For a moment only they hesitated, then Emrin charged the mist, swinging his sword into it. Lightning crackled –and the mist retreated further. Gaspir and Naren joined him. A huge white form leapt from the mist, cannoning into the black-bearded Gaspir, who was hurled from his feet. Naren panicked and tried to run. As the bodyguard turned the beast swung its arm. Keeva saw Naren arch backwards, talons punching through his back and exiting from his chest. Blood exploded from the dying man's mouth. Emrin ran in, slamming his sword into the beast's belly, and ripping the blade up through its chest. It let out a bellow of pain and hurled Naren's body away. Then it turned on Emrin. Keeva lifted her arm and hurled the carving knife across the room. As the beast loomed over Emrin the blade slashed into its eye socket, plunging deep. At that moment Yu Yu Liang staggered forward and swung the Rajnee sword. It sliced deep into the hairless white neck, cutting through muscle and bone. The great beast toppled sideways, striking the table and overturning it.

The mist shrank back, sliding across the floor and vanishing under the far doorway.

The temperature in the room began to rise. Gaspir pushed himself to his feet and gathered up his sword. It was no longer gleaming. A faint and fading blue light still shone on Yu Yu's blade. Yu Yu had fallen to his knees and was breathing heavily. The wound in his shoulder had opened up badly. Blood had soaked through the bandage and was flowing over his bare chest. Emrin moved to his side. 'Hold on, yellow man,' he said softly. 'Let me get you to a chair.'

Yu Yu had no strength left and he sagged against Emrin. Keeva and Norda helped the sergeant to lift him and seat him at the table.

'Are those things gone?' asked Niallad, gazing at the dark stairwells.

'The sword isn't shining,' said Keeva. 'I think they have. But they may be back.'

The young noble looked at her and forced a smile. 'That was a magnificent throw,' he said. 'I've rarely seen a carving knife put to better use.'

Keeva said nothing. She was staring down at the lifeless body of the old man, Omri. A kind and gentle man, he deserved better than to die this way.

'What do we do now?' asked Gaspir. 'Do we leave or stay?'

'We stay … for a while,' said Yu Yu. 'Here we can defend. Only . . . two entrances.'

'I agree,' said Gaspir. 'In fact, I can't think of anything that would make me climb either of those stairwells.'

Even as he spoke a distant scream echoed eerily. Then another.

'People are dying up there,' said Emrin. 'We should help them!'

'My job is to guard the Duke's son,' said Gaspir. 'But if you want to charge up those stairs feel free to do so.' The black-bearded bodyguard glanced down at the near-unconscious Yu Yu. 'Though without the magic of his sword I doubt you'll last ten heartbeats.'

'I have to go,' said Emrin. He started to head towards the door.

'Don't!' called out Keeva.

'It is what I am paid for! I am the guard sergeant!'

Keeva moved round the table. 'Listen to me, Emrin. You are a brave man. We've all seen that. But with Yu Yu so badly hurt there is no way we could hold them off without you. You must stay here. The Grey Man told you to protect Yu Yu. You can't do that from upstairs.'

More screams sounded from above. Emrin stared at the shadowed doorway. 'Trust me,' whispered Keeva, taking his arm. His face had a haunted look as the screams continued from the floors above. 'You cannot help them,' she said. Then she turned towards Gaspir. 'We need to barricade the doors. Overturn the far cabinets and push them against the door. Emrin and I will block this one.'

'I don't take orders from serving wenches,' snapped Gaspir.

'It was not an order,' Keeva told him, masking her anger, 'and I apologize if it sounded like one. But the doors need to be blocked, and it will take a strong man to move those cabinets.'

'Do as she says,' put in Niallad. 'I'll help you.'

'You'd better be quick,' warned Keeva. 'Yu Yu's sword is beginning to shine again.'

Chapter Eight

Chardyn, the Source priest, was renowned for his blistering sermons. His charismatic personality and powerful booming voice could fill any hall and bring a host of converts to the Source. As an orator he was without peer, and would, in any just world, have been promoted to abbot many years before. Yet despite his awesome skill one small impediment had stunted his career, one tiny irrelevance used against him by men with small minds.

He didn't believe in the Source.

Once he had, two decades ago, when, full of youth and fire, he had chosen the path of priesthood. Oh, he had believed then. His faith had been strong through war and disease, through poverty and famine. And when his mother had fallen ill he had journeyed home knowing that through his prayers the Source would heal her. He had arrived at the family estate, rushed to her bedside, and called upon the Source to bless His servant and touch his mother with His healing hand. Then he had ordered a celebration feast to be prepared for that night, when they would all give thanks for the coming miracle.

His mother had died just before dusk, in appalling pain and coughing up blood. Chardyn had sat with her, staring at her dead face. Then he had walked downstairs, where the servants were setting fine silver cutlery at the celebration table. In a sudden burst of fury Chardyn had overturned the tables, scattering dishes and plates. The servants had fled his anger.

He had run out into the night, and screamed his rage at the stars.

Chardyn stayed for the funeral, and even made the Soul Journey prayer at the graveside, when his mother's body was laid alongside that of her husband, and the two children who had died in infancy. Then he had journeyed to the Nicolan monastery, where his old teacher, Parali, was the abbot. The old man had welcomed him with a hug, and a kiss upon the cheek.

'I grieve for your loss, my boy,' he said.

'I called upon the Source and He did not answer me.'

'Sometimes He does not. Or if He does He answers in a way we do not like. But, then, we are His servants, not He ours.'

'I no longer believe in Him,' admitted Chardyn.

'You have seen death before,' Parali reminded him. 'You have watched babes die. You have buried children and their parents. How is it that your faith remained strong during these dread times?'

'She was my mother. He should have saved her.'

'We are born, we live a brief time, and then we die,' said Parali. 'That is the way of life. I knew your mother well. She was a fine woman and, it is my belief, she now resides in Paradise. Be grateful for her life, and her love.'

'Grateful?' stormed Chardyn. 'I organized a celebration feast to give thanks to the Source for her recovery. I was made to look like an idiot. Well, I will be an idiot no longer. If the Source exists then I curse Him, and want no more to do with Him.'

'You will leave the priesthood?'

'Yes.'

'Then I pray you will find peace and joy.'

Chardyn had spent a year working on a farm. It was backbreaking toil for little reward, and he came to miss the small luxuries he had taken for granted as a priest, the comfort of life in a temple, the abundance of food, the times of quiet meditation.

One night, after a day of cutting and binding straw for the winter feed, Chardyn had been sitting with the other workers around the Feast Fire, listening to them talk. They were simple folk, and before they ate the roasted meat they gave thanks to the Source for the plentiful harvest. The previous year, following a failed crop, they had given thanks to the Source for their lives. In that moment Chardyn had realized that religion was what crooked gamblers dubbed a 'no lose proposition'. In times of plenty thank the Source, in times of famine thank the Source. When someone survived a plague it was down to divine intervention. When someone died of the plague they had been taken to glory. Praise the Source! Faith, it seemed, regardless of its obvious cosmic stupidity, brought happiness and contentment. Why then should Chardyn labour on a farm when he could be adding to the happiness and contentment of the world by preaching the faith? It would certainly add massively to his own happiness and contentment to be living once more in a fine house and attended by skilled servants.