Hahle donned the cloak and fastened the brooch at his throat. "Neither women nor warriors should travel alone through hostile territory, captain," he said. Relys colored. "Nay, I have heard what the young men say. I do not trust them."

He offered his arm, and, after hesitating, Relys took it, hovering somewhere between shame and grat.i.tude.

Hahle strode gallantly, as though he found nothing unusual in accompanying a capable and attractive warrior. The guards at the town gate-novice and veteran alike-murmured greetings, but Relys felt their eyes on her as, with her hand on Hahle's arm, she took the road down the hill.

For a moment before he left her at the edge of the isolated cl.u.s.ter of huts belonging to the women of the wartroop, Hahle clasped her hands: the gesture of warriors, young and old, united by weapons and ex- perience. Then he turned and set off into the darkness that would lead him home.

He had not quite vanished into the shadows when Relys called out: "Master."

"Eh?"

"Warriors and women do not travel alone, you said."

"Aye," he replied slowly, and Relys could hear the smile in his voice. "But I am an old man now, the hounds have dried up for the time, and no one else wishes to bother one so harmless." With a wave, he disappeared into the night.

Relys strained her eyes after him. "He is wise," she murmured. "Marrget had a good teacher."

But she had hardly turned for her door when the night was suddenly split by the deep-voiced howl of a hound. She saw a distant flash of glowing eyes and heard Hahle cry out, but she was already running to his aid.

* CHAPTER 4 *

Alouzon stared up at a lurid sky that seemed the color of blood. Out of the distance came sounds: roars, shrieks, a clattering as of iron locusts. Nearby, papery rustlings and the lap of thick, oily waves were interspersed with the inexplicable chirp of crickets. A siren arose and sent a lance of sound through her ears. She rolled over and saw the Specter moving like a pillar of night across the desert wastes of Broceliande, through the once fertile pastures of Vaylle, over the waters of the White Sea, into Gryylth. It stood over her, and it lifted a sword that was still dripping with the blood of innocents.

With a cry too faint to be a scream, Alouzon twitched her numb limbs into a semblance of action and grabbed for the Dragonsword. But her arms were too weak to lift the blade, and the Specter's weapon descended like a scythe and ripped through her belly. Her flesh parted to reveal the dripping form of a blind fetus that writhed out of a tangle of smoking viscera.

No ... o ...

Holding herself together with her bare hands as blood and bile oozed between her fingers, she staggered to her feet. "I know ... I know what you are," she gasped at the Specter. "And I'm gonna-"

Pain drove her to her knees, and when she lifted her head again, Solomon Braithwaite's corpse was staring her in the face, its breath fetid with months of decay, its eyes glazed. "Going to what, girl?"

"I'm gonna . . ."

"Say it. Say it!"

The Grail. The Grail was the only way out. But where was it? Signs hung in the air about her- Westlake, Olympic-their letters traced as though in flame, but she could not comprehend them.

"I'm gonna do it ... somehow ..."

Specter, fetus, corpse: all were suddenly gone then, swept away by something that roared by and shattered the air with rock and roll. The sound was a fist that put Alouzon on the ground again, but her eyes were open now, and the delusions of her horror-filled dreams had scattered like shadows before a mercury-vapor light.

She stared at the sky, at the moving lights of a jetliner that crossed from north to south, at the faint stars. She understood.

She was in Los Angeles. And she was Alouzon.

Hahle survived the hound's attack, but only because Relys and the wartroop arrived within seconds. Several of the women were burned and bitten, but they drove the beast off with no serious casualties save for Hahle.

Now, badly wounded and unaware of himself or his surroundings, the councilman lay in bed, attended by the king's own physicians. Cvinthil ordered that preparations for the invasion be hastened, for, as Helwych had quickly pointed out, the attack of a hound after such a long hiatus indicated that Vaylle was growing stronger with each pa.s.sing day. It might even be preparing an invasion of its own.

Relys admitted that Helwych's logic was good, but Hahle's words had taken root in her heart; and as May flowed towards June like a swift river, as the last of the men and supplies departed for Quay, as Cvinthil himself, angry and eager for revenge, prepared to join his men, she found herself increasingly disquieted.

