'What was all that about?' asked Dundas as Gellan moved into the torch-lit stairwell.

Karnak shrugged and walked to the ramparts, gazing r ut over the camp-fires of the Vagrian army around the harbour. Two ships were gliding on a jet-black sea towards the dock, their decks lined with men.

'Gellan worries me,' said Karnak.

'In what way? He's a good officer – you've said that yourself.'

'He gets too close to his men. He thinks he is cynic, but in fact he's a romantic – searching for heroes in a world that has no use for them. What makes a man like that?'

'Most men think you are a hero, sir.'

'But Gellan does not want a pretend hero, Dundas. What was it Vanek called me? A political whoreson? Is it a crime to want a strong land, where savage armies cannot enter??'

'No, sir, but then you are not a pretend hero. You are a hero who pretends to be otherwise.'

But Karnak appeared not to have heard. He was staring out over the harbour as three more ships ghosted in towards the jetty.

Dardalion touched the wounded soldier's forehead and the man's eyes closed, the lines of pain disappearing from his face. He was young and had not yet found need of a razor. Yet his right arm was hanging from a thread of muscle and his torn stomach was held in place by a broad leather belt.

'There is no hope for this one,' Astila's mind pulsed.

'I know,' answered Dardalion. 'He sleeps now … the sleep of death.'

The makeshift hospital was packed with beds, pallets and stretchers. Several women moved among the injured men – changing bandages, mopping brows, talking to the wounded in soft compassionate voices. Karnak had asked the women to help and their presence aided the men beyond even the skill of the surgeons, for no man likes to appear weak before a woman and so the injured gritted their teeth and made light of their wounds.

The chief surgeon – a spare slight man named Evris – approached Dardalion. The two had struck up an instant friendship and the surgeon had been overwhelmingly relieved when the priests augmented his tiny force.

'We need more room,' said Evris, wiping his sweating brow with a bloody cloth.

'It is too hot in here,' said Dardalion. 'I can smell disease in the air.'

'What you can smell is the corpses below. Gan Degas had nowhere to bury them.'

'Then they must be burnt.'

'I agree, but think of the effect on morale. To see your friends cut down is one thing, to see them tossed on a raging fire is another.'

'I'll talk to Karnak.'

'Have you seen anything of Gan Degas?' asked Evris.

'No. Not for several days in fact.'

'He's a proud man.'

'Most warriors are. Without that pride there would be no wars.'

'Karnak used hard words on him – called him a coward and a defeatist. Neither was true. A braver, stronger man never lived. He was trying to do what was best for his men and had he known Egel still fought, he would never have thought of surrender.'

'What do you want from me, Evris?'

'Talk to Karnak – persuade him to apologise, to spare the old man's feelings. It would cost Karnak nothing, but it would save Degas from despair.'

'You are a good man, surgeon, to think of such a thing when you are exhausted from your labours among the wounded. I will do as you bid.'

'And then get some sleep. You look ten years older than when you arrived six days ago.'

'That is because we work during the day and we guard the fortress by night. But you are right again. It is arrogant of me to believe I can go on like this for ever. I will rest soon, I promise you.'

Dardalion walked from the ward to a small side-room and stripped off his bloodied apron. He washed swiftly, pouring fresh water from a wooden bucket into an enamelled bowl; then he dressed. He started to buckle on his breastplate, but the weight bore him down and he left his armour on the narrow pallet bed and wandered along the cool corridor. As he reached the open doors to the courtyard the sounds of battle rushed upon him – clashing swords and bestial screams, shouted orders and the anguished wails of the dying.

Slowly he climbed the worn stone steps into the Keep, leaving the dread clamour behind him. Degas' rooms were at the top of the Keep and there Dardalion tapped at the door and waited, but there was no answer. He opened the door and stepped inside. The main room was neat and spartanly furnished with a carved wooden table and seven chairs. Rugs were laid before a wide hearth and a cabinet stood by the window. Dardalion sighed deeply and strode to the cabinet. Inside were campaign medals ranging over forty years, and some mementoes – a carved shield presented to Dun Degas to celebrate a cavalry charge, a dagger of solid gold, a long silver sabre with the words FOR THE ONE etched in acid on the blade.

Dardalion sat down and opened the cabinet. On the bottom shelf were the diaries of Degas, one for every year of his military service. Dardalion opened them at random. The writing was perfectly rounded and showed a disciplined hand, while the words themselves gave evidence of the military mind.

One ten-year-old entry read:

Sathuli raiding party struck at Skarta outskirts on the eleventh. Two forces of Fifty sent to engage and destroy. Albar led the First, I the Second. My force trapped them on the slopes beyond Ekarlas. Frontal charge hazardous as they were well protected by boulders. I split the force into three sections and we climbed around and above them, dislodging them with arrows. They tried to break out at dusk, but by then I had deployed Albar's men in the arroyo below and all the raiders were slain. Regret to report we lost two men, Esdric and Garlan, both fine riders. Eighteen raiders were despatched.

Dardalion carefully replaced the diary, seeking the most recent.

The writing was more shaky now:

We enter the second month of siege and I see no hope of success. I am not able to sleep as I used. Dreams. Bad dreams fill my night hours.

And then:

Hundreds dying. I have started to experience the strangest visions. I feel that I am flying in the night sky, and I can see the lands of the Drenai below me. Nothing but corpses. Niallad dead. Egel dead.

All the world is dead, and only we mock the world of ghosts.

Ten days earlier Degas had written:

My son Elnar died today, defending the gate tower. He was twenty-six and strong as a bull, but an arrow cut him down and he fell out over the wall and on to the enemy. He was a good man and his mother, bless her soul, would have been proud of him. I am now convinced that we stand alone against Vagria and know we cannot hold for long. Kaem has promised to crucify every man, woman and child in Purdol unless we surrender. And the dreams have begun once more, whispering demons in my head. It is getting so hard to think clearly.

Dardalion flipped the pages.

Karnak arrived today with a thousand men. My heart soared when he told me Egel still fought, but then I realised how close I came to betraying everything I have given my life to protect. Kaem would have slain my men and the Drenai would have been doomed. Harsh words I heard from young Karnak, but richly deserved they were. I have failed.

And the last page:

The dreams have gone and I am at peace. It occurs to me now that through all my married life I never spoke to Rula of love. I never kissed her hand, as courtiers do, nor brought her flowers. So strange. Yet all men knew I loved her, for I bragged about her constantly. I once carved her a chair that had flowers upon it. It took me a month and she loved the chair. I have it still.