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Chapter 15
The Killing Ground

The Cataracts: 30th of Winter

The first skirmish came shortly after midnight on the thirtieth when a dozen Waster scouts from the Horde ran into a Kencyr ten-command on wide patrol about a mile from the foot of the Mendelin Steps. The result was eleven dead scouts and one prisoner.

News of this encounter spread through the Host in quiet ripples from camp to camp. Because the Horde itself wasn't expected until midmorning, however, no one leaped to arms. The older veterans, in fact, went back to sleep. For a good many, though, this was their first major battle, and they began quietly to prepare for it.

Harn walked up through that subdued stir, bringing the prisoner under guard to the Highlord's tent.

Burr barred his way at the outer door. "Sir, I've finally managed to clear out all those Karkinoran nobles and to get my lord to lie down. He's asleep."

"No, I'm not," Torisen called from the inner room. Harn entered to find the Highlord stretched out on his cot, fully clothed, hands behind his head. He opened his eyes. "What is it?"

Harn told him about the clash beyond the stairs. Torisen immediately rose and went with him back through the war-guard's quarters to the outer chamber where the Wastelander was being held. They all regarded the prisoner curiously. He was clad in a patchwork of poorly cured hides, some still tufted with mangy fur, others that looked human. Charms made of teeth and hair hung about his neck. Around his waist was a belt studded with nipples.

"B-but what's wrong with his face?" Donkerri blurted out, staring.

The man seemed to have two of them, one inside the other. The outer skin was wrinkled and translucent. It looked dead. Other features moved ghostlike beneath it. Harn reached out. The man tried to lurch back, but the guards held him. The outer skin came off in Harn's hand, and the scalp with it. Underneath was a smooth face and shaved head. The Waster glared at them with yellow eyes slit-pupiled as a cat's, while Harn held his trophy at arm's length.

"What is this thing?"

Torisen took it from him and spread it out to show the Wolver who had just come in. Grimly nodded.

"It's a death mask," said Torisen. "Surely you've heard stories about them, Harn, even if you've never seen one before in the . . . er . . . flesh. The Wasters believe that a man's strength passes to whoever wears the flayed mask of his face. Each elder is supposed to wear the face of his tribe's founder. If that's true, some of these masks must be centuries old."

The prisoner suddenly exploded into vehement speech that sounded like the yowl of a cat fight. He ended with a burst of scornful laughter, baring filed teeth.

"Ka'sa dialect, I think," said Torisen. "That's one of Ashe's specialties. Where is she?"

"I sent a messenger," said Harn, "but he apparently hasn't found her. Come to think of it, I haven't seen her either since the White Hills. As near as I can make out, though, this chap says we're all going into his tribe's cookpot now that—someone—has come back to lead them."

"Who?"

Harn scratched his shaggy head. "Well, I think he said the tribe's forefather, but that hardly seems likely."

"I wonder. Have all the founders come back?"

Harn laboriously translated this question into dialect and got another spat of snarling syllables in reply. "He says the Horse-head and the Goat-eye tribes have, as well as several others. They all follow his people in the circling and apparently are allies of a sort. The other tribes are fed-chi . . . dog's pus. So are we, by the way, and then some."

"By which I gather that news still only passes among one's immediate connections, unless the elders are better informed," said Torisen. "Interesting."

He fell silent, pursuing his own thoughts, while Harn made another halting attempt to question the scout and in return got what sounded like a ritual chant extolling the great strength and vast appetite of his tribe's founder. The uproar stopped abruptly when Harn, in disgust, rapped the Wastelander on the head with his knuckles. The guards took the man out, reeling between them. Harn threw the death mask after them, then turned on the Highlord.

"What's interesting?" he demanded.

"Why, that the Horde hasn't suddenly become one big, happy tribe, all bones buried and never mind who ate whose grandfather. It isn't primarily a question, then, of unification but of motivation. The Horde is marching against us because its founding fathers have returned and told it to. It needn't even be all of the founders, either. If any sufficiently large clump of tribes broke the circle and set off on a tangent, the others would probably follow out of sheer habit."

"That's right," said the Wolver excitedly. "They've been like dogs sniffing after each other for so long that it's probably second nature now. In that case, if you somehow manage to turn the ones under orders, the rest will follow."

"Yes, but under whose orders?" Harn growled. "Who are these so-called founders when they're at home? Are we up against three-hundred-year-old ghosts now?"

"After the past few weeks," said Torisen dryly, "it wouldn't surprise me. But I'll give you a more likely name: changers."

"Eh?"

"Well, consider: We already know from Tentir that at least one of them is mixed up in all this. What if there are more, masquerading as the tribal forefathers? The death masks would give them faces of a sort to copy. You know that I've always thought some darkling influence was at work in the Horde. This isn't quite what I had in mind, but it would still explain a good many things."

Harn snorted. "Yes, everything except how to fight them, unless you mean to dig firepits all over the landscape and shove them in. Hello, what do you want?"

A breathless messenger had appeared in the tent opening. "Sir, our wide patrols have apparently run into the vanguard of the Horde . . . less than two miles from the Steps."

"What!" Harn sprang up. "Why didn't the lookout on the escarpment spot them?"

"Sir, they're coming on without torches. We think they must have started a forced march just after dark. The main body of the Horde is still apparently hours away."

"Ancestors be praised for that at least. Off you go, then, and sound the alert. If you're right," he said to Torisen as the messenger darted off, "this vanguard is the lot under orders. Nice to know who one's enemies are, isn't it?" He bared his teeth in a fierce grin and left the tent.

Just outside, the Knorth warhorn sounded. Like the rathorn battle cry, it began with a shriek, then abruptly deepened into a roar that made cups on a nearby table rattle. Before it hit the second, deeper note, it was joined by the howl of Danior's horn and a moment later by those of the other seven houses as the alarm spread. The Host awoke with a shout.

"So now it starts," Torisen said quietly to the Wolver.

As the wild cacophony of the horns died, thunder could be heard growling in the south, and stars began to wink out one by one before the coming storm.

* * *

"DO YOU MEAN TO SAY," said Danior, shouting to make himself heard, "that it's always like this in the heart of the Wastes?"

"Worse, my boy," Ardeth shouted back. "Much worse. The Horde circles a perpetual maelstrom. Be glad they only brought a touch of it with them."

"Hold on," said Torisen sharply.

Another blast of wind hit, making Brithany stagger and the two heavier war horses brace themselves, ears flat. They were on top of the escarpment. The leading edge of the storm had reached them, bringing strong, shifting winds and a darkness hard even for Kencyr eyes to penetrate. Far back in the plain's gloom, the Horde's torches sparkled fitfully like stars fallen to earth. From below came the confused sounds of battle. Then lightning split the sky almost overhead with a crash that made the horses jump. In the darkness that rushed in again, the image remained of a seething mass extending from the foot of the steps almost a mile back onto the plain. The full body of the vanguard had arrived.