She had always thought of herself as a lieutenant, not as a commander, and she had been comfortable in the role of adding to, rather than formulating, plans and strategies. As a result, when confronted with the responsibilities of a captain, Relys had grown cautious; and now, with Hahle's words ringing in her mind's ear, a vague reluctance had enveloped her.

Cvinthil and the last of the troops would soon be leaving. Four new, untried wartroops would remain behind, along with their young commanders. Helwych-too weak as a sorcerer to fight, too feeble of body to travel-would also stay, acting as councilor to Seena, who would reign in Cvinthil's place.

Relys did not like it. The king could decree equality, but experience was another matter. Seena, though queen, was a properly socialized woman of Gryylth, and she could easily become overwhelmed by the running of a country. She would then turn to Helwych, and the sorcerer would eventually command the queen.

.No, Relys did not like it at all. Nor did she like the single course of action that was left open to her, for on the surface it smacked of cowardice, and in its depths it reeked of a danger that she had not yet learned to confront. Nonetheless, a few days before Cvinthil planned to depart, she stood with Timbrin before the king and queen and asked that she be allowed to remain in Gryylth. Timbrin made the same request.

Cvinthil was surprised. "You two have never been laggards in war, Relys."

She stood tall. "Nor are we now, my king. It is not out of fear that we ask this. Consider: all the experienced men of Gryylth are crossing the White Sea. There is always a chance that Vaylle might attack Gryylth while its defenders are absent."

"But Helwych said ..." Cvinthil looked to the sorcerer. Helwych was slumped and crumpled into a chair, the scars still plain on his face. Timbrin had been spying on him for the last few weeks; but though she had nothing to report save that at night he locked himself in his house, Relys was becoming all the more certain that Helwych had plans for Gryylth, plans she could not prove, plans so subtle that she could not even make a formal accusation.

"May I ask, lord, what Helwych said?"

Helwych tottered to his feet. "I will answer myself. I believe that the Vayllens will eventually try to strike Gryylth again, but only after a delay of another several months. Our strength is to strike first."

Timbrin spoke up. "Still, you cannot be sure. You are no warrior: you might have made a mistake,"

"By the G.o.ds, woman!" exclaimed Helwych. "The hounds are only a foretaste of what might come. Look at what happened to Hahle!"

"We know well what happened to Hahle," said Relys. "If you recall, we were there to defend him. We have not the faintest idea, though, where you were."

Her slip of temper had exposed her suspicions. Helwych seemed to waver. He sat down, slumping back into a pile of flesh and rags.

Cvinthil was angry. "What would you have the lad do, captain? Pick up a sword? He is still weak from his wounds."

"Aye," said Relys. Cvinthil had, fortunately, misinterpreted her words, and she did not correct him. She tried to think of what Marrget would do. "I was hasty, lord," she said. "I beg pardon. But as for my request: Timbrin and Helwych are perhaps both right." She snorted inwardly at her subtle turning of the sorcerer's words. "Helwych could indeed have erred in his estimation of Vaylle's preparations, and the hounds are indeed returning. I am a captain and an advisor, and therefore my counsel is that there should be some warriors with experience left in Gryylth when you leave."

Helwych was motionless. Cvinthil was still angry.

Seena finished nursing Vill and wrapped him in a fold of her cloak. "Husband," she said softly.

Cvinthil swallowed his temper and turned to her. "Wife?"

Seena spoke hesitantly. "I think Gryylth would benefit from the presence of Relys and Timbrin. I would . . ." She dropped her eyes.

"Nay, wife," said Cvinthil. "It is not unseemly. You are my queen. Speak."

' 'I would also feel safer myself, were my friend with me."

Relys felt Helwych's eyes on her. Black. Blue-black. Eyes of void. Helwych wanted her out of the country, she was sure, and therefore was she all the more determined to stay. She kept her gaze on the queen and tried to ignore the hate that she sensed was pent within the frail, wounded body of the sorcerer.

Cvinthil pondered. Finally: "Are you sure of your request, my ladies?"

The women exchanged glances. Relys lifted an eyebrow: she would not ask any woman of her wartroop to place herself in such peril save of her own free will. But Timbrin squared her small shoulders and nodded.

"We are," said Relys.

"Granted then." Cvinthil said the words reluctantly. "Make whatever arrangements you must."

