Lifting the bar from its brackets she opened the main door and stepped out into the sunlit clearing before the cabin. The bushes and trees were still silvered with dew, the autumn sunlight weak upon her skin. How could she have acted so, she wondered as she strolled to the stream. Miriel had often dreamed of lovers, but never in her fantasies had they been ugly. Never had they been so old. And she knew she was not in love with the former gladiator. No, she realised, that's what makes you a whore. You just wanted to rut like an animal.

Reaching the stream she sat down on the grass, her feet dangling in the water. Flowing from the high mountains there were small rafts of ice on the surface, like frozen lilies. And it was cold.

She heard a movement behind her but, lost in thought, she was not swift enough, and as she rolled to her feet a man's hands caught her shoulder, hurling her to the grass. Ramming her elbow sharply back she connected with his belly. He grunted in pain and sagged across her. The smell of woodsmoke, greasy leather and stale sweat filled her nostrils and a bearded face fell against her cheek. Twisting she slammed the heel of her hand against the man's nose, snapping his head back. Scrambling to her feet she tried to run, but the man grabbed her ankle, and a second man leapt from hiding. Miriel's fist cracked against the new­comer's chin, but his weight carried him forward and she was knocked to the ground, her arms pinned beneath her.

'A real Hellcat,' grunted the second man, a tall blond forester. 'Are you all right, Jonas?' The first man struggled to his feet, blood seeping from his nose and streaming into his black beard.

'Hold her still, Baris. I've just the weapon to bring her to heel.' The balding warrior began to unfasten the thongs of his leggings, moving forward to stand over Miriel.

'You heard what Morak said. Unharmed,' objected Baris.

'I've never known a woman harmed by it yet,' responded Jonas.

Miriel, her arms and shoulders pinned, arched her back then sent her right foot slamming up between the forester's legs. Jonas grunted and slumped to his knees. Baris slapped her face, grabbed her hair and hauled her to her feet. 'Don't give up, do you?' he snarled, slapping her again, this time with the back of his hand. Miriel sagged against him.

'That's better,' he said. Her head came up sharply, cannoning against his chin. He stumbled back, then drew his knife, his arm arcing back for the throw. Miriel, still half-stunned, threw herself to her right, rolling to her knees. Then she was up and running.

Another man jumped into her path, but she swerved round him, and almost made the clearing before a stone from a sling ricocheted from her temple. Falling to her knees she tried to crawl into the undergrowth, but the sound of running feet behind her told her she was finished. Her head ached, and her senses swam. Then she heard Angel's voice.

'Time to die, my boys.'

Miriel awoke in her own bed, a water-soaked cloth on her brow, her head throbbing painfully. She tried to sit up, but felt giddy then sick. 'Lie still,' said Angel. 'That was a nasty strike. You've a lump the size of a goose egg.'

'Did you kill them?' she whispered weakly.

'No. Never seen men run so fast. They sent up a cloud of dust. I have a feeling they knew me – it was very gratifying.'

Miriel closed her eyes. 'Don't tell my father I went out without weapons.'

'I won't. But it was stupid. What were you thinking of – the dream?'

'No, not the dream. I just … I was just stupid, as you say.'

'The man who never made a mistake never made anything,' he said.

'I'm not a man!'

'I'd noticed. But I'm sure it holds true for women. Two of the men were bleeding, so I'd guess you caused them some pain before they downed you. Well done, Miriel.'

'That's the first time you've praised me. Be careful. It might go to my head.'

He patted her hand. 'I can be a mean whoreson, I know that. But you're a fine girl – tough, strong, willing. I don't want to see your spirit broken – but I don't want to see your body broken, either. And I know only one way to teach. I'm not even sure I know that very well.'

She tried to smile, but the pain was growing and she felt herself slipping into sleep.

'Thank you,' she managed to say. 'Thank you for being there.'

From his high study window Dardalion saw the troop of lancers slowly climbing the winding path, twenty-five men in silver armour, cloaked in crimson, riding jet-black horses, their flanks armoured in chain-mail. At their head rode a man Dardalion knew well. Against the sleek, martial perfection of his men Karnak should have looked comical; overweight and dressed in clothes of clashing colours – red cloak, orange shirt, green trews tied with blue leggings and below them black riding boots, edged with a silver trim. But no one laughed at his eccentric dress. For this was the hero of Dros Purdol, the saviour of the Drenai.

Karnak the One-eyed.

The man's physical strength was legendary, but it paled against the colossal power of his personality. With one speech he could turn a motley group of farmers into sword-wielding heroes who would defy an army. Dardalion's smile faded. Aye, and they would die for him, had died for him – in their thousands. They would go on dying for him.

Vishna entered the study, his spirit voice whispering into Dardalion's mind, 'Will their arrival delay the Debate, Father?'

'No.'

'Was it wise to instruct Ekodas to argue the cause of right?'

'Is it the cause of right?' countered Dardalion, speaking aloud and swinging to face the dark-bearded Gothir nobleman.

'You have always taught me so.'

'We shall see, my boy. Now go down and escort the Lord Karnak to me. And see that his men are fed, the horses groomed. They have ridden far.'

'Yes, Father.'

Dardalion returned to the window, but he did not see the distant mountains, nor the storm clouds looming in the north. He saw again the cabin on the mountainside, the two frightened children, and the two men who had come to kill them. And he felt the weight of the weapon of death in his hands. He sighed. The cause of right? Only the Source knew.

He heard the sound of booming laughter from the winding stairs beyond his room, and felt the immense physical presence of Karnak even before the man crossed the threshold.

'Gods, but it is good to see you, old lad!' boomed Karnak, striding across the room and clasping a huge hand to Dardalion's shoulder. The man's smile was wide and genuine, and Dardalion returned it.

'And you, my lord. I see your dress sense is as colourful as ever.'

'Like it? The cloak is from Mashrapur, the shirt from a little weavery in Drenan.'

'They suit you well.'

'By Heaven you are a terrible liar, Dardalion. I expect your soul will burn in Hellfire. Now sit you down and let us talk of more important matters.' The Drenai leader moved round the desk to take Dardalion's chair, leaving the slender Abbot to sit opposite him. Karnak unbuckled his sword-belt, laying it on the floor beside him, then eased his great bulk into the seat. 'Damned uncomfortable furni­ture,' he said. 'Now, where were we? Ah, yes! What can you tell me about the Ventrians?'

'They will sail within the week, landing at Purdol, Erekban and the Earis estuary,' answered Dardalion.

'How many ships?'

'More than four hundred.'

'That many, eh? I don't suppose you'd consider whipping up a storm to sink the bastards?'

'Even if I could – which I can't – I would refuse such a request.'

'Of course,' said Karnak, with a wide grin. 'Love, peace, the Source, morality and so on. But there are some who could, yes?'

'So it is said,' agreed Dardalion, 'among the Nadir and the Chiatze. But the Ventrians have their own wizards, sir, and I don't doubt they'll be making sacrifices and casting spells to ensure good weather.'