"Now that, as Lord Brandan said, is moderately impressive."

No one had noticed Prince Odalian ride up. His voice, speaking in a lull, made them all start.

"I've been settling my people in at the second barricade, relieving yours, Lord Danior, according to plan," he said. "Lord Ardeth, your people seem to have the first barricade well under control, although I think they're getting tired. One hour is too long a stint, considering the opposition."

"Still bad, eh?"

"Worse than ever. They just keep coming, and the bodies are starting to pile up. That lower barricade may have a twelve-foot drop on the far side, but if this keeps up, they'll be able to climb over it soon using their own dead as a ramp."

"Nasty," said Torisen.

"And then some."

"I wish we could see what's going on," Danior complained. He had ridden over the edge of the escarpment and was trying to peer back up the gorge. "These damned trees . . . wait a minute." The tenor of the shouting below had changed. A rising gust of wind brought a cacophony of Ka'sa war cries—the names of tribal founders, mostly—shrill with blood-lust and triumph.

"Something has happened," Torisen said sharply.

He wheeled Storm and set off at a gallop northward toward the head of the stairs with the others riding after him. Halfway there, a messenger met them.

"My lord! The first barricade has fallen, and I don't think the Karkinorans will hold the second!"

"Oh, won't they, by God," said the Prince through his teeth. "We'll see." He spurred on with his retinue scrambling to catch up.

"What happened?" Torisen demanded.

"Lord, t-they say that Pereden came to the barrier and ordered his father's men to withdraw. They hesitated, and—and were overrun . . . Lord Ardeth!"

Torisen turned quickly to find Ardeth bent forward over Brithany's neck. He caught the old man's arm to steady him.

"Adric, listen! I told you about our suspicions that changers are leading the Horde. Well, this proves it. That wasn't your son Pereden. Do you understand? Do you?"

Ardeth drew himself upright with an effort and nodded. His face was haggard.

"Good. I thought you were going to have a heart attack."

"I . . . was seriously considering it."

"Listen!" said Danior.

The uproar in the gorge was getting louder. Then it swept northward. About a quarter of a mile ahead, dark figures began to spill off the steps into the lower meadow. There were hundreds, thousands of them. Shrill Ka'sa war cries rose in a continuous chorus.

"They're between us and the main body of the Host," said Torisen. "Damn."

"Shall we fight our way through?" Danior asked eagerly.

"With a combined war-guard of only about a hundred riders?" Then too, there was Ardeth, who still looked shaken and wasn't even wearing full armor since he hadn't expected to take any part in the fighting. This upset had caught them all badly off-balance. Still, "Harn is with the Host. He'll see that the contingency plans go into action. We'll get back as fast as we can, the long way: through the woods."

The Kendar of his war-guard exchanged glances. On the whole, they would rather have gone straight through the Horde.

* * *

THE SURVIVING DEFENDERS of the steps fell back to the bottleneck between the middle and lower meadows where they met the Kencyr reserve coming down to reinforce them. About four-fifths of the Host was engaged now and most of the Karkinoran army, spread across the quarter-mile gap between the river and the woods. No one—Host, Horde, or army—went in among the trees.

Harn met Odalian and the tattered remains of his retinue just behind the front line shield-wall.

"How long can we hold here?" the Prince asked, shouting over the uproar.

"Trinity knows. They just keep coming. We need Gaineron's people, but he hasn't brought them down yet from the camp. Damn that man. If he's forgotten his part in the plan, I'll —I'll have Ashe put him in a song he'll never live down . . . heads up!"

A screaming wave of Wastelanders had charged in among the leveled spears and hit the shield-wall. They swarmed up over it. The first across died on the defenders' swords, entangling them, and the next wave crashed down alive on the far side. Harn swept the Prince behind him. His own shield was only a small buckler strapped to his forearm, but it served to turn aside the Wasters' weapons of stone and bone while his own war axe cleared a bloody arc before him.

He felt the red tide of berserker rage rise in him. The night narrowed to the flash of steel, the spray of blood, the crunch of axe on bone, again and again and again. How simple everything suddenly was. One knew one's enemies, and one killed them. Vaguely, he heard the shout of the one-hundred command that swept in to the rescue, heard the crash of the shield wall closing again against the continuing onslaught from the south. Still deep in the blood-lust, Harn only knew that he was running out of enemies to kill. He turned, questing. Ah, here was one more, the last, the greatest enemy of all. Others tried to stop him. He swept them aside, raised his axe to strike at the slight figure of his foe. It slipped away from his blow. The rage gave him speed and strength, but the other still outmatched him. He struck again, missed again, and in the moment before he could regain his balance, the other caught him. Harn fell. He struggled but was held fast. Someone was shouting in his ear:

"Harn! Commandant! Get control of yourself, man!"

The rage receded. Harn found himself on the ground, caught in an earth-moving grip that completely immobilized him. The voice in his ear was that of the Prince.

"Highness! W-what happened?"

"Well, so far you've slaughtered about thirty Wasters, terrorized your own people, and very nearly massacred what was left of mine. You also seemed pretty determined to make mincemeat of me. Are you still so inclined, or can I let go?"

Harn tested the other's grip again and found it unshakeable. He relaxed with a grunt. "You know a thing or two about the Senethar, don't you, Highness?"

The Prince released him. "I like to think so. Now what?"

The tenor of the shouting had changed to the east.

"Can you hold here?" Harn demanded.

"We can try."

"Good enough."

Harn loped off eastward through the one-hundred command which had helped to close the breach. The Kendar hastily made way for him. Beyond their torches, chaos reigned. To Harn's right was the shield wall with a second and sometimes a third line of defenders behind it. It surged back and forth, roaring, a solid mass of blackness except where torchlight fell on strained faces and the flash of swords. Harn went on behind it, tripping over bodies, slithering on grass wet with blood. Damn this darkness anyway. Deeper patches of it moved across the meadow like cloud shadows, obscuring everything. This was like the fall of worlds after moon-dark, when all things come unmade and the void gapes.

Harn scarcely felt more settled in his own spirit. He had just tried to kill Prince Odalian. One of the few good things about his past berserker rages was that even in the deepest blood-lust, he had always instinctively known friend from foe. Now, for the first time, he had deliberately gone after an ally. He felt as if he were beginning to lose control—of the battle, of himself. Where the hell was Blackie? Harn knew that Torisen was still alive, as did every Kendar bound to the Highlord, but he needed him here, now. Somehow, Torisen's mere presence always helped. Harn had been all right with the Southern Host until the boy had left to become Highlord. If he was starting to lose his grip for good now as aging berserkers often did, it was high time that he turned to the White Knife. But not just yet. Blackie was depending on him to keep his head, to keep control, and so he would, by God—if only he didn't lose his temper. Damn and blast this darkness!

