. If he could manage to sink a schooner, he'd be the highest-paid privateer in the Empire.

Aboard the Dread Sovereign, Kasrin, Jelena, and Laney waited on the forecastle, pondering the strange armada ahead of them. Upon sighting the Narens, Kasrin had ordered his fleet to slow, giving him time to consider their options. His lookouts had counted well over a dozen ships. From this distance, he couldn't tell if they carried arms, but he thought it likely. To starboard and port, the Lissen schooners sailed abreast of the Sovereign, with Vares' vessel closest, clinging to the dreadnought's starboard side. The Hammerhead gleamed in the fading sun, its ram ready to devour its Naren adversaries. But Vares kept a careful pace with the dreadnought. Because Jelena was aboard the Sovereign, Vares never dared question Kasrin's command.

"Look," said Laney suddenly, pointing. "They're forming a line."

Jelena understood instantly. "They're not going to let us pass," she said.

"They want a fight."

"Or they want us to turn around and go home," said Kasrin.

No one bothered to reply. They were along the coast of the Eastern Highlands, barely a full night's sail to Talistan. Tomorrow was the first day of summer. In the morning, the Dread Sovereign was to be on the coast of Talistan, ready to open fire. For almost two weeks they had sailed, blessedly without incident. The weather and wind had cooperated, speeding them northward. Now, staring down the Naren blockade, Kasrin couldn't believe his quick change of luck.

"We don't have a choice," said Jelena finally. "We can't get around them."

Laney nodded. "It would take too much time. We'll have to go through them."

Kasrin rubbed his temples. "Who the hell are they? And what are they doing here?"

"Talistan doesn't have a navy," said Jelena. "Isn't that what you told me?"

"Yes. And I don't know what that is out there. Maybe Biagio's right about Talistan. Maybe they are planning a strike against the Black City."

"But where'd they get the ships?" asked Laney.

"Purchased them, most likely. Tassis Gayle has money. Looks like he bought himself a navy to go with his army. And whoever they are, they're not going to let us pass without a fight."

Jelena scowled. "Privateering rabble," she stated. "No match for our crews, Blair."

"We don't know that," Kasrin cautioned. "Gayle may have hired someone from the Black Fleet to command. We don't know what we're up against."

"We will best them," said Jelena. "If they want a fight, we'll give them one."

"Whoa," said Kasrin, taking her by the arm. He pulled her away from Laney, who politely looked aside. "Jelena, I told you already, this isn't your fight. I can't let you or your people do this."

Jelena straightened, pulling away from Kasrin's grip. "I am not a little girl.

And I'm not about to let you run that blockade alone. My ships are coming with you."

"Jelena . . ."

"No," said Jelena firmly, "no arguing. We've come this far. We won't abandon you now; we're not afraid of battle, Blair."

"I know," said Kasrin. "Let's not argue, please. I need ideas." He turned again to his first officer. "Laney? What do you think?"

Laney surveyed the fleet. "They outnumber us, no question," he said. "But Jelena's right—a bunch of pirates aren't a match for the schooners or their crews."

Kasrin nodded. "That's it, then. We fight."

"No," said Jelena. "The schooners will fight. We'll go through them."

Kasrin and Laney faced her, puzzled.

"The Dread Sovereign has to get to Talistan," she explained. "We have to break through, get past those ships and keep on going, then let the schooners do the rest."

"Jelena, I can't!"

"You know I'm right, Blair; it's the only way. Look . . ." Jelena went to the rail and pointed toward the privateers. "They're forming their line, flagship first. That's where their commander is, right?"

Kasrin nodded.

"So we change course," she said. "We go right for that flagship, bringing the starboard cannons alongside. We bloody her nose, then sail past her for Talistan. Vares and the schooners will make sure they don't pursue."

Kasrin considered the plan. Since the Sovereign's port cannons had been melted in her battle with the Fearless, only the starboard guns were operational. They would have to go after the lead ship. Without port guns, punching through the center of their line was impossible.

"It's difficult," said Kasrin. "We'll have to be fast."

"We have the windward," Laney reminded him. "And once we turn broadside, they'll be expecting a full assault. They won't think we'll try to slip past them."

"What about Vares and the others?" asked Kasrin.

"Vares will keep them busy," said Jelena. "Don't worry about that."

"Yes, but will he agree?" asked Kasrin. "This isn't his battle, Jelena."

Queen Jelena gave a sharp smile. "Vares knows his mission, Blair. And you don't know him like I do. Those are Narens out there, remember. When it comes to fighting Narens, Vares is insatiable."

Flags and colored pendants flashed along the deck of the Dread Sovereign, and Commander Vares paused to read the message. The Sovereign's signalmen were competent sailors, Vares supposed, but their inexperience with Lissen signals was obvious. Vares deciphered the message as best he could, and when the signalman had finished, the Lissen commander laughed.

"Dorin," he called to his lieutenant. "Did you get that?" The young sailor grimaced. "Uhm, not completely, Commander. Are we going to attack?"

"We are absolutely going to attack," replied Vares. The news heartened him.

On the command bridge of his schooner, he put his hands in the pockets of his coat and let his chest swell, imagining the Naren rabble watching through their spyglasses. When he had agreed to Jelena's request to escort the Dread Sovereign to Talistan, he had never imagined they would see battle. According to the signalman, the schooners were to break formation and fall in line after the Sovereign, starboard broadside. Remembering that the Sovereign's port guns were useless, the tactic didn't surprise Vares. He was about to pass the order down the line when the dreadnought's signalman started waving more flags. Vares watched him, trying to decipher the confusing mix of numbers and colors.

"Line ahead, then break formation?" he said. "What does that mean?" Then suddenly he understood. Not all the ships would break formation—just the Sovereign. Vares waved to his queen on the deck of the dreadnought.

"I understand, my queen!" he shouted, not sure that she could hear him.

"Good luck to you!"

"Commander?" queried Dorin. "What's happening?"

Vares gave a vicious grin. "Put your fingers in your ears, Lieutenant." he advised.

While Duckworth ran across deck shouting orders to the crewmen and cannoneers, Captain Zerio stared through his spyglass at the rapidly approaching armada. He had done a fair job of getting his privateer navy into position, forming a wall of cannons as they turned their vessels broadside.

Known as a line of battle defense, Zerio had learned it during his short stint in the Naren navy. The formation gave his force an advantage, for all their guns were already turned against the enemy. But now Zerio could see that his adversaries were taking up similar positions, gently turning to port as they sailed northward. They would bring their starboard cannons against his privateers, Zerio knew. The tactic vexed him. He had expected them to try barreling through with their rams, a strategy that would have left their lightly armored bows open to cannon fire. The dreadnought had taken the lead and was heading toward the Gladiator. She had the windward, which meant she had the speed, and would soon be within firing range. Zerio cursed his stupidity. Dreadnoughts had flame cannons, and flame cannons had greater range than his old-fashioned powder guns. But it was too late to change tactics. Zerio collapsed the spyglass and let out a string of curses that brought Duckworth hurrying to the bow.

"What's the matter?" asked his friend.

"The dreadnought," said Zerio. "She's ours."

"So?"

"So she has flame cannons, stupid. She can out-range us."

"Well goddamn it, why didn't you think of that?"

"Because I didn't expect her to take the lead, that's why," hissed Zerio. He looked over his shoulder. Behind the Gladiator, the Glorious was waiting, her crew ready behind their cannons. An idea occurred to him. "Duckworth," he said, "signal the Glorious to follow us. We'll pull ahead of the others, and try to get the dreadnought between us. Once we're in position, we can pull around to her portside."

"And catch her in a cross fire," guessed Duckworth. "Good idea."

"Is it? Let's hope so. Go; give the order."

Duckworth was off in an instant, calling to his mates. Once again the Gladiator picked up speed, but this time the Glorious followed close behind, putting a small gap in the privateer line. Zerio watched their progress with satisfaction as the dreadnought sped to outmaneuver them.

They had the windward, but not the time. Now they would have to face two ships—or sail right for the center of the line.

"Not bad," said Zerio, congratulating himself. He had never faced a dreadnought captain in battle before. They weren't so great, after all.

"She's changing course!"

Kasrin gripped the rail, his knuckles turning white. The Dread Sovereign had picked up the wind and was nearly abreast of the Naren flagship, but another had joined her and was fixing the dreadnought in her guns. Along the deck Kasrin's men prepared themselves. The starboard flame cannons hummed to life. Kasrin quickly calculated the range between ships. He had the speed, but not the time to outrun them.

"Look," said Laney. "They've left an opening in their line."

"That's for us," cautioned Jelena. "They want us to sail between them."

"They know we have the range advantage," said Kasrin. "Clever bastard.

"He stroked his chin thoughtfully. Changing course wasn't an option. Even if he could maneuver through the middle of the line, he had no port weapons to fight off the attack. The flag officer had left him only one choice. "We'll have to take them both on," he said. "Laney, take us in closer. Steady as she goes."

Instead of coming full abreast, the Dread Sovereign stopped its turn to sail ahead, tacking toward the waiting Narens. Behind her, Vares' fleet was getting into position, ready for its showdown with the privateers. It would be a battle, because the Lissens were outnumbered. But they had the skill, Kasrin reminded himself, and all he needed was for them to divert the enemy long enough for the Sovereign to slip on by. When the Sovereign was safe, Vares could turn against the Narens with the real advantage of the schooners—their legendary speed.

Off the starboard bow, the flagship and its escort were coming into range.

Soon the Sovereign would be in the tailing vessel's arc of fire. Kasrin glanced up at the topsails, full of wind and straining at the yards. The ship was at the limit of her speed, and about to take two broadsides. The Narens had outpaced them, bringing their own guns within range. A few moments more . .

.

"Jelena," said Kasrin quickly, "would it be asking too much for you to get below?"

"Forget it," replied the queen. She stood beside him on the forecastle, studying the range of the closing Narens. "We're almost in the arc," she said.

"Steady . . ."

The flame cannons tracked on their mechanical mounts. The calls of the cannoneers echoed from the gun deck. Laney stood at Kasrin's side, ready to relay his orders, and the crew waited for the first concussion. When it came, it would be from the tailing ship.

"Steady," said Jelena again. She had one hand wrapped around a line and the other on the rail, her body exposed to the coming firestorm. Kasrin steeled himself, waiting for the first volley, wondering how much punishment his newly repaired warship could take.

"Laney," he said, "Cannons two and three on the tailing ship. Cannon one ready against the flag."

"Cannon one, ready against the flag. Aye, sir." Laney called out the order.

Two cannons bore down on their first target. The other would use its superior range against the flagship.

"Get ready," warned Kasrin. He could almost smell the powder of the Naren cannons. "Here it comes . . ."

Lightning and thunder exploded before them. The dusk brightened with muzzle blasts. Kasrin yanked Jelena from the rail, wrapping himself like a shield around her. One by one shots burst into the water, falling around their target. Jelena tore free of Kasrin, hurrying back to the rail and peering across the smoky sea.

"Close," she shouted. "Blair, should we return fire?"

Kasrin grit his teeth. "Laney?"

"Aye, sir?"

"Blast 'em."

Back aboard the Gladiator, Zerio was preparing his own batteries to open fire when he heard the dreadnought's concussion. The twin detonations rattled the teeth in his jaw. Next to him, Duckworth dropped the spyglass in shock, shattering it.

"Holy hell!" cried Duckworth.

Two blazing bolts of fire shot across the water. There was a giant whoosh and the hiss of steam as one followed the other into the hull of Glorious, sending her heeling sideways. Stunned crewmen aboard the Glorious returned fire, but the sticky fuel of the flame cannons was already on deck, setting it alight. An alarmed cry went up. Two cannons got off shots, then another two.

They slammed into the dreadnought, denting her armor.

Zerio fought to calm himself, amazed at the dreadnought's firepower. She was still coming toward them, absorbing the best of Glorious' guns and about to turn her weapons on Gladiator. The captain knew he had to get the dreadnought between them, to lure her into a cross fire.

"Duckworth, hard right rudder! Bring us along her port side!"

Duckworth wasted no time. Gradually the Gladiator turned to port, changing course just enough to avoid the dreadnought's arc. As she bit into the waves, drawing ever closer to the dreadnought, she slowly drew her prey between the two ships.

"Come on, come on," urged Zerio, willing the vessel around. She was safely away from the dreadnought's starboard guns but still not ready to fire herself.

Just a few more seconds . . .

"Duckworth," shouted Zerio, "aim for her sails. Let's slow this bastard down!"

Kasrin knew they were in trouble. Over the port bow, the flagship was quickly coming abreast, readying her batteries. Suddenly the Dread Sovereign was trapped, blasting away at her starboard enemy but with no way to return fire to port.

"Ahead!" Kasrin cried. "Get us out of here!"

The flagship opened fire. Cannonballs tore into the Sovereign's sails. The flame cannons pummelled the smaller privateer, but she too returned fire, trading round after round with the dreadnought. Fires erupted in the masts; lines snapped and burned. An endless cannonade discharged from the enemy.

The Dread Sovereign shuddered under the bombardment, trying to flee but losing speed as the sails tore open.

"Damn it!" roared Kasrin. He felt impotent against his portside enemy. "All cannons, continuous fire! Blow that bastard to pieces!"

The Sovereign lurched to starboard, swinging around to escape the port bombardment and bringing her guns to bear against the enemy's stern. The flame cannons paused, re-acquired, then concentrated on their target's aft, a close-range barrage that demolished the decking and sent up showers of splinters. Kasrin's beleaguered crew cheered as they watched water gush into the privateer's holds. Suddenly her guns stopped. Her sailors looked about in shock. But Kasrin's glee was shortlived. Once again the flagship was changing course. She was almost behind the Sovereign now, her port cannons echoing Kasrin's own successful tactic, targeting the dreadnought's stern. Kasrin could see the privateer aligning the Sovereign in her arc.

"Oh, God," he groaned.

The dreadnought had no aft guns. Like all the ships of the line, she was unprotected from the rear. Even as she struggled northward again, the privateer opened fire.

Commander Vares and his Hammerhead had tailed the Dread Sovereign at four hundred yards, getting into line behind her even as she made her dangerous moves. With her starboard cannons facing the privateers, the Hammerhead opened fire with all batteries. Down the line, the other schooners picked up the order and began blasting away at the wall of Naren ships. The privateers quickly replied, returning fire with their many guns.

But Vares had seen something go terribly wrong. Ahead of his schooner, the Dread Sovereign was taking heavy punishment. She had been out-maneuvered by two privateers, squeezed between them and their cannons.

With her flame cannons, she had destroyed the stern of one vessel, but now her own aft was unprotected and being peppered with fire. She was struggling to escape with damaged sails.

Vares knew his queen was in peril. Even a dreadnought couldn't absorb fire from the rear. The commander looked over the ocean to where a pair of Naren vessels bore down on him, trying to get the Hammerhead's range. Shots erupted around the schooner, sending up whale spouts. The south wind tugged at her sails, urging her on.

"Speed," Vares whispered. That was their advantage.

Past the bow he saw the Dread Sovereign desperately trying to evade.

Gunfire stippled her stern.

"Dorin," cried Vares. "Ahead. Prepare for ramming!"

