"However, this is not just. We saw, we four, just how low Skelleth had sunk. There is no longer any reason for us to cower. It is not fitting for us to do so. Therefore, we shall not. The time has come when the overmen of the Northern Waste are going to assert themselves once again."

"Have you then decided to start the Racial Wars anew?" The harsh sarcasm in Saram's tone was unmistakable.

Galt chose to ignore it. "No. We have no wish to commit mass suicide, either slowly by starvation or quickly by a disastrous war. We had planned to ride into the market and confront your Baron; we would present our demands, and he would have no choice but to agree as completely as possible. He would, of course, be unable to produce Garth. His failure to do so would allow us to maintain a position of moral superiority in what would otherwise be a case of outright aggression, and from that position we would dictate terms-the revocation of Garth's exile, the elimination of all tariffs and restrictions on trade, and free passage throughout his domain."

"It's a lovely theory."

"Yes, it is. It would have worked, too, had your Baron done his part and met us in the marketplace yesterday morning. He is no fool; he would have given in rather than risk a war he could not win."

Saram paused before replying. "It's hard to know," he said, "just what the Baron would do. He is mad, after all. You have only seen him during a lucid period. It's his madness that fouled up your whole plan."

"Is it?"

"Of course!"

"Your captain swore by all the gods that the Baron was ill in bed and could not move or speak. That put us in a very awkward position; we had no choice but to leave the town and begin our siege. Was he lying?"

"No, he spoke truly, but this is a regular occurrence. Every fortnight or so the Baron's madness overtakes him, and he sinks into a state of depression so intense that he cannot speak, cannot stand, cannot feed himself. Such an attack occurred when word arrived that your company was approaching Skelleth."

Galt digested this information. "How long will this last?"

"Who knows? It varies. This looks like a bad one; it could be days."

There was a moment of silence, save for the pattering rain, as each considered his position. Saram was the first to break it.

"Then you will stay until the Baron recovers and meets your demands?"

"Yes. For myself, I was tempted to abandon the whole thing and try again later, but Kyrith would have none of that. She is quite convinced that her mate is somewhere within your walls and she has no intention of departing without him. Most of the warriors are overeager young hotheads who did not care to give up their chance for glory so easily, and they supported her. This is the first time in more than three hundred years that the warriors of Ordunin have been on the offensive, and they like the feel of it."

"I am..." Saram paused, as if reconsidering what he had to say, then went on, "I am surprised that you have merely besieged us. Why not take Skelleth by storm?"

Galt snorted. "And start the Racial Wars again? I know little of human politics; but, while I doubt the High King at Kholis will interfere with trade negotiations no matter how we carry them out, he can scarcely be expected to ignore the capture of one of his baronies."

"It would seem we have a stalemate then."

"Only temporarily; sooner or later your Baron will recover and face us. It should be a simple matter to resolve everything when that happens."

"I hope you're right."

"In the meanwhile, of course, I must stand watch in this miserable rain. There is no need for you to be here, though; go home and dry off. I appreciate your efforts at peacemaking, but there's little you can do."

"So it would seem. Farewell, then, Galt, and I wish you luck." He turned, and began slogging back toward the ruined gate. The overman watched as the lantern light receded and finally merged once again with the light of the flickering watch fire.

CHAPTER TWO

The rain stopped shortly after dawn. Garth mounted his warbeast-which had been named Koros after the Arkhein god of war by a captured bandit a few months earlier-for the last leg of his long journey back to Skelleth from the black-walled city of Dыsarra. The clouds lingered in the sky, hiding the sun, making the day gray and gloomy, allowing the road to remain a soggy, muddy mess. Garth's supplies and clothing and the clothing of his human captive had all been thoroughly drenched when Garth had found no shelter from the downpour the evening before, and they remained uncomfortably damp for hours. Even Koros' fur was soaked, and the captive, a Dыsarran girl who called herself Frima, complained about the smell.

It didn't bother Garth particularly, though he couldn't deny its presence. He ignored her monologue; in the last two weeks, spent mostly in the saddle, he had grown accustomed to Frima's fondness for complaining.

When she had exhausted her first topic, the smell of wet warbeast fur, she went on to others-her own sopping garments, the unsuitability of her attire for a respectable person, the length of the journey, and all the other things that displeased her about the world and her place in it.

The overman didn't really blame her. He wasn't particularly happy about being caught in the rain; the water had soaked into the garments he wore under his mail, and the armor was holding the moisture in. His own fur was as wet as the warbeast's, though not as odorous.

Even Koros seemed to be irritated, and it was usually the most tranquil of beasts as long as it was properly and promptly fed and not attacked. The mud of the highway stuck to its great padded paws, slightly impeding its usual smooth, silent, gliding walk, so that its footsteps were audible as faint splashings.

Frima was still complaining when Garth first caught sight of Skelleth, a low line of sagging rooftops and jagged broken ramparts along the horizon.

He pointed it out to her, and she immediately forgot her complaints. "You mean we're finally there?"

"Almost."

"I can't see any domes or towers."

"There aren't any."

"There aren't?"

"No." Garth had long ago gotten over his annoyance at the girl's habit of asking questions over again and simply answered each one however many times it might be asked. They had been together more than a fortnight, and he had grown accustomed to queries, and complaints. She was only human, after all; he couldn't expect much from her.

"What are their temples like, then?" she asked.

"To the best of my knowledge, there are no temples in Skelleth," he replied.

"There aren't?"

"No."

"Really?"

"Really."

"Are they all atheists, then?"

"No. At least, I think not."

"Are you an atheist?"

"I used to be; I am no longer certain."

"Why aren't you certain?"

"Because I saw and felt and did things in Dыsarra that have convinced me that at least some of your seven gods exist-though I am not certain they are truly gods, rather than some lesser sort of magical being."

"They're not my seven gods; I worship only Tema!"

Garth did not bother to answer. Instead, he studied the horizon carefully. Skelleth looked different from this angle; he had never approached from this direction before. Even when he had left on this expedition, he had done so by way of the West Gate, and then circled southward onto the highway he now rode.

He wondered briefly if it might be wise to enter by another gate. After all, he was still an exile by order of the Baron of Skelleth. It might well be advisable to use caution until such time as a proper opportunity for vengeance presented itself.