THE OLD WORLD TIMELINE

A brief guide to the history of the Warhammer World

Contents

Wolf Riders by William King

The Tilean Rat by Sandy Mitchell

The Phantom of Yremy by Brian Craig

Cry of the Beast by Ralph T. Castle

No Gold in the Grey Mountains by Jack Yeovil

Hammer of the Stars by Pete Garrett

Pulg's Grand Carneval by Simon Ounsley

The Way of the Witchfinder by Brian Craig

WOLF RIDERS

by William King

"Honestly, gentlemen, I don't want any trouble," said Felix Jaegar sincerely. He spread his empty hands wide. "Just leave the girl alone. That's all I ask."

The drunken trappers laughed evilly.

"Just leave the girl alone," one of them mimicked in a high-pitched lisping voice. Felix looked around the trading post for support. A few men in the heavy furs of mountain men looked at him with drink-fuddled eyes. The store owner, a tall thin man with lank hair, turned and began stacking bottles of preserves on the rough wooden shelving. There were no other customers.

One of the trappers, a huge man, loomed over him. Felix could see the particles of grease stuck in his beard. When he opened his mouth to speak the smell of cheap brandy overwhelmed even the odour of rancid bear fat that the trappers covered themselves with against the cold. Felix winced.

"Hey, Hef, I think we got a city boy here," said the trapper. "He speaks right nice."

The one called Hef looked up from the table against which he had pinned the struggling girl.

"Aye, Lars, right pretty he talks, and all that nice golden hair, like cornstalks. Could almost take him for a girl himself."

"When I come off the mountains anything looks good. I tell you what - you take the girl. I'll have this pretty boy."

Felix felt his face flush. He was getting angry. He hid his anger with a smile. He wanted to avoid trouble if he could. "Come on gentlemen, there's no need for this. Let me buy you all a drink."

Lars turned to Hef. The third mountain man guffawed. "He has money too. My luck's in tonight."

Hef smirked. Felix looked around desperately as the big man advanced on him. Damn, where was Gotrek? Why was the dwarf never around when you needed him? He turned to face Lars. "All right, I'm sorry I interfered. I'll just leave you gentlemen to it."

He saw Lars relax, letting down his guard as he advanced. Felix let him come closer. He watched the trapper spread his arms as if he were about to hug him. Felix suddenly jabbed his knee into Lars' groin. With a whoosh like a blacksmith's bellows, all the air ran out of the big man. He doubled over. Felix grabbed his beard and pulled the man's head down to meet his knee.

He heard teeth break, and the trapper's head snapped backwards. Lars fell on the floor gasping for breath and clutching at his groin.

"What in the name of Taal?" said Hef. The other big trapper lashed out at Felix and the force of the blow sent him reeling across the room into a table. He tipped over a tankard of ale.

"Sorry," said Felix to the drink's owner. Felix struggled to lift the table and hurl at his assailant. He strained till he thought the muscles in his back would crack.

The drunk looked at him and smiled. "You can't lift it. It's nailed to the floor. In case of fights."

"Thanks for telling me," said Felix, feeling someone grab him by the hair and slam his head into the table. Pain smashed through his skull. Black spots danced before his eyes. His face felt wet. I'm bleeding, he thought then realized it was the spilled beer. His head was smashed into the table a second time. As if from very far away he heard footsteps approaching.

"Hold him, Kell. We're gonna have us some fun for what he did to Lars." He recognized the voice as belonging to Hef.

Desperately Felix jabbed backward with his elbow, ramming it into the hard muscle of Kell's stomach. The grip on his hair loosened. Felix tore free as he turned to face his assailants. With his right hand he frantically fumbled for the beer stein. Through a haze he saw the two gigantic trappers close in. The girl was gone. Felix saw the door close behind her. He could hear her shouting for help. Hef was loosening a knife in his belt. Felix's fingers closed over the handle of the stein. He lashed out and hit Kell in the face with it. The trapper's head snapped around, then he spat blood and turned back to Felix, smiling moronically.