She wasn't called the Hammerhead for nothing.

Captain Zerio had just given the order to turn his ship toward port, raking the dreadnought's stern with fire. The dreadnought continued limping away, trying to get speed from her ruined topsails. As he brought his vessel about, Zerio realized the dreadnought's port guns were useless. The sails slackened and the Gladiator slowed. As Zerio confidently considered his next move, a sudden shout shattered his clarity.

High in the crow's nest, a lookout cried a fearful warning. Zerio glanced eastward. Off starboard, a Lissen schooner was racing toward them, eating up the ocean with her silver ram. Zerio stopped breathing. She was two hundred yards off and gaining fast. The cannoneers trained their starboard guns against her, waiting their captain's order.

"Stop her!" Zerio cried.

"She's coming around again," said Kasrin. "Ready starboard cannons!"

"Look," shouted Jelena. She pointed past the privateer toward the dark horizon. "The Hammerhead!"

Kasrin raced to the railing. The enemy flagship was still out of their arc, but her portside cannons had ceased firing. The Sovereign's stern was aflame.

Crewmen batted at the fire with blankets. But now an avenging angel was coming to rescue them. With the wind in her sails and her arrow-sharp prow, she sliced open the ocean in her quest for vengeance. Kasrin watched as the privateer's guns fired, frantically trying to gauge the range as the schooner raced toward them. A thunderous barrage blew from the flagship's cannons.

Around the Hammerhead the water exploded. Undaunted, she sailed on, gathering speed for her lethal ram.

"Blair, should we alter course?" asked Laney. "We can get them in our arc."

"No," replied Kasrin. Returning fire meant nothing now. "Hold steady north, Laney. Let's get the hell out of here."

"But the flagship . . ."

"Forget the flagship," said Jelena. Her eyes were locked on the Hammerhead. "Vares will take care of it."

Commander Vares targeted the flagship's hull. He was on the prow of his vessel, just yards from the ram, holding tightly to lines as the Hammerhead raced forward. The roar of wind and cannons echoed in his ear, and he could smell the gunpowder. A shot tore through the railing and battered the deck.

The Hammerhead ignored it, homing in on the enemy's hull. A hundred yards, then seventy-five, then fifty—they all blew by in an instant. The Lissens braced themselves, grabbing hold of lines and mooring cleats. Vares ducked as the schooner rushed forward, avoiding the overhead shots and the hot glare of the barrels. He held his breath, thrilling to the screams of the frightened Narens.

Mute with horror, Zerio watched as the schooner grew in his vision. Sensing their demise, the starboard gunners gave up their attack, abandoning their stations. Next to Zerio, Duckworth put his hands over his mouth and let out a terrified whimper. Barely a moment remained. Zerio thought of jumping ship, yet he simply couldn't move.

The last rays of sunlight played on the ram. Zerio watched it gleam. He heard the wail of tearing wood, felt the fist of wind. The impact of the collision threw him skyward. With the detachment of a dream he saw the Gladiator crumble beneath him. And then he was falling, dropping toward the impaling spikes of ripped timbers.

Kasrin stared in disbelief. Behind the Dread Sovereign, the privateer flagship was sinking, its hull breached. Water rushed in, dragging it relentlessly downward, and sailors were spilling into the icy depths, struggling to avoid the crushing ram. Vares' schooner pulled free of the wreck, bobbing at its prow like a feeding wolf, ripping the flagship's flesh.

Laney quickly collected himself, ordering the crew to their stations and keeping their course. He and Kasrin exchanged wordless glances. Leaning over the railing, Jelena watched as the Hammerhead began circling after the other privateers. The ocean screamed with cannon fire.

"What now?" Kasrin asked her.

Jelena's voice was grave. "Now we sail for Talistan."

"No, I mean with the others," said Kasrin.

"Vares is in command now. He will deal with the Narens."

Something about the answer unnerved Kasrin, but he didn't bother replying.

He looked up at the ragged topsails, then back toward the flaming stern.

Already his men had gotten the fire under control, dousing it with buckets of seawater. The Dread Sovereign was crippled again. The smell of her starboard flame cannons laced the air with spent kerosene, and her deck was littered with debris. But she was still alive. Remarkably, she was still on course for Talistan.

In the west, the sun had disappeared. By daybreak, they were to be in Talistan. With the Sovereign's damaged sails, Kasrin knew it would be a tight run.

"Look sharp, crew," he called. "We don't have a minute to waste."

As the Hammerhead turned back toward the battle, Vares noticed the waning defense of the privateers. Having seen the destruction of their flagship, the remaining vessels broke formation, desperate to flee.

But to Vares the battle had just begun. In their disarray, the privateers were the perfect prey, and Vares' appetite for destruction had barely been slaked.

Quickly he ordered a hard right rudder, bringing the Hammerhead about to cut off the Narens' escape. Then, when his vessel was close enough, he ordered his signalmen to flash the flags, sending a simple message to his fleet—no prisoners, no quarter, no mercy of any kind.

Vares picked up his spyglass and chose his quarry. Like its namesake, the Hammerhead swam hungrily forward.

FORTY-FIVE

In the first day of summer, the forces of the Eastern Highlands gathered on the bank of the Silverknife. Under the command of Prince Redburn and perched atop their armored latapi, the clans of Greyfin, Glynn, and Kellen sat in the morning sun, ready for the coming battle. A small breeze blew across the meadow, stirring their flags. At the lead flew the brilliant crimson banner of the Red Stag. Other banners of blue, white, and gold flanked the prince's standard, representing the gathered warriors of the Highland families. There was Oily Glynn beneath his bear flag and Vanda Greyfin under the standard of the shark, flanking Redburn and his numerous men. And behind them sat Cray Kellen upon his golden elk. The Lion of Grandshirl had come with two hundred men. With his fanged helmet and golden flag, Cray Kellen was daunting. He had a broadsword on his back and an emotionless expression on his face as he watched the force arrayed against them.

Across the river, the host of Talistan waited, hundreds strong and heavily armed. A line of cavalry held their vanguard, snorting beasts plated with green and gold armor and mounted by demon-faced lancemen. Behind their ranks sat Tassis Gayle resplendent in his own ornate armor and flanked by sword-bearing infantrymen. On his right were a contingent of Voskans, on his left a force of Gorkneymen. A line of longbowmen bolstered their rear, standing in perfect formation as they awaited their instructions. A few lieutenants rode through the ranks, calling out orders to the various regiments.

Atop his black charger, Tassis Gayle was still as stone. He wore a golden helmet carved with a grotesque reptilian face and winged like a gargoyle, and a gigantic sword dangled at his side. Hidden in his suit of metal, he looked far more vital than Biagio had ever seen him. He looked, to Biagio's despair, formidable.

Like Tassis Gayle, Biagio was on horseback. He was among only a handful of the Highlanders not on a latapi, and because he had no antlers or armor on his mount, he felt diminished. Next to him, Prince Redburn was on a prize beast, a huge latapi with a wide rack and hammered iron plating protecting its neck and flanks. It was, Biagio believed, the most redoubtable beast he had ever seen, a creature to challenge the legendary lions of Chandakkar. It chewed its bit noisily, sensing the coming battle, never taking its eyes off its foes. Beside Redburn, Breena too was on an elk, a somewhat smaller but no less impressive beast. A worried expression twisted her lips. Other than Vandra Greyfin, Breena was the only woman on the field. Surprisingly, Redburn had not argued for her to stay at the castle.

Upon his chestnut warhorse, Biagio counted the enemy ranks. Gayle's cavalry numbered nearly two hundred, and his infantry at least that many. The Voskans, who had been a nasty surprise to the emperor, numbered perhaps a hundred, and the Gorkneymen maybe fifty more. Biagio looked across the river wondering which one of them was Wallach. The duke had spared no expense for his vengeance.

Even with all four clans represented, Redburn had fielded a force of less than five hundred, hardly enough to match the army that Tassis Gayle had arrayed. Though the Highlanders had their latapi to bolster them, they seemed no match for the better-trained Talistanians. For the first time since hatching his scheme, Biagio felt regret. He had forged the Highlanders into a weapon, but Gayle was a seasoned warrior. Tassis Gayle knew how to win a war, and seeing him again atop a charger made Biagio cringe.

"They are so many," said Redburn. "I did not expect it."

"Nor I," Biagio confessed.

"There weren't supposed to be so many," said Breena. "Lord Emperor, where is your navy?"

"I do not know."

It was well past dawn, and he had yet to hear a single volley from the coast.

Apparently, Kasrin had failed. Biagio bit back a curse. Without the Dread Sovereign to distract him, Gayle had been able to field a huge army.

"Redburn," he said haltingly, "I'm sorry. I swear to you, I had a dreadnought prepared . . ."

Prince Redburn said simply, "Do not be sorry. You were always right. This is our war. We will win it or lose it on our own."

"And without Triin help," said Breena bitterly. "Or do you still expect them to rescue us, Emperor?"

"Breena, please," said Redburn. "We're allies now."

"And I will do my best to defend your Highlands, my lady," said Biagio.

"You have my promise."

Breena's face softened. "Emperor, look out there. Please tell me we can win."

"I cannot tell you that, because I do not wish to lie to you."

"I didn't expect the Voskans," said Redburn. "Or the Gorkneymen. You have many enemies, Lord Emperor."

"A present from Baroness Ricter, no doubt?" Biagio remembered how he had arranged the baron's murder on Crote. Eleven Naren lords had died that day. It almost surprised Biagio that more of his enemies hadn't come.

"And the Gorkneymen?" asked Breena. "What of them?"

"It's better you don't know about that, I think," said Biagio.

Prince Redburn studied their flanks. Nearby, Oily Glynn stirred anxiously beneath his banner, a flag embroidered with a snarling bear. Of all the clan leaders, only Glynn had wanted war. He had even requested the honor of being first to enter the battle. Biagio supposed he would be up against the infantry. Or perhaps the Voskans.

"It's time," said Redburn. He turned to Breena. "Stay here, sister. Wait for me. If I'm killed, you know what to do."

"I know."

Redburn turned to Biagio. "Will he be expecting us?"

"He will think you are presenting terms," said Biagio, "or perhaps asking for his surrender. I'm sure he's hoping his show of numbers has frightened you.

That's why he hasn't attacked yet."

"Then I won't keep him waiting." Redburn raised a gauntleted hand, turning toward each of the clan leaders. One by one the clan heads broke ranks, riding out from the folds of their fighting men and coming to meet with Redburn at the center of their army. Oily Glynn was first at Redburn's side.

"We're riding out to make the challenge?" he asked.

"Yes," said Redburn. He turned a grave smile on Vandra Grayfin. "Vandra, I'm sorry for this."

The leader of Clan Greyfin shook her head. "Do not be. None of us were forced to come."

Cray Kellen added, "It's not your war, Redburn. Gayle started it. We will finish it for him."

Biagio guided his horse out of the ranks. "It looks bleak, I know," he told them. "But you have the latapi. And more than that you have the heart.

Redburn, I'm going with you."

The prince shook his head. "It's too dangerous. Besides, Gayle won't come out himself to speak with us."

"He will when he sees me," countered Biagio. A sly smile crept to his lips.

"War is a mind game, remember. And I think I can give us a little edge."

On the east side of the Silverknife, Tassis Gayle felt supremely satisfied.

Around him stirred an army of his best fighting-men. It had been many years since he had ridden into battle, and he felt young again. The sight of his enemies across the river made his blood gallop, strengthening him, and his mind was keen and alert. Next to him, Duke Wallach of Gorkney sat nervously upon his mount fretting over the number of Highlanders, while Count Galabalos of Vosk hummed softly to himself, confident of victory. In the absence of Ricter, the count was in command of his countrymen. In his long headdress and spiked armor, he appeared completely unconcerned about the mounted Highlanders across the river, and his hundred-strong force seemed to share his optimism. Major Mardek of the Green Brigade was also untroubled. The major rode from the vanguard of cavalry, hurrying up to Tassis Gayle and bringing his horse to a whinnying halt. His voice rang loudly from behind his demon mask.

"Shall we ask for their surrender, my liege?"

"Surrender?" answered Wallach. "They won't surrender, you fool. Look at them!"

"Galabalos!" called Tassis Gayle. As the Voskan approached, Gayle asked,

"Mardek wants to know if we should ask for surrender. What say you?"

"My men are here to fight, King Tassis," replied Galabalos. "It is what our baroness would want, for the revenge of her brother."

"Your baroness. Indeed," said Gayle.

Galabalos straightened on his horse. "A pity she can't be here for this. But we will make her proud."

"I'm certain you will," said Gayle. He looked at each of the men in turn.

"Remember why we're here, friends. For vengeance. Do not forget your daughter, Duke Wallach. Or your baron, Galabalos."

Wallach nodded. "Or your son, Tassis."

Tassis Gayle sighed. "Or my son."

"My lord," said Galabalos. He pointed across the river. "Look there."

From the ranks of Highlanders came a group of riders. Gayle counted five in all, most upon elk, one atop a plain-looking horse.

"Redburn," commented Mardek. "Perhaps he wishes to talk terms."

"Yes," said Wallach. " Our terms." The duke squinted. "Who's that with him?"

"The other clan leaders," said Mardek.

"No, on the horse. Who is that?"

Tassis Gayle peered across the river. Through the eye slits of his helmet the strange figure took shape. He had golden hair and amber skin and was remarkably lithe and tall. He rode alongside Redburn with an arrogant gait, sitting high in the saddle and glaring across the Silverknife.

Gayle took a long time to recognize him, but when he did he nearly fell from his horse.

"Sweet God almighty," he gasped. "Biagio!"

Emperor Renato Biagio wore black leather armor and a mischievous grin. At his side dangled a silver sword, glinting in the sunlight. He rode purposefully, taunting Gayle with his presence.

"What is this trickery?" Gayle seethed.

"Emperor Biagio?" Duke Wallach's wobbling resolve collapsed. "Is that him?"

"I don't believe it," spat Gayle. "The fop has found us out!"

The ranks of soldiers rippled with a worried murmur. Major Mardek looked at his king. "My lord? What shall we do?"

Gayle didn't answer. He was too enraged to make a sound. As Biagio drew closer, Gayle considered what had gone wrong. He had been so careful, hadn't he? And Biagio was weak. How had he orchestrated this waylay?

"A devil," whispered Gayle. "That is what he is."

"Tassis?" pressed Wallach. "What should we do?"

"What we came here to do, Wallach," snapped Gayle. "This was always about Biagio. By coming here, he's saved us the trouble of going to the Black City." Gayle felt a sudden rush of pleasure. Just as he'd promised Ricter, he was facing Biagio in battle. "Let him come. Let him taste my steel." Enraged, he bolted from the protection of his infantry, galloping toward the cavalry gathered at the river. "You hear me, Biagio?" he called. "Here I am! Face me, murderer!"

Across the Silverknife, Biagio's grin widened. Gayle brought his horse to a stop at the bank of the river shaking his fist at the approaching emperor.

Mardek and the others galloped up behind him.

"Tassis, get back!" said Wallach. "Don't let him taunt you. That's what he wants!"

Gayle ignored the advice, yelling, "Here I am, man-girl. I'm ready for you!"