Someone ran into him. "Sir!" It was one of his randon cadets, an Ardeth, almost in tears. "Sir, the line has broken! We couldn't hold. I'm sorry, sir . . ."

Horns in the darkness, signaling three, four, five breaks in the line.

At this point, he should signal plan four—all houses to close the line except Caineron's, which was to deal with those Wasters who had broken through. But as far as he could tell, Caineron was still no place on the field. Damn and blast.

"Signal four and find me a horse," he snapped at the cadet. "Quick, boy!"

The horns belled behind him as he galloped up through the middle field. The night was full of dark, running figures. How could so many have broken through? Suddenly his horse plowed into a knot of them and almost floundered. Hands clutched at him. Ka'sa cries rose in a venomous, suppressed hiss as if he had tumbled into a nest of vipers. His horse gave a shriek and bolted free.

The Host's encampment was a good two miles farther on. Horse and rider scrambled up the Lower Hurdles at a point where the lowest step was only about three feet high and galloped on among the watchfires into Caineron's camp. All the lord's troops were still there. Harn's mount skidded to a stop in front of the tent of Sheth Sharp-Tongue, Caineron's randon commander. The Kendar who ran forward to hold his horse gave the beast a startled look. Harn saw that the animal's flanks and legs were covered with bleeding bites.

He stormed into the tent, sweeping aside Sheth's aide. The commander himself sat at a small table, reading something. Candlelight brought out the hint of Highborn blood in the sharp lines of his face. It said a good deal for the strength of his nerves that he didn't flinch as Harn loomed over him.

"Why in Perimal's name aren't you at your post?" Harn bellowed down at him. "The line was broken, and I've signaled four. Trinity only knows how many Wasters are halfway here now!"

Sheth closed his book and rose. He was thinner than Harn but a good head taller, which gave him the impression of stooping over the burly Kendar. His acrimonious manner, feared throughout the Kencyrath, for once wasn't in evidence.

"Gently, Harn, gently. My lord Caineron ordered that we wait for him to lead us into position. I think," he said, as if the words gave him some difficulty, "that he wants to lead a charge. He's never done that before."

"Well, now's his big chance. So where in all the names of God is he?"

"Gone."

"What?"

"He came back from Hurlen earlier this evening in foul temper. Whatever upset him, I think he was still brooding about it even after the alert sounded around one o'clock this morning. At any rate, his servant tells me that he suddenly acted as if he'd gotten a brilliant idea and went rushing out again with a few of his most trusted war-guard. That was about an hour ago, just before we heard that the barricades had fallen. I have no idea where he is now."

"And you can't move until he gets back."

"No."

"Yes, you can," said a voice at the tent entrance.

The two randon turned sharply to find Donkerri standing there with Kindrie and Burr behind him.

"We came to find out if there was any news of the Highlord," said Kindrie hastily.

"None," said Harn. "Highborn . . . Doni . . . what do you mean?"

"Grandfather told me that if he wasn't here, I had the authority to order his troops to their posts," said Donkerri in a high, defiant voice.

Harn and Sheth looked at each other. They both knew that Donkerri had been disowned and was almost certainly lying. Kindrie knew, too.

"Don't!" he said sharply to the boy. "Think what you're saying."

"I have thought. I owe Torisen a debt. Now I'm paying it."

"Do I understand," said Sheth carefully, "that you are taking responsibility for this, on your honor?"

Donkerri took a deep breath. He was very pale. "Yes."

"Then we can move." Halfway out of the tent, Sheth turned. "Thank you," he said to Donkerri, and was gone. They heard him outside shouting orders.

"Y-you'll tell the Highlord?" Donkerri asked Harn in an unsteady voice. "Try to explain . . ."

"He'll understand, and be very proud of you. Now you'd better come with us."

"Sir, there's no time for the proper rites," Burr protested.

"The essentials won't be up to us anyway, thank God. Just find him a sword."

"And armor?"

"No."

Kindrie caught Harn's arm. "You can't take him into battle, My God, he's only a boy!"

" 'We all find our own rites of passage,' " said Burr unexpectedly. "It was something my lord said at Tagmeth," he explained.

"This rite may have saved us all, but through a lie that's cost Doni his honor," said Harn. "The only way that honor can be restored is through an honorable death. You know that, Highborn."

Kindrie let his hand drop. "Yes," he said numbly. "I know that. Good-bye, Donkerri."

When they were gone, Kindrie stood for a long moment in the empty tent. Outside, horses neighing, shouts, receding hoof-beats. Caineron's troops had been ready to move at a minute's notice for hours and now did so. When the Shanir emerged, all twelve thousand of them were gone, with dust still swirling in the light of abandoned watchfires. Far downfield, horns were sounding the news of a line utterly broken. Then came the Cainerons' eldritch war cry, faint in the distance, and the crash of horses clearing the Lower Hurdles. The wind veered, taking the sounds of battle with it. Upfield, a sheep overlooked by its shepherd was bleating disconsolately.

Kindrie went through the empty camp. No, not quite empty. Ahead was a large tent full of light and activity, guarded by Jaran and Coman one-hundred commands. Inside, bandages were being folded, poultices and potions prepared.

"Yes, Highborn?" A red smocked surgeon bustled up, brisk, impatient. "Can we help you?"

Kindrie gulped. "Perhaps I can help you," he said diffidently. "You see, I'm a . . . a healer, of sorts."

* * *

THE CABLE STRETCHED TO INFINITY. Gleaming water surged over it, under it, pulling, pulling. Her arms ached from fighting the strain. Hemp fibers lodged under her nails like splinters. Every time she released one grip to take another inches farther on, the current tried to sweep her over or under the cable, down toward the rapids. Trinity, what a relief it would be to let go, to rest until she hit the white water and then to die. Drowning was supposed to be an easy death. But her hands went on, grip by painful grip, as if they had determined on their own not to let go of life.

. . . too stupid to give up, too stupid to give up . . .

* * *

JAME BLINKED. She still heard the rapid's almost deafening roar, but what she saw were flames. A small bonfire, with her d'hen and boots drying beside it. A sharp face across the flames turned toward her.

"Hello," said Graykin.

"Hello." She had to raise her voice almost to a shout to make it carry over the water's noise. "I assume I didn't drown."

"Not quite. You got nearly to shore before passing out, and fetched up on some rocks a few yards downstream. We're about a hundred feet farther down the gorge now, about level with the Lower Hurdles. The River Road is on top of that cliff behind us, which you can't see because it's about as light down here as the inside of a boot. So much for the geography lesson. How do you feel?"

"As if drowning might have been a good idea."