Fingers, muscled like steel bands, grabbed Felix's wrist. The pressure forced him to let go the stein. Despite frantic resistance Felix's arm was inexorably forced up his back by Kell's superior strength. The smell of bear fat and body odour was almost overpowering. Felix snarled and tried to writhe free but his struggles were fruitless.

Something sharp jabbed into his throat. Felix looked down. Hef held a long-bladed knife at his throat. Felix smelled its well-oiled steel. He saw his own red blood trickle down its central channel. Felix froze. All Hef had to do was lean forward and Felix would be walking in the kingdom of Morr.

"That was downright unfriendly, boy," said Hef. "Old Lars was only bein' affectionate and you had to go and bust his teeth. Now what you reckon we should do about that, we bein' his friends and all?"

"Kill the thnotling fondler," gasped Lars. Felix felt Kell push his arm further up his back till he thought it would break. He moaned in pain.

"Reckon we'll just do that," said Hef.

"You can't," said the trader behind the bar. "That'd be murder."

"Shut-up, Pike," said Hef. "Who asked you?"

Felix could see they meant to do it. They were full of drunken violence and ready to kill. Felix had just given them the excuse they needed.

"Been a long time since I killed me a pretty boy," said Hef, pushing his knife forward just a fraction. Felix grimaced with pain. "Gonna beg, pretty boy? Gonna beg for your life?"

"Go to hell," said Felix. He would have liked to spit but his mouth felt dry and his knees were weak. He was shaking. He closed his eyes.

"Not so polite now, city boy?" Felix felt thick laughter rumble in Kell's throat. What a place to die, he thought incongruously, some hell-spawned outpost in the Grey Mountains. There was a blast of chill air and the sound of a door opening.

"The first one to hurt the manling dies instantly," said a deep voice that grated like stone crushed against stone. "The second one I take my time over."

Felix opened his eyes. Over Hef's shoulders he could see Gotrek Gurnisson, the Trollslayer. The dwarf stood silhouetted in the doorway, his squat form filling it lengthwise. He was only the height of a boy of nine years but he was muscled like two strong men. Torch light illuminated the strange tattoos that covered his half-naked body and turned his eye-sockets into shadowy caves from which mad eyes glittered.

Hef laughed, then spoke without turning round. "Get lost, stranger, or we'll deal with you after we've finished your friend."

Felix felt the grip on his arm relax. Over his shoulder Kell's hand pointed to the doorway.

"That so?" said Gotrek, stomping into the room, shaking his head to clear the snow from his huge crest of orange-dyed hair. The chain that ran from his nose to his right ear jingled. "By the time I've finished with you you'll sing as high as a gurly elf."

Hef laughed again and turned to face Gotrek. His laughter died into a sputtering cough. Colour drained from his face till it was corpse white. Gotrek grinned nastily at him, revealing missing teeth, then he ran his thumb across the blade of the great two-handed axe that he carried in one ham-sized fist. Blood dripped from the cut. The knife in Hefs hand clattered to the floor.

"We don't want no trouble," said Hef. "Leastwise, not with a Trollslayer."

Felix didn't blame him. No sane man would cross a member of that doomed and death-seeking berserker cult. Gotrek just glared at them then lightly tapped the hilt of his axe against the floor. While Kell was distracted, Felix seized the opportunity to put some ground between himself and the mountain man.

Hef was starting to panic. "Look, we don't want no trouble. We was just funnin'."

Gotrek laughed evilly. "I like your idea of fun. I think I'll have some myself."

The Trollslayer advanced towards Hef. Felix saw Lars pick himself up and start crawling towards the door. Gotrek brought his boot down on Lars' hand with a crunch that made Felix wince. It was not Lars' night, he decided.

"Where do you think you're going? Better stay with your friends. Two against one is hardly fair odds."