"My liege, please," begged Mardek. Quickly he brought his mount in front of Gayle's. "Go back. Let us speak to these pigs for you."

"I will speak for myself," spat Gayle. "Back now; let him see me!"

Mardek, Wallach, and Galabalos all surrounded the king, waiting for the emperor and Highlanders to reach the river. When they came to the banks, Redburn held up a hand, stopping his small company. The Red Stag glared at Gayle defiantly.

"Tassis Gayle," he called. "For your crimes against my people, and for the slaughter of our sacred elk, we face you in battle. Today you will pay for your offenses."

Gayle lifted his faceplate. "Bold talk, boy." He pointed at Biagio. "Did you think bringing that creature with you would frighten me?"

Biagio laughed. "Surprised to see me, Tassis? It has been some time, hasn't it? You're looking fit for such an old man."

"Do not bait me, fop," warned Gayle. "It is you I seek to destroy. And as you can see, I am quite prepared."

"Yes," said Biagio, his eyes flicking between Gayle's comrades. "I was told you'd invited Wallach into your brotherhood. How are you, Duke? I see you've been spending some of your famous fortune."

"And what about me, Emperor?" challenged Count Galabalos. "Did you expect my army as well?"

"Ah, yes," drawled Biagio. "The Voskans. Where is your mistress, dog? I thought she would be here, pining for her dead brother." He smiled. "Baron Ricter was a brave man. I heard he didn't cry at all when the Lissens cut his heart out."

"Pig!" Galabalos cried, racing for the riverbank. "Come across and say that to my face!"

"No!" roared Gayle. "Biagio, you are mine. These others may have claims on you, but I will be the one to take your head!"

The emperor feigned surprise. "Taking heads? Hmm, what an interesting idea. What do you think of that, Wallach?"

"Butcher!" cried the duke. "How dare you speak of my daughter that way!"

"Me?" said Biagio. "Oh, my poor, misguided Wallach. Do you think it was I who killed the Lady Sabrina?"

Wallach's eyes narrowed. "You wretched beast . . ."

"Enough," said Gayle, anxious to change the subject. "We all know your crimes, Biagio."

"Oh, but I don't think the duke does, Tassis." Biagio looked at Wallach.

"My apologies, Duke. Yes, I did order her killing, I admit that. But it wasn't I who raped her and decapitated her."

"Silence, devil!" thundered Gayle. "We won't listen to your lies."

Biagio smiled. "It was Blackwood Gayle."

Duke Wallach swayed unsteadily on his mount, looking dazed. Gayle rushed to explain.

"Do not believe him, Wallach. He is a liar."

"Oh, Tassis, please," said Biagio. "We were allies then. Why, I spent many days in your castle. I remember perfectly dumping the Lady Sabrina at your son's feet. She was a gift, you see, Wallach. And Blackwood was so happy with her. He couldn't wait to—"

"Is it true?" Wallach demanded. He put his hand to his sword. "Tassis?"

Gayle's face hardened. "What will you do if it is? Biagio is the enemy, Wallach. Not me!"

"But you betrayed me!"

"I did not," bellowed Gayle. "That fiend gave the order for your daughter's execution. My son had no choice but to obey!"

"Well, let's be accurate, Tassis," said Biagio. "Rape was never actually part of the order."

"Shut up!" growled Gayle. It was all coming apart suddenly and he couldn't contain it. "Wallach, listen to me . . ."

"And you want me to fight for you?" cried the duke. "After what your bastard son did to my daughter?"

"You never loved her, Wallach. You know you didn't. Not like I loved my children."

"She was mine! And you took her from me!" Wallach looked across the river at Biagio. "Both of you took her. You had no right." He took the reins of his horse and turned it toward his waiting mercenaries. "We will not fight for you," he said. "Not today or ever."

Tassis Gayle tried to remain calm. "Wallach, do not abandon us."

"Burn in hell, Gayle," spat Wallach.

"Wallach . . ."

"Don't try to leave, Wallach," cautioned Biagio. "If you do, he'll kill you just like your daughter."

Wallach turned to Gayle. "You may try to kill me, Gayle, but if you do, my men will fight you. And then you will lose this war for certain."

Gayle was too enraged to answer. Wallach began trotting away. His men spied him curiously as he approached. Mardek made to follow, but Gayle stopped him. There was nothing to be done.

"Fifty men," Gayle said. "Practically nothing. We still outnumber you and your rabble, Biagio." His gaze shifted to Redburn. "I will spare you, Prince, if you turn this demon over to me. You and your clans can return home with your lives. All you have to do is give me Biagio."

Prince Redburn laughed. "A month ago, I might have agreed to your bargain, but that won't bring our latapi back. Now you have a battle on your hands."

"Look around, Redburn," suggested Gayle. "You can't possibly defeat us.

We will slaughter you, just like we did your elk." He looked at Biagio. "You've lost, Emperor. Face it."

But Biagio didn't reply. Instead, the emperor cocked his head, as if listening to something very faint. Gayle frowned, then heard it too. From far in the east a rumble sounded.

"What's that?" Gayle asked Mardek. "Do you hear it?"

Biagio began laughing. "Those are flame cannons. The guns of dreadnoughts, Gayle!"

"What?"

"You fool. Did you think I'd come here alone? Even now the Black Fleet is hammering your coast."

"No!"

"Oh, yes. And they have orders to lay waste to your shore."

"Impossible! Nicabar is dead."

All the humor left Biagio's face. "Nicabar may be dead, but I am emperor.

And the Black Fleet goes where I tell it. You are doomed, Tassis. Surrender!"

"Never!" hissed Gayle. He drew his sword. "I will never bow to you, murderer! Not while there is breath in me!"

"Defend your land, then. Because you have more than these Highlanders to face today." Biagio sidled his horse into the river. "You have dreadnoughts to deal with, Gayle. And guess what else?"

"Games!" wailed Gayle. "Games and lies!"

"Triin," said Biagio. "Check your maps, old man. You have a two-front war today."

Major Mardek galloped to the riverbank. "My liege," he said, "if this is true .

. ."

"It's true," said Biagio. "The invasion of Aramoor is underway. Richius Vantran has returned, and he's brought a Triin army with him." His laughing eyes fixed on Gayle. "It isn't I who have lost, Tassis. It is you!"

"My liege, we must defend the coast," urged Mardek. "And Aramoor . . ."

Tassis Gayle hardly heard him. "Lies," he whispered. "All lies . . ." Biagio retained his mocking grin. "You don't have to believe me. You can all stay here and die."

"Big words," seethed Gayle. "But all I want is you."

"No," said Redburn. He steered his elk to Biagio's side, the other clan leaders following. "We are allies, Gayle. Fight Biagio, and you fight us all."

"Fine then, whelp. Prepare to die."

Gayle whipped his horse around and rode back through the ranks of cavalry. Mardek was close behind him.

"King Tassis, we must see to the coast!" urged the major. "Please, let me send some troops. To Aramoor as well. I beg you . . ."

Slamming down the visor of his helmet, Gayle said, "Send fifty horsemen to the coast. No more than that, understand?"

"And Aramoor?"

"Damn Aramoor," said Gayle. He still didn't know if Biagio was lying, and he wouldn't waste the troops. "Let Elrad Leth fight for himself."

"Sir," said Mardek cautiously, "if the emperor is right, then we are in peril.

We should retreat."

"What?" sputtered Gayle. "Retreat? When Biagio is so close?"

"But the dreadnoughts . . ."

"We will not retreat!" thundered Gayle. He looked across the river again.

Biagio and the Highlanders were going back to their armies. At the left flank of the Talistanians, Wallach and his Gorkneymen were leaving the field. Raising his sword to heaven, Gayle stood up in his stirrups and screamed, "Are you listening to me, cowards? We will not retreat!" He pointed the tip of his weapon at Mardek. "Major, prepare the archers." Then to Galabalos he said,

"Count, you will be first. Make ready to avenge your baron."

Gayle dropped back into his saddle, staring at the backs of Biagio and the clan leaders. A painful ringing sounded in his head. He knew it was the madness, come once more to claim him, but he clamped down on it, trying to banish it from his brain. Yet he knew he was too enraged to squash it completely. Today in battle, he would be a berserker.

FORTY-SIX

Two hours past dawn, the Dread Sovereign hobbled into Talistanian waters.

An hour later, she had located a target, a tall fortress buttressed against the shoreline. With her trio of starboard cannons, she opened fire.

It was rote work for Kasrin, who had bombarded countless Lissen strongholds from the deck of his dreadnought, and who knew the range of his guns perfectly. He had noticed the fortress through his spyglass and had quickly turned his cannons against her, seizing the target to get Tassis Gayle's attention. The Dread Sovereign's journey to Talistan had been difficult, and her ruined topsails had dragged at them like an anchor. She was very late for her rendezvous in Talistan, and Kasrin didn't know what had become of Biagio, or if Richius Vantran had launched his attack on Aramoor. He knew only that he had pledged himself to do this, to distract the armies of Talistan with his warship's powerful weapons. As the gunners worked the flame cannons, Kasrin directed their fire from the gunwale, watching through his spyglass as the Talistanians abandoned their fortress. Already the Sovereign had punched a gaping wound through their approach ramp and had turned her attention to their main watch turret. Onshore, soldiers pointed helplessly at their assailant, unable to stop her lethal pounding. Kasrin carefully avoided turning the guns against them directly. The little ghost-girl from Liss was perched on his shoulder, whispering to him to be merciful. This time, Kasrin listened. Today, he didn't have to be a murderer.

"There," shouted Jelena. The thunder of the flame cannons made conversation almost impossible, and both she and Kasrin wore wax plugs in their ears to stave off the noise. As the queen spoke, she leaned into Kasrin.

"Onshore. See them?"

"I see them," replied Kasrin.

"You can reach them!"

Kasrin lowered his spyglass and shook his head. "No."

Jelena looked at him. She was about to speak, then abruptly stopped.

Kasrin slipped a hand into hers, clasping it gently. He could see the poison in her expression, just as it must have been in Vares' face. Together they had watched Vares turn the Hammerhead against the privateers. Part of Kasrin had been shocked. Jelena had been silently gratified. Now she wanted him to kill the Talistanians. They are Narens, he could hear her thinking. Kill them.

"I'm Naren," he told her over the booming cannonade.

They stared at each other. Onshore, a glow was rising from the burning fortress.

"You're not like them," Jelena said, her voice barely audible. "You're different."

"But I am one of them," Kasrin insisted. "Can you accept that?"

After a pause, Jelena took hold of his collar, put her lips to his plugged ear, and said, "I took you to my bed, didn't I? I know what you are, Blair Kasrin!"

Smiling, Kasrin replied, "I'm not the Jackal. And I'm not a hero. But I'm a lucky man, Queen of Liss. Now . . ." He put the spyglass to his eye again.

"Let me do my job."

Spotting an unmanned wall in his lens, he directed the starboard cannons toward it.

FORTY-SEVEN

Biagio watched as, across the river, the line of longbowmen drew back their weapons. Tassis Gayle sat smugly on his horse, eager for battle. Redburn's army readied themselves for the incoming missiles, bringing up their round shields. Biagio listened for the order, then heard the twang and rush of arrows.

Overhead the sky darkened.

"Protect yourself!" he shouted to Breena, who had already brought up her shield. The arrows arced and began their screaming descent. A wooden rain stormed down, thumping into shields and banging against armor. Biagio watched an arrowhead pierce his shield. Along the defenses, unlucky men wailed as missiles found their marks. The elk bristled and shook their armored snouts against the assault, and men tumbled from their backs. Without archers of his own to return fire, Redburn lowered his shield and screamed across the battlefield.

"You missed me!"

The Highlanders howled and batted their shields with their swords, whooping like madmen at their foes. Again the archers fitted shafts in their bows, aimed skyward, and loosed at the order. Another volley streaked skyward as Biagio hurried to bring up his shield. His temples thundered and his mouth dried up, and his insides burned for Bovadin's drug, for the familiar sense of fearlessness it had always provided. As the arrows rained down he closed his eyes, hating his fear. When he knew he had survived, he threw down his shield, enraged.

"Fight us!" he bellowed at Gayle. "You craven bastard, fight us!"

It was all the taunting Tassis Gayle needed. He shouted something to his bowmen, then at the Voskans, who prepared to charge. Count Galabalos raised his silver sword. Next to Redburn, Oily Glynn pleaded for vengeance.

"Let me, my Prince, I beg you!" he said. "Let my men take on those pigs!"

Redburn bit his lip, thinking hard as Galabalos made ready. Oily Glynn had his hand on his sword and was breathing hard. Finally, as Galabalos and his horde started forward, Redburn gave the order.

"Do it, Glynn. Give them a screwing they'll never forget!"

Oily Glynn spun his elk around to face his fighters. In unison they drew their blades, crouched in their saddles, and listened to their leader's command.

"To battle!"

Fifty armored latapi raced for the river. Opposing them charged a hundred Voskan horsemen. The latapi lowered their racks as they bolted forward, chewing up the meadow with their cloven hooves. Galabalos gave a vengeful cry as he dashed through the river, waving his sword and facing down the first of the Highlanders—the roaring Oily Glynn. Glynn's sword was up in an instant. Galabalos' steed snorted. It raced for the elk and slammed into the latapi's rack. A great cry went up from the horse. The latapi bellowed and thrashed its antlers. Oily Glynn held on tight as the horse's neck fountained blood. Galabalos tumbled headlong out of his saddle and into the elk's swishing antlers.

Biagio blinked in disbelief. Galabalos was screaming. Impaled on Glynn's elk, he reached for the Highlander with clawed fingers. The latapi thrashed violently, shaking the count loose and tossing him to the dirt. Around him thundered the horses and elk, like two brick walls crashing together. Glynn wheeled his mount toward the helpless Galabalos and brought down his sword, slicing off the count's face, then shook a fist in the air and cried out,

"No mercy!"

It was astonishing. With Breena cheering next to him, Biagio watched as the latapi drove through the horses, ignoring their numbers and armor, pulling apart their flesh with pointed tines. Suddenly leaderless, the Voskans scrambled to regroup, desperately slashing at the Highlanders. Soon the melee engulfed them all.

"My God," gasped Biagio. "I don't believe it . . ."

"I told you," declared Redburn proudly. "They are no match for us."

Across the river, Tassis Gayle seemed to draw the same conclusion. He spun toward his bowmen again, sputtering orders and waving his arms. The archers fixed their weapons and let loose another volley. Redburn called for shields. The arrows plunged downward, puncturing flesh and armor and felling the Highlanders. Breena's shield absorbed two of the shafts, then another grazed her shoulder. She cursed at the pain, waving off Biagio.

"I'm all right," she said. "Look to yourself, Emperor!"

More arrows came down. More Highlanders fell. Redburn shouted at his army to hold fast, and Cray Kellen and Vandra Greyfin did the same. The Lion of Granshirl trotted among his troops, singing a Highland battle song.

Clan Greyfin took up the tune, and soon all the Highlanders raised their voices, taunting the Talistanians with defiant music. Between the enemy armies, Oily Glynn and his clan were battling the Voskans, and both sides had taken heavy damage. The outnumbered Highlanders pressed the advantage of their mounts, but the Voskans were a well-trained brigade and had regrouped after the initial clash. The numbers of both were dwindling. Biagio realized that he didn't see Oily Glynn anymore.