She pushed back the blanket and sat up. Her arms felt as if every muscle in them had been pulled. She looked at her hands, at ruined gloves and nails scarcely in better shape. She wouldn't be using them again soon. At least by some miracle Ganth's ring hadn't fallen off. She considered pocketing it, then on impulse stripped off what was left of her gloves, wrapped a bit of fabric around the ring and put it back on.

"Let's see. So far tonight I've fallen out of a tower, almost drowned, nearly been declawed, and now I'm apt to lose my voice from shouting. Once, just once, I'd like to spend a quiet evening at home—wherever that is. So when does your lord Caineron arrive to collect me?"

Graykin spat into the shadows. "He's not 'my lord' anymore. Mind you, he still would be—as much as he ever was—if he had given me what the news of your arrival was worth."

"And he didn't, huh?"

Graykin drew a handful of coins out of his pocket and let them spill, flashing, onto the ground. "What do you think?"

"That Caineron is a fool. Also that you're being very . . . blunt."

He shot her a look across the flames. "I'm no more apt to lie than you are, but there are a hundred ways to hide the truth. I'll never use any of them with you, ever. That's a promise."

She stared at him, wondering if she had heard correctly. "Graykin, that's one hell of a concession. Why? Guilt?"

"No. I simply follow my own interests. Listen: People in power need sneaks like me to be their eyes, to keep their hands clean. I've been Caineron's sneak most of my life—not bound to him, you understand, just letting him use me. Well, that's over now. He'll never give me what I want, but perhaps someday you can. You'll need someone like me when you have power. Oh yes, you'll get it. Nothing stops you. When that day comes, I want to be your sneak—if you're half-witted enough to want me."

Jame shook her head. "Graykin, this is one of the strangest conversations I've ever had, which is saying something. Even if you're right about the power, which I doubt . . ."

"Why should you trust me? A good question. The best I can do is offer two tokens of my good faith. First, this." He picked up a long bundle and handed it to her across the flames. "It's your brother's sword. Caineron wanted it, but he'll have to do without. Second, when we last met, you trusted me with your name. Unfortunately, my Southron mother didn't live long enough to give me one. All my life, I've answered to whatever people chose to call me. But I can tell you who my father is: Caineron."

"Sweet Trinity. Does he know?"

"Oh yes," said Graykin with great bitterness. "He thinks it means that he owns me. I thought that if I served him well, perhaps someday he would acknowledge me as his son. Yes, yes, I was stupid. Just wait until you want something that badly, though, and see how wise you are."

Jame tensed. "Do you hear something?"

They listened. It was so dark that the world might have ended at the edge of the firelight. Beyond that, the river's roar and its echo off the cliff face hemmed them in with walls of sound. They had been exchanging confidences almost at a shout. Now Graykin dropped his voice so that Jame could barely hear it.

"I think something has been going on downstream for some time now. Down here, it's hard to tell, though. There!" He sprang to his feet. "Voices . . . upstream. I'll check. You had better dress."

Jame was pulling on her boots when he came back.

"It's Caineron, searching the shore," he said, kicking apart the fire and stomping on the embers. "He must have remembered the boat cable—a mere five hours after the event. You'd better run for it."

"Where?"

"Up the cliff—there's a path of sorts—and across the road. I left a horse on the far side, tied up behind some bushes."

"Such foresight."

"A sneak's virtue. Here's the sword."

She had to grope for it.

"Here's the path."

She paused in the pitch blackness and caught the hand with which he had been guiding her. "Graykin, I'm going to trust you again. Go to the room where I was staying in Hurlen on the southernmost island. Under a loose board in the corner, you'll find a knapsack. Hang onto it for me. If I manage to get myself killed, let my brother take his turn being responsible for the nasty thing. Promise?"

"Yes . . . my lady."

He spoke with a sort of wonder, as if the title had been surprised out of him. As for Jame, for a moment she couldn't tell where her hand ended and his began. Then torches appeared upstream. She had scrambled nearly to the top of the gorge when the thought struck her:

Sweet Trinity, I think I've just bound that man to me.

Up on the road, the light was better, but just barely. Jame paused, her ears still ringing from the echo chamber of the gorge. What a difference it made to be out of it. To the south she heard shouting, a continuous, distant roar. Graykin had been right: something was going on downstream. And behind? No sound came out of that well of noise except the water's roar, but lights were winding back and forth up the cliff face. Damn. Caineron had found the path.

Jame quickly crossed the road and scrambled down among the bushes on the far side. There was a horse, a white, battle-scarred trooper, straining at his tether. Jame untied him and mounted awkwardly. Whatever else she had learned in Perimal Darkling, apparently no one had taught her horsemanship. The lowest step of the Lower Hurdles stretched out before her like a white chalk wall. She rode westward along it.

Downfield, the shouting got louder. Now horns were blowing, Jame reined in. Thunder came from the north, a continuous, rumbling roll of it. She rose in the stirrups, trying to see over the step, but the tall fringe of meadow grass on top of it blocked her view. The stone of the step face vibrated under her hand. The rumbling grew louder. Her mount snorted and turned to face southward. She could feel him collect himself. Now what on earth . . .

Lightning split open the sky. In that brief, lurid glare, the middle and lower meadows leaped into sight, black with figures running toward her. The rumble grew, thunder crashed, and Caineron's riders came over the lowest step, over her head, in a screaming wave.

Jame nearly fell off as her mount bolted. He hit his stride just as the other war horses recovered from their plunge. She found herself galloping between two riders, one apparently raving mad, the other little more than a boy. The latter stared at her with his mouth open. Jame clung to her horse and to the sword, sure that at any moment she would lose one or both of them. Her feet had already slipped out of the stirrups. The Kencyr line crashed into and through the first wave of Wasters, then the second and third, riding them down. Jame's horse stumbled on bodies, recovered, then put his foot in a rabbit hole and somersaulted. Jame found herself in midair, still clutching the sword. She had just time and wits enough to wrap herself around it before she crashed into the ground. For a moment, the night went very dark indeed.

Some light returned to her stunned senses and sound: a shrill yelling, very close. The boy was standing over her, facing a huge Waster, shouting defiance in a cracked voice. The Waster laughed. His teeth were filed and very white. He scooped the boy up and broke him over his knee like a dry stick. Then he lowered his head to bite.

Jame lurched to her feet with the rathorn war cry of her house. She swung the sword. The blade sheered through its wrappings, through the Waster's boiled leather armor, halfway through his body. He dropped the boy with a grunt of amazement, took a step, and pitched forward on top of her. Jame dragged herself clear. Her right hand, wearing the ring, gripping the sword, tingled as if it had been asleep. So at least one of the stories about Kin-Slayer was true. She drove the blade into the earth and knelt beside her would-be rescuer. With horror, she saw that the boy was still alive.

He stared up at her with blank amazement. "Why, it doesn't hurt at all. I can't feel a thing. Did I do well, Highlord?"

