Belash floated up from the darkness to a painful awaken­ing. Soft earth was against his face and his head pounded. He tried to rise, but nausea swamped him. Reaching up he touched the back of his neck. The blood was beginning to congeal. His hand moved down to his belt. The knife was still in its sheath. For a while he struggled to remember what had happened. Had Waylander come upon them?

No. I would now be dead.

His mouth was dry. Something cold pushed against his face. He turned his head and found himself staring into the baleful eyes of a huge, scarred hound. Belash lay perfectly still, save for his hand which inched slowly towards his knife.

'That would not be wise,' said a cold voice.

At first he thought it was the hound that had spoken to him. A devil dog come to claim his soul?

'Here, dog!' came the voice again. The hound padded away. Belash forced himself to his knees, and saw the black-garbed figure sitting on the boulder. The man's crossbow was now hanging from his belt, his knives sheathed.

'How did you surprise me?' asked Belash.

'I didn't. Your friend – Morak? – struck you from behind.'

Belash tried to stand, but his legs were too weak and he slumped back. Slowly he rolled to his back then, taking hold of the jutting branch of a fallen tree he pulled himself to a sitting position. 'Why am I still alive?' he asked.

'You intrigue me,' the man told him.

Truly the ways of the southerners are mysterious, thought Belash, leaning his head against the rough bark of the tree trunk. 'You left me my weapons. Why?'

'I saw no reason to remove them.'

'You think I am so poor an opponent that you need not fear me?'

The man chuckled. 'I never yet met a Nadir who could be described as a poor opponent, but I have seen many head wounds – and yours will leave you weak for several days, if not longer.'

Belash did not reply. Bracing his legs beneath him he rose unsteadily and then sat back upon the tree. His head was spinning, but he preferred to be on his feet. He was only some three paces from Waylander, and he wondered if he could draw the knife and catch the man unawares. It was unlikely, but it was the only chance he had to stay alive.

'Don't even think of it,' said Waylander softly.

'You read thoughts?'

'I don't need any special skill to understand a Nadir mind, not when it comes to battle. But you wouldn't make it – trust me on that. Are you Notas?'

Belash was surprised. Few southerners understood the complex structures governing the Nadir tribes and their compositions. Notas meant no tribe, an outcast. 'No. I am of the Wolves.'

'You are a long way from the Mountains of the Moon.'

'You have walked among the Tent-people?'

'Many times. Both as friend and enemy.'

'What was the name the Nadir gave you?' enquired Belash.

The man smiled thinly. 'They called me the Soul Stealer. And an old Notas leader once gave me the name Oxskull.'

Belash nodded. 'You rode with the giant, Ice-eyes. There are songs about you – dark songs, of dark deeds.'

'And they are true,' admitted the man.

'What happens now?'

'I haven't decided. I will take you to my home. You can rest there.'

'Why do you think I would not kill you, once my strength has returned?'

'The Guild allows no Nadir members. Therefore you were to be paid by Morak. Judging by the lumps on your skull I would say that Morak has terminated your employ­ment. What would you gain by killing me?'

'Nothing,' agreed Belash. Except the honour of being the man who slew the Soul Stealer. And surely the Mountains would look kindly upon the man who avenged the theft of the treasure? Surely they would then grant him the vengeance he sought.

Waylander moved forward. 'Can you walk?'

'Yes.'

'Then follow me.' The tall man strode away, his broad back an inviting target.

Not yet, thought Belash. First let me find my strength.

The table was forty feet long and three feet wide, and had once been covered by fine linens and decorated with golden plates and goblets. The finest of foods had graced the plates, and nobles had carved their meats with knives of gold. Now there was no fine linen, and the plates were of pewter, the goblets of clay. Bread and cheese lay upon the plates, cool spring water in the goblets. At the table sat twenty-eight priests in white robes. Behind each priest, glittering in the lantern light, was a suit of armour, a bright silver helm, a shining cuirass and a scabbarded sword. And against each suit of armour rested a long wooden staff.

Ekodas sat at the head of the table, Dardalion beside him.

'Let me present my own arguments,' pleaded Ekodas.

'No, my son. But I will do them justice, I promise you.'

'I did not doubt that, sir. But I cannot do justice to yours.'

'Do your best, Ekodas. No man can ever ask for more than that.' Dardalion lifted a finger to his lips, then closed his eyes. All heads bowed instantly and the union began. Ekodas felt himself floating. There was no sight, no sound, no feeling. Just warmth. He sensed Vishna, and Magnic, Palista, Seres … all the others flowing all around him.

'We are One,' pulsed Dardalion.

'We are One,' echoed the Thirty.

And the prayer-song began, the great hymn to the Source, mind-sung in a tongue unknown to any of them, even Dardalion. The words were unfathomable, but the sensations created by the sounds produced a sweet magic, filling the soul with light.

Ekodas was transported back to his childhood, to see again the tall, gangling dark-haired youth with the violet eyes, working behind his father in the fields, planting the seed, gathering the harvest. Those were good days, though he did not know it at the time. Shunned by the other youths of the village he had no friends, and no one to share his small joys, his discoveries. But now, as he soared within the hymn he saw the love his parents gave him, despite their fears at his Talent. He felt the warm hugs from his mother, and his father's calloused hand ruffling his hair.

And such was the power of the hymn he could even see, without hate, the Vagrian soldiers attacking his home, watch the axe that dashed his father's brains to the floor, the plunging knife that snatched his mother from life. He had been in the barn when the Vagrians rode in. His parents had been slain within the first minute of the raid. Ekodas had leapt from the high hay-stall and run towards the soldiers. One turned and lashed out with a sword. It cut the boy's shoulder and neck, glancing up to slash across his brow.

When he awoke he was the only living Drenai for miles around. The Vagrians had even butchered the farm animals. All the buildings were burning, and a great pall of smoke hung over the land. He walked the two miles to the village on the third day after the raid. Bodies lay every­where, and though the smoke was gone now, great flocks of crows circled in the sky. He gathered what food remained – a half-charred side of ham, a small sack of dried oats –and found a shovel which he carried back to his home, digging a deep grave for his parents.

For a year he had lived alone, gathering grain, edible roots and flowers that could be made into soups. And in that year he saw no one. In the day he would work. At night he would dream, dream of flying through the night sky, of soaring above the mountains in the clean light of the stars. Such dreams!

One night as he circled and soared a dark shape had materialised before him. It was a man's face, black hair waxed close to the skull, high slanted eyes, long braided sideburns that hung far below the chin.

'Where are you from, boy?' asked the man.

Ekodas had been frightened. He backed away, but the face swelled and a body appeared, long arms reaching out for him. The hands were scaled and taloned, and Ekodas fled. Other dark shapes appeared, like the crows above the village, and they called out to him. Far below he saw the little shelter he had created for himself from the unburnt timber of the barn. Down, down he flew, merging with his body and snapping awake, his heart beating wildly. In the heartbeat between dream and awakening he was sure he had heard triumphant laughter.