Guard.

Another rush of pain coursed through the abbot's body and it was a while before he could speak again. Bahl cradled the man's hand and

waited.

'It's passed. How fares the Land, my friend?'

'Winter is coming. I hope you've trained your chaplains well, I'm going to need-' He broke off as the abbot cried out in pain.

'Oh merciful Gods!' The words that followed were lost, but Bahl was sure he heard 'the Master calls' through the man's torment.

'Is there anything I can do?' Bahl asked, hating the feeling of impotence.

'An orb,' panted the abbot. The pain was consuming him now, but this was a man who'd rallied a broken legion and led their charge with an arrow in his neck, trusting to Nartis that it would not tear the vein. He knew pain well enough; he had never submitted to it. 'I want to feel power in my hands once more before I lose this battle.' The effort of speaking was almost too much for him and he slumped back in his bed, a trickle of blood on his chin where he'd bitten his lip.

Bahl lost no time, for he could feel the shadows grow longer as the presence of Death encroached. Sitting the abbot up, cradling the man in his arms, Bahl began to draw his magic, letting the energies flow through the abbot's body. The old man had been a fair battle-mage in his time, as unsophisticated as a white-eye, but fuelled by his burning faith. An orb was a basic tool of training: it drew energy and spun it into a ball, an excellent way to practise control.

Bahl felt the abbot's body relax as the sudden torrent of magic coursed through his body; that much would kill him in a matter of seconds, but for those moments it overshadowed the pain, and that was enough. With one frail hand in each palm, Bahl trapped the magic between them. The room shimmered with greenish-blue light while the shadows grew darker and colder. Bahl allowed the energies to swirl and dance, touching on the edge of his control before crushing them into an orb smaller than the abbot would have ever managed. This he split into three, letting them orbit each other with ferocious speed

as the unnatural light flew in all directions, lapping around the edges of the abbot's magical books and lovingly stroking the hilt of White Lightning, the broadsword strapped to Bahl's back.

And then the shadows grew and the magic fled. Bahl felt a tremble in his stomach as the Chief of the Gods reached out to gather in the abbot's soul and free him from pain. His friend wore a smile as he died; remembering happier times and honoured by a single tear from the white eye of his lord.

CHAPTER 12

A light shone around his body, tracing the curve and line of his hardened figure, illuminating scars long faded and signs of injury he could not remember. He moved with dreamy lethargy to a silent song. His armour was gone, stripped away from his flesh, but Eolis remained, secured by a bond stronger than ownership. Terribly heavy and crusted with age, it looked frail and vulnerable. Despite that, he

felt sustained.

The chatter and voices that assailed his mind were muted and weak. His shell of flesh and memory was impervious to their touch, but still they gnawed, hungry for attention, or thoughts to feed off. The only one he listened to was a whisper beyond his understanding, a girl's voice that called out, searching for him in the dismal black of night. It was a language he did not recognise, words he could not fathom, but a voice he knew from deep within.

He felt the earth closing around him, as if falling into a grave, but he was not destroyed. He rose again as a shadow, unnoticed by the figures walking past him, wrapped up in their own lives. With Eolis in his hand he was suffused with calm; he patiently ignored the emptiness of death. Though broken and scarred, there was purpose in his bones, and he let them carry him forward towards the shore of a still lake and a figure, stiller than that. The breeze coming off the water brought voices with it, and the tastes of salt and cold blood. Silver shimmered in the sky and the smell of heather and wet stone was all about. He smiled as his blood ran into the earth at his feet.

'My Lord?'

General Lahk's voice jolted Isak from his doze. His eyes shot open in alarm, as vestiges of his dream made him forget momentarily where he was.

'You were sleeping in the saddle again, my Lord.' Though the words contained a reproach, the tone was bereft of emotion.

'Well? What of it?'

'Well, falling from your horse would hardly be a glorious death for me to report to Lord Bahl. If it started suddenly-'

'It won't start suddenly.' Isak reached out and patted the neck of the huge horse underneath him. 'I know perfectly well that this is the best charger in the seven shires, and I'm not going to fall.'

He rubbed his eyes, trying to keep himself awake. They had been riding for several hours that morning, but still he couldn't shake off sleep's embrace. With his blue silk mask on and his fur hood pulled up, Isak had made himself a small pocket of warmth, even while the temperature dropped further every day. The nights on the road were far from peaceful, for the bright warmth of magic of the gifts that Isak kept in reach at all times attracted lonely voices in the night. For the time being, reviving deep sleep eluded him.

He pulled his hood off to let the breeze wake him up a bit. He was always more irritable when he was sleepy, and the general's monotone brought out the worst in him. Scratching at the stubble on his head, Isak sighed and at last turned to look at the man, who sat high and proud in the saddle, his face as blank as ever. Isak had never yet seen him show emotion of any kind – what he would be like in battle was anyone's guess. It was unusual for a white-eye to go through life like that; it was inconceivable that he would be the same on the battlefield.

'So, did you wake me for a reason, or just concern for my health?' he asked, grumpily.

'I thought you would prefer to be awake as we enter the next town. It's not seemly for the Krann to be asleep when his subjects come out to cheer him. I also have word from your knights from Anvee.'

'What about them? Have I offended them by not sending them orders to accompany me?' In his other life he'd found people took offence at most things, but a court rank had apparently enlarged the range of possibilities, and the things he didn't do were causing him almost as many problems as the things he did.

'They are your subjects. You may offend if it so pleases you.'

'Enough scolding, General, I'm too tired.'

'I lack the rank to scold you…'

'Just shut up and tell me what they said.'

'They were enquiring as to whether they could present themselves to you.'

Isak turned in his saddle, shifting Eolis on his back to sit more comfortably as he waited for further explanation.

'They number five hundred – an impressive number for Anvee, which of course is the intention. They are most anxious to please their new liege. The problem is that a number of the knights and most of the cavalrymen are your bondsmen.' He waited for a response, but got none.

Isak sat with a blank expression. As a wagon-brat he'd never had any reason to leam the laws of land-locked men. His father had called it a collar that choked honest men into slaves. Carel had laughed at that and not bothered to argue, his chuckles indicating that Herman's opinion was so foolish it didn't even merit a response.

The general persisted. 'Lord Isak, Anvee has been without a suzerain for many years. It has therefore been of advantage to pledge a bond of service to the title of Suzerain Anvee itself, since the benefits of that bond come with few of the requirements one normally expects. They are therefore now a little unsettled that a suzerain has been appointed – they now have responsibilities to you, and they are trying to keep to the letter of the law until they can judge your disposition.'