'And Lesarl?'

'The Chief Steward is a sadist who loves his power, but he is a devoted vassal of Lord Bahl who knows that he can find his pleasures pursuing the interests of the tribe. Spies and assassins are his toys; his loyalty is assured because it affords him what he loves most. Even Le-sarl's enemies would acknowledge that he is a genius of a governor. I believe he will honour you when you are his lord. Until then, perhaps he thinks you have to learn to be a lord worthy of honour?'

Isak looked again at General Lahk, considering Vesna's words. There was logic there, and though that didn't mean it was necessarily true, he would lose nothing by playing along. 'So who are my enemies then?' he asked mildly.

'Right now, your enemies are camped outside Lomin. To forget that

could be fatal.'

The days passed quickly. Isak remembered little of his dreams except

for the clamour of battles he hadn't fought, and that same searching voice; of the days, almost as little. He felt exhausted from lack of sleep, and was lulled into a constant doze by the uniform grey sky and the sway of his horse. Bahl had told him that he would need to draw in on himself and prepare for the battle, but Isak couldn't have done much else anyway.

The nag of the enemy somewhere ahead remained a faint prickle at the base of his skull as he ran through control exercises in his mind. He couldn't release magic yet, but drilling the theory of defending himself from it might just save his life. Half a dozen times, General Lahk flinched in his saddle as he felt a burst of energy pulse out from the Krann as he practised.

A week later there was a distraction from the normal tedium of the march, as scouts reported the enemy had been sighted moving away from Lomin to open ground. Isak didn't understand, until Vesna explained that by withdrawing early, the elves were in effect picking the battleground, to ensure they had room for their superior numbers instead of letting isolated groups be picked off one at a time by the Farlan cavalry.

Karlat Lomin rode into camp with his hurscals ahead of his foot soldiers, who were hurrying to join up with the cavalry, to offer grudging obeisance. Vesna found Isak pawing listlessly at a bowl of fatty broth and fussed over his appearance until Isak was smart enough – and alert enough – to meet Scion Lomin. Hauling Isak to his feet and buttoning his tunic had had very little effect; it was only when Vesna fractionally touched the scabbard holding Eolis that he was rewarded by a glare that showed Isak was at last fully awake.

The young wolf cut an impressive figure in the bronze and red of his family. His scarlet-stained helm, shaped like a wolf's head, glowed eerily in the firelight as he reined in by Isak's tent. He wore only half armour, cuirass and mail atop expensive leathers worked with gold and bronze thread. The wolf's head hung from his saddle like the bloody trophies Isak had once seen hanging from the walls of a Chetse town.

As Lomin slid nimbly from his saddle, Vesna moved ahead of his lord to greet the man. One of the hurscals took half a pace forward and a thin smile crept on to Isak's face as he saw the intent to stir up trouble, but Lomin raised a finger to stop the man. Clearly these two had met before.

'Good evening, Scion Lomin,' called the count in a cheery tone, his palms upturned in traditional welcome. He took great care over the younger man's title, one that was inferior to his own.

The scion took his time acknowledging Vesna's greeting. Hand-ing his reins to a page, he carefully shook out his long straight black hair and fiddled with the gold clasps on each shoulder that held his cloak. Isak could see that these too were wolf heads – interesting; they should have been the Keep device of the Lomin family. Once the clasps were arranged to his satisfaction, Lomin looked at the count, his lips thinned into a line of distaste. That one look was enough to convince Isak that Vesna would be loyal to him: it was pure hatred. 'The evening is not good, Count Vesna, and neither am I Scion.' Vesna forced himself down on to one knee as Lomin strode imperiously up to him. 'Then you have my apologies, Duke Lomin,' he said, reaching out to touch the ducal seal.

The duke raised a finger to cut Vesna off. 'Duke Certinse, Vesna. I have decided to take my mother's family name.'

Isak saw Count Vesna's shoulders tense. That Karlat Lomin – now Certinse, he must remember that – had eschewed both his own family name and that of his city, favouring his mother's powerful family, was a studied insult to Lord Bahl's position.

Somehow, Vesna managed to maintain the level of respect required of him, unclipping his sheathed sword and holding it out hilt-first to his enemy in a gesture of deference, muttering, 'Duke Certinse, I apologise, and I grieve for your father. We had not heard his illness

had won out.'

'It didn't. Weak as he was, my father was not one to be beaten by an ill humour. A team of assassins breached the walls two nights past. They murdered him in his bed before firing the keep. Only my mother and I survived. Ten elven assassins managed to murder my entire family, fifty guards and burn my home. The wall guards tell me some even made it back to their lines.'

All around, protocol was forgotten in the horror of the news and a hundred voices murmured rage and disbelief, common soldiers and nobility alike cursing in the same breath. Only General Lahk's voice interrupted as he called for the watches to be doubled and the fires banked high. That assassins could penetrate one of the most secure of the Farlan keeps was a horrifying thought. Isak heard a knight mutter 'sorcery', as he thought the same thing.

Before him, Duke Certinse stood appreciating the effect he'd had. One gloved hand rested lovingly on the hilt of his sword. At his father's death he had inherited Bloodlight and Lomin's Torch, weapons that only those of the Chosen could surpass. It was rumoured that the young man, still only twenty summers, had never had any love for his popular father, or any of his siblings. The young wolf held only his mother in his heart. He was her very image, made masculine.

Despite the shock, Isak couldn't help but wonder why only those two had managed to avoid the tragedy. 'I'm sorry to hear that,' he rumbled gravely. 'Everyone spoke well of Duke Lomin, your father. I had hoped to meet him one day.'

Silence returned to the scene and faces turned to watch the two men. Duke Certinse took in Isak, bigger even than when he'd left Tirah, and nodded curtly. He was obviously unhappy about being in the presence of someone whose image overshadowed his own. He walked over to Isak, and, as Vesna had done to him, he held out the hilt of Lomin's Torch to Isak and grudgingly touched the dragon-ring on Isak's hand. Certinse might be a duke now, and thus outrank Isak, but the Krann had been given specific command of the army and so carried BahPs authority in lieu.

Behind Certinse, a page had the hem of his cloak bunched in his hand. The boy's pudgy face was frozen in fear and Isak's sharpened senses caught the faint stink of urine. He couldn't blame the boy, having to come to within a few feet of such a monstrous figure, but he doubted the duke would be so forgiving.

Isak reached out and touched the pommel of the weapon. Certinse flinched in surprise as Isak probed its potency, one finger resting on the figure of a wolf sleeping with nose tucked under its bushy tail. The runes he felt were strong and simple, except for one that gave Isak a sense of bloodlust, a hunger to burn and ruin the flesh of the twisted creatures now advancing.

The rune felt as if it had recoiled at his touch and he withdrew his hand hurriedly. He didn't want to know why it had done that. He might not know much about magic yet, but he was positive some forbidden process had made this. At its very core, the sword knew the taste of elves – it had been quenched in the blood of one.