Relys and Timbrin bowed and left the hall; but as they pa.s.sed through the door, Relys noticed that Dryyim was on guard that day. The young man examined the two women critically-since being disciplined for hara.s.sing Relys, his resentment had doubled and redoubled-and Relys wondered suddenly whether she had sufficient courage to face the task she had set for herself.

Four wartroops of young men who had little respect for women. The king out of the country. A strange sorcerer advising the queen.

And two women standing alone.

Relys spoke softly as they stepped out into the street. "I hope a woman's heart is a strong thing, Timbrin."

Alouzon got to her feet in the wash of blue-white incandescence that rained from the lamps bordering a small lake. Ornamental date palms rose up spectrally from the parched gra.s.s of a Los Angeles heat wave, and, off on an island across the water, ducks and sea gulls stirred uneasily at the pre-dawn intrusion.

Staggering, almost blind with thirst and the stifling heat, she groped her way to the sh.o.r.e. But though she had drunk many times from the clear streams of Gryylth and Vaylle, the water here was fetid and polluted, and she could not even bring herself to splash her face.

She was Alouzon, but she recognized this place: MacArthur Park. It was miles away from Helen's house and UCLA, but Silbakor had doubtless been making whatever interdimensional approach characterized its entries into the mundane world of Los Angeles, and the White Worm had attacked before the Dragon could bring her safely down. And so she had fallen.

Fallen. Fallen forever. And yet, impossibly, she had struck ground in Los Angeles with no more damage than a b.u.mp on her head.

"It must be the Grail," she murmured, her throat parched and aching. "It made me see that b.o.o.by trap in the mountains. It got me down here. I suppose it's a good thing Silbakor didn't drop me in the middle of a freeway."

But she looked up. Where was Silbakor? The Specter? The White Worm? Aside from the lights of jetliners and the far-off strobe of a police helicopter, the sky was empty.

And then she recalled Kyria. The sorceress-or was it Helen, or something else?-had been lying at the base of a wall, crumpled in a heap of broken bones and shredded robes. And Santhe, and Wykla and Manda, and Dindrane, and Marrget and Karthin: they were still there in the temple. The Gray faces had been killed, and the jets had been banished, but Alouzon's friends, as far as she knew, were in Broceliande, at the mercy of whatever horrors that land could create.

And she was in Los Angeles.

She lifted her arms as a scream forced its way up out of the mire of fear and frustration within her. Silbakor was doubtless holding the White Worm and the Specter away from her. It would protect her with all the potencies that a reification of physical law could command. But it would defend no one else. Gryylth could be a wasteland as far as the Dragon was concerned: all that mattered was its existence.

Hopelessness bore down on her like a weight. Some G.o.d.

She turned away from the lake. Where did displaced G.o.ds go when in Los Angeles? For that matter, where did fifth-century warriors go? The Salvation Army? The shelters down on San Pedro Street?

Up on Wilshire Boulevard, a car drove by, its headlights splitting the darkness. Somebody heading for an early morning job or coming home from a night shift. About Alouzon, the city was slowly struggling out of slumber, preparing to shake off the night and resume the commonplace business of the day.

Where, indeed, did warriors and G.o.ds go? This was Suzanne h.e.l.ling's world. It had no place for warriors and deities. Its own G.o.d had, in fact, been declared dead.

Alouzon felt dizzy, but the safety of her world and her people depended on her, and therefore as Suzanne h.e.l.ling-newly arrived in a strange world and a strange body-had once shoved aside all thoughts and goals save those of survival, so now Alouzon Dragonmaster did the same.

Slowly, she stripped off her armor and bundled it around the Dragons word, leaving herself clad only in a relatively un.o.btrusive knee-length tunic and boots. Recalling the existence of such things as public rest rooms, she found one, and though derelicts and junkies stared at the tall, well-muscled woman who strode up to the dirty sink, they said nothing to her, for Alouzon cleaned the cut on her throat and rinsed off the slime and blood that coated her arms and face with the manner of someone who would tolerate no questions or interference.

The water cleared her head. Her sc.r.a.pes burned, and her throat stung, but that helped too, for it kept her focused on the task at hand. Slinging her armor and sword over her shoulder, she climbed the slope to Wilshire Boulevard, crossed to the westbound side, and stuck out her thumb to flag down a ride.

