Then he saw the boy. Though youth would be a better description. He must have been fifteen or above, and now he sought no one’s protection. Giving as good an account as any, and better than most, he not only fought but directed others. He moved with a fluid assurance, cutting down foes, cheering on his comrades, showing no quarter.

In the middle of the slaughter the youth turned and peered his way. It seemed that their eyes met, giving the lie to his observer’s invisibility. And in that moment of contact, real or imagined, the disembodied onlooker realised, or rather had confirmed, the youth’s identity.

It lasted just an instant.

The searing, unbearable light came then, swiftly followed by a darkness that was all-consuming.

He could have had a palace. He chose a tent. He could have dined on banquets, but preferred army rations. He could have dressed in finery, but favoured humbler garb. He could have taken the lives of the vanquished, but dispensed mercy. He could have had his pick of riches and women, but kept to modesty and abstinence. He could have embraced tyranny, but showed forbearance.

For these and other qualities, his followers loved him. Almost enough to hide the fear they felt.

The warlord Zerreiss-Shadow of the Gods, the Velvet Axe, the Man Who Fell From the Sun, and bearer of a dozen other sobriquets not assumed but conferred on him-was perfectly unexceptional in appearance. Many found this surprising in one who had achieved so much. As though Nature should honour conquerors with a special aspect. But the truth was that in almost every respect he was ordinary. His physique was average at best, and his face, once seen, might immediately be forgotten.

Except for the singular vigour that animated it; a curious, indefinable potency that gave him an extraordinary presence.

For all that the world called him a barbarian, Zerreiss was

not a tyrant. But he was despotic. To many, this might seem a fine distinction. He was no tyrant in that he waged war as a last resort and strove not to waste lives unnecessarily. He was despotic in being resolute in his hunger for territorial expansion, and in his insistence that the gift he came to bestow, as he saw it, had to be accepted. It was only when thwarted in this regard that he made a rare display of a harsher side.

In the valley below, his army prepared for another siege, dependent upon an offer of clemency. They faced a formidable redoubt: a fortress of massive proportions, shimmering with myriad glamoured lights and magical discharges. Well soldiered, amply provisioned, it had never been taken. But his horde was in good cheer. They knew their warlord held the key to victory.

It was snowing. Winter always came much earlier in the northern wastelands, and as yet the weather was mild compared to what was due. But the onset of freezing conditions was a good reason to get the job over and done with. As no one doubted he would.

Zerreiss came into his command tent like any other man: no grand entrance, no fanfare, no retinue. Yet his appearance galvanised the generals and adjuncts working there.

He called over his two closest aides.

‘Has there been word on our proposal yet, Sephor?’

‘Not so far, sir,’ the much younger of the pair replied. ‘Should we send in another envoy?’

‘No. They have a lot to chew over. Let’s leave them to it for a while.’ He turned to the other man. ‘Wellem.’

‘Sir?’ The old campaigner instinctively came to attention, though Zerreiss seldom demanded shows of obeisance.

‘Everything’s ready in respect of our troops and their needs?’

‘All done, sir. They only await your order.’

‘Good. Let’s hope I don’t have to issue it. And how goes tracing the magic sources in these parts, Sephor?’

‘You were right, sir, about energy lines in the area. It seems at least three cross where the city stands. No doubt it was founded for that reason.’

‘The usual pattern. Wretched Founders,’ Zerreiss grumbled. ‘They have a lot to answer for.’

‘So we’ll probably be facing a full complement of magical munitions,’ Sephor added. ‘Or would have, depending on the outcome, of course.’

‘I think you can rely on the outcome.’ He looked to his other aide. ‘Tell me, Wellem, how do you think those below will respond?’ It was the sort of question the warlord was fond of asking, and his temperament was such that he encouraged candid replies.

‘No surrender. That’s what I’d say, sir, if I were in their position.’

‘That’s the answer I’d expect from an old campaigner, my friend. What are your reasons?’

‘Well, apart from the obvious reason that they find themselves under attack from someone they haven’t offended, I reckon they’d see no need to accept change. From their point of view you’re here to take something away, not to give them anything.’

‘A fear of the unknown, in other words. The standard response.’

‘Let’s hope we get the standard outcome, sir.’

‘In the end we will,’ Zerreiss assured him. ‘Though I wish it were possible to reach that goal without bloodshed.’

‘That’s war, sir,’ Wellem offered.

‘As you say.’ Their master’s tone was genuinely regretful. ‘Do you know the story of the Sythea?’

They did, of course; the ancient fable was well known in the northern lands. But it pleased him to occasionally put things in allegorical form, so they feigned ignorance.

‘The men of the Sythea,’ he began, ‘who lived deep inside

the Bariall caves, always held that they were in a state of grace. They had shelter and warmth in their underground burrows, and fungus to eat and water to drink from subterranean rivers. They even had some light from glowing minerals and phosphorescent lichens. The Sythea were dimly aware that another world existed far above them and the occasional hardy soul ventured out, never to return. But these troglodytes weren’t concerned with other worlds. Why should they be? Their domain had everything they needed, and they believed themselves and their dingy warrens to be protected by their underworld gods. Do you know what happened to change that?’

Of course they did; they’d heard the story many times. ‘A flood, sir,’ Sephor dutifully replied.

‘A flood, yes.’ Sometimes Zerreiss seemed for all the world like a children’s tutor or priest-scholar in the way he spoke to people. But somehow he had the knack of not making it sound patronising. ‘Their underground rivers and lakes swelled because of unusually heavy rainfall on the surface, though of course they didn’t know that. The water level kept rising and they were forced to move higher and higher, until eventually they had no choice but to leave their caves and risk the alien surface world. This was a cause of great fear to them, and many stubbornly clung on to what remained of their underground kingdom. Eventually, they perished. But others, bolder or more desperate, did venture out. Those who braved the surface, near-blinded by the light, found a world of wonder and fecundity. And of course the legends say that they became men as we know them. Some believe that the gods of this world sent the flood to force them from their caves so that the true race of men could begin.’ He paused, almost theatrically. ‘I am the flood.’

‘Not a god?’ Sephor ventured, half humorously. It was a measure of his master’s tolerance that he could make such a comment.

Zerreiss smiled. ‘No, not a god. Though some would try to see me that way. An instrument of the gods, perhaps, if such things as gods exist. Don’t look so shocked, Wellem. You know my views on this matter.’

‘Yes, sir. It’s the way I was brought up, I suppose. Sorry, sir.’

‘I’ll have no one apologise for what they believe, my friend. You have never seen me suppress any faith in the lands we’ve taken, nor will I start now. I believe that in time people will come to their own conclusions about the truth or falsity of these things.’