"Glynn," he barked. "Where is he?"

Redburn peered through the melee, pointing toward the middle of the fray.

Oily Glynn was off his elk and splashing through the river. He looked exhausted, smeared with blood and barely standing. He was staggering, raising his sword against two mounted Voskans. One with a flail twirled his weapon, winding it up for the blow.

"No!" screamed Redburn.

If Glynn heard him, it was too late. The flail came down, crushing Glynn's head with its spiked ball. The Highlander fell facedown in the river.

"God, no!" cried Breena. She looked at her brother, who had closed his eyes.

"Damn them," Redburn muttered. "Damn them!"

Once more a rain of arrows fell. Neither Redburn nor his sister shielded themselves. Glynn's remaining men were fighting the Voskans to a bloody stalemate.

"Redburn," said Biagio, "sound the charge."

Vandra Greyfin rode up to them. She heard Biagio's sentiment and echoed it.

"Do it, Redburn," she urged, "or we'll be slaughtered here by arrows, one by one."

Tassis Gayle was stupefied. He had lived on the border of the Eastern Highlands all his life, but never once had he seen their elk in battle. From between the eye slits of his demon helm, he watched the Voskans get slaughtered, skewered by antlers or crushed by hooves or simply hacked to pieces by crazed Highlanders. The bear clan of Oily Glynn had been decimated, too, but they had dragged down the arrogant Galabalos with them.

Gayle glanced across the Silverknife, quickly counting the remaining Highlanders. Redburn hadn't yet charged, nor had the lion or shark clans.

What had looked to be a rout was quickly becoming an even match, and Gayle began cursing Duke Wallach for leaving them.

"My liege," called Major Mardek, galloping up through the line of infantrymen. "Your orders—shall we retreat?"

Gayle looked at him in disbelief. When had Mardek become such a coward?

"We will not retreat. Look there, across the river. Redburn makes ready to charge. Prepare your cavalry."

"My King, we cannot win. Look at the Voskans! The Highlanders are too strong—their beasts outmatch us."

"Prepare your horsemen, Mardek."

"But my lord, the emperor! This is foolish!"

Gayle reached through the distance between them, snatched Mardek by his gorget, and dragged him from his horse.

"I am the King of Talistan," he roared. "You will obey me! Now prepare to charge, or I will kill you myself!"

Mardek stared up at his crazed king. "My lord, listen to me, I beg you. The emperor has found us out. He has dreadnoughts on the coast, and Triin attacking Aramoor. We are finished. You must surrender."

"Get up, Mardek," warned Gayle. He put the tip of his sword to the major's throat guard. "Or die on your knees like a coward."

Slowly Mardek got to his feet. "You're mad," he whispered. "Completely mad . . ."

What little sanity remained in Gayle snapped under the accusation. With a frustrated scream, he pushed against his sword and drove the blade through Mardek's windpipe. The major gasped and gurgled, then dropped to his knees. With one hand he reached out for Gayle. Gayle pulled his blade free and kicked the major over.

"Now then," he said, addressing his troops. "I gave you bloody bastards an order!"

Prince Redburn saw the cavalry readying to charge.

"This is it," he told his sister. "I'm taking in our own."

Breena gripped her sword. "I'm ready."

"No," said Redburn. "You stay behind. If I fall . . ." His voice choked off.

"Breena, if I fall, they'll need you."

"Redburn, let my men go," pleaded Vandra Grayfin. "We're ready!"

"So are we," said Redburn. He swallowed down a surge of fear. "Vandra, you and Kellen—you're all that'll be left. I'll take my own men in, try to break Gayle's back." He glanced at Biagio, who looked eager for battle. "Emperor, you stay too."

"What?" said Biagio. "I won't! I'm ready."

Redburn flicked his eyes toward Breena. Biagio got the hint instantly. So did Breena.

"I don't need a chaperon!" she protested.

"Stay," commanded the prince. He galloped across the ranks of his clan waving his sword and rallying them to battle. The latapi snorted, the footmen beat their shields, and Redburn called them to battle with all his blood-given charisma. On the other side of the Silverknife, the Talistanian horsemen were galloping forward. Redburn whirled his elk toward them and charged. Behind him he heard the roar of his men as they screamed into battle, the pounding of hooves and the clang of heavy armor. Tucking himself down in the saddle, he directed his latapi's rack toward the onrushing horsemen. His sword swam in his grip, and he realized he was sweating. He had never wanted this war, but Tassis Gayle had forced it. Redburn seized on his goal—the arrogant king across the river. If only he could reach him . . .

The impact of the horsemen exploded around him. His elk tore into them, raking its antlers across the flanks of two steeds, dragging them backward. A moment later Redburn was engulfed in slashing steel. He brought up his shield, blocked the falling blows, and swung his sword against his leftward opponent. The blade slammed into the soldier's helmet. The man responded with a flurry of hacks. Redburn urged his elk through them, shouting wildly.

Around him surged his men and the thrashing antlers of latapi, followed by an ungodly chorus of screams. The world blurred, and suddenly Redburn was surrounded again, enemies and allies pressed against him. Cold river water gushed up blinding him as he swung his blade. He needed to free himself, to break away from the surging herd, but the walls of men and beast bore down on him. His head rang with angry shouts and agonized screams. He saw metal flashing and the spurting of stumps, and he knew that he was lost. Panic drove him on, and when he saw an opening he went for it, charging free of the cluster toward a pair of mounted soldiers. Racer brought his deadly rack down and hammered into them, sending them tumbling. Redburn gasped at the blast of hot blood. Both soldiers were grounded by the blow, scrambling through the rushing river. Before Redburn knew it, he was swinging after them, bringing down his blade in two bloody arcs. The men fell like weeds.

Redburn lifted his sword, drew hard the reins and brought the buck rearing to its hinds. "Revenge!" he cried. "For our Highlands!"

Berserk with rage and slick with blood, Redburn turned Racer back toward the battle. His men were outnumbered but evening the odds, pressing their attackers back with their elk. Ahead of him, one Highlander was fending off two Talistanians. Redburn roared, jabbed Racer's sides for speed, and went after them. The elk splashed through the river but quickly misstepped, buckling beneath the prince and sending him sprawling. Racer let out a horrible wail. Redburn hurried to right himself, lifting his face out of the river and stumbling to his feet. A towering lancemen bore down on him.

"Mighty Prince!" said the soldier. He aimed his lance at Redburn's gut.

"Lose something?"

It happened in an instant. The lance hung in front of him, and before he could dodge the thing it was moving, racing for his heart even as he brought up his hands. His torso exploded with pain. Looking down, he saw a fountain of blood gush from his punctured belly.

"Redburn!"

Breena's shriek shattered Biagio's skull. Before he could stop her she was rushing forward, screaming and brandishing her sword as she rode to her brother's rescue. But it was too late. Redburn dangled on the end of the lance, his body convulsing, then slid off, crumpling in a heap in the river. But Breena's mad dash stirred the Highlanders.

"The prince!" shouted Cray Kellen. "The prince has fallen!" The Lion gave a roar and rallied his fighters. Vandra Greyfin's men prepared to charge. The two clan leaders looked to Biagio, and he realized they awaited his word. With no one left to lead them, Biagio gripped the reins of his warhorse and gave the order.

"Slaughter them!" he cried. "Let no Talistanian live out this day!" He spurred his horse forward, speeding toward Breena and the riotous battle.

Across the Silverknife, Gayle's infantry was readying to charge. Breena had reached the river. With a scream she threw herself onto the lanceman, spitting like a wildcat and swinging her sword. The soldier tumbled, dragged into the water as Breena beat him mercilessly with her blade, hacking through his armor. When Biagio reached her she was covered with blood, her face twisted and streaked with tears. "Breena, stop!" he ordered. "Get out of here!"

Breena had lost her elk in the melee and now dropped her sword. She stumbled through the river toward Redburn. The prince lay unmoving in the water.

"Redburn, no!" sobbed Breena. She grabbed his shoulders and shook him, trying to will him back to life, but his head lolled back and his dead eyes stared, unblinking. Biagio hurried toward her, leaned down from horseback and grabbed hold of her collar. He yanked her off the corpse and dragged her to the riverbank.

"My brother!" she cried, struggling to get loose. "They've killed him!" "Get out of here," ordered Biagio. "You can't help him now." He tossed her to the ground where she fell to her knees.

"This is your fault," she sobbed. "You and your blasted war!" Biagio didn't answer. Around him, the clans of Greyfin and Kellen clamored into battle, beating back the cavalry and fording the river toward the onrushing infantry.

There was no time to talk, and no way to save Redburn. Breena knew it, too.

She didn't crawl toward the battle or even try to lift her head. Soaked in blood and muddy water, she merely knelt at the riverbank, staring vacantly at Biagio.

"Go!" he commanded.

Lost in a fog, Breena didn't move.

"I will avenge him, Breena, I promise," said Biagio. "Now go, please!"

Breena lifted herself up, tottering to her feet. She looked at the river and her countrymen surging forward, then at the corpse of her brother, trampled beneath the hooves of war beasts. Oblivious to the fury around her, she walked toward the river and tried fishing Redburn's body from the water.

Others joined her, dragging the corpse ashore. Breena looked around blankly.

"Get him back to the castle," Biagio told her. "Don't leave him here to rot."

"Yes," agreed Breena. "Yes, all right . . ." She paused to look at Biagio.

"Avenge him," she said. "Remember your promise."

"I will," said Biagio. He turned his horse back toward the river. The Highlanders had crossed and were barreling through the infantry. In the distance, Tassis Gayle sat upon his charger, looking stunned by the turn of events.

Biagio drew his sword and galloped across the river.

FORTY-EIGHT

At the mouth of the Saccenne Run, where the evergreens of Aramoor surrendered to the Iron Mountains, Richius Vantran leaned out over a rocky ledge and counted the contingent of cavalrymen camped at their makeshift base. It was morning of the fateful day, the day when he would finally regain Aramoor. Praxtin-Tar's army was stretched out through the run, and Jahl Rob's Saints led the way, poised on foot and on horseback to invade the tiny kingdom. But an unexpected company of Talistanian soldiers now blocked their way. Oblivious to the forces massed just beyond their sight, the horsemen lounged about their camp, talking around a campfire and absently grooming their mounts. Richius, crawling on his belly, craned to see them better. They were far below and well out of earshot, yet he whispered as he addressed his companions.

"Looks like thirty-five or forty men." He retracted his head and sat up.

"What the hell are they doing?"

"They expect us," surmised Alazrian. The boy had insisted on scouting with Richius and Jahl, and had done an admirable job of scaling the ridge. His face twisted as he added, "My father probably wants to protect himself. I'll bet Biagio has started his war with Talistan." He turned to Praxtin-Tar, and quickly explained his deduction, making an arcane connection by touching hands. As Alazrian's words flowed into him, the warlord snorted.

Alazrian grinned. "Praxtin-Tar says that fifty Talistanian dogs are of no concern to him. He says that we will flood them like a river."

The warlord looked at Richius, saying, "Kalak, foo noa conak wa'alla." He jabbed a thumb proudly into his chest. "Eo uris ratak-ti."

"What did he say?" asked Jahl.

"Praxtin-Tar doesn't want Richius wasting himself with these weaklings,"

replied Alazrian. "His words, not mine. Anyway, Richius, he thinks you should save your strength for the battle at the castle."

Richius peered down at the horsemen, wondering how many more they would face. Their goal was to make a lightning drive to the castle, taking control of it before Talistan could send reinforcements. That meant they had to move quickly. Regrettably, the soldiers camped at the mouth of the run had ruined any chance of surprise.

"Richius," whispered Jahl, "Praxtin-Tar is right. We can overwhelm them, kill them all before they can warn Leth."

"You mean slaughter them, don't you, Jahl?" said Richius. "Do you hear yourself? You're a priest, for God's sake."

"This is war," said Jahl indignantly. "And anyway, what choice do we have?

We can't let them reach the castle."

"No," said Richius, shaking his head. "I won't have a massacre. Remember, we want Leth to surrender. Once he sees how many warriors we have, he'll have no choice." He glanced at Alazrian. "Don't you think?"

Alazrian shrugged. "I don't know. My father . . . Leth, I mean; he won't care how many of his soldiers die. If he thinks my grandfather will send help, he may never surrender."

"And then he'll be holed up in that castle with no way to get at him," added Jahl. "I'm telling you, Richius, we have to get those horsemen. All of them."

Richius thought about the dilemma, weighing his options. Praxtin-Tar's warriors could easily defeat the horsemen. But that wasn't the homecoming Richius wanted.

"We'll battle it out at the castle if we have to," he said. "And if these horsemen want a fight, we'll give them one. Otherwise we'll make them surrender."

He could tell Jahl was disappointed, but the priest acquiesced nonetheless.

"All right," agreed Jahl. "Then we'll have to get the warriors into position, let those soldiers see what they're up against."

Richius grinned. "Definitely." He turned to Praxtin-Tar and began speaking in Triin. "Praxtin-Tar, this is what I want you to do . . ."

Richius rode at the head of a column, leading Jahl and the Saints of the Sword out of the Saccenne Run and onto the soil of his homeland. A tattered Aramoorian flag blew above them held aloft by Ricken. Fifty yards away, the Talistanians milled aimlessly around their camp—until they saw the Saints emerging from the mountains.

"Holy mother!" someone shouted.

All at once bedlam broke out. The horsemen ran to their steeds, drawing steel. Richius led his party toward them at a leisurely trot. He didn't bother drawing his own sword or warning his men of danger. Jahl had a wild smile on his face and his bow slung arrogantly on his back. As he trotted beside Richius, he gave his king a cocky wink.

"Here they come . . ."

"Look sharp," said Richius. For the first time in months he felt truly alive.

Once again, Aramoor was beneath him, filling his soul with the vigor of his birthright. At that moment, he could have faced an army of horsemen.

"I wish Alazrian was here," said Jahl. "It's his homecoming, too."

"Soon enough," said Richius. He, too, would have liked the boy as part of their group, but they were saving that particular surprise for when they faced Leth. As he watched the horsemen gathering to oppose them, he called over his shoulder, "Hold that flag high, Ricken. Let's make sure those bastards see it!"

Ricken responded by howling and waving the banner back and forth, a tactic that irked the horsemen. They had mounted now and were hurrying forward, determined to cut down the Aramoorians. Richius arched his back, facing them with a wicked smile.

"You there!" he called. "Looking for us?"

For a moment, the Talistanians didn't know what to make of their opponents. They slowed from a gallop to a trot, then came to a circumspect stop a few yards before the Saints. Their leader, a captain by his uniform, waved his saber at Richius.

"Halt!" he cried from behind his helmet. "Don't move!"

Richius stopped his horse, then ordered his company to do the same.

"You're on my land, Talistanian," he said.

The soldiers glanced at each other. The captain cocked his head at Richius.

"Your land? Who the hell are you?"

"I am Richius Vantran, King of Aramoor, and I'm here with the Saints of the Sword to take back my country."

