'How can we forgive them and then slay them?' asked a young priest.

'If we do not forgive, then hate will flower. But think on this: if you had a dog that became rabid, you would slay it with regret. You would not hate it. That is what I ask. Let us pray.'

As darkness closed in around them they concluded their communion, and their spirits rose into the night sky.

Dardalion glanced about him. All the priests were clothed in silver armour, shining shields upon their arms and swords of fire in their hands. The stars shone like gems in a blaze, and the mountains of the moon cast sharp shadows as The Thirty waited for the Brotherhood. All was silence.

Dardalion could feel the tension among the priests, for their minds were still linked. Doubts and uncertainties flickered and faded. The night was clear and calm, the forest below them bathed in silver light.

The hours stretched on, impossibly long, and fear ebbed and flowed among the priests to touch each of them with icy fingers.

The night grew more menacing and to the west sombre clouds gathered, staining the moonlight.

'They are coming!' pulsed Astila. 'I can sense it.'

'Be calm,' urged Dardalion.

The dark clouds drew nearer and Dardalion's sword flickered into his hand, the blade burning with white fire.

The clouds loomed and disgorged black-cloaked warriors who swept down on a wave of hatred that engulfed The Thirty. The dark emotion closed over Dardalion, but he shook himself free and soared to meet the attackers. His blade cut and sliced into their mass and his shield rang with returned blows. The Thirty flew to his aid and the battle was joined.

There were more than fifty black warriors, but they could not match the silver-armoured priests and their fiery swords, and they fell back towards the clouds. The Thirty gave chase.

Suddenly Astila screamed a mind warning and Dardalion, about to enter the clouds, veered away.

The cloud bunched in on itself – forming a bloated body, scaled and dark. Huge wings unfurled and a gaping red maw opened at the front of the beast. The Brotherhood were absorbed into its mass and it grew yet more solid.

'Back!' pulsed Dardalion, and The Thirty fled over the forest.

The beast pursued them and Dardalion halted in his flight, his mind racing. Somehow the combined forces of the Brotherhood had created this thing. Was it real? Instinctively he knew that it was.

'To me!' he pulsed. The Thirty gathered around him. 'One warrior. One mind. One mission,' he intoned, and The Thirty merged. Dardalion was swamped and his mind swam as his power multiplied.

Where there had been Thirty, now there was One whose eyes blazed with fire and whose sword was jagged like frozen lightning.

With a roar of rage, the One hurled himself at the beast. The creature reared and taloned arms raked out at the warrior, but the One hammered his lightning blade across its body, severing one limb at a stroke. The beast bellowed in pain and with jaws opened wide it plunged towards its attacker. The One looked up into the giant maw, seeing row upon row of teeth, shaped like the dark swords of the Brotherhood. Hefting his blade, he threw it like a thunderbolt into the cavern of the mouth. As the weapon speared home the One created another and another, hurling them deep into the monster. The beast drew back, its form shifting and changing as the lightning blades lanced its body.

Small dark shapes fled from its mass and it shrank. Then the One spread his hands and flew like an arrow into the heart of the cloud, tearing at the astral flesh. His mind was full of screams and pain as the Brotherhood died one by one. When the cloud broke up and the surviving warriors fled for the safety of their bodies, the One hurled bolts of light at them as they went, then hovered under the stars, seeing them for the first time.

How beautiful, he thought. His far-seeing eyes scanned the planets, the shifting of colours, the swirling of distant clouds over dried-out oceans, and far off he spied a comet arcing through the galaxy. So much to see.

Within the One, Dardalion struggled for identity; his name was a lost thing to him and he fell asleep in the mass. Astila fought on, his thoughts things of mist ebbing and flowing. One. The One. More than One. Numbers. A wave of joy suffused him as he fought, and his vision was blanked by the sight of a meteor shower exploding in rainbow colours through the atmosphere. The One was mightily pleased with the display.

Astila clung to his task. Numbers. A number. No … not One. Slowly he forced himself to count, searching what was left of his memory for thoughts that were his alone. Then a name struck him. Dardalion. Was it his name? No. Another. He called out weakly, but there was no response. A number.

Thirty. That was the number of power. Thirty . The One shivered and Astila burst clear.

'Who are you?' asked the One.

'Astila.'

'Why have you withdrawn from me? We are One.'

'I seek Dardalion within you.'

'Dardalion?' said the One, and deep within him the young priest stirred to life. One by one Astila called the names of The Thirty and the priests came to themselves, drawing away confused and uncertain.

Dawn was near when Astila led the group home.

Once more in their bodies, they slept for several hours.

Dardalion was the first to wake. He roused the others and called Astila to him.

'Last night you saved us,' said Dardalion. 'You have a gift for seeing through deceptions.'

'But you created the One,' said Astila. 'Without that we would not have survived.'

'We almost did not survive. The One was as great a danger to us as the Cloudbeast and you saved us a second time. Yesterday the Abbot gave me a warning and I said I would think on his words. We need form, Astila … discipline. I shall be the Abbot of The Thirty. But you must have a senior part. I shall be the Voice and you will be the Eyes. Together we will find the path to the will of the Source.

13

Waylander leaned back in the saddle and stared out over the Delnoch Pass to the Nadir plains beyond. Behind him the wagons had bunched for the night, ready for the perilous descent tomorrow. The pass sloped down for over a mile in a series of treacherous scree-covered ledges, and it took a brave man to drive a wagon over the narrow winding trail. Most of the refugees had paid Durmast's men handsome sums to take over the reins for the descent, while they walked behind in comparative safety.

A cool breeze was blowing from the north and Waylander allowed himself to relax. There had been no sign of Cadoras or of the Brotherhood, and he had checked the back trails with care. Suddenly he grinned. It was said of Cadoras that when you saw him there was danger – that when you did not see him, there was death. Waylander slid from his horse's back and led the animal to the picket ropes. Stripping off the saddle, he rubbed the horse down, fed it with grain and moved into the centre of the camp where the fires crackled under iron cooking-pots.

Durmast was sitting with a group of travellers, regaling them with tales of Gulgothir. In the red firelight his face was less brutal and his smile warm and friendly. Children sat around him, gazing in awe at the giant and relishing his outrageous stories. It was hard to believe that these people were fleeing from a terrible war; that many of them had lost friends, brothers and sons. Their relief at the prospect of escape was showing itself in over-loud laughter and jests. Waylander transferred his gaze to Durmast's men, sitting in a group apart from the others. Hard men, Durmast had said, and Waylander knew their type. They were not hard, they were murderous. In days of peace and plenty, the worthy townsfolk who now laughed and sang would bolt their doors against such as these; you could not have paid them enough to travel with Durmast. Now they laughed like children, unable to see that their danger was just as great.