"But I'm n. . . ." She swallowed. "Yes. You did very well."

"Good," he said, and died.

"Tori!" The shout, almost a bay, rose from somewhere close by out of the battle's uproar. "Tori, I heard your war cry. Where are you?" A shaggy figure burst out of the seething darkness and stopped short, red eyes glowing. Its pointed ears flattened and it crouched. "You aren't Tori. Changer!"

It sprang. Jame lunged for the sword, but was knocked away from it. The wolf was on top of her, snapping at her throat. She jammed her left forearm, protected by the d'hen's reinforced sleeve, between its jaws and tried to reach the Ivory Knife in its boot sheath. Her fingers brushed, then grasped it. She was poised to strike when the wolf gave a sudden yelp of astonishment and sprang back, regaining his human aspect in midair.

"You aren't a man!"

"I'm not a changer either," she snapped. "Where's the Highlord?"

"I don't know!" the other wailed. "I leave him on his own just for a minute, and this happens!" He spread his arms to include the entire battlefield with perhaps two hundred thousand warriors locked in bloody combat on it. "Anyway, who in seven hells are you?"

Before Jame could answer, a sizable number of riders bearing torches swept down on them, reining in only at the last minute. Jame found herself among the war horses. Their massive bodies surged around her, white-rimmed eyes rolling in her direction, iron-shod hooves dancing. She whacked one on the nose when it bared its yellow teeth at her.

"Behave, you!"

The beast reared back, snorting, astonished either at the blow or at a voice speaking Kens almost under its hooves. "What in Perimal's name . . ." said its rider, but Jame had already ducked away through the press.

"Grimly!" a voice cried nearby. "Have you seen either Tori or Ardeth?"

"No! Weren't they with you?"

"Well, yes, until we tried to cut through the woods to rejoin the Host. Then, somehow, w-we lost them both."

"What?"

Jame was close enough now to see the speakers. One was the shaggy man who had attacked her, and the other, a young distraught-looking Highborn who apparently led these riders.

"Grimly, it was so strange," the latter was saying. "One minute they were riding ahead of us, then the mist came up and they were gone, except that we could still hear them for a while. Then their voices faded, too. I didn't think we'd ever find our own way out."

Jame retrieved the sword, practically from under the Highborn's horse. "Which direction is this forest?" she demanded.

"Why, that way," Danior pointed. "But who . . ."

She was already gone.

* * *

"THIS IS RIDICULOUS," said Torisen. "Somewhere in the immediate vicinity, the greatest battle of the millennia is raging, and I can't find it. Adric, do you have any idea which way we should go?"

"None, my boy. I'm completely turned around. Really, this is a most peculiar place."

That, thought Torisen, was putting it mildly. The woods were even more a world of their own now than they had been the previous afternoon. Mist lay even thicker on the ground than before, glowing faintly. No sound of battle penetrated here. Lightning occasionally flashed overhead, throwing green leaves into relief, but only a whisper of thunder reached here below. The entire forest seemed to be holding its breath. It was almost as if through mist and misdirection it was trying to keep them from the battle.

No, thought Torisen, irritated with himself. That was pure imagination. He was simply worried about the fight, about Harn's ability to control it, about Ardeth's health.

"How do you feel?" he asked the old man.

"Oh, well enough, considering."

Considering that he was still very close to a heart attack. Damn Pereden anyway. Nothing about this business, desperate as it was, would have upset Ardeth half so much if his wretched son hadn't been mixed up in it.

"Highlord! Torisen!"

A voice in the woods, calling his name.

Ardeth put a hand quickly on his arm. "Don't answer."

"But surely that's Holly."

Brithany was listening, ears pricked. The distant voice called again, joined by another.

"No, that's not Lord Danior," said Ardeth in an odd tone. "I don't know who it is, or what, but as for that other voice . . ."

"It's not Pereden," Torisen said sharply. "I told you about the changers. Never mind who it sounds like. Damn." He swung down hastily from Storm and helped Ardeth to dismount. "Sit down, Adric. Steady, steady . . . there. All right?"

"Yes, yes . . . just let me rest for a minute."

Torisen settled him back against a tree. He always forgot how old Ardeth was, how close to that abrupt slide into senility and death that marked the end of so many Highborn. Adric would probably prefer to die of sudden heart failure or even by his own hand than finish as Jedrak had; but it hadn't quite come to that yet, not if he could spare the old man any further shocks for a while.

Ardeth gave him a rather shaken smile. "Thank you, my boy. You know, it's odd to think that when we first met, you were half the age you are now and I was already old." He shook his head. "Fifteen years ago. I think, on the whole, that we've done rather well by each other."

"On the whole. That sounds like running water. Rest here a minute, and I'll get you some."

He took his helmet from Storm's saddle bow and went to look. Mist drifted between the trees. Forest depths appeared and disappeared silently, gray trunks shining silver in the mist-glow, leaves a pale, luminous green. The liquid chuckle was almost underfoot now, although all Torisen could see was a feathery carpet of ferns. He parted them. The sound stopped instantly. Under the fronds ran a stream made up entirely of bluebells.

Lured.

He tried to find his way back to Ardeth, without success. This was really ridiculous. First he had misplaced a battle and now an old man and two horses who surely couldn't be more than fifty feet away. He called and thought he heard Brithany neigh softly in response, but which way was she? When he tried again, only the voices answered him, calling his name—six, seven, eight of them at least, eldritch and mocking. The one that mimicked Pereden was still recognizable, but the others made no attempt now to sound like anyone he knew.

If he couldn't find Ardeth, he must at least try to lead these pursuers away from the old man to someplace where he could confront them. After all, it was the Highlord whom they wanted. This was his fight.

He raised his helmet to put it on, then hesitated, staring at it. Its polished back seemed to be glowing. No, it was reflecting some light, just as were the inserts of fine chain mesh on the backs of his leather gauntlets. But what possible source. . . .On the helmet, he saw the distorted reflection of his own face with something bright beneath it. The Kenthiar. He was wearing the silver collar with its single gem for the first time since Wyrden, and the gem had begun to glow. Had that ever happened before? He didn't think so, but then in all its long history, no Highlord had probably ever brought the collar to a place like this. Should he take it off before it decided to do something else? No. Better not to meddle. Besides, the damned thing might object to being removed. He put on the helmet, unslung his buckler, and drew his sword. There. Now, which way to go? The voices called again, closer this time, but he still couldn't tell which direction they came from. He set out at random.

The dreamlike quality of the woods grew. The mist itself drifted between glimmering tree trunks, silently, continually changing shape. Torisen was haunted by a sense of constant movement just out of his line of sight. His armor felt almost as if it were deliberately hindering him. Its outer layer consisted principally of rhi-sar leather, boiled, beaten, and finally shaped to his body before it hardened. Although excellent against sword and arrow, it had hardly been designed for sneaking about in a midnight forest. His right boot kept squeaking. All he heard beyond that were the voices, especially the one that sounded so much like Pereden.

