What he wanted to know now, though, he could learn nowhere but here. What was the connection with Liakopulos? The learning process looked more dangerous than he had expected.

„Does Sam's place here have a room with doors and locks? I assume the men sleep in a barracks."

„They do. You'll have to ask Mister Chordine's brother if you want locks. He runs the show here." The master guided the caravan into a side street, and soon into a staging compound of vast size. It was structured as a small fortress, with only one gate penetrating its twelve foot adobe walls. Stables lined the walls inside, and in the center of the compound stood several three-story buildings, back to back, like a group of men facing out toward their enemies. Michael went and presented his letter of introduction to Sam Chordine's brother.

Three days passed. Michael learned almost nothing. The people of Al Rhemish were tight-lipped and grim. They spoke to one another less than they did to foreigners. Most vigorously pretended that their King did not exist.

Michael saw little evidence of Megelin's presence, other than the ubiquitous fear. Few Royalist soldiers patrolled the city. They seemed unnecessary. Then, too, Megelin's army was still scouring the wastes for El Murid's followers. The little Michael heard indicated the King was having no luck. Hammad al Nakir was vast. There were too many places where guerrillas could hide. The Scourge of God had proven that a generation ago, during El Murid's sweep to power.

Night had fallen. Michael lay on his pallet, staring at the ceiling, wondering how he could penetrate the veil sur­ rounding Norath. One candle wanly lighted his room. He thought he heard a creak from the tower stair. He rose quietly, made sure his door was secure. It was a massive thing of thick oak planks. Only a battering ram could break it down.

The door was fine. He turned to the window, which was sealed by heavy shutters. He had rigged them so he could fling them open if he had to make a hurried exit. They, too, were secure. He returned to his pallet.

The stair creaked again. He took hold of his sword, rested it across his chest.

Michael Trebilcock continuously amazed his friends with his lack of fear. The emotion was alien to him. He only vaguely understood what others felt because his sole touch­ stone with terror was stagefright. When asked to speak before a group, he choked. That was the deep-down essence of his secretiveness. He avoided uncomfortable moments by keeping his secrets and remaining unavailable.

He just plain hated explaining.

His door creaked. He lay still, waiting. Something fum­ bled at the outside latch. Michael smiled. That would do his visitor no good. The door had to be opened from within.

The fumbling stopped. The door creaked under tremen­ dous pressure. Michael's eyes widened slightly. „What the hell?" The timbers crackled. Bits of adobe fell from around the door frame. The whole thing seemed ready to go. Michael rose and opened the shutters, studied the darkness outside.

Something had disturbed the animals stabled along the south wall. Caravaneers with lamps and torches were calm­ ing them. Elsewhere, the compound was as peaceful as a graveyard.

He had a grim suspicion. He went to the door. The pressure had withdrawn. He sniffed, caught a hint of animal odor. A thin smile crossed his pale lips.

He had put it together right. There was a Lord North and his true name was Magden Norath. The Escalonian rene­ gade had survived Palmisano.

Trebilcock had smelled that odor at Palmisano and a dozen other battles. It was the scent of savan dalage, a monster of the night, created in the laboratories of Ehelebe by Magden Norath. They were almost indestructible, and incredibly savage and powerful.

He backed away from the door, mind whirling. This news had to be gotten to the King. It cast light on half the mysteries plaguing Kavelin. Megelin was under the spell of the Escalonian. Only Norath could have created the men who had attacked Liakopulos.

Why? a little voice asked. And that he could not say. There was nothing between the general and the sorcerer to warrant murder. There was nothing between Megelin and Liakopulos.

He could guess, but he dared not guess aloud. His friends would not want to hear his suspicions. And the suspected would try to kill him if they thought him too knowledge­ able.

Whatever, the King had to be alerted to the darkness lurking in Al Rhemish.

The caravan would not leave the holy city for another week. Could he survive that long? With the savan dalage stalking him? With someone sufficiently irked by his pres­ ence to want him destroyed? He doubted it. He had to make other arrangements.

He looked into the compound again. The caravaneers had gotten the horses settled down. They were standing around scratching their heads and cussing.

Something hit Michael's door. The oak planks exploded inward. He glimpsed a dark shape wriggling through. He swung his sword in a two-handed stroke, felt it bite deep.

He hurled himself backward, over the sill of his window.

As he fell, the building reverberated to a shriek like that of a tiger-sized tomcat. Trebilcock twisted, managed to land on his feet and one hand. He twisted an ankle, but not severely. He hobbled toward the astonished caravaneers. „Torches!" he gasped. „Get those torches up. They hate the light."

He heard the whump of a great weight hitting ground behind him. He did not look back. Nor did he turn when he heard claws tearing the compound soil, gaining fast. He seized an oil lantern, whirled, and flung it at a darkness streaking out of the darkness.

The savan dalage twisted aside. The lantern missed its snout, smashed against its shoulder. Michael seized a torch.

The caravaneers scattered—except those rooted in fear.

Trebilcock flung himself forward, reached for the turning beast, touched it with the torch.

The oil caught. Fire spread along a lean, ebony flank. The beast howled. The stables turned riot. The horses began kicking down their stalls.

The savan dalage forgot its mission. A third of its long, hard body ablaze, it streaked across the compound. It reached the roof of the stables with a single powerful bound. It vanished over the wall.

Michael sat in the dirt with head bowed, panting. He felt around for his sword. A thin smile crossed his lips. „Well, you survived their first try, me boy."

The caravaneers gathered round him. „What the hell was that?" one asked.

Michael looked up into eyes grown huge and faces grown waxy with fear. „Where were you during the wars?"

Another whispered the name. „Savan dalage. Here."

Michael raised his left hand. Someone helped him up. „Let's get those horses settled. It's gone. It shouldn't be back tonight."

He might not have to worry about it again, he thought. Norath might take another approach next time. The most logical would be to arrest him.

He had to get the message out quick. There was only one way. He would have to contact one of his local agents, a man no longer reliable. Obviously, Norath had found him and turned him, and had used him to send soothing reports to

Vorgreberg. The man would have to be turned back, if only for a minute.

Darkness still ruled Al Rhemish when Michael roused his former agent. Dawn was barely a threat when he killed the man and took to the streets again, hoping he could swim the lake and vanish into the desert before Norath found his trail.

Survival was a wan hope, he thought as he eased into the cold water. It depended on his message getting through, and his remaining at large long enough for his friends to invent a way to save him.

The air was hot already. It would be a miserable day to be afoot in the desert. He drank all the water his stomach would hold, and filled the wineskin he had taken from the agent he had retired. Then he started up the slope of the valley, picking a few ripe fruits as he went. His boots sloshed with every step. He was going to develop one hell of a crop of blisters.