His eyes jerked open and he screamed. Soldiers ran to his tent and he lurched to his feet. Sprawled on the ground beside him lay his four companions, rigid in death.

'What in Hell's name is happening here?' demanded an officer, pushing men aside as he entered the tent. He gazed down at the corpses, then up at the survivor.

'The priests have learned to fight,' muttered the warrior, his breath coming in short gasps and his heart pounding.

'You are telling me that these men were killed by Source priests? It is inconceivable.'

'One priest,' said the man.

The officer waved the soldiers away and they were glad to depart. Hardened as they were to death and destruction, the Vagrian troops wanted no part of the Dark Brotherhood.

The officer sat down on a canvas-backed chair. 'You look as if you have seen a ghost, Pulis, my friend.'

'No jests, please,' said Pulis. 'The man almost killed me.'

'Well, you've killed enough of his friends these past months.'

'That is true. But nevertheless it is unsettling.'

'I know. What is the world coming to when Source priests stoop to defending themselves?'

The warrior glared at the young officer, but said nothing.

Pulis was no coward – he had proved that a score of times – but the silver priest had frightened him. Like most warriors of the Brotherhood he was not a true mystic, relying on the power of the Leaf to free him from his body. But even so, with his powers enhanced, he had experienced visions … flashes … of a premonitory nature. It had been so with the priest.

Pulis had felt a terrible danger emanating from the silver warrior – not just personal danger, but a timeless threat which would attack his cause from now until the end of time. Yet it was so nebulous, more an emotional reaction than a vision. Although he had seen something … what was it? He searched his memory.

That was it! A runic number hanging in the sky bathed in flames.

A number. Meaning what? Days? Months? Centuries?

'Thirty,' he said aloud.

'What?' replied the officer. 'The Thirty?'

A cold chill hit Pulis, like a demon crossing his grave.

Dawn found Waylander alone as he opened his eyes and yawned. Strange, he thought, for he could not remember falling asleep. But he did remember his promise to Orien and he shook his head, puzzled. He glanced round, but the old man had gone.

He rubbed his chin, scratching at the skin below his beard.

The Armour of Orien.

Such a grand nonsense.

'This quest will kill you,' he whispered.

Taking a knife from his belt he honed it for several minutes, then shaved with care. His skin was raw under the blade, but the morning breeze felt good on his face.

Dardalion emerged from the hollow and sat beside him. Waylander nodded, but did not speak. The priest looked tired, his eyes set deep in his face; he was thinner now, thought Waylander and subtly changed.

'The old man is dead,' said Dardalion. 'You should have spoken to him.'

'I did,' said Waylander.

'No, I mean really speak. Those few words at the fire were nothing. Do you know who he was?'

'Orien,' said Waylander. The look of surprise on Dardalion's face was comical.

'You recognised him?'

'No. He came to me last night.'

'He had great power,' said Dardalion softly. 'For he died without leaving the fire. He told us many tales of his life, then he lay back and slept. I was beside him and he died in his sleep.'

'You were mistaken,' said Waylander.

'I think not. What did you speak about?'

'He asked me to fetch something for him. I said that I would.'

'What was it?'

'No business of yours, priest.'

'It is too late to turn me away, warrior. When you saved my life, you opened your soul to me. When your blood was in my throat, I knew your life and every instant of your being flooded me. I look in a mirror now and I see you.'

'You are looking in the wrong mirrors.'

'Tell me of Dakeyras,' said Dardalion.

'Dakeyras is dead,' snapped Waylander. 'But you have made your point, Dardalion. I saved your life. Twice! You owe me the right to my solitude.'

'To allow you to return to the man you were? I do not think so. Look at yourself. Half your life has been wasted. You suffered great tragedy – and it broke you. You wanted to die, but instead you killed only part of yourself. Poor Dakeyras, lost for two decades while Waylander strode the world, slaying for gold he would never spend. All those souls sent to the Void. And for what? To lessen a pain you could not touch.'

'How dare you preach to me!' said Waylander. 'You talk of mirrors? Tell me what you have become since killing two men.'

'Six men. And there will be more,' said Dardalion.

'Yes, that is why I understand you. I may be wrong in all that I do, but I will stand before my God and I will say that I did what I felt was right – that I defended the weak against the evil strong. You taught me that. Not Waylander the man who kills for money, but Dakeyras, the man who saved the priest.'

'I do not want to talk any more,' said Waylander, staring away.

'Did Orien know that you killed his son?'

The assassin swung back. 'Yes, he knew. It was my foulest deed. But I will pay for it, priest. Orien saw to that. You know, I used to think that hatred was the most powerful force on earth. And yet last night I learned something bitter. He forgave me … and that is worse than hot irons on my flesh. You understand?'

'I think I do.'

'So now I will die for him, and that will settle my debts.'

'Your death will settle nothing. What did he ask you to do?'

'To fetch his Armour.'

'From Raboas, the Sacred Giant.'

'He told you?'

'Yes. He also told me that a man named Kaem would be hunting the same treasure.'

'Kaem hunts me. But he would be wise not to find me.'

Kaem's dreams were troubled. The Vagrian general had commandeered a fine house overlooking the Purdol harbour, and guards patrolled the gardens, while his two most trusted soldiers stood outside his door. The window was barred and the heat within the small room oppressive.

He came awake with a jerk and sat up scrabbling for his sword, the door opened and Dalnor ran inside, blade in hand.

'What is it, my lord?'

'It is nothing. A dream. Did I call out?'

'Yes, my lord. Shall I stay with you?'

'No.' Kaem took a linen towel from the chair beside the bed and wiped the sweat from his face and head. 'Damn you, Waylander,' he whispered.

'My lord?'

'Nothing. Leave me.' Kaem swung his legs from the bed and walked to the window. He was a thin man and totally hairless, his wrinkled skin giving him the appearance of a beached turtle robbed of his shell. Many thought him a comical figure on first sight, but most came to see him as he was: the finest strategist of the age, the man dubbed the Prince of War. His soldiers respected him, though not with the adoration reserved for some other and more charismatic generals. But that suited him, for he was uncomfortable with emotions and found such displays among the men childlike and foolish. What he wanted was obedience from his officers and courage from his men. He expected both. He demanded both.

Now his own courage was being tested. Waylander had killed his son and he had sworn to see him dead. But Waylander was a skilled hunter, and Kaem felt sure that one dark night he would once more wake to feel a knife at his throat.

Or worse … he might not wake at all. The Brotherhood were hunting the assassin, but first reports were not encouraging. A tracker dead, and now talk amongst the Brotherhood of a mystic warrior priest who travelled with the assassin.

Kaem, for all his strategic skills, was a cautious man. As long as Waylander lived he was a threat to Kaem's plans. Such grand plans – that when this conquest was complete he would rule an area greater than Vagria itself. Lentria, Drenai, and the Sathuli lands to the north – sixteen ports, twelve major cities and the spice routes to the east.