The captain began laughing, an awful guffaw quickly echoed by his troops.

"Vantran? I don't believe it! The Jackal has returned." He pointed at the tattered flag. "You think that rag gives you authority? It's meaningless here, boy. This is Talistan now!"

"No," corrected Richius icily. "This is Aramoor. And it's not our flag that gives us authority."

He put two fingers in his mouth and gave a piercing whistle. "This does!"

Overhead on the rocks and ledges, Praxtin-Tar's warriors popped into view.

They loomed over the Talistanians with bows drawn, a wall of white flesh creeping over the peaks. The captain tilted his head skyward, nearly falling from his steed. A groan issued from his helmet.

"That's a whole army of Triin warriors," said Richius. "Now, drop your weapons, or I'll give the order to fire."

The captain scowled. "Good trick, Jackal. But you can't defeat us all."

"I think we can." Jahl Rob took his own bow from his back, nocked an arrow, and closed one eye, aiming for the horseman. "You heard the king.

Drop your weapons, or as God as my witness, I'll kill you."

The saber trembled in the captain's hand. A disquieted hush fell over his troops. High above, the warriors from Reen kept their arrows trained on their enemies. Richius still didn't bother drawing his sword.

"My fingers are getting tired!" warned Jahl. "Drop it, butcher, right now."

The captain let his sword fall to the ground. "All of you," he called to his men, "drop your weapons."

The soldiers obeyed, tossing down their swords. Still, Jahl kept his arrow ready.

"Now dismount," he ordered. "Get off your horses and step aside."

"Do it," Richius said. "To the left, nice and orderly."

As their captain dismounted, the other soldiers did the same, except for one in the rear of the company, who suddenly turned and bolted. Jahl cursed and loosed his arrow, missing the rider by inches. The captain watched his man escape, laughing.

"Ha! He goes to warn Governor Leth."

"Damn it!" spat Jahl. "Richius, I'm sorry . . ."

"Don't be," said Richius. "Now we've got forty more horses. We can use them."

"But that bastard will warn Leth!"

Richius didn't care. He cupped his hands to his mouth, shouting after the fleeing soldier, "Yes, run back to your master, dog! Tell him the King of Aramoor has returned!"

In the courtyard of Aramoor castle, under the shade of a maple and the disinterested gaze of sparrows, Elrad Leth and Shinn sat at a round, wrought-iron table, playing cards. The sun was hot and high, and the breeze off the yard did little to cool them. Next to Leth on the table sat an icy glass of fruit juice, the dew condensing on the glass. Except for a slave that brought the two men drinks, the courtyard was empty. Far in the distance, a company of Talistanian horsemen chased wooden balls with their lances. Leth could hear their cheers as they practiced, happy to be outside on such a fine day.

Happy too, he supposed darkly, not to be in Talistan, on the border of the Eastern Highlands. There was war on the border today, but here in Aramoor they were far removed from the bloodshed, safe to play cards and sip fruit drinks. Today the governor had only one simple mission—to keep the Saints of the Sword from taking advantage of the situation in Talistan. Leth had already sent a company of horsemen to the Saccenne Run, and with their companions drilling nearby, he felt perfectly safe.

Across the table, Shinn drew a card from the deck and studied his hand. As always, he barely spoke. Leth wondered what was going on behind his steely eyes. Shinn was an excellent bodyguard and something of a friend, but he rarely confessed his feelings. When he had learned that Tassis Gayle would be fighting the Highlanders without any help from Aramoor, the Dorian hadn't even shrugged. But that didn't mean he didn't think about it.

The governor glanced up at the sun. "Late," he observed. "Tassis probably has the Highlanders mopped up by now." Shinn merely contemplated his cards.

"Don't you think?" probed Leth. "Don't you think Gayle has defeated Redburn by now?"

The Dorian at last looked up from his cards. "It's not that late." Leth shrugged. "Gayle has them outnumbered. I'm sure he can beat them easily.

Hell, the savages might even have surrendered." "I doubt that." "Do you?"

"It's your turn. Do you want another card?"

Leth took a card. Hardly glancing at it, he slipped it into his hand. He had been glad not to be involved in Tassis' bloody campaign. The Highlanders were vicious and skillful, and he didn't really believe they would surrender.

There was a battle raging, and being far from the bloodshed pleased Leth. It also made him a bit uneasy. He laid down his cards. "I'm not a coward, Shinn," he said as he displayed his hand. "No," replied Shinn. The bodyguard laid down his own hand. "Just a very bad card player. You lose again."

Leth didn't bother to curse. He didn't care about the stupid game. His whole mind was occupied with thoughts of Talistan. He should have been willing to fight for his homeland, instead of being content with hiding. Telling himself that he was defending Aramoor against the Saints had done little to ease his conscience. Now, as he sat drinking fruit juice and playing cards, he actually felt guilty.

"They don't need us, though," he said offhandedly. "I mean, they have Wallach and the Voskans. We'd only be in the way."

"If you say so."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

Shinn said, "Look, I go where I'm paid to go. I don't really care if you want me to fight or play cards. Either way, I get my money."

"But you wouldn't be afraid to fight the Highlanders? Wouldn't you rather be here, safe and out of the way?"

"You said yourself, the Highlanders are outnumbered. They won't defeat Gayle. So what's to be afraid of?"

"Shinn?" said Leth.

"Yes?"

"You talk too much."

Leth rose to stretch his legs and let out a yawn. Even beneath the shade, the heat of the day had made him weary. While Shinn gathered up the cards, Leth gazed out across the grounds. Past the drilling horsemen, another rider was approaching, galloping at desperate speed. He was yelling something.

"Shinn . . ."

"I see him," said the Dorian, getting to his feet.

"The Saints?"

"Oh, they'd be crazy to try anything."

But crazy described Jahl Rob and his outlaws precisely. That they might try to take advantage of the chaos in Talistan didn't surprise Leth at all. What did surprise him was the lone rider.

"Where the hell are the rest?" asked Leth. "I sent forty men to the run!"

After a brief stop at the drilling field, the rider continued toward the castle.

This time several of his fellows joined him. He galloped up to Leth, his face drenched with sweat.

"Governor Leth," he cried. "They're coming!" He dropped down from his horse, almost tumbling to the ground. "They're not alone, Governor. There are others with them!"

"Make sense, man," Leth scolded. "Who's coming?"

"The Saints! They're riding for the castle. But they're not alone. Richius Vantran . . . Triin . . ."

Exasperated, Leth grabbed the man by the shoulders. "Look at me, you idiot," he snarled. "Are you telling me that the Jackal has a Triin army heading this way?"

The soldier nodded quickly. "Yes, my lord, I swear. I saw them! They're coming for the castle. Hundreds of them!"

"And the Saints are with them?"

"Yes!"

Leth started sputtering, wanting to give orders but not knowing what to say.

He looked at Shinn, who shrugged uselessly, then at the rider and his fellow soldiers, all of whom stared back at him blankly.

"All right," said Leth. "Yes, all right. Let's not stand around here, then. We have to do something!"

"We have to stop them," suggested Shinn.

"Yes, stop them," echoed Leth. "Soldier, what happened to your company?

Where are they?"

"Captured," replied the man. "They can't help us."

Leth felt a sweat break out over his body. "God almighty. All right, the rest of you—get ready to defend the castle. We'll hold up here until reinforcements arrive from Talistan."

"But Talistan is in battle!" protested Shinn.

"Will you shut up and let me think? I need some help here!" Leth whirled on the soldiers, studying their ranks until he found a lieutenant. "You," snapped Leth. "Gather as many men as you can. Bring them here to defend the castle."

"Yes, sir," said the lieutenant. "But, Governor, there aren't that many of us.

Most are in Talistan."

"Then send a rider to Gayle. Tell him we need help!"

The lieutenant wasted no time, sending one of his fellows speeding off.

Then he looked at Leth.

"Governor, it will take hours for help to reach us from Talistan."

"I know," said Leth darkly. "Shinn? Ideas?"

"We need to slow them down," said the Dorian. "Send some horsemen to engage them."

Leth nodded. "You heard him, Lieutenant. How many men can you spare?"

"None! Governor, that would be suicide. You heard yourself; there are hundreds of Triin!"

"Yes," agreed the rider. "My lord, they'll be cut to pieces."

"It's the only way to buy us time," said Leth. "Lieutenant, those are my orders. If you can spare them, send thirty lancemen."

"But, Governor . . .!"

"Do it!"

The young officer's face fell in shock. Slowly he turned to his comrades.

"Volunteers?"

"You, Lieutenant," growled Leth. "You lead them. And get those men assembled, right bloody now!" He turned to his bodyguard, saying, "Shinn, we've got work to do," then hurried toward the castle, shouting for his servants.

FORTY-NINE

My lord, we must retreat!"

The captain stared at his king, waiting for an answer. Blood and perspiration smeared his face and he had taken a wound that made his arm dangle uselessly at his side. Tassis Gayle let his eyes linger vacantly on the soldier. He didn't know his name. Or had he known it but simply forgotten? Things were happening so quickly. His mind tried to seize on the events but, like sand through his fingers, he couldn't hold them.

"My lord, are you listening to me?" asked the soldier. "We are lost! We must retreat."

Gayle tried to reply, but couldn't utter a sound. A hundred feet in front of him, his dwindling army tried to beat back the Highlanders. The Silverknife had become a graveyard choked with the bodies of men and beasts. Redburn was dead but his kin still battled on, forcing their mounts through the Talistanian infantry. The clans of Grayfin and Kellen had miraculously turned the tide, slaughtering the cavalry. Gayle's archers stood mutely behind him, waiting for their orders. It was all coming apart, and Gayle couldn't stop it.

Worse, somewhere in the melee was Biagio—still alive, still taunting him.

"No," said Gayle finally. The thought of Biagio brought him back to reality.

"No, we won't retreat. Not while that demon still lives."

The captain stepped up to Gayle's horse. "But, my lord, see for yourself!"

He pointed toward the crumbling lines of infantry. "They're breaking through."

"They cannot," said Gayle. "I won't have it!" He wheeled his charger to face his archers, hardly noticing their shocked expressions. Some of them were breaking rank, running for the safety of the distant hills. "Fight them," Gayle bellowed. "Drop your bows and fight them!"

"No," cried the captain. "We must fall back!"

Fury overtook Gayle. He kicked the captain, sending him sprawling. "You coward! You want to run away? You want to lose to some limp-wristed man-girl? We will stay and we will fight, and that means you!"

The captain staggered to his feet and ran his hand over his bleeding lip. He glared at his king. "I'm calling retreat," he threatened. "If you don't do it yourself . . ."

"You goddamn weasel, don't you dare . . ."

"Retreat!" yelled the soldier. He turned and ran toward the river, screaming and waving his arms. "Fall back and retreat!"

"Damn it, no!"

Alone on horseback, Gayle galloped through his remaining troops, trying to rally them. "Fight on!" he ordered. "Fight for me and Talistan! Fight for my son and daughter!"

No one listened. The archers hurriedly disbanded, dropping their longbows and running from the field. Gayle heard the captain's endless cry calling for retreat and begging the Highlanders for mercy. He was screaming the word

"surrender" now, a term that turned Gayle's blood to ice. As his men began falling back, the Highlanders eased their attack. The noise from the Silverknife slowly ebbed. Someone in the Highland ranks called for quarter. From atop his horse Gayle peered through the press of bodies trying to locate the source of the cry. The voice was so familiar, it had to be . . .

"Biagio!"

Biagio staggered forward, listening to the soldier calling retreat. Around him, the men of clans Kellen and Grayfin were hacking through the infantry, but now the footmen were faltering, falling back as they heard the captain's cry.

Biagio himself fell back, barely able to hold himself up. His arms ached and his side screamed with pain, and the blood from a head wound trickled into his eyes, blinding him. But he gathered enough wits to call for quarter, waving his sword as he struggled for attention.

"Enough!" he called. "They're retreating!"

He hardly heard his voice over the sounds of battle. Men were surging out of the river desperate to escape the Highlanders and their beasts, which seemed to be everywhere now, slashing their antlers and bellowing in blood lust. Vandra Grayfin was nearby screaming atop her latapi as she drove it through a collapsing wall of soldiers. Unable to flee the river in time, the men fell beneath its crushing hooves.

"Stop!" roared Biagio. "Enough, I say!"

At last the Highlanders heard him. One by one they ceased their attack and let the Talistanians climb the riverbank to safety. In the distance, Gayle's archers were fleeing the field. What was left of his infantry began limping after them. And in the center of the scene was Tassis Gayle, still resplendent in his armor, still vainglorious upon his charger. The King of Talistan had a broadsword in his hands and was looking toward the Silverknife—looking, Biagio realized, straight at him.

"Gayle!" cried Cray Kellen. The Lion bolted forward with a raised sword, rushing past Biagio.

"No, Kellen. Stay!"

Biagio's command stopped the Highlander midcharge.

"Kellen, no more," he said wearily. "It's over."

"It's not over," said Grayfin. "Look at him! He'll never surrender."

"You've lost, Gayle," Biagio shouted. "Surrender while you still have the chance."

The king kept his broadsword in both hands. He didn't say a word, but slowly shook his head. Biagio's grip weakened on his weapon. He was unspeakably tired and plagued by a thousand aches; even talking exhausted him. With the Highlanders watching, Biagio trudged toward the riverbank and set foot in Talistan.

"Tassis," he croaked, "I'm warning you. You don't have a chance." He wasn't sure if the old man realized he'd been deserted.

"You took them from me," said Gayle. "You took away my son, then you took my daughter."

"Calida died from a cancer, Tassis. Blackwood died in battle."

"Because you abandoned him!" Gayle thundered. "You left him in Lucel-Lor for Vantran to slaughter! You killed him. And now I'm going to avenge him."

"Look around," Biagio suggested. "What makes you think you can win?"

"All I want is you," replied Gayle.

"I'm your emperor."

"Never!"

"I am," said Biagio. "Pledge yourself to me, acknowledge my claim to the throne, and I'll let you live."

"In hell."

"Say it," ordered Biagio. "Say that I'm your emperor."

Gayle refused to lower his weapon.

"Tassis, I've changed," said Biagio. "I'm not the man I was when Blackwood died."

Gayle laughed. "Men like you never change. You were a demon when you were Arkus' spymaster, and you're a demon now. I'm going to kill you, Biagio. I'm going to do what should have been done years ago."

"Oh, let me kill him!" growled Cray Kellen. "Lord Emperor, please . . ."

"No," spat Biagio. Suddenly he knew he had to fight Gayle. "I am the Emperor of Nar," he declared. "No one will take the Iron Throne from me."

"Prove it," challenged Gayle.

Biagio lifted his sword. "Very well, old one."

Tassis Gayle slipped down from his mount, slapping its rump and sending it galloping off. The king took a stride toward the emperor, his sword held in both hands. He looked remarkably virile, as if his insanity had revitalized him.

He held his head high as he removed his helmet and dropped it to the ground.

"I am twice the man you are," he told Biagio. "You're not even a man. You are a creature."

Biagio stalked closer, keeping his weapon raised. In his youth he had studied swordplay as well as the piano, and was deft with his weapon. But he was tired, and his clash with the infantry had given him a hundred minor wounds. Blood still dripped in his eyes. Angrily he wiped it away.