"Torisen, where are you?" That voice was calling now in a jeering croon. "Don't run away. Brave, sweet Blackie, wait for me."

Blackie?

Ahead, the trees ended. Was he entering a glade? The mist made it impossible to tell, but he sensed the presence of something solid on either side. Beyond, the feeling of open space returned. The Kenthiar's glow grew. Ferns brushed his knees. Mist swirled, momentarily clearing overhead, rolling back. The walls of the bluff curved around him. At their heights, the stones seemed to shine faintly through the dirt and plant growth accumulated over centuries if not millennia. He was in the hollow at the heart of the wood.

Movement behind him. He turned as figures emerged from the mist—six, seven, eight of them wearing the patchwork skins and ivory ornaments of Waster elders, a ninth in rhi-sar armor stained blue. They surrounded him. So. He saluted the ninth and waited in silence, poised.

* * *

AFTERWARD, Jame remembered little of her hasty trip across the battlefield. Visibility changed practically from step to step. Sometimes whole vistas opened up before her, sometimes she couldn't see beyond her own outstretched hand. The battle seemed to be raging in scattered pockets all over the field as the Wasters who had broken into the middle ground grappled with Caineron's forces above them and the rest of the Host below. She stumbled onto scenes of heroism, carnage, and horror beyond anything she had ever imagined. Here a ten-command under a randon cadet charged a force three times its size to rescue a fallen comrade. There a solitary Waster sat munching someone's arm while the battle surged about him. Her hand was beginning to blister from gripping Kin-Slayer, especially around the ring. This was clearly not a weapon to be wielded without cost. She had no idea how many Wasters she had killed and only a vague impression of the wave of startled half-recognition that followed her.

Here at last was the edge of the woods. Under the leaves, in the glowing mist, she stopped, amazed. It was so like the Anarchies, only somehow less deeply rooted and more awake. The Anarchies had been a sleeping land, thick with ancient power, difficult to rouse in any but a superficial sense. Beneath its surface calm, this place felt as twitchy as a horse's hide in fly season. Before she had gone more than a hundred feet she realized that she was already lost. Damn. She could wander around in here all night, unless . . .

She groped in a pocket and drew out the imu medallion. Waster blood still ran down the sword. She let it drip on the imu's lips.

"All right," she said fiercely to it. "Do something."

It just lay there. As she turned, however, it suddenly tugged at her hand. She went where it pulled her, walking quickly at first, then running. Trees, mist, and then suddenly a stone cliff soaring up overhead. When the imu pulled her left along the base of the cliff, she guessed she was moving southward. Distant voices were calling her brother's name. Jame saved her breath for running. She had gone about a mile when the cliff abruptly fell away to the right. Jame hesitated. Her keyed-up senses told her that she was on the edge of an area thick with ancient power. Like the Anarchies, this was no place for humans, and especially not for anyone with the Darkling taint.

From inside came a sudden shout, ringingly echoed, and the crash of steel. Jame ran toward the sounds.

A fight was going on very close at hand. One voice was shouting almost continually, shrill with rage and hate, against the rasp and clash of swords. Echoes rang from all sides. Sword in one hand, imu in the other, Jame crept cautiously closer. If the mist was this thick throughout this place, she could suddenly find herself too close to the combatants for comfort.

Ah-ha. Ahead it thinned and dropped to knee-level, leaving an arena of sorts a good fifty feet across. Two armed figures confronted each other in the open. One, clad in black and silver, had a glowing jewel at his throat. The other wore dusty blue. Jame dropped to her stomach and wriggled closer under cover of the mist and ferns.

The blue warrior was making all the noise. His technique seemed to consist entirely of fire-leaping swordplay, fast, aggressive, and showy. Every time he shouted, his voice cracked back from the cliff walls and more dirt rattled down from them. The echoes were deafening.

In contrast, his opponent fought in silence, using mostly water-flowing and wind-blowing evasions. Jame knew immediately that this was her brother. "Never make an unnecessary move," Ganth had said over and over when Tori had begun his training at the keep in the Haunted Lands, and she had crept close to watch as she did now. Tori had learned well. His style was as spare and elegant as any she had ever seen and made her remember with some embarrassment all the thrashing about she had done with Kin-Slayer, getting here.

Just then, the blue warrior seriously overextended himself in a lunge. Torisen slipped out of the way, caught the other's sword hand, and jerked him forward even farther into a sharp blow with the hilt of his own sword that drove the other's nasal guard back into his face. The man dropped without a sound. The ground mist swallowed him. Jame almost gave a whoop, but just then Torisen turned directly to her, or so it seemed, and gave a formal salute. She was startled into silence—luckily, as it turned out.

Something moved behind and to either side of her. As she flattened herself under the ferns, the mist withdrew slightly to reveal eight figures surrounding both Torisen and her. She had apparently crept between two without noticing them or being noticed. They were dressed like Waster elders, but something in their eyes gave her pause. If she had been Jorin, the fur would have risen down her spine. The odd thought came to her that this was all a trap that the woods had set for these Darkling creatures, using her brother as bait; but he didn't know how to spring it and neither did she. She edged carefully backward through the ferns.

On the far side of the circle, one of the creatures stepped forward, and Torisen pivoted to face it. It saluted, clenched fists held at waist height, crossed at the wrists—a derisive challenge from superior to inferior. Torisen responded silently with hands holding sword and buckler held uncrossed chest high, the challenge response to one whose rank is unknown. The other gave a scornful snort and picked up its weapon. Worked metal of any sort was rare in the Horde due to its constant movement and general lack of forges. The most prized weapon was a stone-headed axe with a long shaft made from the femur of one of the huge shaggy beasts that pulled their tent wagons. That was the sort of weapon this creature hefted and swung with sudden, murderous strength.

The axe-head glanced off Torisen's steel buckler, denting it. He retreated step by step before the onslaught, using water-flowing and wind-blowing moves to avoid any blow he could. The other followed, snickering.

Just then, Torisen's foot caught in a tangle of ferns. Jame gasped as she saw the killing blow whistle down on him. Unable to sidestep, he caught it full on his shield. The buckler shattered. He was driven down to one knee, his left arm at least momentarily useless. Before the other could recover, Torisen lunged. His blade caught his opponent in the abdomen and ripped upward. He disengaged and staggered back. The other dropped its axe and stood there swaying, arms wrapped around the terrible wound. Why didn't it fall? Instead, it began to laugh, a crazy, giggling sound. It spread its arms. The wound had closed. Torisen threw aside the remains of his buckler and went back a step, sword raised. The blade had been almost eaten through by the other's blood. It fell apart in his hand. Soft laughter rose from all sides.

Changers, Jame thought, horrified. They're all changers.

