"Aye. And even Kyria had no idea what it was."

Yelps, suddenly. Howls. A sentry at the edge of the firelight screamed as he fell beneath a beast that glowed leprous yellow. "Sandyhl!" Manda cried. She grabbed her sword and ran to help, but the hound was already tearing at the lifeless guardsman, and others were bounding in behind it.

The side of the encampment closest to the lake was under attack by a large body of hounds that had come charging up out of the night before the sentries could raise an alarm. But the men on watch were armed and skilled, and they held off the worst of the attack while the sleeping members of the phalanx awakened, seized weapons, and formed up for a counterattack.

Manda led the charge, hewing through the glowing flesh, snapping out orders to her men. At her command, the phalanx circled up and bunched the hounds together, limiting the number that could actively attack. It was well that they did, for Wykla estimated that there were at least fifty of the beasts.

The warriors pressed in against the hounds, driving them together, killing those at the periphery. But phos- phor flowed sluggishly and pooled on the ground, and when several Corrinians slipped and fell in it, the corrosives immediately began eating away at their flesh.

Those nearby turned to help. "We can hold the hounds," Manda shouted to them. "Take them to the lake and wash them."

The men started off, and as the beasts surged towards the thinning 'of the Corrinian ranks, Wykla leaped to plug the gap, spitting one hound, slashing into the throat of another. Looking up, though, she noticed that five of the beasts had managed to get past the screen of warriors and were following the men who were heading for the lake.

"Manda!"

The maid killed a hound, turned. Wykla pointed. "Aye," cried Manda, her voice nearly drowned by the shouts of men and the baying of hounds. "You and I, Wykla."

Leaving the butchery of the pack to the phalanx, they ran after the five hounds, but the beasts suddenly wheeled and turned on them. One leaped directly at Wykla, but it received a sword blade in the throat. Another tried to attack Manda, who first cut its lower jaw loose with a well-placed slash, then followed up with a thrust directly between its eyes.

The other three turned again and ran. The women followed, but they stopped suddenly when they realized that the hounds were making directly for the shimmering apparition on the sh.o.r.e. Milling, tumbling over one another in their haste, yipping in fear, the hounds approached the gap, hesitated, sniffed, then plunged through and vanished.

Manda and Wykla ran to the edge and peered in, but they could see nothing but faintly glowing swirls and points of light that might have been stars. Cautiously, Manda stuck her sword in, withdrew it, examined the metal. It was unmarked. Even the hounds' blood showed no change.

But there was a beating behind them suddenly, and a presence, and they looked up into a pair of yellow eyes. Wings as large as trees blotted out the sky, and a voice thrummed about them as though the air were a struck bell.

Follow.

Wykla stared. Silbakor hovered above them, black body limned in red, eyes glaring with pa.s.sionless emotion.

Follow. Quickly.

The Great Dragon was torn and rent, and it bled darkness into the dark sky. Its eyes were pained and glazed.

Follow. Quickly. Alouzon is in danger.

Wykla stared at the Dragon, then at Manda, then at the shimmering blotch. "A-Alouzon?"

Manda pulled herself out of her surprise first. She checked on the men under her command, and, satisfied that they were handling the hounds, she nodded to Wykla. "Come, then."

"O you G.o.ds of Gryylth!" Wykla was already running for the star-filled gap, screaming. "Alouzon!"

Without hesitation, they plunged into a region where s.p.a.ce and perspective seemed to have no meaning, where suns glowed blindingly as though a stone's throw away, where disks like moons hung in an endless night like apples in a fertile orchard. The ground under their boots was not stone, or gla.s.s, or anything they had seen before. It simply was.

They ran. Worlds and endless planes spun and tipped in the surrounding darkness, clouds swept across regions of utter nothingness, lights pulsed and flowed like water.

And then, ahead, another gap, another shimmer. Redoubling their speed, Wykla and Manda burst out of the door side-by-side and found themselves running across gra.s.s. A short distance away were trees and a small lake. The air was fetid, the sky was blank and washed out, and odd patches of light hung in the air.