Angrily . . .

Be angry, he told himself. Use your rage . . .

As he began circling his foe, he remembered how Bovadin's drug had once given him strength. He concentrated on that feeling, summoning the drug's remnants from the dusty corners of his mind.

"Look at you," taunted Gayle. "You can barely stand. Who is old now, man-girl?"

The insults stung. Biagio's eyes burned, the way they had during his treatments. His hand tightened around his sword, his fingers growing stronger.

As the fury inside him crested, his mind clouded with madness.

"I am the Emperor of Nar," he declared. "I am your master, Tassis Gayle."

"You are a murderer and sodomite," Gayle retorted. "You're going straight to hell."

Suddenly Gayle lunged forward, a scream erupting from his throat. His sword slashed down, grazing Biagio. Biagio felt the bite of the steel tear his leather armor, slicing down his arm. Quickly he turned and answered the blow, swiping his sword at Gayle's legs. Gayle's broadsword parried the blade easily. Biagio dropped back, breathing hard.

"Weakling!" jeered the armored giant. "Come on, Cretan! Show me what you've got!"

Biagio lunged toward him, unleashing a flurry of thrusts, driving Gayle backward. The old man blocked each blow expertly, using his sword and armor to every advantage. Biagio pressed the attack, forcing his spent muscles to their limits.

"I am emperor!" he chanted, trying to stoke his anger. "Emperor!"

Gayle answered his claim with a block and a back-fist, smashing his gauntlet into Biagio's face. The shot blinded Biagio, sending him reeling. Instinctively he raised his sword to block the coming blows, working his blade through a haze of blood. An enormous pain shot through his skull. He was losing strength, losing the battle.

"No!" he cried. "I will win!"

He'd come too far, fought too many battles with too many petty kings. He wouldn't lose to Tassis Gayle; not this duel, and not the Iron Throne. And this above all summoned the residual drug from his bloodstream, searing his eyes and flooding his body with power. He charged forward with a new barrage, moving with lightning speed. Gayle backpedaled, desperately trying to absorb the blows, his face twisting with surprise. His big sword became clumsy, too slow for Biagio's attack. The sword pierced the chainmail at his shoulder.

Gayle cried in pain, then turned and let loose a flurry of his own. But the emperor's blade was everywhere suddenly, blocking and twisting with drug-induced speed. Biagio saw it all in a blur, for once again he was his infamous self and all the guilt of his murderous past fell away.

"Die, you treacherous fossil!" he cried. "Die like your son and daughter!"

He flew at Gayle, ignoring the broadsword and golden armor. His blade danced over the king's body, slashing at his breastplate then rushing up to score his face. Gayle roared as the weapon tore his chin, nipping out a chunk of flesh and spraying blood down his neck. The opening was all Biagio needed. He brought his sword down on Gayle's hand, slicing the thin metal of the gauntlet and severing two fingers. Gayle wailed in horror and dropped his sword. Biagio stalked after him, sending him tumbling backward. Like a golden turtle on its back, Gayle stared up at Biagio.

"I win!" declared Biagio. He fell onto Gayle's chest and put the tip of his blade to his gorget. "How does it feel, Gayle? What's it like to be so close to death?"

The old man's expression was resolute. "Look at you," he said between gasps. "You're insane. You've always been . . ."

"I'm not insane!"

"You are," said Gayle. "I can see it in you, like a disease."

"No." Biagio pressed on the sword, pushing against Gayle's windpipe. "I've changed."

"You haven't," said Gayle. "You're still a maniac."

"Repent, serpent! Acknowledge me as your emperor. Swear it, before all these men!"

Something like pity flashed in Gayle's eyes. "Send me to my children."

"Swear it!"

"Maniac," said Gayle. "A bloodthirsty, girl-pretty sodomite . . ."

Biagio fell against his sword, plunging it through Gayle's throat. A spray of blood spouted up. Tassis Gayle gurgled something, barely audible, choking for air.

" Insane . . ."

Shaking with rage, Biagio watched him die. Blood foamed and bubbled at his gorget. The King of Talistan closed his eyes, shuddered a final gasping breath, then died. Unable to rise, Biagio stared at him. A crowd of Highlanders had gathered, looking at the pair in amazement.

"Emperor," said Vandra Grayfin. "Are you all right?"

"I'm all right," gasped Biagio.

But he wasn't all right. He was trembling. With effort he lifted his head, desperate for air. Hot tears spilled from his eyes, and he didn't know why.

Cray Kellen hurried toward him, helping him to his feet. Biagio collapsed against him, unable to stand. He looked at the clan leader imploringly.

"I'm the emperor . . ."

"Yes, my lord," replied Kellen. "You are."

Kellen guided Biagio away from Gayle's corpse, setting him down in a clear patch of grass. While Vandra Grayfin ordered the other Highlanders back, Kellen knelt next to Biagio.

"We have won, Lord Emperor," he said. " You have won."

Biagio nodded dully. "I'm the emperor," he said again.

"Yes, my lord." Kellen forced a smile. "Yes, you are emperor."

FIFTY

For almost an hour, Richius and his army had marched unopposed toward Aramoor castle. The apple orchards and horse farms stretched out alongside him as he navigated the familiar roads. His strange band of refugees and foreigners had not gone unnoticed, and farmers and ranchers ran out to see them as they rode, shocked by the sight of the Triin and their own, illegal flag.

Jahl and his Saints waved to the people, announcing the return of King Richius. The reaction among them all was uniform shock. As he rode at the head of his column, enduring the wide-eyed stares of his people, Richius felt remarkably tiny. He hadn't expected parades for his homecoming, but he hadn't expected silence, either. In his absence, something had happened to his people—they had been cowed by Talistan's whip.

"We're making good progress," said Jahl.

They were riding through a large field, the ranch of a former Saint named Ogan, who had died from lung disease. Ogan's widow stood in the porch of her house watching them blankly as they rode through. She couldn't have been more than thirty, but now she seemed like a spinster.

"Richius, are you listening to me?" asked Jahl.

Richius nodded. Ogan's widow continued to stare at him.

"I said we're making good time," Jahl went on. "We're unopposed, and we'll be at your castle in another hour."

"If my father doesn't send more troops," said Alazrian. The boy was riding beside Richius, with Praxtin-Tar close to his right. "He knows by now we're coming."

Jahl laughed. "What troops? They're all in Talistan."

"We hope," said Ricken. He and Parry rode close to Jahl. "We don't know if Biagio has come, remember."

"I know," said Alazrian. "I believe him."

"Good for you, lad," joked Jahl. "What do you think, Richius? What will Leth say when he sees us coming, do you think?"

"What's her name?"

"Eh?"

"Ogan's widow. What's her name?"

"Richius, stop it," said Jahl. "Look at me."

Richius pulled his eyes away from the widow. "What?"

"Forget the woman," scolded the priest. "Concentrate on the battle. Now, what do you think we'll be up against at the castle? Alazrian thinks all the troops have probably gone to fight the Highlanders. Do you think so?"

"Uhm, yes. Probably. I don't know."

"For God's sake, Richius . . ."

"Who's taking care of her?" Richius looked back at the woman. "I mean, with Ogan gone, what's she been doing for food?"

Jahl hesitated, not wanting to answer.

"Well?"

"We sent her some food when Ogan died," said Ricken. "That was all we could do. We couldn't risk coming back into Aramoor. The soldiers watch her."

"Watch her? What do you mean . . ."

But then he understood. A pretty woman with no husband and no way to run her farm; it all made sense.

Praxtin-Tar spoke then, pointing. Across the field, another company of horsemen was approaching, Talistanians with golden-green armor and long lances tucked beneath their arms. Praxtin-Tar sat up, looking pleased.

"You were saying something about being unopposed, weren't you, Jahl?"

asked Richius dryly.

"They're from the castle," said Alazrian. "Leth sent them."

"Well, they're your people," said Jahl. "Maybe you can talk to them, tell them to surrender."

"Look alert," Richius directed. He looked around the fields for other soldiers, but didn't see any. "They could be part of a trap."

"No, it's no trap," said Jahl. "Leth can't spare the troops. These dogs are meant to slow us down, that's all." He took a deep breath to steady himself.

"Well then, we'll just ride 'em down."

Praxtin-Tar shouted to his men, readying them. Richius ordered the column to halt as he watched the horsemen approach. He saw their leader come into view, a slightly built man with a youthful face. He was worried; Richius could tell. The young man brought his company to a halt a dozen yards from the horde.

"Jackal," he called. "Would that be you?"

"Some call me that," replied Richius. He scrutinized the Talistanians, counting maybe thirty in all. Hardly enough to best Praxtin-Tar's warriors.

"Who are you?"

"My name is Lieutenant Dary," said the soldier. "Of the Gold Brigade.

You're trespassing, Jackal. You're an outlaw, like these others. I cannot let you pass. Go back, or . . ." His voice trailed off as he noticed the boy riding beside Richius. "My God," he gasped, "Alazrian?"

Alazrian brought his horse forward. "It's me," he declared. "Richius, I know this man. I've seen him around the castle."

"I don't believe it!" sputtered the soldier. "Master Leth? What are you doing with these people?"

"Surrender, Dary," said Alazrian. "Please. I don't have time to explain it, but if you don't surrender quickly you'll be killed."

The lieutenant looked at his comrades, all of whom shared his bewilderment. "Alazrian, tell me what's going on here. Are you a traitor? Did you lead these creatures to us?"

"Watch your tongue," Richius warned. "These creatures are about to rip your throats out. And none of us can stop them, not even me. Surrender."

The lieutenant lifted his lance and swallowed. "I cannot," he said. "I have my orders, Jackal. If you try to pass, we will fight you."

Praxtin-Tar understood the challenge. He trotted his steed forward.

"The warlord commands these Triin," Richius explained. "He says he's looking forward to stealing your lance and impaling you on it."

The young man went ashen. "I have my orders," he repeated. "We'll give you a fight if that's what—"

"I won't be able to stop them, so don't try to threaten me. Drop your weapons and get down off your horses. Do it now."

Praxtin-Tar drew his jiiktar.

"Jackal, I'm warning you . . ."

"Do it now!"

Lieutenant Dary was quaking. He lifted his lance an inch higher. His horsemen did the same. Praxtin-Tar put the reins in his mouth, twisted the jiiktar to make two short swords, then sat statue-still, not even breathing. They watched each other, one sweating, one smiling.

"God almighty, Dary, don't," said Richius. "I don't want this . . ."

"Alazrian, say something!" blurted Jahl.

"I can't stop him," said Alazrain. "He won't listen to me."

A second later, Dary moved, driving his horse forward. Praxtin-Tar let out a shrieking whoop. His horse flew forward; his jiiktar flashed. Dary's lance rushed toward him. The warlord's weapons knocked it aside, then shot out and carved the head from Dary's body.

"Damn it, no!" cried Richius.

Chaos erupted around him. Dary's head hit the ground, then Praxtin-Tar was roaring, slashing through the stunned lancemen. His warriors surged forward, ignoring Richius' commands. Richius fought to still his thrashing horse. Next to him he heard Alazrian shouting, then saw the boy fighting to break free from the melee. Jahl and his Saints quickly disbanded as the Triin rushed forward, struggling to get away.

With jiiktars and lances ringing around him, Richius sought refuge from the battle. He forced his mount through the press of bodies. And as he fled he kept telling himself to join the fight, to aid in the liberation of his homeland . . .

But it wasn't a battle, really. It was Triin warriors cutting their teeth on rabbits. As he reached Alazrian, he turned and saw the warriors engulfing the Talistanians, breaking over them like a tidal wave. Praxtin-Tar was in the center, trilling a mad howl.

"Look at him," said Alazrian in disbelief. "My God, he's an animal."

"No," corrected Richius grimly. "He's a Triin warlord. He's not your guard dog, Alazrian. Don't try to make a house pet of a wolf."

Aramoor castle had quickly become an armed camp. With the help of Shinn, Elrad Leth had arranged a line of cavalrymen twenty-strong along the outer ward, backed by a small company of soldiers inside the walls. A handful of archers waited on the roof, while servants and slaves made ready with farm tools and kitchen knives, preparing to defend themselves from the Triin savages. Leth himself had a dagger and sword at his belt, and he kept Shinn close by as he hurried through the castle, inspecting his defenses. So far there had been no word from Talistan, and Leth didn't expect any soon. It was a goodly ride to the border, and he knew Tassis Gayle had his hands full with the Highlanders. But he also knew that Richius Vantran would be a difficult enemy to defeat, for he had the will of the people and an army of Triin behind him. Leth had never really seen Triin, except for his half-breed son. Yet as he dashed through the castle, he remembered what Blackwood Gayle had told him about the Triin. They were devils, vampires who drank the blood of children.

"Get that goddamn dog out of the way!" Leth hissed as he tripped over a mongrel going up the stairs. A servant boy hurried an apology and spirited the animal away. "If I see it again I'll have it for lunch!" Leth shouted after him.

He was frantic now, his mind going in a million different directions. With Shinn on his heels, he raced up the castle's main staircase, stopping at his second-floor bedroom. The room afforded an unobstructed view of the grounds. It had also been where Calida had died. But Leth didn't think about that now. Instead he thought about the chamber's balcony, with its eastern exposure. Already two lookouts were on the balcony, waiting for the invaders.

One had a spyglass to his eye. The other was cracking his knuckles nervously.

Leth stepped onto the ledge.

"Well?" he barked. "See anything?"

"Not yet, Governor," replied the soldier. Like all the troops Gayle had supplied him, this one was young and inexperienced. Not really expecting trouble from the Saints, Gayle had recalled the best of them to Talistan.

"Thanks a lot, you dried up old prune," Leth muttered.

"Sir?" asked the soldier.

"Never mind." Leth turned to his bodyguard. "Shinn, I want you to get back on the roof with the archers. Keep an eye out for them and await my orders. If they get close enough, maybe we can ambush them."

"They'll be too many," Shinn argued.

"Just do as I say, will you?"

Shinn obeyed, heading for the roof where his expertise with a bow could best be used. Leth turned his attention toward the eastern horizon. In the yard, his cavalry waited anxiously, sure they would be ripped to pieces by Vantran's army. Leth wondered how long they could hold out against the Triin, and if he could somehow manage to take out Vantran with an arrow. Or maybe Jahl Rob.

That would be sweet, he thought. To kill that priest . . .

"Governor, I see something," said the soldier with the spyglass. "I think it's them."

Leth snatched up the glass. "Let me see."

After twisting the scope, the horizon came into focus. Mostly there were green fields and trees, but then he saw the road leading to the castle. There were riders. Leth's heartbeat throbbed. A tattered dragon banner flew above them—the flag of Aramoor.

"It is them. Holy mother . . ."

Richius Vantran rode at the head of the column, looking young and arrogant atop a brown horse. Next to him were Narens—the Saints of the Sword—easily discernible in their ragged, imperial clothing. And behind the Narens, stretching out in a long white line, were the jiiktar-wielding Triin. Some were on foot, others on horseback, and some were even riding Talistanian horses, an insult that made Leth's insides clench. All had the bone-white skin of ghouls.