She gave a shout and threw Kin-Slayer: "Here, Tori . . . catch!" The mist closed around her as she ducked back into it, drawing the Ivory Knife from her boot.

He turned to see the blade flashing toward him, caught it, and swung. It caught the changer just under its chin as the creature rose. Its head flew off, bounced once and disappeared. Jame heard it some distance away, mewling petulantly under the ferns. The changer's body collapsed slowly, its gaping wound already sealed. Even as it sank under the mist and fronds, it kept moving like a swimmer slowly floundering. Its hand rose, clutched air, sank.

Torisen had sprung back, breathing hard. Now for the first time he looked at his weapon and saw with utter amazement not only that it was undamaged but what blade it was. He turned sharply to discover who had thrown it, but saw only the remaining changers, closing in around him.

Jame, hidden in the mist, heard the sound of renewed combat. She was neither equipped nor trained to help Tori out there in the open, so she must do what she could here on the fringe, in the shadows—like a proper sneak, as Graykin would say. But this sneak bit with the tooth of death.

A changer stumbled back into the mist, clutching a bloody sleeve. Before its wound could close, Jame slipped up behind it and drew the Knife lightly across its neck. The creature whirled, snarling. Then a startled look crossed its stolen face, and it toppled, dead. One down, seven to go.

She claimed two more, catching glimpses of the main battle each time. Kin-Slayer, reforged in Perimal Darkling, seemed as proof against the changers' blood as the Knife, but Torisen couldn't go on wielding it forever against foes who could heal themselves of practically anything. Damn her bungling anyway, to have gotten the sword to him without the ring.

Meanwhile, Torisen did indeed begin to feel his strength fail. He hadn't realized until now how badly that forced march had drained him. No, don't think about that, he told himself. Concentrate on weaving the Senethar patterns of evasion and attack, sword against axes, and remember that too many direct blows will shatter already weakened armor. Damn. There went his helmet, carried off by a glancing blow that made his ears ring.

"Good," grunted his opponent, applauding his own strike, the Highlord's evasion, or both.

Torisen struck in reply and missed.

"Not so good."

The sword was shaking in his hand now and the air burning in his lungs. He had almost reached the end of his endurance. According to legend, Kin-Slayer was supposed to strike true as long as its rightful owner wielded it. Ganth had hinted at some further secret to its use, but had been too jealous of his dwindling power to reveal it, especially to one whom he already suspected of wanting to usurp his position. A fine time this would be to learn that his father's curse actually had taken effect, that he really was disowned and not the rightful Highlord after all.

Lunge, parry, turn . . . too slow, damnit.

He saw the blow coming, a white blur of stone and bone. It hit him in the stomach. He heard armor crack, saw Kin-Slayer spin away, all in the split second before he found himself doubled up on the ground, gasping for breath. There was no blood, ancestors be praised: The chain mail byrnie under the hardened leather had stopped the axe's edge. Now, if he could just breathe . . .

Hands scooped him up. The largest of the changers was holding him aloft as one might a child and grinning up at him through freshly broken teeth.

"Come to daddy," it said, and let him drop into its full embrace.

Torisen heard his armor shatter, felt the chain links dig into him. He struck at the other's eyes and ears, but the changer drew folds of flesh over them. Its arms tightened. He . . . couldn't . . . breathe . . .

Somewhere, someone screamed. The sound merged with the roar of his own blood until both faded into black velvet silence.

Jame saw her brother fall and rise again in the changer's grasp on the far side of the mist clearing. She started to run toward him, only to fall barely ten feet across the open space. Something had grabbed her ankle. It was the headless changer, still wallowing sluggishly under the mist. Its grip felt strong enough to break bone. The other changers were turning toward her but she ignored them. She saw her brother strike at his captor, first with strength, then more and more weakly. Pieces of his armor rained down. In near panic, she threw the Knife, but it wasn't balanced for such use and she had no skill. It missed. Torisen went limp, and still the other squeezed. Blood ran down from his nose and mouth.

Jame screamed.

The sound echoed piercingly off the cliffs, bouncing back and forth, seeming to grow—just as the rathorn's death scream had in the Anarchies. Almost without thinking, Jame pitched her cry to that terrible sustained note. The sound lanced through her head. The imu vibrated in her hand as if it too screamed, and perhaps it did. Above, other imus of diamantine emerged along the cliff heights, spitting earth from their frozen, gaping mouths. They were less well defined than the ones in the Anarchies but, it seemed, no less deadly.

The changer dropped Torisen and clamped hands over its ears. Its face distorted horribly. The others had already fallen and lay convulsed among the ferns. The hand gripping Jame's ankle let go. If this really had been a trap, she thought, lurching to her feet, she had just sprung it with a vengeance. She staggered toward where her brother had fallen, guided by the gem's glow under the mist. They must get out of here. The noise grew, shattering thought, and the imu exploded in her hand. She stumbled on—how far, she didn't know—until her legs seemed to melt out from under her and she fell into the cool ferns, under the glowing mist, into blessed silence.

* * *

ALL NIGHT, Harn had felt his berserker blood undercutting his randon discipline. He had briefly lost control once when he had attacked Prince Odalian; but when the charge began, he finally, deliberately, let go. Better that than to consider too closely what would happen to the pale boy who rode beside him. Besides, the battle had gone beyond anyone's control now. There was nothing left but to smash and smash and smash until it was all over, one way or the other.

So Harn rode over the Lower Hurdles borne on the crest of his battle madness, seeing the field laid bare for a moment before him by lightning, shouting with the thunder. For a moment, he thought Torisen was galloping beside him on a white horse, but that was a hallucination: Blackie would never ride white, the color of death. The pale horse disappeared, and Donkerri with it.

Death take you, boy. Go with honor.

Harn found the largest contingent of Wasters he could and smashed into it. His sword had gone with Donkerri. Now he again wielded his long-shafted axe, his Kencyr steel against the stone and obsidian of the enemy. The night stretched on and on in blood and thunder. All around him, lightning limned upturned faces, sharp teeth, wild eyes. He reaped heads. Hands clutched at him, and he lopped them off, too. His horse was splashed with gore up to the shoulders. It reared and plunged, striking, biting, finally screaming as Waster knives found its vitals. It crashed down. Harn rolled free and charged on into his massed foes until their sheer number stopped him. By now, he had outrun all but one Kendar, who had covered his back all the way. He fought on in savage joy, too deep in madness to count the odds. The Kendar behind him was chanting a war song full of the crash of steel, full of battle cries. Lightning and fire transfixed the night.

Then the scream began. It came from the woods to the right, preternaturally clear and piercing. Harn started, thinking it was the Knorth rathorn war cry, but it went on and on. A light shone in the heart of the forest. It seemed to spread. As that incredible scream continued, glowing mist drifted out from between the trees onto the battlefield. Where it went, the demon wind lost its strength, and the Wasters retreated. Suddenly they were all in flight. Startled out of his berserker fit, Harn watched them go in amazement. They scrambled out of the middle ground, into the lower meadow, onto the stairs.

