Kyle had grown up running; for days on end he'd jogged after game across the plains of his youth. He'd run from and chased the raiding parties of neighbouring tribes. That sinewy endurance saw him through now, as it was not until the night of the third day of alternating dog-trotting and running that his numb legs collapsed under him and he was too exhausted even to push himself up. He slept where he fell.

While Kyle's body may have been drained beyond all exhaustion, his mind was not. Strange, otherwordly dreams possessed him. Images and colours swirled before his mind's eye. He dreamed the darkness that filled his vision assaulted him; he fought it with a power that drove it back yet entities emerged from within to attack. He and they fought with all manner of limbs, talons, claws and teeth. They wrapped themselves around each other squeezing and tearing. Shapes blended, melded, in a ferocious roiling battle in a dark sky that seemed to have no end or beginning. The enormity of the confrontation numbed him; he could not grasp it. He seemed to float for a time, insensate.

Then, in his dreams it was as if Stoop was still alive: the old saboteur came and knelt at his side. ‘Time to wake up, lad,’ he said. ‘The enemy's coming. T'ain't safe. This is my last warning, I'm sorry. That snake Cowl's sent me off. But I promise I'll try to make it back. Now, wake up – they've found you’

Coughing, groaning, Kyle forced open his eyes and he awoke wincing, surprised that he was still alive, the sun high. He was not alone; a Dal Hon woman stood to one side, hands hidden in the folds of her robes that she wore bunched over one shoulder. Her kinky black hair hung in thick strands that covered her shoulders like foam. Mara, one of Skinner's Avowed mages.

A smile quirked up her full lips. ‘So, now that you are rested we can have a conversation, can we not, little rabbit? Such as who you truly work for, yes?’

Kyle was too weak to care; he hadn't eaten in three days. ‘Work for? What in Father Sky do you mean?’

‘I mean that you have eluded the combined efforts of over twelve mages to locate you and we are now very intrigued – who could possibly be so potent? What power has taken enough of an interest in the Guard to plant a spy among us, hmm? Tell me now, little rabbit, for you surely will later. Who do you work for?’

Kyle gaped up at the woman. ‘Spy? I'm no spy.’

Frowning, Mara drew her hands from the folds of her robes. ‘Very well. I find interrogations distasteful, but you leave me no choice. I-’

She broke off, turning to where a crash of undergrowth preceded the arrival of a man who leant against a tree, gasping in air, his leather vest dark with sweat, twigs in his wild grizzled hair. One of the two fellows always hanging out with Stalker, Badlands. ‘Damn,’ he breathed, ‘but you can run, lad.’

Mara lowered her hands. ‘You were supposed to have tracked him down by now.’

Hands on his knees he bared his teeth. ‘Guess I'm gettin’ old.’

‘Where is-’

‘Here.’

Both Mara and Kyle flinched, surprised to see Stalker crouched opposite from where Badlands had crashed in with so much noise.

‘And here.’

Mara turned; the other fellow, Coots, now leaned against a tree behind her. Her mouth tightened. She adjusted the robes at her shoulder. ‘Better late then never, I imagine. Perhaps now we could return him alive for questioning.’

‘Questions regarding what?’ Stalker asked, straightening.

‘What power has extended his – or her – protection over him. Who is spying upon us.’

‘Not questions ‘bout why he killed Stoop?’

‘I did not-’ Kyle began but Badlands motioned for his silence.

The Avowed mage paused, the tip of her tongue emerged to touch her upper lip. She turned in place, eyeing the three men surrounding her. ‘Of course… that as well… is of great concern to us…’

Coots and Badlands leapt, drawing knives in the air. Mara gestured, yelling, to disappear into darkness as the men landed in a tangle where she'd stood. They helped each other to their feet.

‘Suspicious bitch,’ Stalker spat into the long silence that followed the echoes of the Warren closing.

Kyle gaped anew from man to man. What in the name of all these foreign Gods was going on?

‘They'll be back,’ said Coots.

‘In force,’ from Badlands.

‘No more questions neither,’ finished Stalker.

Badlands and Coots nodded and took off running into the forest. Stalker pulled Kyle to his feet. ‘Let's go.’

‘Wait! What's-’

The scout yanked Kyle onward. ‘Move.’

Kyle wrenched his arm free. ‘What's going on, damn you!’

Stalker grimaced his irritation. ‘They'll be comin’ back, Kyle. Maybe Cowl himself. We have to move, now.’

‘While we go then.’

A curt nod and the scout headed out, following Badlands and Coots. ‘I didn't kill Stoop,’ Kyle began, pushing aside branches and jumping fallen trunks.

‘That's their story,’ answered Stalker. ‘You killed him ‘n’ ran.’

‘Who'd believe that?’

A shrug from the scout as he trotted along. ‘Don't matter. That renegade, Greymane, he doesn't seem convinced. But it's official. What can they do?’

‘What about you three? Why attack Mara? What's it to you?’

The tall scout held up a hand for a halt, crouched behind cover, peering behind them. Kyle joined him. They listened, trying to dampen their breathing. After a moment Stalker straightened. He yanked the pin from the breast of his leathers: the silver dragon sigil of the Crimson Guard. He tossed it aside. ‘Me ‘n’ the boys, we never really were cut out for this mercenary business. We don't think much of fighting for money or power. We fight for other things.’

Kyle realized that he still wore his sigil. Somehow, he could not bring himself to throw it away. ‘So what now?’

Stalker shrugged. ‘Get the Abyss away from here. Clear some land.’ He offered a one-sided smile. ‘Raise chickens. C'mon, my brothers won't wait for ever.’

‘Brothers?’

‘Brothers, cousins, call it what you will. We're all descended from one big family. The Lost. That's us. Welcome to the family.’ The scout cuffed Kyle on his back and jogged off.

Lost. Well, that's just great. Wonderful! Not only was he a renegade, disbanded and hunted. He was now lost too, by adoption. Shaking his head at the strange rightness of it all he set off as well, hurrying to catch up. Before them stretched league after league of boreal forest. The western reach of the Stratem subcontinent.

CHAPTER V

Past Quon hegemonies never held;

occupations cannot quell unrest,

indeed, even benign ones foster it.

Must this lesson be learned every generation?

Sadly, some things never do change. Historian Heboric

BEFORE THE SERVANT COULD ANNOUNCE HIM, HIGH FIST KORBOLO Dom, Sword of the Empire, stormed into Mallick's residence, throwing down his gloves and travelling cloak. ‘It's happened again! Another of the damned coward nobles has fled the capital, taken his guard with him – over four hundred horse!’

Silence answered his pronouncement. ‘Mallick!’ he roared. ‘Damn you! Don't tell me you've run off too!’

‘Baron Nira's concern for his lands and crops is well known to me,’ came Mallick's disembodied voice from further within. Korbolo followed the voice to find the man soaking in the broad shallow pool at the centre of his quarters, a towel over his shoulders. Mallick raised a goblet. ‘Wine?’

Biting back his rage, Korbolo fought the urge to slap the glass from the man's hand. Damn him! Was he insane? Things are slipping beyond their control and he's bathing! Sensing another presence he glanced aside to see the withered old manservant Mallick had brought with him from Seven Cities, Oryan. He dismissed the man from his thoughts. ‘While you splash in your pool the Assembly is dissolving. Representatives are fleeing! Even those you put on it! Soon there will be nothing left to rule, Hood take it, even if we could.’