But, at the water's edge, there was a splashing and a snarling of hounds. In the glow of the lights, Wykla saw a flash of bronze hair amid the foam, and as she watched, a brown arm holding a familiar sword lifted from the frothing waves and aimed a stroke at the glowing beast that was wading in to attack.

"Gryylth!" she cried, and, with Manda, she fell on the two hounds from behind. In moments, the water was exploding in violent bursts of steam from the phosphor that gushed into it.

Kicking the writhing bodies away, the two women grabbed Alouzon and dragged her to the sh.o.r.e. The Dragonmaster looked dazed. "Thanks," she gasped. "Thanks both of you. I thought I was a goner. That old drunk over there got it good and-" She broke off, stared at them. "Wykla? Manda?"

Wykla nodded. "Silbakor sent us."

"You're here?"

"Aye, Dragonmaster," said Manda. She glanced about nervously. Off in the distance, a wailing started up and began to approach. "Wherever here is."

Alouzon struggled to her feet. "Silbakor? Sent you?" Abruptly, she started to laugh, a deep, sobbing merriment that was tinged with hysteria. "Into MacArthur Park?" She cast her arms about the warriors, hugged them tightly. "That's the weirdest f.u.c.king thing I've ever heard!"

* CHAPTER 13 *

The war went on with dismaying pointlessness. It was indeed a war, but though Helwych called it such, he had, weeks ago, lost track of any objective beyond self-preservation, and the grandiose plans of power and rule that he had once cherished had been effectively submerged in a mire of day-to-day survival.

The Specter materialized Grayfaces, planes, and weapons in Gryylth at will, and as fast as Helwych was able to turn portions of all three to his own use and allegiance, more appeared. Like boys with bottomless sacks of toy armament, the sorcerer and the Specter fought battle after inconclusive battle, spreading the conflict from Crownhark in the south to Ridge-brake forest in the north, from the Camrann Mountains in the west to the remains of the Great Dike in the east. But whereas boys would have scrabbled shal-lowly in the earth and then gone home, there was no going home for Helwych, and the battles he waged with increasing desperation left the landscape deeply scarred by bomb and napalm and defoliant.

The crops, where they had not been uprooted or withered, grew unkempt and overgrown with weeds. The cities and towns were crowded with refugees, their streets congested with fragile shelters and overflowing with filth. But it was the only way. For their own protection, non-combatants had to be herded off the fields. In order for Helwych to win the war, both the land and the people had to change from what they had once been into something else.

But he was not sure what that something else was, nor was he at all certain that the war could be won, or even that the Specter wanted anything more than what it had gotten: a prolonged and pointless conflict that was slowly turning the countryside into a waste of bomb craters and bare soil.

By the beginning of August, most of the fertile lands to the north of Kingsbury had been reduced to ashes and dead vegetation, and the women, old men, and children who huddled in overcrowded houses or bedded down at night in the open air or in the rude shelters that lined the streets of the towns were finding the food supplies growing short.

Helwych could do nothing to stop it. "The people should be grateful that they wake up in the morning," he said to Dryyim when the captain spoke of his growing concerns about the refugees. "Would they like to go back to their steadings?"

"My lord," Dryyim said carefully, "some have said that very thing. It is becoming difficult to persuade them to stay.''

Helwych's hands tightened on the arms of the king's chair. "Anything outside the towns is an enemy. I want them kept in.''

"I understand your feelings, my liege, but-"

"Keep them in, Dryyim."

"But-"

Helwych pointed a finger in Dryyim's face. "If they try to leave," he snapped, "I order you to kill them." Did his concern stem from a desire to keep the people safe, or a reluctance to have the damage left by his battles known by all? He was not sure.

He realized that Dryyim was frowning. And the other men who stood in Hall Kingsbury this afternoon shifted restlessly. Helwych had not rea.s.sured them.

Dryyim considered his words for a moment. "You are telling us to kill our own people, lord."

Helwych stood his ground. He had raised Dryyim up from a peevish boy to the rank of captain. The whelp would learn who gave the commands. "If they disobey me, then they deserve it. They would die out in the country in any case."

"I see." Dryyim's voice was flat.

