Rojak's vision whirled, flames blurring for a brief while before the details of the street ahead returned. He could just see the rotting corpse of a wyvern, one of the pair kept by the Raylin called Mistress. The beast had had its fill of the clamour and stink of dead meat all around. It had snapped at what it thought was a corpse, but the mo¬ment a canine caught Rojak's sleeve, the minstrel's plague had caught it, passing through its razor-sharp teeth to its tongue and down its throat. Its scales, once glittering in myriad shades of green and gold, had sloughed off as its body erupted in viscous pus-filled boils and thick, black blood had seeped from all its orifices. In a few moments the wyvern was just another rotting pile on the ground.

Rojak sat upstairs in a small house now exposed to the elements after the abbot's magic had torn roof and walls away. It was the closest remaining building to where the abbot himself lay gibbering, curled in a foetal position, in what was left of his cellar. The furious incarnation of Erwillen, the abbot's Aspect-Guide, fuelled by the Skull's power and random blasts of raw energy, had blown up the building.

Much of what remained was still burning fiercely; the protective ring of fire kept the boldest of Scree's citizens away for the time being. There was little of the house left intact now, only the thick stones of the kitchen hearth and the wall opposite it, almost to the height of a man. The rest was broken stumps of wood and heaps of stained brick. Amid the rubble lurked the soot-blackened feathers and claws of the High Hunter. Rojak could hear the beast's laboured breathing, no doubt echoing Abbot Doren's own exertions.

'Venn,' he croaked. The slim man came to his side as though glid-ing on ice, his tattooed face completely unreadable. Diamond'shapes ran down his left cheek, running around his ear and down the side of his throat, disappearing under the frayed neckline of his tunic. 'It is time for you to leave.'

'Leave?' Venn said in surprise. He spoke in the thick, rolling vowels of Embere. It was an affectation of his, to speak to everyone in the accent of their home, even those like Rojak, who had lost all trace of their past.

'You must leave now,' Rojak repeated. 'You cannot be caught up in the death of the city.'

'You're going to need me here,' Venn insisted, pointing towards Flitter, who was crouched in the furthest corner and looking out at

the abbot's ruined house. If Rojak had been able to turn his head and see through the fog of shadows that thickened in his eyes, he would have spotted the three tight knots of soldiers that were advancing steadily. 'Flitter has said that King Emin outnumbers us. He has the vampire with him.'

Rojak beckoned Venn closer and without hesitating he leaned closer, though Rojak could see his nostrils twitch. 'What must come to pass here is for me to decide. I have plans for you, so do as I tell you.'

Venn didn't argue further. He knew well that Rojak's foresight was unnatural. 'What do you wish me to do?'

'Find Ilumene. You and he shall prepare the way, ready the Land for your master's twilight reign.'

'How? Ilumene is the general, the conqueror, not I.'

Rojak reached out a clawed hand, one hooked finger brushing Venn's diamond patchwork sleeve. In this light it looked pitch-black; only under the sun was it apparent that the tunic was composed of varying shades of cloth that had been roughly dyed. 'You are no gen¬eral, but you must conquer. You were the greatest of your people, until you realised the truth behind the holy words given to the clans. Now you must return to them and spread the word of the twilight herald.'

'Will they follow me?'

'The Harlequins have been servants for too long. You must give

them a banner of their own. No more are they the children of Death, so fearful of their father they will not wear his colour. Remove their pottery masks and give them black-iron to wear. Give them a banner, Give them a king.'

If Rojak had wanted to say any more, it was lost. His body could sustain the effort no longer. He appeared to fold inward on himself, sinking further down into his seat.

Venn bent further down, careful not to touch Rojak's skin as he looked the minstrel in the eye, checking that a spark of life still remained before relaxing. He stepped back and gave a short bow, say¬ing, 'As you command, Herald.' He was about to turn away, then he hesitated and bent down to Rojak so he could look the dying minstrel in the eye. 'Your prophecy, the one you put into the dreams of that stable-boy in Embere; it speaks of a woman emerging from the remains of Scree.'

'Treasure and loss in the darkness, from holy hands to a lady of ashes. It is the heart of the "Twilight Reign" prophecy.'

'If you cannot hold them here, how will it come about? They will take the Skull and break the chain of prophecy – if the prophecy is broken, how will Azaer ever walk the Land and become the Saviour?'

'Have faith,' Rojak said, gritting his teeth against the pain. 'They will take no more than I let them take; our lord's reign is coming. Ilumene knows what is to be done; trust him. Now go.'

This time, Venn didn't linger.

The minstrel listened hard for the sound of Venn picking his way out through the broken debris and into the darkness, but the effort defeated him. What sounds he could detect were muted and confus¬ing, as though the bridge between his ears and mind had been washed away. The angry crackle of flames and the uneasy shuffle of the Hounds behind him were all he could make out above the indistinct murmur surrounding him. He could feel the pitiful, maddened figures that could no longer be called human lingering in groups, though a great rolling tide of them had gone north, driven by the firestorms that were even now encircling this place. Those who remained stared with bewildered resentment past the corpses of a hundred of their own at the indistinct form of a God they couldn't manage to hurt.

'What are your orders, minstrel?' To Rojak's weary ears Mistress sounded petulant, and he knew she was trying to conceal her fear. He allowed himself a moment of contempt for mercenaries: when there were glory and riches to be had, they were full of vigour, but put them in a hole and the complaints never ceased. A tiny smile crept onto his lips; soon they wouldn't be able to complain. Soon it wouldn't matter if they did, because there would be no one left to bear.

'Wait,' Rojak whispered, 'wail until they are closer. They must first kill the abbot, and then when his blood is shed, you will fall on them.'

'They've split up,' warned Flitter from her post. 'One group is circling around behind us.'

'Slow them down then,' Rojak sighed, his eyelids sliding shut for a low heartbeats. The lure of whatever lay beyond the sleep of utter ex¬haustion was almost too great to resist; only the touch of his master's ancient breath gently skimming the grazes on his earlobe kept him awake. Azaer was still with him, ever-patient and unrelenting.

He could not rest yet, not quite. There was still his duty to do and he would see it through with his very last breath. It would kill him, hut what was life when compared with changing the face of the Land itself? The price would be paid with a smile on his face, Rojak was certain of that. 'Take two of the Jesters' acolytes and lead the king's men a merry dance.'

'We don't have the numbers to stop them,' said one of the Jesters from somewhere behind him. Rojak summoned the image of the tall grey-skinned man who spoke for all of his brothers, his lips hidden behind the white leather mask that concealed everything beneath the eyes.

'You don't have to.' Rojak could hardly hear the sound of his own voice now; he was not sure if it was a weakness of tongue or ear, or both. 'Draw them in; stall them for as long as you can. It is nearly time.'