He halted when Triban Gnol raised a perfectly manicured finger.

‘A moment, soldier. A moment. Something you said.’ The Chancellor looked up. ‘Five of the six Edur, killed at the very beginning of the ambush. And the discovery of Edur corpses on the roads leading in from the coast. No Letherii bodies on those roads?’

‘None that we found, sir, no.’

‘Yet the sixth Edur survived that initial strike in the glade-how?’

‘It must have seemed that he didn’t. The quarrel in his back, sir, the one that eventually killed him. He was sent tumbling from his saddle. I doubt any one expected him to rise again, to regain his mount-’

‘You saw all this with your own eyes?’

‘I did, sir.’

‘That quarrel-before or after the thunder and fire?’

The corporal frowned, then said, ‘Before. Just before-not even a blink from one to the next, I think. Yes, I am certain. He was the very first struck.’

‘Because he was clearly in command?’

‘I suppose so, sir.’

‘This thunder and fire, where did the sorcery strike first? Let me answer that for myself. In the midst of the remaining Edur.’

‘Yes sir.’

‘You may go now, soldier. Sirryn, remain with me a moment.’

As soon as the door closed Triban Gnol was’ on his feet. ‘Errant fend! A damned invasion! Against the Letherii Empire!’

‘Sounds more like against the Edur,’ Sirryn ventured.

The Chancellor glared across at him. ‘You damned fool. That is incidental-an interesting detail at most. Without true relevance. Sirryn, the Edur rule us-perhaps only in name, yes, but they are our occupiers. In our midst. Able to command Letherii forces as befits their need.’

He slammed a fist down on the table. The lacquered box jumped, the lid clattering free. Triban Gnol stared at what lay within. ‘We are at war,’ he said. ‘Not our war-not the one we planned for-no. War!’

‘We will crush these invaders, sir-’

‘Of course we will, once we meet their sorcery with our own. That too is not relevant.’

‘I do not understand, sir.’

Triban Gnol glared at the man. No, you don’t. Which is why your rank will never rise higher, you pathetic thug. ‘When you are done with silencing the other soldiers, Sirryn-oh yes, and the promotion for our enterprising young corporal-I want you to deliver, by hand, a message to Karos Invictad.’

‘Sir?’

‘An invitation. He is to come to the palace.’

‘When?’

‘Immediately.’

Sirryn saluted. ‘Yes, sir.’

‘Go.’

As the door closed a second time, Triban Gnol stared down at his desk. Down into the box with its dislodged lid. Wherein sat a small, squat bottle. A third of its contents remaining.

Triban Gnol often drew satisfaction from the sight of it, the very knowledge of it when hidden within its box. He would recall pouring the contents into the vessel of wine from which he knew Ezgara Diskanar would drink, there on that last terrible day. In the throne room. Ezgara, and that pathetic First Eunuch. Nisall should have followed. Not Brys. No, anyone but Brys Beddict.

Regrettable, that.

Fire had taken the grasses. Wind and water had taken the soil. The level stretch where the two drainage channels debouched was a scatter of button cacti, fist-sized cobbles and fire-cracked rock. The Letherii outrider’s corpse had rolled down from the ridge leaving a path of spattered blood now black as ink on the rocks. Coyotes, wolves or perhaps Awl dogs had chewed away the softer tissues-face and gut, buttocks and inner thighs-leaving the rest to the flies and their maggot spawn.

Overseer Brohl Handar-who knew he should have died at Bast Fulmar, had indeed believed at that last moment that he would, absurdly killed by his own sword-gestured to two of his troop to remain on the ridge and waved the others to the highest rise thirty paces away, on the other side of one of the gullies, then walked his horse down onto the flat. Steeling himself against the stench of the dead soldier, he forced his reluctant mount closer.

The K’risnan had reached him in time. With the power to heal, a power pure-no stain of chaos-that was, Brohl Handar now understood, a blessing. Kurald Emurlahn. Darkness reborn. He would not question it, would not doubt it. Blessing.

The stub of an arrow jutted from the outrider’s throat. His weapons had been taken, as had the vest of fine chain beneath the light tanned leather shirt. There was no sign of the Letherii’s horse. The buzz of the flies seemed preter-naturally loud.

Brohl Handar wheeled his mount round and guided it back up onto the ridge. He spoke to the Sollanta scout. ‘Tracks?’

‘Just his horse, Overseer,’ the warrior replied. ‘The ambusher was, I believe, on foot.’

Brohl nodded. This had been the pattern. The Awl were collecting horses, weapons and armour. The Atri-Preda had since commanded that no outrider scout alone. To this Redmask would no doubt add more ambushers.

‘The Awl rode southeast, Overseer.’

Days ago, alas. There was no point in pursuing.

Eyes narrowed against the harsh sunlight, Brohl Handar scanned the plain on all sides. How could a warrior hide in this empty land? The drainage gullies had seemed an obvious answer, and as soon as one was spotted a troop would dismount, advance on foot, and plunge into it seeking to flush out the enemy. All they had found were bedded deer and coyote dens.

Areas of high grasses were virtually attacked, both mounted and on foot. Again, nothing but the occasional deer bolting almost from the feet of some startled, cursing soldier; or ptarmigan or thrushes exploding skyward in a flurry of feathers and drumming wings.

The mages insisted that sorcery was not at work here; indeed, much of the Awl’dan seemed strangely bereft of whatever was necessary to shape magic. The valley known as Bast Fulmar had been, it was becoming clear, in no way unique. Brohl Handar had begun with the belief that the plains were but southern versions of tundra. In some ways this was true; in others it was anything but. Horizons deceived, distances lied. Valleys hid from the eye until one was upon them. Yet, so much like the tundra, a terrible place to fight a war.

Redmask and his army had disappeared. Oh, there were trails aplenty; huge swaths of trodden ground wending this way and that. But some were from bhederin herds; others were old and still others seemed to indicate travel in opposite directions, overlapping back and forth until all sense was lost. And so, day after day, the Letherii forces set out, their supplies dwindling, losing outriders to ambushes, marching this way and that, as if doomed to pursue a mythic battle that would never come.

Brohl Handar had assembled thirty of his best riders, and each day he led them out from the column, pushing far onto the flanks-dangerously far-in hopes of sighting the Awl.

He now squinted at the Sollanta scout. ‘Where have they gone?’

The warrior grimaced. ‘I have given this some thought, Overseer. Indeed, it is all I have thought about this past week. The enemy, I believe, is all around us. After Bast Fulmar, Redmask split the tribes. Each segment employed wagons to make them indistinguishable-as we have seen from the countless trails, those wagons are drawn from side to side to side, eight or ten across, and they move last, thus obliterating signs of all that precedes them on the trail. Could be a hundred warriors ahead, could be five thousand.’