And what was Dryyim thinking? How restless was he? Was Lytham? Was Haryn? Helwych examined their faces as they stood, watchful, and he could read their feelings: for this they had played so loosely with their loyalty to their king?

Helwych shuddered. He needed better guards. More trustworthy guards. Guards whose allegiance was indisputable.

He rose. Beyond the door of the Hall, the afternoon sunlight was hot and bright. The beginning of the month would normally have been spent in celebrating, the first of the harvest festivals, but there would be no harvest this year. There were hardly any crops left.

Starvation hovered at the edge of the country like a dark shadow. "Go," said Helwych, pointing towards the sunlight. "Search the land and bring back word of any crops that are still standing."

"We have looked already, lord." Dryyim's voice was a little too carefully controlled. "There are none."

The still air outside was stirred by a sudden breeze. Dry and hot, it seemed to promise nothing save death and dry fields. "Look again," said Helwych. "Look further. Find something."

"My lord-"

' 'Get out of my sight, you insolent pup!''

There was a mutter from some of the a.s.sembled guards as Dryyim stepped back, white faced, and turned away without saluting. But before the captain could reach the door, the breeze gusted to a wind, then to a sudden gale.

The sun dimmed as though clouds had covered it, and Helwych fought with panic when he realized that the random gusts had turned into a regular beating. Staff in hand, he pushed past the startled men and ran to the door.

Above the courtyard, as white as a leper's arm, was the Worm, its eyes blue-black, its mouth agape with envenomed teeth. But Helwych's gaze was caught and held by what rode on its back: the figure and image of a thin, middle-aged man in gray clothes, its eyes as violet as the Worm's, its hand gripping the counterpart of Alouzon's sword.

"Little Dremord fool," the Specter grinned. "Thought you could hole up here in Kingsbury, eh?"

Fighting with terror, his stomach clenched, Helwych grappled with his staff, tried to recall a spell that might save him. His mind, unaccountably, was empty.

The Worm hovered above the rooftops. The Specter smiled. "I'll be seeing you again, later," it said. "I'll be seeing a lot of you, and you of me. We can be friends even though we're righting, can't we? After all . . ."It laughed, and its open mouth was a blank whiteness. "After all, you're still my boy!"

Its laughter, though, was cut short; for, from out of the glare of the sun, Silbakor blazed down at it, eyes flaming, ebony claws reaching. The Worm arose with a scream, and in a moment, the Dragon and the Worm had risen high into the air, dodging, feinting, slashing with tooth and claw. Darkness and white slime bled into the blue sky.

Helwych looked up. Dryyim stood tall above him. The sorcerer realized that he had fallen to his knees, and when he tried to get to his feet, the nausea of fear pinned him where he was. "Help me up, captain," he said.

Dryyim stood motionless.

You're still my boy! Had the captain heard that? Doubtless. And all the men, too. What would they make of it? "Help me up."

Dryyim's face was filled with contempt. He looked at Helwych for a long time. Then: "Help yourself up, little Dremord fool," he said, and, turning on his heel, he strode away under the bright, hot sun of a harvest that would not be.

"Dryyim!"

Dryyim continued on his way. Vision blurring, Helwych staggered to his feet, one hand clutched to his belly, the other wrapped about his staff. Fear vied with outraged pride. If Dryyim, then . . .

"Dryyim!"

The captain turned around at the gate of the palisade, arms folded. "And who is really in charge here, Hel-"

The blast from Helwych's staff caught him in midword, and his utterance turned abruptly into a scream as his flesh whitened, then charred to black, then flaked from his bones like ashes from a burning log.

He was still screaming. And his scream seemed to continue, ringing through the air, for a long time after he had no more throat with which to scream, after he was no more than a heap of dust as black and ruined as any bombed and napalmed village of Gryylth, Vaylle, or Vietnam.

Still clutching his belly, Helwych turned to the other men. Fear stared at him from out of pale faces. "Lytham," he said, "you are now captain of my Guard." Guards. Yes, he needed dependable guards. Lytham and the rest would do for now, but he would have others. And there would be hounds, too. Yes. Hounds and others to make sure that he was safe and that his orders were obeyed without question.

"You heard what I ordered in the Hall,' he said. "Go and do it."