Hef had broken down completely. "Don't kill us," he pleaded. Kell had moved away, bringing him close to Felix again. Gotrek had moved right in front of Hef. The blade of his axe lay against Hefs throat. Felix could see the runes on the blade glint redly in the torchlight.

Slowly Gotrek shook his head. "What's the matter? There's three of you. You thought they were good enough odds against the manling. Stomach gone out of you?"

Hef nodded numbly; he looked as if he was about to cry. In his eyes Felix could see superstitous terror of the dwarf. He seemed ready to faint.

Gotrek pointed to the door. "Get out," he roared. "I'll not soil my blade on cowards like you."

The trappers scurried for the door, Lars limping badly. Felix saw the girl step aside to let them by. She closed the door behind them.

Gotrek glared at Felix. "Can't I even stop to answer a call of nature without you getting yourself into trouble?"

"Perhaps I should escort you back," said Felix, inspecting the girl closely. She was small and thin; her face would have been plain except for the large dark eyes. She tugged her cloak of coarse Sudenland wool about her and hugged the package she had purchased in the trading post to her chest. She smiled shyly up at him. The smile transformed that pale hungry face, Felix thought, gave it beauty.

"Perhaps you could, if it's not too much trouble."

"No trouble whatsoever," he said. "Maybe those ruffians are still lurking about out there."

"I doubt that. They seemed too afraid of your friend."

"Let me help you with those herbs, then."

"The mistress told me to get them specifically. They are for the relief of the frostbitten. I would feel better if I carried them."

Felix shrugged. They stepped out into the chill air, breath coming out in clouds. In the night sky the Grey Mountains loomed like giants. The light of both moons caught on their snow-capped peaks so that they looked like islands in the sky, floating above a sea of shadow.

They walked through the squalid shanty-town which surrounded the trading post. In the distance Felix saw lights, heard the lowing of cattle and the muffled hoofbeats of horses. They were heading towards a campsite where more people were arriving.

Gaunt hollow-cheeked soldiers, clad in tattered tunics on which could be seen the sign of a grinning wolf escorted carts drawn by thin oxen. Tired looking drivers in the garb of peasants gazed at him. Women sat beside the drivers with shawls drawn tight, headscarves all but obscuring their features. Sometimes children peeked out over the back of the carts to stare at them.

"What's going on?" asked Felix. "It looks like a whole village on the move." The girl looked at the carts and then back at him.

"We are the people of Gottfried von Diehl. We follow him into exile, to the land of the Border Princes."

Felix paused to look north up the trail. More carts were coming down, and behind them were stragglers, limping on foot, clutching at thin sacks as if they contained all the gold of Araby. Felix shook his head, puzzled.

"You must have come through Blackfire Pass," he said. He and Gotrek had come by the old dwarf routes under the mountain. "And it's late in the season for that. The first blizzards must already be coming in up there. The pass is only open in the summer."

"Our liege was given till year's end to leave the Empire." She turned and began walking into the ring of wagons that had been set up to give some protection from the wind. "We set out in good time but there was a string of accidents that slowed us down. In the pass itself we were caught by an avalanche. We lost a lot of people."

She paused, as if remembering some personal grief.

"Some say it was the von Diehl curse. That the Baron can never outrun it."

Felix followed her. On the fires sat a few cooking pots. There was one huge cauldron from which steam emerged. The girl pointed to it.

"The mistress' cauldron. She will be expecting the herbs."

"Is your mistress a witch?" asked Felix. She looked at him seriously.

"No, sir. She is a sorceress with good credentials, trained in Middenheim itself. She is the Baron's adviser in matters magical."

The girl moved towards the steps of a large caravan, covered in mystical signs. She began to climb the stairs. She halted, hand poised on the handle of the door, then she turned to face Felix.

"Thank you for your help," she said.

She leaned forward and kissed him on the cheek then turned to open the door. Felix laid his hand on her shoulder, restraining her gently.

"A moment," he said. "What is your name?"

"Kirsten," she said. "And yours?"

"Felix. Felix Jaegar."

