Two other beasts were still asleep.

The crystal spun, blue lights dancing between the golden bowls.

The beast shuffled towards it, reaching out with its three great arms. A massive finger touched the flickering blue fire. Pain swept along the immense limbs, burning the creature. Both heads roared now. One arm swept out, striking the crystal, dislodging it, sending it hurtling towards the far wall. The blue flames died.

And all the lights dimmed and faded.

The near-darkness was comfortable, reassuring. The beast slumped down to its haunches. It was hungry. The smell of burnt meat came from the hall beyond. It moved to the doorway, and saw a small dead creature lying on the floor. The corpse was part-clothed in hide and metal. The meat was still fresh and the beast's hunger swelled. It tried to move forward but its great bulk could not pass through the doorway. Rearing up, it began to tear at the exposed blocks above the metal frame. The other beasts joined it, adding their strength.

And slowly the great rocks began to crack and give.

Kesa Khan opened his eyes and smiled. Miriel was watching him, saw the gleam of triumph in his eyes. 'We can move now,' he said, with a dry laugh. 'The way is made smooth.'

'But you said there was nowhere else!'

'There wasn't. Now there is. It is a fortress – very old. It is called Kar-Barzac. Tomorrow we will make the journey.'

'There is much that you are not telling me,' pointed out Miriel.

'There is much you do not need to know. Rest, Miriel, you will need your strength. Go – sit with your friends. Leave me. I will call you when the time comes.' Miriel wanted to question him further, but the little man had once more closed his eyes and sat, arms folded before the small fire.

She rose and wandered out into the night. Senta was asleep when she reached the small cave, but Angel was sitting under the stars, listening to the distant sounds of battle coming from the pass. A small boy was close by him. Miriel smiled. The two figures were in an identical position some twenty feet apart, Angel and the child both sitting cross-legged. The gladiator was sharpening his sword with a whetstone, the boy, holding a piece of wood, copying him.

'I see you have made a friend,' said Miriel. Angel grunted something inaudible. Miriel sat beside him. 'Who is he?'

'How should I know? He never speaks. He just mimics.'

Miriel's Talent reached out, then drew back. 'He's totally deaf,' she said. 'An orphan.'

Angel sighed. 'I didn't need to know that,' he said, sheathing his sword. The ragged child slid his stick into his belt.

Miriel reached out and stroked the gladiator's face. 'You are a good man, Angel. It means you have no real skill when it comes to harbouring hate.'

He caught her wrist and held to it. 'You shouldn't be touching me,' he said softly. 'The man for you is in there. Young. Handsome. With a disgusting lack of scars.'

'I will choose my own man when the time comes,' she told him. 'I am not some Drenai noblewoman whose marriage brings an alliance between warring factions. Nor do I have to concern myself with a dowry. I will marry a man I like, a man I respect.'

'You didn't mention love,' he pointed out.

'I have heard great talk of it, Angel, but I don't know what it is. I love my father. I love you. I loved my sister and my mother. One word. Different feelings. Are we talking of lust?'

'Partly,' he agreed. 'And there's nothing wrong with that, though many would have us believe otherwise. But it is more than that. I had an affair with a dark-haired woman once. Unbelievable. In bed she could raise more passion in me than any of my wives. But I didn't stay with her. I didn't love her, you see. I adored her. But I didn't love her.'

'There's that word again!' chided Miriel.

He chuckled. 'I know. It's just a short way of describing someone who is your friend, bed-mate, sister, aye even mother sometimes. Someone who will arouse your passion and your admiration and your respect. Someone, who when the whole world turns against you, is still standing by your side. You look for someone like that, Miriel.' He released her hand and looked away.

She leaned in close. 'What about you, Angel? Would you be a friend, a lover, a brother and a father?'

He turned his scarred features towards her. 'Aye, I would.' He hesitated and she sensed his indecision. At last he smiled and, taking her hand, kissed it. 'My boots are older than you, Miriel. And you may think it makes no difference now, but it does. You need a man who can grow with you, not grow senile on you.' He took a deep breath. 'It's hard to admit this, you know.'

'You are not old,' she admonished him.

'Don't you like Senta?' he countered.

She looked away. 'I find him . . . exciting . . . frightening.'

'That's good,' he said. 'That's how life should be. Me, I'm like an old armchair. Comfortable. A girl like you needs more than that. Give him a chance. There's a lot of good in him.'

'Why do you like him so much?'

He grinned. 'I knew his mother,' he said. 'A long time ago. Before he was born.'

'You mean. . . ?'

'I have no idea, but he could be. He certainly doesn't take after the husband. But that's between you and me now! Understand?'

'And yet you would have fought him back at the cabin?'

He nodded, his face solemn. 'I wouldn't have won. He's very good. The best I've ever seen.' Suddenly she laughed. 'What's so amusing?' he asked.

'He wasn't going to try to kill you. I read that in his thoughts. He was looking to disarm or wound you.'

'That would have been a bad mistake.'

She looked into his eyes and her smile faded. 'But you might have been killing your own son!'

'I know. Not very uplifting, is it? But I am a warrior, Miriel, and when swords are drawn there is no emotion. Merely survival or death.' He glanced at the Nadir boy, who was sleeping now against a rock, his head resting on his stick-thin arms, his knees drawn up to his belly. Rising silently, Angel moved across to the lad, covering him with his cloak. Then he returned to Miriel. 'What is the old man planning?'

'I don't know, but we will be moving – tomorrow. To an old fortress in the mountains.'

"That is good news. We cannot hold here for much longer. You should get some sleep.'

'I can't. He will need me soon.'

'For what?'

'For when the dead walk,' she answered.

Kesa Khan sat by his fire, his ancient body shivering as the night winds fanned the flames. He was beyond tiredness now, a mortal weariness settling on him. It was all so complex, so many lines of destiny to be drawn together. Why, he wondered idly, had this not come to pass when he was young and in full strength? Why now, when he was old and weary and ready for the grave? The gods were indeed capricious at best.

Plans, ideas, strategies flowed through his mind. And each was dependent upon another for success. The journey of a thousand leagues begins with a single step, he told himself. Concentrate only on the step before you.

The demons would come, and with them the souls of the dead. How best to combat them? The Drenai woman was strong, stronger than she knew, but she alone could not guarantee success. Closing his eyes he mentally summoned Miriel. The time was close.

He reached for the clay pot and the grey powder, but his hand drew back. He had taken too much already. Ah, but the gods do love a reckless man! Dipping his finger into the powder he scooped a small amount to his mouth. His heart began to beat erratically, and he felt strength flowing into his limbs. The fire burned yellow, then gold, then purple, and the shadows on the walls became dancers, spinning and turning.

The Drenai woman entered the cave. My, but she was ugly, he thought. Too tall and stringy. Even in his youth he could not have found her attractive. The Drenai warrior with the scarred face moved in behind her. Kesa Khan's dark eyes focused on the man. 'This is no place for those with no power,' he said.