'The paths of the dead.' Isak nodded to himself, lost in his own thoughts, still gripping Xeliath tightly by the hand. 'It has felt that way sometimes, as though I can feel the footprints below me and the ghosts alongside.'

'They are there, never forget that, but they do not own you; not Aryn Bwr, not this shadow Azaer, not even the Gods. You cannot change the past, Isak, but perhaps you can free the future of its shack¬les. In a land under shadow, you can give the hope of dawn.'

Isak looked humbled by her words. This was a hard thing to lay on someone so young, she knew that all too well, yet there was no other course: she had to trust him, and hope he was strong enough to bear the strain. The choices were ultimately his alone. For all her wisdom, she couldn't make them for him.

She looked from the hulking lord to the girl intended as his queen. Xeliath had been quiet throughout their exchange, perhaps feeling an echo of Isak's pain.

'I hope to see you in Scree, and show you that you will not have to do this all alone. There are those who care, those who will make sac-rifices when it becomes necessary. And now-' she raised an eyebrow in Xeliath's direct ion, 'now I should leave you two alone.'

CHAPTER 14

Count Vesna looked out through the trees at the scrappy tufts of grass that were briefly bathed in sunlight as a break appeared in the cloud. Behind him a horse whickered softly. He saw his own horse's ears twitch, but a reassuring pat on the neck was enough to keep the borrowed animal steady. He shifted his feet slightly, wincing as he accidentally pressed down on his damaged toe, the product of a lucky escape two days past. The little horse turned and inspected the count, nostrils flaring, questing towards his hand in case a treat was on offer. He forced a smile and rubbed its nose affectionately, then sighed and returned to his vigil.

The only sounds came from the river ahead and the small stream to his left that ran into that river. He could hear nothing from the men positioned on the other side of this small wood, something he'd have considered a blessing at any other time this last week. The war had dragged on a long time in Tor Milist and now most of the duke's soldiers were little more than irregular troops, some no more than bandits enjoying the protection of a banner.

Their commanders exerted no control – indeed, many were worse than their troops – and rape and pillage were more common features of the war than actual battle. It had been a blessing to get away from the drunken louts who were his temporary allies, but Vesna couldn't shake the feeling that they might have slipped away instead of stick¬ing to the battle plan.

'You look like a man who's thinking too hard.' The speaker, his rough Lomin accent harsh to Vesna's ears, was a bearded veteran he'd promoted to sergeant-at-arms as soon as he'd met the man. Sergeant Tael was a dour forester in the employ of the Duke of Lomin, whoever Isak decided that was now to be, and one of the few old bands in his regiment. 'Men who think too hard before a battle don't come back.'

'I know that,' Vesna replied, 'but I've no intention of dying here.'

'Do any of us?'

Vesna forced a wry smile. 'You're a tight-mouthed bastard, Tael. I don't pretend to know what you intend.'

The comment provoked a snort from the sergeant. 'Aye, well, it ain't to die here. I've a grandchile on the way and I'm looking forrard to bouncing a rabble of little'uns on m'knee before I go.'

Tael squinted at Vesna, then gave the count a calculating look. 'From your face, I'd say you're thinking about your own.'

'Remember your place, Sergeant,' Vesna warned, more out of habit than anger.

'Aye sir, but I don't want to see a hero die in such a Gods-forsaken place either. Might lose m'faith if that happened. More important, it'll be one damn sight harder for me t'get home in one piece if you're dead.' He waved a dismissive hand towards the horsemen behind. 'These gutless shites won't hold if they see you go down.'

'They're not all bad.'

'Not all, but enough. The men we got from Saroc are fine troops, but neither captain is worth much. One's new, other's too well-bred lor his own good.'

'Enough!' Vesna snapped. 'They're your superiors, and it is not your place to rate officers, only follow their orders. Clear?'

Aye, sir,' he drawled. From the set of the sergeant's face, Vesna could see it wasn't the first dressing-down the man had had for voicing his opinions. There were scars on his face that he wore proudly – one very obviously an infantryman's spear-cut – but there were probably scars on the man's back that he was less proud of.

Vesna surveyed the rest of his men. Four regiments in total: the two from Lomin and Tildek he'd fought against all too recently, one from Saroc and another from Nerlos – now with a complement of little more than three hundred men. They had all undergone the general I raining that was their liege's most vital duty, but few had real battle experience. The regiments Duke Certinse had provided contained some veterans, but most had been too young for the patrol rotation of those parts, where most Lomin men gained their experience. Unfortunately for the Farlan, it was the current set that had been wiped out before the battle of Chirr Plain, so Certinse had chosen on the basis of the commander's loyalty.

'They're cowed, no more than that,' Vesna muttered to himself.

'There's little to be proud of in these parts, and a soldier needs that.'

The men were hidden in a gentle dip in the ground. The trees, mostly elms, stretched past the stream for another few hundred yards, beyond which, Vesna devoutly hoped, his allies still waited. They were the dregs of six regiments, now fewer than three hundred in number, led by a man with a scar around his neck that was clearly a noose burn. The troops paid lip service to Duke Vrerr's battle orders. They killed the enemy whenever they had the advantage, and ter¬rorised the region in between sorties. A soldier found pride where he could. Only wide-eyed boys thought there was much praiseworthy to be found in war itself, but even the old hands among the Farlan were sickened by some of the things they'd seen here.

Nothing had been prohibited by the duke, and the mercenaries employed by the White Circle were just as bad. Vesna had heard from his new allies that part of the legion they had been tracking were sav¬ages recently come from the Waste, bringing with them a host of evil magics and rituals. They'd heard rumours of small battles being fought in the deepest part of the Waste; of a so-called king of the Waste who was fighting all and sundry – the Elves, the Siblis, even the Menin, if the more fanciful tales were to be believed. Vesna believed little of this, but he had to admit it was worrying that they heard anything from the Waste.

The Travellers, the wandering tinkers, provided most of their in¬formation about those parts, telling tales of huge fertile plains in the areas less affected by the destruction of the Great War where towns had sprung up. Perhaps a king of the Waste had indeed arisen, and it was Isak's destiny to defeat the man. It was a depressing thought. Vesna had always feared the Waste. It was irrational and childish, he knew that, not based on anything in particular, but it awakened a nebulous terror, nightmares of his bones slowly decaying inside his armour while his soul wandered a blasted landscape with only the wind for company.

A burst of voices and clattering weapons broke the peace of the day as a flock of starlings leapt from the trees, startled into flight and heading as one over the river ahead. Vesna raised a hand to signal his sergeants. Tael gave a short whistle that was echoed down the line and the troops swung up into their saddles. Vesna did likewise, and stood high in the saddle to check his men. Spears were raised to signal readiness and the men began to drift towards the edge of the wood. Beyond the tree line the noise grew as shouts of alarm came from the thieves and murderers on the other side. The enemy had been sighted.