Lytham stared. For a moment, he seemed but a boy again, dressed up in livery and crests, a childish mockery of a warrior. And though he came to himself and saluted, Helwych still saw the boy. And fear. And distrust. "I-immediately, lord."

The sky was blank as Helwych stumbled back into Hall Kingsbury, the Specter's words ringing in his head as loudly as Dryyim's final scream. You 're still my boy!

As Relys had suspected, there were no Grayfaces or battles west of the Camrann Mountains. Once she and Timbrin had crossed the pa.s.s, they found the land green and quiet. The slopes and ridges were dotted with stands of hardwood and brush, softened by fruit trees and patches of wild strawberries; and below, at the tip of the inlet, was Quay.

But out beyond the mouth of the inlet, something seemed wrong with the water: a discoloration, like a glaze of frost on an otherwise bright blade, but darker, more ominous. Relys frowned at the sight of it, and she frowned some more when she noticed that most of Quay's boats were ash.o.r.e or bobbing beside docks and piers.

"What new evil is this?" she murmured.

Timbrin's eyes turned shadowed. "I remember," she said. "I remember that." She trembled. "That is what Helwych was doing when I looked in and . . . and ..." She turned away. Relys held her and soothed her, but it was some time before she could go on.

Much of the destruction that had fallen on the town in January had been repaired. Now new thatch gleamed golden above new walls, the streets were clear of rubble, and the dark craters and burns were green with gra.s.s and the beginnings of saplings. But though, sheltered as it was by earthworks and timber fortifications, the town looked to be a safe place, Relys could not help but wonder whether she and Timbrin had simply traveled out of one snare and into another. How would they be seen here? As fugitives? Criminals? Or perhaps-since Quay was a conservative town and still held to the old ways as much as it could-unattached women fit for slavery.

For Timbrin's sake, she betrayed nothing of her anxiety, but fear was a sickness in her belly as, with Tim- brin at her side, she descended the path to the road, went directly up to the town gate-no sneaking or caution here: she would meet her fate face-to-face-and confronted the earthworks and the high palisade.

Timbrin was white. Relys held her hand firmly, as a mother might that of a child. "Ho!" she cried. "People of Quay!"

The answer was polite, but cautious and suspicious. "Who comes?"

Relys looked at Timbrin, small and dark and clad as a young girl, then thought of her own appearance. Mother and child. Indeed, it had come to seem so. "Two women," she said. "Timbrin of Dearbought, and Relys of-"

She stopped. Her hand throbbed. Her groin ached. She would not utter that name and her own in the same breath.

"Timbrin and Relys," she said at last. "Lieutenant and captain of the First Wartroop. We ask refuge in the king's name."

Another voice, more familiar and less guarded, carried from the gate. "Relys? Captain Relys?"

"Hahle?" She tried to shout, but her words came out strangled as she fought with the tears that insisted upon closing her throat. "Hahle? Is that you? Do you remember me?''

"Remember you, Relys? I have prayed to the G.o.ds for your safety since I left Kingsbury!"

The gate was swinging open, the drawbridge falling into place, but the old man did not wait. Healed of his wounds, he climbed the palisade, dropped to the earth outside the wall, and as the bridge swung down, crossed it and leaped the last few feet before it had fully settled. In a moment, he was at Relys's side.

His old eyes, already sizing up the women's condition, saw that Relys's was wrapped in bandages. Gently, he lifted it, and Relys read his question.

' 'I chewed part of it off,'' she said simply. ' 'In order to escape."

"By the G.o.ds . . ." He stared. "What has been done to you?"

Relys shrugged. "What is done to upstart women in Kingsbury? What does Helwych do to his enemies?"

"The queen?"

"Stricken and powerless. Her children have been bespelled. So has Timbrin. I was arrested and handed over to the Guard. For their sport."

Hahle flushed with anger. "By the G.o.ds, Helwych will pay for this." But when he saw that Timbrin was cowering before his anger, he turned to her, bowed, and spoke softly, as one might to a timid child. "My lady Timbrin. Do not fear, I beg you."

Timbrin shrank against Relys and gave him a small, frightened nod.