The wolves shuddered.

And swelled …

While the men shrank, their skin hanging in flapping folds, the wolves stretched, paws swelling into fur-covered fingers, nails darkening and curving into talons. Rib-cages expanded, bloated with new muscle; shoulders formed and the creatures loomed upright, dropping to the ground what appeared to be wizened sacks of old bones.

'Turn to me, my children,' said Kesa Khan. The six beasts obeyed him and he felt the power of their blood-red eyes upon him, felt the full savagery of their stares.

'Go forth and kill,' he whispered.

And six beasts padded into the night.

After a while the acolytes returned.

'Remove the bodies,' said the shaman.

'Can we call these things bodies?' asked a young man, his face ashen.

'Call them what you will, boy, but remove them.'

Kesa Khan watched them depart, then built a fire and wrapped himself in a goatskin robe. The ritual had drained him and he felt very old and very tired. There had been a day when only the strongest of warriors had been used, but that offended Kesa Khan. This way was better, for it gave a last glimpse of true life to men bowed by disaster.

They would hunt Waylander and devour him. Then they would die. If they drank water, it would choke them. If they ate meat, it would poison them. Within a month they would starve to death.

But they would have one last fine meal, as their great jaws closed upon the flesh of Waylander.

Kaem sat silently listening to the reports: sixty-eight men dead; forty-seven injured. Four hundred tents had been destroyed and two warehouses burnt to the ground, both containing meat and grain. One ship moored to the jetty had lost its sails in the blaze, but had otherwise survived intact. The rats, however, had infiltrated the remaining food stores and were overrunning the warehouses. Kaem dismissed the officers and turned to the black-coated figure beside him.

'Restore my good humour, Nemodes. Tell me once more how the Brotherhood is in sight of victory against the priests.'

Nemodes shrugged, his heavy-lidded eyes avoiding the general's gaze. The Brotherhood leader was a small, emaciated man with a thick fleshy nose which seemed out of place on his thin features. His mouth was lipless, his teeth like tombstones.

"Three of them died last night. The end is near,' he whispered.

"Three? I lost forty-eight.'

'The three are worth more than your scum,' snapped Nemodes. 'Soon they will lose the strength to keep us out and then we will work on Karnak as we destroyed Degas.'

'Your promises are as pig-wind,' said Kaem. 'Strong, but not lasting. Do you know how badly I need this fortress? Ironlatch has smashed our armies in the south and is advancing on Drenan. I cannot release men to stop him because Egel is still at large in Skultik and Karnak holds this last fortress. I cannot lose … and yet I cannot win.'

'We will kill the renegade priests,' Nemodes assured him.

'I don't want them dying of old age, Nemodes! You promised me the fortress would fall. It did not. You promised me the priests would be dead. They live. You promised me Waylander. What bad news have you on this front?'

'Cadoras betrayed us. He rescued the assassin from a Nadir village where his death would have been certain.'

'Why? Why would Cadoras do such a thing?'

Nemodes shrugged. 'It is beyond me. In all his life Cadoras never acted without self-interest. Perhaps he and Waylander struck a bargain. It matters not, for Cadoras is dead. However, nine of my brethren are currently approaching Raboas; they are the best warriors of my Order, and that means the best on the continent. And always we have Durmast.'

'I don't trust him.'

'That's why he can be trusted. Greed is the spur and that one will always sell to the highest bidder.'

'You depress me, Nemodes.'

'I do have some good news for you, general.'

'I can scarce believe that.'

'We have found the mountain entrance to the fortress – the route by which Karnak entered.'

Kaem took a deep breath and smiled. 'I want a thousand men ready to march in two hours.'

'I shall see that it is done,' promised Nemodes.

19

The wood was not large, but within it was a hollow where Waylander could build a fire. He was cold through, and though recovering fast from his ordeal still felt the effects of the fever caused by his tortured skin. For three days he had rested within the cave; then he had journeyed north, meeting a small group of Notas who sold him some foul-smelling salve which he smeared across his shoulders and upper back. While he was with them, a young woman had tended to the wound at his temple and the old Notas leader had given him a new name: Oxskull. Using a bronze mirror, Waylander had examined the wound. It was a swelling, purple and gross, the skin split across it in a jagged line. He remembered the sword-blade crashing against his head, and realised that it must have turned and struck him semi-flat. The swelling in his eye had reduced considerably, but he still found his vision troubled by harsh sunlight, which caused the eye to water heavily.

The Notas leader – a wizened, jovial ancient – examined his head, pressing and pushing.

'No crack, Oxskull. You live.'

'How far to Raboas?'

'Five days if you travel without care. Seven if your eyes are open.'

The girl moved forward with a pitcher of stone cooled water and bathed Waylander's head. She was petite and pretty, her hands gentle.

'My youngest wife,' said the old man. 'Good, yes?'

'Good,' agreed Waylander.

'You carry many weapons, Oxskull. You are fighting a war?'

Waylander nodded. 'It would displease me to think I will leave here with less than I arrived.'

'Your black horse is ferocious,' countered the ancient leader. 'He bit my eldest son in the shoulder.'

'He is of uncertain temper. When your people gather my possessions back into one place, I will put them in my blanket roll. The horse will not bite me.'

The old man chortled and dismissed the girl, but his face lost its smile as the tent-flap settled back into place and he and the stranger were alone.

'You are a hunted man, Oxskull. Many, many riders seek you.'

'I know this.'

'Some Nadir. Some Southriders.'

'I know this also.'

'The Southriders wear black cloaks and their eyes are cold. They are like a cloud across the sun and our children fear them – the young are so perceptive.'

'They are evil men,' said Waylander. 'Their promises are dust, but their threats are sworn in blood.'

'This I know,' said the Notas leader. 'They promised gold for knowledge and death for silence.'

'When they return, tell them I was here.'

'This I would have done anyway. Why do they seek you? Are you a king in exile?'

'No.'

'What then?'

Waylander spread his hands. 'A man makes many enemies.'

The old man nodded grimly, his dark eyes fixed on the assassin.

'You know why I have lived this long?' he asked, leaning sideways and pouring a goblet of Lyrrd for his guest.

Waylander shrugged, accepting the goblet and drank deeply.

'Because I am blessed. I see things within the mist of minds. I walk the spirit roads and view the births of mountains. Nothing is hidden from me. The Southriders worship the darkness and feed on the hearts of babes. They swallow the long green leaf and soar on the night winds. But you they cannot find. These men, who could hunt the smallest bat within a night-dark cavern, cannot find a rider on an arid plain. When I close my eyes I can see all things – the children playing beyond the tent, your horses cropping the grass, my youngest wife telling my oldest that she fears my touch for it reminds her of death. And yet I cannot see you, Oxskull. Why is that?'