‘I have it in hand. You’ve made use of all the others?’

‘Oh, yes, sire. But the process is experimental, as you know, and wastage has been high.’

The travelling court yielded dead people on a regular basis. Melyobar had supposed enemies hung from the battlements in cages until they starved. Others he tortured at random on the chance they might be his shape-changing arch-foe in disguise. Some he merely had stabbed while having dinner with him. But these obviously weren’t enough for the sorcerers’ needs.

‘What else have you to show me?’ the Prince said.

‘We have our first distillation, sire,’ the wizard informed him with a note of glee.

‘You’ve produced the essence?’

‘Not quite, Highness. But we’re very close. Come, sire. See.’

He took his liege to a secure cabinet and inserted a glamoured key. Reaching inside, he brought out a tiny glass phial. Praying Melyobar wouldn’t demand to handle it, he held the container up to be examined.

The Prince blinked myopically. ‘It’s completely clear,’ he complained, ‘like water.’

‘Don’t be deceived, my lord. There is much here that cannot be seen.’

‘But will it do the job?’

‘In sufficient strength and quantity, sire, yes. Indeed, we’ve begun testing.’

‘Show me.’

An adjoining chamber, one of many, housed a pigsty. It wasn’t possible to enter as the door had been replaced with a thick sheet of glass, but Melyobar could see well enough. The sty was filthy. Two mature pigs lay on the straw, shivering convulsively, their legs in spasm. Their skin had a mottled, greasy appearance, and their eyes were glazed.

‘How do you get in there?’ the Prince wanted to know.

‘We don’t, sire. Once the subjects are exposed to the solution we seal the chamber. We leave them enough food and drink so that we know it isn’t starvation that’s making them ill. Then we observe. We could never dare open this room again, Highness.’

‘Hmm. What of higher forms?’

‘We’ve had some success there too, sire.’

He showed him to another glass-fronted antechamber, this one having bars in addition.

There were three crude bunks inside. Two men and a woman occupied them. All were covered in sweat, and looked as if they were in a twitching coma. The woman’s eyes were open and she was staring glassily, like the pigs.

‘Excellent,’ Melyobar said.

No one would have begrudged the warlord riding in a splendid battle sledge, or on the back of a magnificent charger. But that wasn’t Zerreiss’s way. He chose to walk, and his followers loved him for it.

He marched at the head of an army unlike any the so called barbarous lands had ever seen before. Its numbers could only be guessed at. The great multitude covered the vast plain it crossed, so much so that the layers of snow they trampled underfoot couldn’t be seen. They resembled a plague of ravenous insects carpeting the earth.

As remarkable as its size was the constituency of the horde. Many of its members were drawn from the lands Zerreiss had conquered, yet no element of coercion had been involved. Nor were there mercenaries in its ranks, as was often the practice when armies were mustered. Far from being driven by the lash, or marching for the hope of coin, the prevalent mood was that of a crusade.

The one they followed bore many epithets-the Scythe, the Silk Claw, the Man Who Fell From the Sun-though all had been bestowed, not claimed by him. Yet few men belied his titles as much as Zerreiss. There was nothing outstanding or even particularly notable about his appearance. He was ordinary in face and form, and if he stood in line with a dozen others, he would be the last to be remembered. However, the way he looked had nothing to do with the extraordinary charisma he possessed. No words could describe his allure. His empathy with the troops, and infectious passion for his cause, inspired a loyalty that was genuine and bottomless.

Though still in the region loosely designated the northern wastes, they had made considerable headway in their journey southward. Thus far, no force had successfully stood against them, or even appreciably slowed their progress. But for all that Zerreiss had led them a great distance from his place of birth, in the inhospitable core of the barbarous heartlands, the weather wasn’t noticeably kinder. The temperature rarely lifted above freezing. For weeks the snow had been continual. Now they were enjoying a rare day without it, and the sun had appeared to lift their numbed spirits.

The warlord was flanked by his two principal aides. Sephor was the younger of the pair, and might have been thought too tender in years to hold a position of such responsibility were it not for his proven skills. Wellem was an old campaigner, a veteran of many conflicts, whose experience and good sense proved an ideal counterweight to the younger man’s comparative rawness. Both had licence to speak freely in the presence of their leader; indeed, Zerreiss insisted upon it.

As they reached the top of a hill covered in ankle-deep snow, they paused to catch their breath and look to the host tramping in their wake. The tundra was black with an uncountable mass of warriors. Hundreds of siege towers bobbed amongst the crowd, and as many massive catapults were being hauled, while thousands of drums kept up an incessant rhythm.

‘You must find it very pleasing, sir,’ Wellem said, ‘to have so many flocking to your banner.’

‘When you show them the truth,’ Zerreiss replied, ‘the people rally.’

‘Could it not be, my lord, that they’re drawn to power?’ Sephor wondered.

‘You have a very cynical view of human nature, Sephor, for one so young.’

‘I hope that isn’t true, sir,’ the younger man returned earnestly.

Zerreiss smiled. ‘Of course it isn’t. But sometimes you’re so serious I can’t resist tugging at those chains of sobriety you bind yourself with.’

‘Our aim is serious.’

‘Indeed. But you must learn to trust me, and know that through me we will prevail.’

‘I have faith in you, sir. It’s those we’ll be up against that I don’t trust.’

‘Then you’re saying you doubt my power over them, Sephor. Haven’t you seen enough of my victories to put such fears behind you?’

‘More than enough, sir. But this is different. We’ve never been so bold as this before.’

‘People are people, whether they be citizens of the empires or thought of as savages. The gift I have for them will be equally prized.’

‘We’ve certainly found that to be true up to now,’ Wellem chimed in. ‘But Sephor does have a point, if I may say so, my lord. We’re not going against some chieftain’s clan or a city state this time. It’s imperial forces we’ll be facing, and not just one empire but the pair of them.’

‘In attacking protectorates of Rintarah and Gath Tampoor simultaneously we stand a chance of breaking their fragile truce in these parts,’ Zerreiss reminded him. ‘If their rulers back in their capitals blame each other they’ll do our work for us. More animosity between the empires can only serve our long term aims.’

‘I can see the possible benefit in tweaking both their tails, sir, but I’m worried about splitting our forces to do it.’

Zerreiss indicated the army with a sweep of his hand. ‘You think we lack sufficient numbers?’

‘It wasn’t our armed strength I had in mind. I’m concerned that you can’t be in two places at once.’

The warlord laughed. ‘Even my abilities fall short of that, Wellem.’

‘Make light of it if you will, my lord, but you can’t dismiss the problem.’

‘Problem?’

‘While you’re here for the storming of Gath Tampoor’s outpost, the rest of your army approaches Rintarah’s without you. How are they going to fare?’

‘You overlook the fact that my reputation moves ahead of us. The defenders there, and here, will know about the others who’ve fallen to us. Don’t underestimate that advantage.’