Jonat swore, then looked into Gellan's face. 'You are not thinking … ?'

'Take the men back to Purdol, Jonat. I'll see you later.'

'You can't...

'No arguments. Get moving!'

Dardalion returned to the fortress and his sleeping body. His eyes flickered open and he swung his legs from the bed. Sadness engulfed him and he covered his face with his hands and wept.

He had watched Waylander's dying body being hauled into the mountain and had sensed the hunger of the mountain dwellers.

Astila entered the room silently and sat beside the weeping priest.

'Waylander is dead,' Dardalion told him.

'He was your friend,' said Astila. 'I am so sorry.'

'I do not know how friendship is judged under such circumstances. We were comrades, I suppose. He gave me new life, new purpose. From his gift of blood came The Thirty.'

'Did he fail in his quest?'

'Not yet. The Armour is safe at present, but a lone woman is carrying it across Nadir lands. I must reach her.'

'It is impossible, Dardalion.'

The warrior priest smiled suddenly. 'Everything we have attempted so far has seemed impossible at the outset.'

Astila closed his eyes. 'The men are coming back with food,' he said. 'Baynha reports there are no losses, but the officer has not yet returned.'

'Good. What of the Brotherhood?'

'There has been no attack tonight.'

'Are they marshalling their forces, or have we beaten them, I wonder?'

'I do not think they are beaten, Dardalion.'

'No,' said Dardalion sadly. That would be too much to hope for.'

Sensing that his leader wished to be alone, Astila left the room and Dardalion wandered to the high window to gaze out at the distant stars.

He felt a sense of calm as he looked into eternity, and Durmast's face loomed in his mind. He shook his head, remembering his own sense of shock as he had sped to Raboas anxious to observe Waylander. He had arrived to see the assassin being tortured and the giant Durmast confronting the Brotherhood.

With all his power, Dardalion had focused a shield over Durmast, blocking the mind spell of the man Tchard. But he could not prevent the terrible swords from plunging into the giant. He had listened as Waylander and Durmast spoke, and a great sorrow touched him as the giant talked.

'Do you think his power could not work against me because I am the Chosen One?'

Dardalion wished with all his heart that it could have been true, that it was not simply a case of happenstance: one man, one spirit in the right place at the right time.

Somehow, he felt, Durmast deserved more than that.

Dardalion found himself wondering whether the Source would accept Durmast. Did a lifetime of petty evil weigh more than a moment of heroism? Somehow it should, and yet …

The priest closed his eyes and prayed for the souls of the two men. Then he smiled. But what would such men make of the peaceful paradise promised by the ancients? An eternity of song and praise! Would they not prefer an end to existence?

One of the old religions promised a hall of heroes, where strong men were welcomed by warrior maidens who sang songs of the deeds of the brave.

Durmast would probably prefer that.

Dardalion stared at the moon … and trembled.

A single question lanced through his mind.

What is a miracle?

The simplicity of the answer dazzled him, as it leapt from the depths of his intellect to cover the unbidden question.

A miracle is something that happens unexpectedly at the moment it is needed. No more than that. No less.

His rescue of Durmast had been a miracle, for Durmast could never have expected such aid. And yet, why had Dardalion been on hand at just the right moment?

Because I chose to find Waylander, he told himself.

Why did you so choose?

The enormity of it all overcame the priest and he stepped back from the window and sat down on the bed.

Durmast had been chosen many years ago, even before his birth. But without Waylander, Durmast would have remained a killer and a thief. And without Dardalion, Waylander would have been nothing more than a hunted assassin.

It was all a pattern, created from an interweaving series of apparently random threads.

Dardalion fell to his knees, overcome with a terrible shame.

Gellan sat beyond the glare of the lanterns and watched the engineers constructing the ballistae. Some two hundred men were at work, hoisting the giant arms of the catapults into place and hammering home the wooden plugs against the resistance bar. At the top of each arm was a canvas pouch in which could be placed boulders weighing almost a quarter of a ton. Gellan had no real idea of the range of the Vagrian machines, but in Ventria he had seen rocks hurled hundreds of feet.

The ballistae were placed on wooden frames with two huge wheels at each corner. They would be hauled before the walls, probably in front of the gate tower.

The bronze-studded gates of oak had so far withstood all assaults. But they would not stand against these engines of destruction.

Gellan glanced at the fortress, silver-white now in the moonlight. The last of the men had been lifted to the ramparts; by now the food would be stored and bronze cauldrons would be sitting atop the cooking fires, bubbling with oats and meat.

Gellan wished he had said goodbye to Jonat. Somehow it seemed churlish to have sent him on his way without a word of farewell.

Pushing himself to his feet he walked boldly into the work area, stopping to study the constructions –peering into the massive joints and marvelling at the scale of the carpentry. He walked on, ignored by all, until he came to a storage hut. Stepping inside, he located the barrels of lantern oil and several buckets.

Removing his helm and breastplate, he filled the buckets with oil and carried them outside, placing them in front of the hut. When he had filled six buckets, he found an empty jar which he also filled with oil. Taking a lantern from a nearby post, he walked to the furthest of the siege engines and calmly poured oil into the wide joint that pinned the huge arm to the frame.

Then he moved to a second engine and emptied the jug over the wood. Pulling the glass from the lantern, Gellan held the flame to the saturated joint. Fire leapt from the frame.

'What are you doing?' screamed an engineer. Gellan ignored him and walked to the first engine, touching the flame to the oil.

The man grabbed him by the shoulder and spun him round, but Gellan's dagger slid between his ribs. Men were running now towards the engines.

'Quick!' shouted Gellan. 'Get water. Over there!'

Several men obeyed instantly, sweeping up the buckets Gellan had left by the hut.

A searing sheet of flame roared into the sky as the oil splashed on to the blaze. A second flare, though not quite as spectacular, streamed from the other machine.

With no time to destroy the third of the ballistae, Gellan backed away from the blazing engines, disbelieving his luck.

It had been so simple, but then he had moved about in an unhurried way and had thus escaped attention. Now he would make it to the fortress and enjoy a good meal.

He turned to run – and found himself facing a score of armed men, led by a dark-haired officer carrying a silver-steel sabre.

The officer walked forward, raising a hand to halt his soldiers. 'Gellan, isn't it?' he asked.'

Slowly Gellan drew his own sword. 'It is.'

'We met two years ago when I was the guest of honour at the Silver Swords tourney in Drenan. You won, I believe.'

Gellan recognised the man as Dalnor, a Vagrian swordsman and aide to the general Kaem.

'It's pleasant to see you again,' said Gellan.

'I take it that you are not considering surrender?'