She was going to save her world and her people. But first she had to survive.

Early June. The sun had not yet appeared above the Camrann Mountains, but the invasion fleet bobbed in the quiet inlet, waiting for the word to sail.

Darham met Cvinthil on the dock. The morning air was fresh, with only a hint of the night's chill remaining, and a coracle waited at the base of the steps down to the water. "Well met," said Cvinthil, extending his hand. "I am sorry that our visits must stem from war and not from neighborliness."

"Ah, well. We must take our calves as they are born." Darham clasped hands and reminded himself to smile. But he glanced at the men who were with Cvinthil: one or two veteran members of the King's Guard, a scribe, a scattering of officials from Quay. ' 'Is Helwych not here?''

Cvinthil shook his head as though puzzled by the question. "He has stayed behind in Kingsbury. He is still weak from his wounds."

"Ah . . . yes . . ." Darham glanced to the side. Calrach's lips were pursed, and the commander shook his head slightly. "I had hoped to talk with him."

An older man, one of the representatives from Quay, spoke up. "It is indeed strange, lord, that he would not come to meet his king." His voice was weak, and he leaned on the arm of a woman.

Cvinthil pressed his lips together, bent his head. "Are you still suspicious, Hahle?"

The man nodded slowly. "I am, lord. I will not lie."

Darham met Hahle's eyes and there read that not all of Gryylth had been wholly convinced by Helwych's tale. Some who had seen and talked with the young sorcerer obviously felt that something was not right.

The coracle bobbed like a cork. Sea gulls wheeled in the blue sky, crying mournfully. The sun suddenly flared in an arc of gold above the mountains.

Darham took Cvinthil's arm. "A word with you in private, brother king," he said softly. He pulled Cvinthil out of earshot of the others.

"Well?" said Cvinthil. "If I guess rightly, you seem not to trust your own sorcerer."

"He was a good lad, Cvinthil. If there was anything wrong with him, it was but the product of frustrated ambition and too many hours spent over books. A nature like that of a colt kept too long penned. But this Helwych that comes back bearing tales of slaughter..." Darham shook his head, his beard glistening in the new sunlight. "Something is wrong."

Cvinthil's eyes had hardened with kingship. "Can you tell me, friend Darham, what that might be?"

Darham shook his head. "He does not seem the same, somehow."

"And this you can say without meeting him face-to-face."

Darham heard the flatness in Cvinthil's tone. Hasty. Too hasty. Tarwach was like this, but he listened to me . . . until that last meeting. But aloud he said: "I could not help but mark the words of the man you called Hahle."

"He could give me no more reason than you," said Cvinthil, impatience plain in his voice. "By your ad- vice I sent a scouting party to Vaylle. Among them were two of your people. Well, they are now dead."

Darham did not respond. Out across the water, the boats were waiting.

"Do you not care?" Cvinthil pressed. "Are you willing to leave a member of your own guard unavenged? And what about Karthin? He was your friend."

The accusation stung, and Darham glared Cvinthil in the eye. "My friend, and my guard, and one other," he said. "Wykla was too modest to tell you that I called her daughter while she was in Corrin. So I have lost a child, and Corrin has lost a princess. And if there is vengeance to be had, then by the G.o.ds I will have it."

Turning abruptly, he strode back across the dock, the planking echoing hollowly beneath his boots. With a gesture for Calrach to follow, he descended the steps to the waiting coracle.

Alouzon did not have to wait long for a ride. The sky had barely begun to lighten when an old Mercury pulled up, radio blaring, Alouzon winced at the music. A little over a week ago, in Quay, she would have given anything to hear rock and roll. Now the music was merely a reminder of the foreignness of this place.

"Where ya goin'?" said the man behind the wheel. He was in his twenties, his thin face pocked with old acne scars, and he reeked of cigarette smoke.

Alouzon shrugged inwardly. She had survived Ban-don and Broceliande. She could deal with a little nicotine. "Out towards UCLA," she said. "Bel Air would be even better.''

"Gotcha. Hop in."

He gestured, and she pulled the pa.s.senger door open, tossed her armor and sword in the back seat, and settled in on the worn upholstery.