"D'you see that?" he shouted to his companion. "Look at the buggers run. Look!" Getting no response, he turned. The Kendar was leaning on her spearstaff as if too tired to move. "Are you all right?" Harn demanded.

"No," said the other in a curiously husky voice, raising the haggard face of a haunt. It was Ashe. "I'm dead. I've been dead . . . for at least three days."

* * *

IN THE WOODS, the scream faded, and the mist began to disperse on the battlefield.

Just about this time, the Wolver, Lord Danior, and the combined war-guards reached the trees. They had been trying to get there for some time, but the currents of battle had swept them far south, almost into the lower meadow. Now they followed the Wolver into the woods, leaving their mounts, who still refused to enter. Here the mist still faintly glowed, lighting their way. The Wolver picked up Storm's scent. Not long afterward, they meet Ardeth leading the war horse and riding Brithany, also in search of Torisen. The Highlord's scent led them to the hollow. The Wolver crouched unhappily on the threshold while Ardeth and Danior went in with a handful of their guards to look by the light of mist, diamantine, and torch.

One of the guards gave a sudden yelp. "Something bit me!" He reached down under the mist and came up with the changer's severed head, which he held gingerly aloft by its hair. It made a hideous face at him.

They found other bodies under the mist, mostly by tripping over them, and carried them out beyond the hollow to where the ground had begun to clear. Of these, some were dead, some moving in slow convulsions with constantly changing faces and bodies. It was clear what the latter were, and also that their minds had been utterly destroyed. The Kencyr had collected two dead and three insane when Ardeth spotted the Kenthiar's dimming glow and followed it to the Highlord.

At first they thought he was dead for he lay so still. It wasn't until they had carried him out and laid him down under torchlight that they could see he was still breathing.

"But, my God," said Danior, staring. "What's happened to his armor?"

Ardeth wiped blood off the young man's face. "Who knows? Most of his adventures recently have been beyond me. Life used to be so much simpler. Ah, he's waking."

Torisen groaned. His eyes opened, and he stared at them, blankly at first. Then, "What happened?" he said weakly.

"God's claws and whiskers. Don't you know?"

"I-I remember the fight and being grabbed and not being able to breathe. Then someone screamed, and I passed out." He looked up at them, confused. "Who screamed?"

"Nothing human from the sound of it," said Danior. "Tori, you should have seen the Wasters run! I bet there isn't a clean breechcloth in the entire vanguard right now."

Torisen struggled up on one elbow. "The noise routed them?"

"Well, not entirely. They're on the steps again. We should have pressed our pursuit, I suppose, but, well, we were a bit shaken up, too. And now an attack is apt to bring them swarming back up. It's a stalemate of sorts. I don't like to think, though, what will happen when they realize we've got their precious founders, if that's what those things over there are."

"That's it!" said Ardeth. He rose abruptly and went over to look at the pile of changers, living and dead.

"That's what?" Danior asked, puzzled.

"Never mind, my boy, never mind. Let's just say that you've given me an idea." He gestured to his guards and gave them a low-pitched order. They bent to pick up the changers.

Meanwhile, Torisen had been trying to collect his scattered wits. He felt, on the whole, as if he had just been rolled down a mountain in a barrel full of rocks. Then he saw Ardeth standing by the changers and one thought at least leaped into his mind with startling clarity.

"Pereden," he muttered, and struggled to rise. Danior helped him. "Adric . . ."

Ardeth put his hands on Torisen's shoulders. "Now listen, my boy. Over the past few weeks, you've had insomnia, nightmares, bruises, cuts, bites, poison, and now probably assorted internal injuries as well. Let someone else have some fun for a change." He bustled off.

Torisen looked at the changers as Ardeth's Kendar carried them off after the old lord. He saw no familiar faces.

"Holly, do me a favor," he said to Danior. "Go back into the hollow and look for a sword with a smashed hilt crest. I-I think it's Kin-Slayer."

Danior stared at him. "Your father's lost sword? But . . . Tori, are you sure you're all right?"

"I feel," said Torisen, "like something the cat threw up, but I don't think I dreamed either that or . . . Holly, while you're in there, look for the—the changer that resembles Pereden. He'll be wearing blue armor. If he's still alive, take him to my tent, bound and gagged. He's to speak to no one, understand? Not even to you. Swear it!"

"Yes, of course," said Danior, looking bewildered. He signaled to the Highlord's war-guard. "Now you'd better go back to camp yourself before anything more happens."

During most of this, the Wolver had been snuffling around in the undergrowth beyond the hollow. He came trotting back just as Torisen was leaving in the midst of his guard, who had no intention of losing him again.

"Tori, there's another scent here . . ."

"Not now," said one of the guards, pushing him aside. Torisen hadn't heard.

"Yes, but . . . but. . . ." But the war-guard had already left, bearing its leader captive with it.

Meanwhile, in the hollow, Danior had found both the sword and the blue-armored warrior lying close to where Torisen had fallen. Danior bound and gagged the warrior as ordered. When he emerged, he looked rather sick. Perhaps that was because he had never dealt so closely with a changer before, or perhaps because for all his puppylike bumbling, he was an intelligent young man and had begun to suspect the truth about his prisoner. At any rate, he was in no mood to gossip with the Wolver.

"But I'm telling you," the poor Wolver cried, "there's someone else in there!"

"I know. I stepped on at least two more bodies. If you want them, Grimly, you can have them."

"But this isn't a changer!"

"I don't care if it's the Witch-King's maiden aunt!" Danior snapped, and left with his own captive.

The Wolver paced back and forth at the mouth of the hollow, torn with indecision. This place was almost as dangerous for him as for the changers, although in a different way and for a different reason. His ancestors had been little better than the dogs of the men who had worshipped here. None of his kind liked to remember that or to admit the effect places like this had on them; but he also couldn't forget the stranger with Torisen's eyes whose scent he had been following until the tide of battle bore him southward. She had gone into the hollow and not come out. His keen nose told him that. He paced a moment more, almost whining, then bared his teeth and dashed inside.

Five feet over the threshold, he dropped to all fours. At five yards, he was padding through the ferns in his complete furs. At fifty feet, the human part of his consciousness had faded to a dim flicker. It was a wolf in mind and body that slunk through the fronds now, barely remembering what he sought, only knowing that this place was frightful. He found two twitching bodies and then, almost against the far cliff wall, one that lay still. The smell was right. Now what? His lupine mind held only the confused impulse to protect. He lay down close beside the motionless form, whimpering slightly until the cliffs caught the faint echo. After that, he lay still in watchful, frightened silence.

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