"Get ready!" Leth called to his cavalry. "Here they come!" He turned to one of his soldiers. "Tell the others to make ready. Have them wait for my orders.

Go now, quickly." He raced off, shouting to his fellow soldiers and the knife-wielding staff. Leth kept his eye glued to the spyglass. The army was approaching quickly, riding unopposed toward the castle. There was no sign of Lieutenant Dary or his lancemen. There were, however, blood stains on the Triin.

Dary's blood, Leth supposed. Poor idiot.

How stupid Dary had been to obey orders. And how stupid Leth himself felt for falling into this mess. He should have known Vantran would return someday; he should have been prepared for it. Now he would be dinner for Triin savages, and he blamed himself for his fate. He blamed Tassis Gayle, too.

"Demented old bastard," he grumbled. "If I get out of this, I'm going to roast him alive."

He waited on the balcony as the army drew closer. The young soldier beside him was breathing rapidly. Leth was about to tell him to shut up when he noticed something strange through the spyglass. There was a figure riding alongside the Jackal, a boy with familiar features. It took Leth a moment to remember his supposedly dead son. "Shinn, you son of a bitch. You told me he was dead!" He had never expected to see Alazrian again, and he couldn't explain it. But it was an interesting turn of events. Leth closed his eyes, trying to think, wondering how to use it to his advantage. A word popped into his mind. Hostage.

Alazrian rode between Richius and Praxtin-Tar, shaken by the sight of Aramoor castle. He had never really cared for the structure, and seeing it again reminded him of his mother. A line of cavalry blockaded the courtyard, more of the same lance-wielding defenders that Praxtin-Tar and his horde had slaughtered. The warlord gave a low growl when he saw them, then raised his eyes to the archers on the roof, poorly hidden behind chimneys. Except for the soldiers in the courtyard, Aramoor castle was deathly still. Richius slowed his horse, letting his eyes caress his home. "My God," he said. "I never thought I'd see this place again."

"Leth has taken good care of it," offered Alazrian. "Believe it or not."

"It looks the same," remarked Richius with a sad smile.

"Don't get all goggle-eyed yet," said Rob. The priest brought his horse up and surveyed the soldiers. "Looks like Leth has a homecoming planned.

Parry, how many horsemen would you say that is?"

Parry hooded his eyes as he peered toward the courtyard. "Not many.

Twenty, maybe?"

"Twenty." Rob turned toward Richius. "Twenty men between you and your throne, my lord. And we've only lost maybe five in all. I'd say the odds are good."

Richius didn't reply. Alazrian could tell he was weary. Witnessing the slaughter at the ranch had made him pensive. He looked old suddenly, like Praxtin-Tar. Just then the warlord reached out and took Alazrian's hand.

"You will stay back, Alazrian," Praxtin-Tar said in Triin. "My men will deal with these dogs. Then we will take the castle for you."

"It's not his castle, Praxtin-Tar," said Richius, understanding the warlord's words. "It's mine."

Praxtin-Tar looked at Richius, smiling darkly. Keeping his hand on Alazrian, he said, "I have not forgotten, Kalak. Will you join in the fight for your castle?

Or will you let us do your fighting?"

"Praxtin-Tar, stop," said Alazrian. "Let's see what Leth has to say first."

"He will tell us to go to hell," said Jahl. "He's just waiting for reinforcements from Talistan." He said to Richius, "We don't have time to waste. We must take the castle quickly."

"I know," said Richius. "But let's at least talk to them, try to make them surrender."

"Richius, they won't surrender. We have to fight them. Now, while we have the muscle . . ."

"Jahl," interrupted Richius, "those are my orders. Now, let's move out."

Without another word Richius led the company toward his castle. Alazrian stayed close to him, as did Praxtin-Tar and Jahl Rob. Richius didn't want a battle; that much was obvious. Alazrian wondered how someone so reluctant to fight had stayed alive so long. As they approached Aramoor castle, the archers on the roofs and in the windows came into view, sliding out from behind their hiding places and readying their bows. On the second-floor balcony were figures. One was a soldier in Talistanian garb. The other . . .

"Oh, Lord," whispered Alazrian. "There he is."

"Who? "asked Jahl.

"On the balcony," replied Alazrian. "Leth."

Elrad Leth had his hands on the railing and was leaning forward, trying to get a better look at the approaching army. He was well-dressed, as usual, and wore an enigmatic expression.

"What's he doing?" asked Richius.

"Waiting for us," said Alazrian. "Waiting for me."

"He must have seen you by now," said Richius. He gave a short laugh.

Then he waved, shouting, "Surprised to see us, Leth?"

Leth crossed his arms. Jahl and his Saints began jeering, shaking their fists and cursing at the line of cavalry, challenging them to fight. Richius quieted them with a curt order, then brought the army to a halt just before the courtyard. Praxtin-Tar's warriors fanned out behind them. Still Leth kept a keen smile.

"Welcome home, Jackal," he cried from his balcony. "I should have known you'd come back."

"Indeed you should have. But I've been told by a friend that you've taken good care of my home." He gestured to Alazrian. "I think you know this young man, don't you?"

Leth turned a withering scowl on Alazrian. "Greetings, son. I'd say it's good to see you, but that would be a lie. And you wouldn't believe it anyway, would you?"

"Not after you told Shinn to kill me," Alazrian responded. "But look, Father

. You failed. I'm still alive."

"Yes, I must talk to Shinn about that. Vantran, if I were you I'd turn around now. No one wants a bloodbath."

Richius laughed. "I was just thinking the same thing! Surrender, Leth, while you have a chance."

"I have this castle," retorted Leth. "And I have reinforcements on the way.

Why don't you be a good traitor and shoo? And take that band of barbarians with you."

"Look around, Leth," said Richius. "We have over two hundred men, and they've already slaughtered two companies of your cavalry." He gestured to the line of horsemen in the courtyard. "Do you want these others to join them?

Because I'm sure Praxtin-Tar here will oblige you."

"Give up," called Alazrian. "Please. Richius is right. You can't win."

"And if I surrender what will happen to me?" asked Leth. "Am I to be supper for those savages? I think not, boy."

"You'll have a better fate than you gave my mother!" Alazrian cried. "Now surrender; it's your only chance."

Leth seemed to consider the proposal. Along the roof, the archers awaited his word, fixing the army in their sights. The horsemen in the yard gripped their lances warily. Alazrian watched it all with dread. Seeing Leth had awakened something dark within him. Suddenly he was back in that closet again, a little boy crying from too many beatings.

"I will talk only to Alazrian," said Leth at last. "If I must surrender, I want to speak to my son."

"Forget it," shouted Jahl.

"You'll surrender unconditionally," said Richius, "or I'll give the order to attack."

"And just how long do you think it will take you to win the castle, Jackal?

You may outnumber us, but we have the advantage." He gestured up at the roof lined with archers. "Do you really want to see your comrades die?"

"If any one of those bowmen lets fly, we'll rush the castle," Richius warned.

"And there won't be anything left of you to surrender."

"Alazrian," said Leth, "Will you come and talk to me?"

"No, he won't! "cried Jahl.

Leth sighed. "Come on, boy. Don't be a coward."

The accusation rattled Alazrian. He grit his teeth. Leth was watching him.

Before Richius could refuse the offer, Alazrian turned to him and said, "I want to do it."

"What? Alazrian, no!"

"I want to, Richius," Alazrian insisted. "Please let me."

"Why?" barked Jahl. "Alazrian, don't be stupid."

"I'm not being stupid! Let me go up there and talk to him. Maybe I can convince him to surrender."

"No, Alazrian," said Richius. "Jahl's right. He just wants to use you as a bargaining chip."

"Alazrian?" probed Jahl. The priest's expression had changed. "What are you thinking?"

"What do you mean?"

"You're planning something, I know it. What is it?" Alazrian smiled grimly.

"Jahl, this is something I have to do. Don't ask me about it, all right?"

"Alazrian, what the hell are you talking about?" pressed Richius. "We don't have time for nonsense!"

"You're right," Alazrian told him. "We don't have time. So don't argue with me. Just let me in there."

"I won't!" snapped Richius. "You're being stupid . . ."

"No," said Jahl. "Let him go."

"What?"

Jahl touched Alazrian's shoulder. "Are you sure?" Alazrian wasn't really sure, but he nodded.

"Yes."

"We'll explain it to Praxtin-Tar, then. Go with God, my son."

"Jahl?" Richius sputtered. "What the hell is going on?" Jahl turned to the balcony and called up to Leth, "All right, you bastard, he's coming to talk to you. But if you harm a hair on his head, I'm going to skin you alive!"

Elrad Leth laughed. "What a pious thought, Priest." He waved Alazrian ahead. "Come on, boy. No one will harm you. You have my word."

Leth's word was meaningless, but Alazrian went ahead anyway, breaking away from the others and trotting into the courtyard. Behind him he heard Praxtin-Tar's protest.

Alazrian wondered if he knew what he was doing, but he was driven by a need to face his so-called father one last time. All the memories of his childhood flooded over him as he approached the castle—his mother's soft voice, Leth's harsh insulting rasp, the dark recesses of the closet and the sting of the belt—it was all unstoppable suddenly, and it pushed him onward. The horsemen in the courtyard parted, letting him pass. Up ahead, the doors to the castle opened and a servant peered out.

"Get off your horse, Master Alazrian," a voice directed. It was Barth, Leth's bookkeeper. "The governor wants no trouble."

Alazrian dropped from Flier's back. Leaving the horse in the yard, he approached the doors. Barth hurried him inside.

"Your father is waiting for you upstairs," said the man, closing the doors again. "Please, don't do anything to anger him."

Alazrian went through the entry hall toward the main staircase. Barth followed, chattering nervously, but the bookkeeper stopped talking when they reached the stairs. There at the top of the flight was Elrad Leth, gazing down with a twisted grin.

"Alazrian."

Alazrian glared up the staircase. "Governor."

"What? Won't you call me Father any longer? Or have the Saints of the Sword thoroughly brainwashed you against me?"

"They didn't have to change my mind," sneered Alazrian. "I've always known what you are." He glanced around. The entire castle staff seemed to be watching him, hanging on his reply. "You wanted to talk about surrender, didn't you?" he asked. "So let's talk."

"My, but you've changed!" laughed Leth. "How forceful you are now.

Almost a man! Come upstairs then, little man. We'll talk in my chambers. I can keep an eye on your rabble from there."

Leth turned and disappeared down the hall. Alazrian went up the stairs after him, leaving behind Barth and the other servants. At the top of the stairs a soldier waited, ready to escort him to the master bedchamber. There was a window in the hall, its glass broken, manned by an archer. Alazrian slipped past and saw Richius and Jahl and the others staring back at the castle.

Praxtin-Tar looked furious. Seeing his protector put Alazrian at ease, but his relief was shattered by Leth's grating voice.

"Alazrian! Get in here, already."

Leth was in the master bedchamber, looking out past the balcony when Alazrian entered. There were three soldiers with him, all of whom watched Alazrian closely. Leth gestured gruffly to a chair.

"Sit there, away from the balcony."

Alazrian did as he was told, all the while watching Leth. Though Leth put on a good show, the sight of the Triin had shaken him. He exhaled nervously then went to the bed and sat down on its edge.

"Well?" Leth asked sharply. "You care to explain what the hell you're doing with those traitors?"

"I came here to talk you into surrendering," lied Alazrian. "I'm not going to explain myself."

"I see Jahl Rob and his rebels have taught you to disrespect your elders.

Quite a holy man, that one."

"He's a good man. He's twice the man you are . . . Father."

The insult rattled Leth. He was about to rise but stopped himself. Alazrian could tell he was afraid—too afraid to strike him.

"They're going to kill you, you know," said Alazrian. "You won't live to see the end of this day."

"Is that right?"

Alazrian nodded. "That's why I'm here. I wanted to tell you that myself."

Their eyes met. A nervousness grew inside Alazrian, and he felt his resolve slipping away. But he had come for a reason, and refused to be afraid. It would save lives, he told himself. And Leth deserved it.

"You're not my son," said Leth. "I've always known that. And I never wanted you."

"I know."

Leth smiled. "Look at you. So cocky. You think because you've got an army that you're powerful. But you're nothing, Alazrian. You're just a weak little half-breed."

"You're wrong," said Alazrian. "I am powerful."

"Is that what they think? Those Triin savages out there—do they think you're something special?"

"I am special." Alazrian put out his hands. "Why don't you let me show you?"

The humor left Leth's face. "What is this?"

"I have Triin magic. I can read your thoughts, and I can heal people. Let me show you."

"Impossible." Leth reared back. "You're no sorcerer!"

"Oh, but I am," said Alazrian. "That's why the Triin follow me, because I have magic. I can prove it to you. Just give me your hands."

Leth glanced at the bewildered soldiers, then back at Alazrian. Alazrian knew he was almost convinced.

"You're afraid," Alazrian taunted. "Ha! Who's the coward now?"

"I'm not afraid of you," sneered Leth. "I'm not afraid of anything."

"Then prove it. Take my hands. I'll tell you what you're thinking."

"All right," snapped Leth, slapping his hands into Alazrian's. "Go on. Tell me what I'm thinking."

A wall of loathing struck Alazrian like a fist. He closed his eyes, shaking his head against the shock of the connection, gripping Leth's hands and feeling the flow of hateful energy. It was nauseating, and Alazrian's mind flashed with pictures and bitter feelings—a great, regret-filled tide.

"Well?" Leth demanded. "What am I thinking?"

"I . . . You're . . ."

Leth began to laugh. "Oh, very good, wizard!" He tightened his grip. "What else? Tell me without stuttering for once!"

Alazrian struggled to focus, to block out Leth's taunts and to concentrate on the one thing he had come here to do. Quickly he searched the recesses of Leth's mind, blowing away the dust and gazing down the twisted corridors, trying to locate his mother. Any love, any warm thought for her could have saved Leth, but when Alazrian found her she was in this bedroom. Leth was on top of her, half-naked and beating her. She was crying softly, taking his fists and his unwanted thrusts. The sight blinded Alazrian. He cried out, digging his nails into Leth's hands.

"You killed her!" he railed.

Leth stood up, trying to get free. "Let go of me!"

"You killed her, and now I'm going to kill you!"

The vision of his mother let loose a demon inside Alazrian. His healing power was a choice, he knew, as much a weapon as a salve. He focused his mind like the strength of the sun, picturing the air shooting from Leth's chest, imagining his lungs shrivelling. Leth let out a gurgling scream. Alazrian dug into his hands. The soldiers backed away, horrified, as Leth's scream went on and on, building to a high-pitched wail.

"I hate you!" Alazrian cried. "I hate what you did to us!"

He was weeping now, unable to stop himself. Leth's eyes bulged, begging for mercy, but Alazrian knew no mercy. The memories of a thousand beatings drove him on. Elrad Leth ceased struggling. His head fell back in a wordless howl and his throat flushed scarlet, clutched by invisible fingers. With one last gasp he hissed a silent curse. His head fell forward; spittle dripped from his mouth. Alazrian let go and watched him topple to the floor.

Two lifeless eyes stared up at him.

Alazrian went to his knees beside Leth, weeping without knowing why.