She smiled at him again before she vanished inside the caravan. Felix stood looking at the closed door, slightly bemused. Then, feeling as if he was walking on air, he strolled back to the trading post.

"Are you mad?" hissed Gotrek Gurnisson. "You want us to travel with some renegade duke and his rag-tag entourage. Have you forgotten why we've come here?"

Felix looked around to see that no-one was looking at them. Not much chance of that, he decided. He and the Trollslayer nursed their beer in the darkest recess of the trading post. A few drunks lay snoring on the trestle tables and the sullen glowers of the dwarf kept the casually curious at bay.

Felix leaned forward conspiratorially. "But look, it makes perfect sense. We are heading through the Border Princes and so are they. It will be safer if we ride with them."

Gotrek looked at Felix dangerously. "Are you implying I fear some peril on this road?"

Felix shook his head. "No. All I'm saying is that it would make our journey easier and we might get paid for our efforts if the Baron can be persuaded to take us on as mercenaries."

Gotrek brightened at the mention of money. All dwarfs are misers at heart, thought Felix. Gotrek appeared to consider for a second then shook his head.

"No. If this Duke has been exiled he's a criminal and he's not getting his hands on my gold."

He ducked his head and looked around with paranoiac shiftiness. "That treasure is ours, yours and mine. Mostly mine, of course, since I'll do the bulk of the fighting."

Felix felt like laughing. There was nothing worse than a dwarf in the throes of gold-lust.

"Gotrek, we don't even know if there is any treasure. All we've got to go on are the ramblings of some senile old prospector who claims to have seen the lost horde of Karag Eight Peaks. Faragrim couldn't remember his own name half the time."

"Faragrim was a dwarf, manling. A dwarf never forgets the sight of gold.You know the problem with your people? You have no respect for your elders. Among my people Faragrim is treated with respect."

"No wonder your people are in such dire straits then," muttered Felix.

"What was that?"

"Nothing. Just answer me this. Why didn't Faragrim return for the treasure himself? He's had eighteen years."

"Because he showed proper fiscal caution.,."

"Meanness, you mean."

"Have it your way, manling. He was crippled by the guardian. And he could never find anybody he could trust."

"Why suddenly tell you then?"

"Are you implying I am not trustworthy, manling?"

"No. I think he wanted rid of you, he wanted you out of his tavern. I think he invented the cock-and-bull story about the world's largest treasure guarded by the world's largest troll because he knew you would fall for it. He knew it would put a hundred leagues between you and his ale cellar."

Gotrek's beard bristled and he growled angrily. "I am not such a fool, manling. Faragrim swore to the truth on the beards of all his ancestors."

Felix groaned. "And no dwarf has ever broken an oath, I suppose?"

"Well - very rarely," admitted Gotrek. "But I believe this one."

Felix saw that it was no use. Gotrek wanted the story to be true, so for him it was true. He's like a man in love, thought Felix, unable to see his beloved's frailties for the wall of illusions he has built around her. Gotrek stroked his beard and stared into space, lost in contemplation of the troll-guarded horde. Felix decided to play his trump card.

"It would mean we wouldn't have to walk," he said.

"What?" grunted Gotrek.

"If we sign on with the Baron. We could hitch a ride on a cart. You're always complaining that your feet hurt. This is your chance to give them a rest."

"Just think," he added enticingly. "We get paid and you don't get sore feet."

Gotrek appeared to contemplate this once more. "I can see I'll get no peace unless I agree to your scheme. I'll go along with it on one condition."

"What's that?"

"No mention of our quest. Not to anybody."

Felix agreed. Gotrek raised one bushy eye-brow and looked at him cunningly.

"Don't think I don't know why you're so keen to travel with this Duke, manling."

"What do you mean?"

"You're enamoured of that chit of a girl you left here with earlier, aren't you?"

"No," Felix sputtered. "Whatever gave you that idea?"

Gotrek laughed uproariously, waking several slumbering drunks.

"Then why has you're face gone all red, manling?" he shouted triumphantly.

