'Few now hold fully to the old ways,' he said, sadly. 'Most Rajnee are now merely bodyguards, seeking to earn riches. They will not heed the call of the swords, nor journey to foreign lands.'

'And what of you, Grey Man?' she asked. 'Will you fight the demon lords?'

'Why should I?' he countered, his voice edged with bitterness. 'It is just another war – just another group of greedy men seeking to take what does not belong to them. And they will hold it for just so long as they are strong enough to resist the next group of greedy men who desire to take it from them.'

'This one is different,' she said softly. 'If they win, the world will know the nature of true terror. Children dragged from their mothers' arms to be melded into beasts, or have their organs removed in order to prolong the lives of the rulers. Thousands butchered in the name of arcane science. Magic of the most horrific kind will become commonplace.'

When Waylander spoke his voice was cold. 'During the Vagrian Wars babes were torn from their mothers' arms to have their heads smashed against walls of stone. Children were slaughtered and men slain in their thousands. Women were raped and mutilated. This was done by men. A grieving mother would not care whether her babe was destroyed by magic or by might. No, I have had my fill of wars, Lady.'

'Then think of it as a battle against evil,' she said.

'Look at me,' he said. 'Do I have a shining sword? You know my life, Lady. Does it seem to you that I have been a warrior of the light?'

'No,' she told him, 'you have also walked the path of evil, which gives you greater understanding of its nature. Yet you overcame it. You fought the darkness, and gave the Drenai people hope by recovering the Armour of Bronze. Now a greater evil looms.'

'How is it that you know so much about this evil?' he asked her.

'Because I was born of it,' she said. Her gloved hands moved to her high collar, pulling loose the hooks that held it. With a sudden wrench she opened the silken robe, letting it drop to the terrace. The morning sunlight shone upon her slim body, highlighting the striped fur of gold and black that covered her skin. Both men stood very still as she peeled off one of her gloves and raised the hand high. The fur ended at her wrists, but her fingers seemed unnatural and oddly shortened. She flexed the hand and long silver claws emerged from sheaths at her fingertips. 'I am a Joining, Grey Man. A failed experiment. It was intended that I should be a new form of Kraloth – a killing machine of great strength and speed. Instead the magic, which created this monstrosity of a body, also enhanced my mind. You are looking upon the future of mankind. Do you find it beautiful?'

Waylander said nothing, for there was nothing to say. Her face was human, and indescribably beautiful, but her body was feline, the joints crooked.

Kysumu stepped up behind the naked priestess, and raised her robe from the floor. Ustarte smiled her thanks and drew the garment around her. 'My followers and I came through the gateway. Six were killed in the attempt. We came to save this world. Will you help us?'

'I am not a general, Lady. I am an assassin. I have no armies. You want me to ride out alone against a horde of demons? For what? Honour and a swift death?'

'You would not be alone,' said Kysumu softly.

'I am always alone,' said Waylander. With that he strolled from the terrace.

He stared hard at the armour. It shone brightly in the lantern-light as if crafted from moonlight. The winged helm was gleaming, and he could see his reflection in the closed visor. The chainmail attached to the nape was impossibly delicate, light glittering from it as if from a hundred diamonds. The cuirass was beautifully fashioned, and engraved with runes he could not read.

'It would look fine upon you, sir,' said the armourer, his voice echoing in the high, domed hall.

'I do not want it,' said Waylander, swinging away and walking down a long, crooked corridor. He turned left then right, pushing open a door and stepping into another hall.

'Try it on,' said the armourer, removing the bright helm from its place on the armour tree and offering it to him.

Waylander did not reply. Angry now, he turned on his heel, moved back through the doorway and stood in the shadowed corridor. Then he walked on. Everywhere there were turnings and soon he lost all sense of direction. He came upon a set of stairs, and climbed and climbed. At the top, exhausted, he sat down. A doorway faced him, but he was reluctant to enter. He knew instinctively what he would find. And yet there was nowhere else to go. With a deep sigh he pushed open the door and gazed upon the armour tree.

'Why do you not want it?' asked the armourer.

'Because I am not worthy to wear it,' he told the man.

'No one is,' said the armourer.

The scene faded, and Waylander found himself seated beside a fast-flowing stream. The sky was bright and blue, the water fresh and cool. Cupping his hands he drank from the stream then sat back, leaning his shoulders against the trunk of a weeping willow, whose branches trailed all around him. It was peaceful here, and he wished he could stay for ever.

'Evil carries a price,' said a voice.

He glanced to his right. Just beyond the trailing branches stood a cold-eyed man. There was blood upon his face and his hands. He knelt by the stream to wash. But instead of the blood being cleansed the entire stream turned crimson, and began to bubble and steam. The willow branches darkened, the leaves falling away. The tree groaned. Waylander moved away from it, and the bark split, disgorging hordes of insects, which crawled over the dead wood.

'Why are you doing this?' Waylander asked the man.

'It is my nature,' he answered.

'Evil carries a price,' said Waylander, stepping forward. A knife appeared in his hand and he sliced it through the man's throat in one smooth motion. Blood sprayed from the wound, and the man fell back. The body disappeared. Waylander stood very still. His hands were drenched in blood. He moved to the stream to wash them, and the stream turned crimson and began to bubble and hiss.

'Why are you doing this?' asked a voice.

Surprised, Waylander turned, and saw a man beside the dying willow.

'It is my nature,' he told him – as the gleaming knife appeared in the newcomer's hand . . .

He awoke with a start. Pushing himself from the chair he walked out into the sunlight. He had slept for less than two hours, and he felt disoriented. Strolling down to the beach he found Omri waiting there, fresh white towels folded nearby, a pitcher of cool water and a goblet ready on the small wooden table.

'You look dreadful, sir,' said the white-haired servant. 'Perhaps you should forgo your swim and have some breakfast.'

Waylander stripped off his clothing. Wading into the cool water he flung himself forward and began to swim. His head cleared, but he couldn't shake himself from the mood the dreams had left. Turning, he headed back for the beach with long, easy strokes, then walked up to the waterfall and cleansed the salt and sand from his body.

Omri handed him a towel. 'I brought fresh clothes while you were swimming, sir,' he said.

Waylander towelled himself dry, then pulled on a shirt of soft white silk, and a pair of thin leather leggings. 'Thank you, my friend,' he said. Omri smiled, then poured a goblet of water, which Waylander drank.