Belash attacked, but Innicas' sword blocked the blow and a murderous riposte saw the black blade bury itself in Belash's side, cleaving under the ribs. With the last of his strength Belash dropped his sword and drew his curved dagger. Innicas wrenched at his blade, trying to drag it clear. Belash reached out, his left hand clawing at Innicas' helm, fingers hooking around the broken visor. Innicas felt himself being drawn into a deadly embrace. 'No!' he shouted. Belash's knife plunged into Innicas' left eye, piercing him to the brain. Both men fell.

Innicas twitched and was still. Belash, with trembling hands, opened the blood-drenched pouch at his side, tipping the fingerbones on to the chest of the dead knight. 'Father,' he whispered, blood bubbling from his lips. 'Father…

In his panic Innicas had misread the battle. Despite being surprised by the arrival of the white knights, the Brother­hood still had the advantage of numbers. Only seven of the Nadir warriors remained now and, despite being joined by the twenty white-cloaked knights, they were outnumbered by more than two to one.

Angel, bleeding from several wounds, could feel the battle was ready to turn against the Brotherhood. Their leader had fled, and the arrival of the white knights had stunned them. But the enemy could yet win, he knew.

Not while I live, he thought.

A sword slashed past his face, the flat of the blade slamming against his chin. He went down and struggled to rise. Hooves pounded on the earth all around him. Rearing up he pushed a booted foot from the stirrups and propelled the rider to the ground. Taking hold of the pommel he tried to mount the horse, but it reared, throwing him to the ground once more.

With a curse Angel gathered up his fallen sword. A blade lashed down. Angel blocked the blow and, as the rider rode past him, reached up and grabbed the man's cloak, hauling him from the saddle. The knight hit the ground hard. The point of Angel's sword slid between visor and helm and with all his weight Angel drove the weapon deep into the man's skull. The blade snapped. Angel swore.

There was a fallen sword close by. Dodging between the milling horses Angel reached for it, but a rearing hoof smashed into his head and he fell face down on to the grass.

He awoke to silence and a terrible pounding in his skull.

'I always seem to be stitching your wounds,' said Senta.

Angel blinked and tried to focus on the ceiling above him. It was twisted at a crazy angle, and the window below it was canted absurdly. 'There's something wrong with my eyes,' he muttered.

'No. It's this place – Kar-Barzac. Nothing is as it should be here. Kesa Khan says it has been corrupted over the centuries by sorcery.'

Angel struggled to sit, but his head swam and he fell back. 'What happened?' he groaned.

'I arrived to save you.'

'Single-handed, I suppose.'

'Close. We waited until just after midnight then, when the Gothir had fallen back for the fifth time, we ran for our horses. There were only thirty of us left, but it was enough to send the Brotherhood fleeing from the field.'

'I don't remember that,' said Angel. 'In fact, my thoughts are hazy. I seem to recall ghosts riding to our rescue, in white armour.'

'Priests,' said Senta. 'Source priests.'

'In armour?'

'An unusual Order,' said Senta. 'They call themselves the Thirty, although there are only eleven of them now. They are led by an Abbot named Dardalion.'

'He was at Purdol. He helped Karnak. Get me up!'

'You should lie back. You've lost a lot of blood.'

'Thank you for your concern, Mother. Now help me up, damn you!'

'As you wish, old fool.' Senta's hand slid under Angel's shoulder, levering him to a sitting position. Nausea gripped him but he swallowed it down and sucked in a deep breath. 'I thought we were finished. Where's Miriel?'

'She's safe. She's with Dardalion and Kesa Khan.'

'And the Gothir?'

'Camped all around us, Angel. They've been reinforced. Must be seven, eight thousand men in the valley.'

'Wonderful. Is there any good news?'

'None that I can think of, but you do have a visitor. Charming little fellow. He's sitting in the hallway now – I'll send him to you in a while. I found him sitting by what we thought was your body. He was crying. Very touching it was. Brought a tear to my eye, I can tell you.' Angel swore. Senta chuckled. 'I knew you weren't dead, Angel. You're too stubborn to die.'

'How many did we lose?'

Senta's smile faded. 'Belash is dead, and Anshi Chen. There are some three hundred warriors left, but many of those are youngsters, untried. I don't think we can hold this place for long.'

'They've not attacked yet?'

'No. They're busy chopping down trees, making scaling ladders and the like.'

Angel lay back and closed his eyes. 'Just let them give me a day or two. Then I'll be ready. I'm a fast healer, Senta.'

'In that case we'll try not to start the war without you.'

Senta found Miriel on the inner rampart, leaning on the twisted wall and staring out over the camp-fires of the enemy. Nadir warriors were standing close by, sharpening their weapons. The swordsman moved past the Nadir and halted beside the tall mountain girl. 'Angel's fine,' he said. 'A few minor cuts and a large lump on that thick skull. I sometimes think if the world ended in fire and flood he would walk out of the cinders with singed hair and wet boots.'

She smiled. 'He does appear so wonderfully in­destructible.'

'Come and see what I have found,' said Senta, walking away to a set of stairs which led down to a narrow corridor and a large suite of rooms. The windows were distorted, shaped now like open, screaming mouths, and the walls were crooked. But the large bedchamber was empty and in its centre was a golden four-post bed, beautifully propor­tioned, rectangular and solid. There were pillows of silk and a coverlet filled with goose down.

'How could such a bed survive when a fortress of stone is corrupted?' she asked.

The swordsman shrugged. 'There are other objects of gold that are apparently not affected by the sorcery. I found two goblets downstairs, exquisitely carved.'

She moved towards the bed, then angled away to the first of the three windows. From here the valley could be seen. 'There's another column of cavalry moving down,' she told him.

'I don't care about the cavalry,' he said.

She swung towards him, her back to the window, her face blushing crimson. 'You think I will let you bed me?'

'I think you should seriously consider it,' he told her, with a wide smile.

'I don't love you, Senta.'

'You don't know that yet,' he said reasonably. 'Here's where you can find out.'

'You think love springs from the loins?'

He laughed aloud. 'Mine always has – until now.' He shook his head, the smile fading. 'You are frightened, beauty. Frightened to live. Well, here we are, trapped in a decrepit fortress, our futures measured in days. This is no time to be frightened of life. You owe me a kiss, at least. The Gothir stole the last one.'

'One kiss is all you will have,' she promised, moving forward.

He opened his arms to her and she stepped inside. Reaching up he pushed his fingers into her long dark hair, easing it back from her face, stroking the high cheekbones, his hand curling round to the nape of her neck. He could feel his heart pounding as he kissed her brow and her cheek. She tilted her head, her lips brushing against his skin. Their lips met, and he felt her body pressing against him. Her mouth tasted sweet, warm, and his passion soared. But he made no move to pull her to the bed. Instead he ran his hands down her back, halting at the slender waist, feeling the curve of her hips. And he kissed her neck and shoulder, revelling in the scent of her skin.