Felix knocked on the door of the caravan within which he had been told he would find the Baron's master-of-arms.

"Come in," said a voice. Felix opened the door and his nostrils were assailed with the smell of bear fat. Felix reached for the hilt of his sword.

Inside the caravan five men were crowded. Three Felix recognized as the trappers he had met the previous evening. One was young, richly dressed and fine featured, hair cut short in the fashion of the warrior nobility. The other was a tall powerfully built man clad in buckskins. He was tanned and appeared to be in his late twenties although his hair was silver grey. He had a quiver of black-fletched arrows over his back and a powerful longbow lay near his hand. There seemed to be a family resemblance between the two men.

"Thatsh the bashtard," said Lars through his missing teeth. The two strangers exchanged looks.

Felix stared at them warily. The grey-haired man inspected him, casually assessing him.

"So you're the young man who broke the teeth of one of my guides," he said.

"One of your guides?"

"Yes, Manfred and I hired them last season to steer us across the lowlands, along Thunder River."

"They're mountain men," said Felix, stalling for time, wondering how much trouble he was in.

"They're trappers," said the well-dressed youth, in a cultured aristocratic accent. "They cross the lowlands in search of game too."

Felix spread his hands. "I didn't know."

"What do you want here?" asked Greyhair.

"I'm looking for work, as a hired blade. I was looking for the Baron's master-of-arms."

"That's me," said Greyhair. "Dieter. Also the Baron's Chief Forester, Master Of Hounds and Falconer,"

"My uncle's estate has fallen on rather hard times," said the young man.

"This is Manfred, nephew and heir to Gottfried von Diehl, Baron of The Vennland Marches."

"Former Baron," corrected Manfred. "Since Countess Emmanuelle saw fit to banish my uncle and confiscate our lands rather than punish the real malefactors."

He noted Felix's quizzical look. "Religious differences, you know? My family come from the North and follow Ulric. All our Southron neighbours are devout Sigmarians. In these intolerant times it was all the excuse they needed to seize the lands they coveted. Since they were Countess Emmanuelle's cousins we get exiled for starting a war."

He shook his head disgustedly. "Imperial politics, eh?"

Dieter shrugged. He turned to the mountain men. "Wait outside," he said. "We have business to conduct with Herr...?"

"Jaegar. Felix Jaegar."

The trappers filed past. Lars gave Felix a hate-filled look as he came abreast. Felix looked straight into his blood-shot eyes. Their gazes locked for a second, then the trappers were gone, leaving only the whiff of bear fat hanging in the air.

"I fear you have made an enemy there," said Manfred.

"I'm not worried."

"You should be, Herr Jaegar. Such men hold grudges," said Dieter. "You say you are seeking employment?"

Felix nodded. "My companion and I..."

"The Trollslayer?"

"Gotrek Gurnisson, yes."

"If you want a job, you've got one. The Border Princes are a violent place and we could do with two such warriors. Unfortunately we cannot afford to pay much."

"My uncle's estates are now poor."

"We do not require much more than bed, board and carriage."

Dieter laughed. "Just as well really. You can travel with us if you wish. If we are attacked you'll have to fight."

"We are employed?"

Dieter handed him two cold coins. "You have taken the Baron's crown. You are with us." The grey-haired man opened the door. "Now, if you excuse us, I have a journey to plan."

Felix bowed to each of them and exited.

"Just a second," said an aristocratic voice. He turned and saw Manfred jump down from the caravan and walk towards him. The young noble smiled.

"Dieter is a brusque man but you will get used to him."

"I'm sure I will, milord."

"Call me Manfred. We are on the frontier, not at the Court of the Countess of Nuln. Rank has less meaning here."

"Very well, milord... Manfred."

"I just wanted to tell you that you did the right thing last night. Standing up for the girl, even if she is the servant of that witch. I appreciate it."

"Thank you. May I ask a question?"

