It was the biggest animal Gathrid had ever seen. The warrior's lancehead seemed to have been wrought of living fire.

The Ventimiglians ignored him.

"That would be Honsa Eldracher, eh?" Rogala shouted as he pounded up beside Gathrid. His yell seemed to come from far away.

"Probably." Gathrid found his own voice unnaturally loud.

"Watch the moon!" Rogala bellowed. "She's the lady of the moon."

Several Ventimiglians started their way.

Gathrid glanced toward the western horizon. The silver of the moon hung a half hour short of setting. The comet looked like a silver blade stabbed through the fabric of the sky.

Rogala laughed. "Looks like they don't want us hanging around."

Gathrid wondered why the dwarf was amused, then realized that, of his own volition, he was carrying Daubendiek unsheathed. Sharp disgust fluttered across his mind. No wonder Rogala was cheerful. There would be blood for Suchara. The blade had seduced him into wielding it without thought.

He rebelled. For just a second. Then he thought, this once Suchara's interests are my own.

There was little he could do anyway. Daubendiek would not be sheathed unblooded.

The feeling of growth came over him. He gazed with scorn on these puny mortals who would dare try delaying him. When he dismounted and stalked toward them, a susurrus of awe swept the Ventimiglian encampment. They were afraid.

He whirled Daubendiek overhead and laughed as he strode toward the witch.

Silence gripped the land. Fifty thousand chests ceased heaving in mid-breath. The sliver of setting moon waxed brighter, till it rivaled the sun. Sudden ropes of silver danced around the witch. Her arms rose. Her fingers moved in intricate patterns. Her liquid voice seemed to come from everywhere as she sang forth her Power. The ropes wove themselves into brilliant nets. Soon she was a singing spider at the heart of a scintillating web.

Around her, in a faint mist, a huge feminine face could sometimes be seen.

From one of Gathrid's stolen memories came the thought that the spider image was apt. No man without great Power could hope to escape soul-devouring destruction once in the web's grasp. In that way it was like Daubendiek.

A strand snaked his way, questing like a blind serpent. It lashed out. Daubendiek severed it. The loose end darkened, scorched the earth, faded into mist.

Then there were a dozen attacking strands. Daubendiek became a blur. Gathrid continued toward the platform, trailing reblackened earth. The web thickened till he could no longer discern the woman.

Daubendiek moved so swiftly that it destroyed strands faster than the witch could spin them.

Occasionally one strand would penetrate his guard and for a moment touch him with a draining coldness. The Sword's power shielded and fed him, but each touch left him a little weaker. In snippets he felt what it was like to receive Daubendiek's cool kiss. His leg began to ache, his eyelid to droop.

He saw with clarity greater than ever before, as if the cold caresses were freeing his mind while Daubendiek took complete bodily control. He discovered ways he could regain control if he desired, but dared not attempt lest he divert the Sword's attention. Their purposes were one just then.

Anyeck had to be rescued from her folly. He was sure his sister stood at the heart of the web.

There was a flavor to it redolent of her personality.

The web drew inward as the witch realized she faced no easy foe. She formed a dense silver chrysalis around herself, adjusted the web till the only strands remaining were those attacking Gathrid. Their number increased. He wondered if she knew whom she faced. He also wondered if this were the sorcery intended for Katich. He could picture the web crawling over the city, sending strands into barracks and homes. The Blue Brothers and Honsa Eldracher might protect themselves, but ordinary, Powerless citizens would be slaughtered. She would grow stronger. The Ventimiglians would move in, unresisted, to finish with steel those engrossed in surviving the sorcery.

Almost imperceptibly, Daubendiek weakened. Deep as it had drunk since awakening, it did not have the strength to withstand this forever. Gathrid felt its first faint stir of uneasiness.

But the witch's power was waning too. The strands grew fewer and slower. Her remaining strength she used to maintain her chrysalis. Gathrid was now just twenty feet away.

Beyond the silvery glare, the moon began sliding behind blackened hills.

She knew, went entirely defensive.

Singing victoriously, Daubendiek drank the lives of fear-frozen Ventimiglians, renewing itself.

Then it flew into desperate play against a last surprise assault by the witch.

A beam of silver speared from the chrysalis. The woman's protection evaporated as its power fed the beam.

Daubendiek absorbed it, its voice changing from song to moan. Ventimiglians by the thousands fell to earth, clawing their ears.

The moon sank lower and lower.

Weariness devoured Gathrid's sword arm. The feeling of giganticism faded. His leg burned.

Daubendiek had begun drawing on him.

He saw Rogala rushing toward him. Probably to salvage the Sword if its Bearer fell. To pass it on, he thought.

The upper limb of the moon perished behind the hills.

The witch's power frayed. Her spear of light faded.

Gathrid forced himself forward, limping. His leg hurt more than when he had been stricken with polio. His sword arm sagged, dragging the silver beam with it. Daubendiek's bloody tip began tracing a line in the barren earth.

He faced her from the foot of the platform. Anyeck, definitely. She recognized him, too. She showed more fear than surprise.

They exchanged stares. Defeat had stamped out shadowed hollows in her once beautiful face. Her golden hair had become a moonlike silver. She looked older than their mother had on the day of her death. And the surrender of Kacalief had aged their mother terribly.

Gathrid felt no sense of triumph. He was tired and disappointed and profoundly sad. He had clung tight to a wan hope that this moment would not bring him face to face with his sister.

Communication came in almost imperceptible gestures. Gathrid frowned questioningly. Anyeck responded with a slight shrug. She did not know why, only that she had been drawn. Chosen. Just like her more successful brother. She frowned a What now?

He nodded, meaning she should come down.

Strength, flowing from the final reserves deep within himself and the Sword, gradually eased his weariness. His leg ceased aching. He regained control of his eye.

From his saddle, Rogala observed, "We'd better get moving. The natives are getting frisky." He pointed with a dagger.

The Ventimiglians were coming out of their daze. And Honsa Eldracher was making a sortie from Katich. He looked likely to rout the easterners.

Minor sorceries began clashing nearer the city.

"I suppose. Where's my horse? And round one up for my sister. We'll take her with us. She may serve the Alliance better than she served the Mindak."

Rogala shrugged. Gathrid thought he saw an evil little smile cross the dwarf's lips.

Anyeck set foot to earth. Nervously, she awaited his will.

Daubendiek struck.

It was sudden, unexpected, and surprised Gathrid completely. The blade simply flashed out and plunged deep into his sister's body.

Their shared screams seemed to echo on forever. The taking of her went on and on and on. As she became a part of him, her pain and anger took effect. Her hatred joined his and became a thing almost superhuman, almost as powerful as the Sword itself. He sensed a faint apprehension in the blade.

She died her little death with a single soft cry. Gathrid cried out at the same instant, hating himself for the pleasure he felt through the misery.