"You killed my mother. It wasn't cancer. It was you."

The soldiers gradually came forward. They looked at Alazrian in horror.

"You . . . you killed him!"

Alazrian nodded mutely. "You can't win," he said. "He's dead. And the Jackal will kill you all if you don't surrender."

Up on the roof of Aramoor castle, Shinn heard the shouts of Talistanian soldiers.

"Leth is dead! Surrender!"

The archers lowered their bows and looked at each other. In the courtyard, the cavalrymen were dropping their lances. Shinn got unsteadily to his feet.

Outnumbered and leaderless, the Talistanians surrendered, leaving their bows on the roof as they climbed back down the hatches and wall walks. Shinn watched them go, utterly lost. Leth was dead? How could that be?

Then he remembered the boy.

"That little whoreson," he whispered. Had the boy killed Leth? It didn't really matter. If Alazrian was alive, he could tell his grandfather how the boy had tried to murder him. Shinn might even tell his grandfather.

With his bow still in hand, Shinn hurried from the roof, eager to take care of some unfinished business.

Down in the courtyard, Jahl watched in astonishment as the Talistanians surrendered. The order travelled quickly through their ranks. As the horsemen dropped their lances and the weapon-wielding staff emerged from the castle, Richius and the Saints swarmed forward, shouting orders and herding the horsemen into groups. Praxtin-Tar and his warriors surrounded them.

"Alazrian!" Jahl called. "Alazrian, can you hear me?"

Praxtin-Tar jumped from his horse and ran for the castle gates. Jahl was right behind him.

Together he and Praxtin-Tar pushed their way inside, shouldering past a group of Talistanians. Jahl grabbed hold of one, a young woman wearing an apron.

"Where's the boy?" he said. "Where's Alazrian?"

The woman nearly fainted, shrieking as she noticed Praxtin-Tar.

"Where is he?" Jahl demanded, shaking her.

"Upstairs," she stammered, pointing down the hall. "That's where the master took him."

Jahl and the warlord raced for the staircase, hurrying to the second floor. As he reached the top of the stairs Jahl saw an open door across a long corridor.

There was a figure in the threshold. For a moment Jahl thought it was Alazrian, but then he saw Alazrian kneeling in the chamber. The figure in the threshold held a drawn-back bow.

"No!" screamed Jahl.

Shinn turned. Jahl raced up the steps. Shinn loosed his arrow—and Jahl felt its hammering impact. His chest exploded with pain and he stumbled back, falling into Praxtin-Tar.

"Alazrian!" he gasped.

Alazrian was in the doorway now. He saw Shinn, then cried out for Jahl.

Praxtin-Tar laid Jahl aside and roared forward, flying at Shinn with his jiiktar.

Jahl saw it all through a fog. Praxtin-Tar raised his blade. Shinn brought up his bow and saw it severed as the warlord's weapon flashed. Shinn's anguished wail shook the hall.

"Jahl!" cried Alazrian desperately.

Jahl could barely hold his eyes open. An arrow erupted from his chest, swamping his shirt with blood. Alazrian knelt over him, weeping.

"Alazrian . . ."

"Jahl, don't talk. Let me help you!"

"No," Jahl gasped.

"Stay still," Alazrian begged. He quickly laid his hands on Jahl, digging into his bloodied flesh. "I can heal you, Jahl," he said. "Just hold on!"

"Don't . . . do . . . anything." With a giant effort, Jahl raised his head and looked at Alazrian. "No magic!"

Frustrated tears stained Alazrian's cheeks. "Jahl, please! I need you."

With his waning strength Jahl pushed away Alazrian's hands. "Don't . . ." He looked into the boy's eyes, so bright they could have been stars, and smiled because he knew the boy was safe.

"No tears for me," he choked. "Alazrian, I'm going to God."

Jahl Rob closed his eyes and let his angels take him to heaven.

FIFTY-ONE

Just off the coast of Talistan, the Dread Sovereign sat at anchor, bobbing in the moonlight. A gentle solitude blanketed the ocean. The warship's cannons had quieted hours ago, but her decks still stank of kerosene. Onshore, the ruined fortress glowed with waning fires, sending up sad smoke signals. It was abandoned now, without even a single occupant to curse the dreadnought offshore.

Blair Kasrin had gone through his usual inspections after the bombardment of the fortress, seeing to his crew and the welfare of his ship, and finding both in good spirits. The Sovereign had weathered her mission remarkably well.

Kasrin was proud of her. He was proud of himself, too, and how he had helped Biagio. If he listened very closely, he could hear the chaos in Talistan, the occasional shouts of troops or farmers as they realized their world had violently changed. Biagio had launched his war. He had probably even won.

For that, Kasrin was glad. But like the Sovereign, Kasrin knew he had paid his debts.

He finished his inspections then went in search of Jelena, finding her at the stern, pensively watching Talistan. She was lovely in the moonlight, and Kasrin adored her. He adored her fire, her will. She wasn't a girl to him—she was a queen. She glanced in his direction as he approached, offering a smile.

Kasrin shouldered up to her, leaning on the railing and sharing the view. It was very quiet and he could hear the waves lapping against the hull. A good time to confess his decision, he supposed.

But before he could speak, Jelena asked, "What will you do now, Blair?"

"We will anchor here for the night," he said. "Give the crew a chance to rest."

"That's not what I meant. Biagio will be expecting you, I suppose. He will need a new admiral. Or at least passage back to Nar City."

"Yes, I suppose he will."

"Will you go ashore to see him?"

"No."

"No?"

Kasrin turned to her. "I've paid my debt to Biagio, Jelena. I don't think he needs me anymore. He can make Gark head of the fleet. Besides, I'm not really sure how safe I'd be in Nar. Not after killing Nicabar."

Jelena looked at him hopefully. "So? What will you do?"

Kasrin patted the railing. "She's a good old ship, isn't she? Still seaworthy.

She'll make it back to Liss, no problem." Kasrin took Jelena's hand, grinning wickedly. "After all, you still have a lot of Liss to show me, my Queen."

FIFTY-TWO

In the aftermath of the battle, Biagio returned to Elkhorn Castle. The survivors of the battle had accompanied him, and Cray Kellen and Vandra Grayfin paid their respects to Breena before returning to their own territories. A day and half after they were gone, the silence of the castle began to irritate Biagio, and he knew it was time for him, too, to leave. He had spoken infrequently to Breena since returning to the castle, for she had not wanted his company, and Biagio thought it best that she be given space and time to recover from her loss. But as he readied to leave the castle, to go on to Aramoor and meet with Richius Vantran, he knew he could not leave her without saying good-bye.

With his saddlebags packed and stuffed with provisions, he made a small detour before departing, going to the castle's rose garden. There among the forlorn blossoms he found her, absently trimming back the vines the way he had taught her. She did not notice as he approached, or if she did she simply ignored him. Sadly, Breena had changed. The death of Redburn had smothered her fire, replacing it with a dreary apathy. Biagio paused at the edge of the garden, waiting for her to acknowledge him.

"You're going," she said finally. Her voice was flat.

"Yes."

"Good-bye, then. Have a safe journey to Nar."

"I'm not going back to Nar," said Biagio. "Not yet. First I'm going to Aramoor. I want to speak to Richius Vantran."

"I see," said Breena, continuing to prune. "And what makes you think he'll speak to you? You're still his enemy. You're still the one that ordered his wife's death."

"Maybe," said Biagio. "But I think the Jackal is eager to mend fences." He took a step closer. "What about you?"

The girl lowered her shears. "Don't ask me to forgive you, Lord Emperor. I cannot. Not yet."

Biagio looked at her hands. She was still wearing the ring he had given her.

To him, that was hopeful.

"I wanted to thank you before I left. You were very kind to me. You helped me to . . ."

"What?"

Biagio gave a pale smile. "To find my mind again. I am not insane, Breena.

Someday I hope you'll realize that."

Breena shrugged. "Someday."

"I will check on you from time to time. When I get back to the Black City, I will send people to the Highlands, to make sure all is well. If you need anything, just ask."

"That's very kind of you. Thank you."

"No," said Biagio. He took her ringed hand and kissed it. "Thank you, Lady Breena."

Then he turned and left the sad woman behind, departing the rose garden for the long road to Aramoor.

It took days before Richius felt at home again, but eventually he settled into the familiar rhythms. Despite Elrad Leth's occupation, the castle had changed little, and there were still some of his old servants in the lands around the keep.

After the surrender of the Talistanians, he had let the soldiers return home.

And he had opened the castle to any and all visitors, proclaiming his return.

The Saints of the Sword rode through Aramoor with the news. Without Jahl Rob, they were diminished but remained stouthearted, and they helped Richius spread the word of his homecoming. They helped him at Windlash, too. The labor camp had been the roughest part of Richius' return. After freeing his people, he had ordered it burned.

Richius knew healing Aramoor would take time, and he had no magic to make it easier. Without Jahl Rob or Alazrian, he was alone, at least until Dyana arrived, and he knew he would depend heavily on Ricken and the other Saints.

So far, his new friends had been invaluable. They had tamed the swelling crowds at the castle and had purged the country of Talistanians. Alazrian himself had left with Praxtin-Tar, using the warlord's horde as protection during his own homecoming. Talistan would be a very different place now, and no one knew who would hold its throne. Richius supposed Biagio would make that decision. As emperor, it was his prerogative.

On the seventh day of his homecoming, Richius rode alone through the apple orchards, going from farm to farm to visit his wounded subjects. He had already been to the House of Lotts to pay respect to Alain's parents, who now had only one son but graciously refused to blame Richius for their losses. It was a fine summer day and Richius had spent the morning at the house, tossing a ball back and forth with Alain and reminiscing about his dead brothers, Del and Dinadin. Alain was very much like them, Richius noticed.

He was growing up to be a fine man.

Upon leaving the House of Lotts, Richius rode south, nearing the border with Talistan. There he stopped on the side of the road to admire the groves of apple trees and rest his tired horse. The trees provided shade from the sun, and as he sat he daydreamed about Dyana and Shani. It would be a long time until they arrived, but that was all right. It would give him time to ready the castle, give Aramoor some time to heal. Aramoor would welcome its new queen, Richius was certain. Leaning against a tree trunk, he let out a contented sigh.

He pulled a twig from a fallen branch and put it between his teeth, then noticed a lone rider in the distance, coming slowly toward him. Out of Talistan, Richius realized. The man wore black and carried a sword at his belt.

He sauntered forward at an easy pace, unhurried by the heat, his golden hair gleaming. As he drew closer he noticed Richius beneath the tree.

"Oh, my God," Richius said. "I don't believe it."

Emperor Renato Biagio was a surprisingly muted sight. Without his train of slaves or baronial garments, he looked like any other road-weary rider, a lonely figure emerging from the hot day. His keen eyes regarded Richius sharply, but they no longer glowed sapphire blue, nor did his flesh have its impossibly golden sheen. Still, Biagio looked remarkably fit. He cast Richius a dazzling smile.

"I have a memory like a steel trap," he declared, "and yours is a face I could never forget." He brought his horse to a stop. "Greetings, Jackal."

Richius didn't get up. "You surprise me, Biagio," he said. "I didn't expect you to come."

"Really? That would have been rude of me. I thought I owed you a visit.

You and I have something to discuss."

"What would that be?"

"Your rulership of Aramoor, of course."

Biagio slid down from his horse, then surprised Richius again by sitting down beside him. The emperor picked up a twig of his own and began twirling it between his fingers. Richius watched him carefully.

"I am emperor, you know," said Biagio. "I've had my problems, but I intend to solve them once I get back to Nar City. With Tassis Gayle out of my hair, I can finally concentrate."

"Problems?" probed Richius. "What kind of problems?"

"Oh, I still have enemies," said Biagio. "Believe me, there are problems to occupy me for a hundred years."

When he didn't elaborate, Richius said, "I see. So what about me?"

"I need your promise, Jackal." Biagio's expression was grave. "Will you follow me as emperor? Or will I have more treason on my hands? An honest answer would be appreciated."

"First, I have a question for you," said Richius. "Alazrian Leth gave me your letter. You said Aramoor would be mine if I brought the Triin into your war. Did you mean that?"

"I did."

"Well, I've brought the Triin."

"Yes," laughed Biagio, "I'd heard. News of a Triin invasion travels quickly.

I'd like to meet these Triin of yours. Are they at your castle?"

Richius shook his head. "They're gone. They left yesterday for Talistan with Alazrian."

"Alazrian?" Biagio looked disappointed. "Oh, bother. I had hoped to see the boy as well, but I avoided as much of Talistan as I could coming here."

He smiled impishly. "I'm not very popular in Talistan these days."

"I can imagine."

"How is the boy?" asked Biagio. "He is well?"

"He's fine," Richius replied, wondering how long that would be true. He didn't tell Biagio about the curse of Triin magic—that it could only be used to heal, and not to harm. Nor had he mentioned it to Alazrian. He wondered how long it might be before Alazrian started showing symptoms—just as Tharn had.

"I am glad the boy is all right," said Biagio. "That is good news."

"Well, he's not exactly perfect," Richius confessed. "He killed Leth with his bare hands. And then he found out you killed his grandfather before he could try to heal him."

"I had no choice," said Biagio, tossing his twig to the ground. "The old man was insane. He deserved to die."

"I don't doubt that," said Richius. "Still, your concern for Alazrian is surprising." He looked at the emperor sharply. "Isn't he just another of your pawns?"

"You wound me, Jackal. If you must know, I care about the boy. I intend to keep an eye on him."

"Why?"

Biagio's eyes flashed with familiar malevolence. "Because he just might be the most dangerous person in the world, that's why."

Richius nodded. "His magic."

"He will have to be watched, maybe even cultivated. He will be powerful. I do not need more challengers in the Empire."

"I won't let you harm him, Biagio," Richius warned. "And Alazrian has protection now from the Triin."

"Bah," scoffed Biagio with a dismissive wave. "I don't mean to harm him.

He has done me a service, after all. But I will watch him, and I will watch his magic grow. You would be wise to do the same."

"You still haven't answered my question, Emperor. Will you let me rule Aramoor?"

"We struck a bargain a long time ago, Jackal. Do you remember?"

Richius remembered perfectly. "Yes. You stay out of my affairs, and I'll stay out of yours."

"Just so."

"Well, I think I can live with that," said Richius. He couldn't help but smile.

Biagio looked like a little boy, sitting cross-legged in the dirt. "Is that it, then?"

Richius asked. "Is that all you came for?"

"That and to see Alazrian. And, if I must admit it, to say thank you."

"That's a word I didn't expect from you."

"Spare me your sarcasm, Jackal. Now tell me, what of your wife and daughter?"

"What about them?"

"Are they well?"

"They are. I've already sent for them."

"Wonderful! Then perhaps I will see them again. I've been travelling far too long, and I was hoping you could put me up at your home for a spell."

"My home? You want to live with me?"

"For a while, yes," said Biagio. "If it's not too much trouble. I'd like a nice long rest before heading back to Nar. There's bloody work needed in the capital, and I want to be prepared."

Richius could barely believe it. He stared at Biagio, dumbfounded by his conversion.

"Lord Emperor," he said, "you have certainly changed."