Manfred nodded. Felix cleared his throat. "The name of Manfred von Diehl is not unknown among the scholars of Altdorf, my home city. As a playwright."

Manfred beamed broadly. "I am he. By Ulric, an educated man, who would have thought to find one here? I can tell you and I are going to get along, Herr Jaegar. Have you seen Strange Flower?Did you like it?"

Felix considered his answer carefully. He had not liked the play, which dealt with the degeneration of a noblewoman into madness when she found out that she was a mutant, devolving to beasthood. Strange Flower was lacking that open-hearted humanity to be found in the works of the Empire's greatest playwright, Detlef Sierck. However, it had been very topical in these dark days when the number of mutations was apparently increasing. It had been banned by Countess Emmanuelle, Felix remembered.

"It was very powerful, Manfred. Very haunting."

"Haunting, very good! Very good indeed! I must go now, visit my ailing uncle. I hope to talk to you again before the journey is complete."

They bowed and the nobleman turned and walked away. Felix stared after him, unable to reconcile this amiable eccentric young nobleman and the brooding, Chaos-haunted images of his work. Among the cognoscenti of Altdorf, Manfred von Diehl was known as a brilliant playwright and a blasphemous one.

By mid-morning the exiles were ready to leave. At the front of the long straggling line Felix could see a tired-looking white-haired old man, clad in a cloak of sable skin, mounted on a black charger. He rode under the unfurled wolf banner that was held by Dieter. Beside him Manfred leaned over to say something to the old man. The Baron gestured and the whole caravan of his people began to roll forward.

Felix felt a thrill pass through him at the sight of it all. He drank in the spectacle of the line of wagons and carts with their armed escort of mounted and armoured warriors. He clambered up aboard the supply wagon that he and Gotrek had commandeered from a crabbed old servant in Baronial livery.

Around them the mountains jutted skyward like grey titans. Trees dotted their sides and streams ran like quicksilver down their flanks towards the source of Thunder River. Rain, mingled with snow, softened the harsh outline of the landscape and lent it a wild loveliness.

"Time to go again," moaned Gotrek, clutching his head, eyes bleary and hungover. They rumbled forward, taking their place in the line. Behind them men-at-arms shouldered their crossbows, drew their cloaks tight and began to march. Their oaths mingled with the curses and the whipcracks of the drivers and the lowing of the oxen. A baby cried.

Somewhere behind them a woman began to sing in a low musical voice. The child's squalling quietened. Felix leaned forward hoping to catch sight of Kirsten among the people trudging through the sleet towards the rolling hills that unfolded below them like a map.

He felt almost at peace, drawn in to all that human motion, as if he were being borne by a river towards his goal. He already felt part of this small itinerant community, a sensation he had not enjoyed for a long time. He smiled, but was drawn from his reverie by Gotrek's elbow in his ribs.

"Keep your eyes peeled, manling. Orcs and goblins haunt these mountains and the lands below."

Felix glared at him, but when he gazed once more at his surroundings it was not to appreciate their wild beauty. He was keeping watch for possible ambush sites.

Felix looked back at the mountains. He was not sorry to be leaving those bleak highlands. Several times they had been assaulted by green-skinned goblins whose shields bore the sign of a crimson claw. The wolf-riders had been beaten back, but with casualties. Felix was red-eyed from lack of sleep. Like all the warriors he had taken double stints on watch, for the raiders attacked at night. Only Gotrek seemed to be disappointed by the lack of pursuit.

"By Grungni," he said. "We won't see them again, not since Dieter shot their leader. They're all cowards without the big bully-boys to put fire in their bellies. Pity! Nothing beats the slaughter of a few gobbos for working up an appetite. Healthy exercise is good for the digestion."

Felix gave him a jaundiced look. He jerked a thumb towards a covered wagon from which Kirsten and a tall middle-aged woman descended. "I'm sure the wounded in that cart would disagree with your idea of healthy exercise, Gotrek."

The dwarf shrugged. "In this life, manling, people get hurt. Just be glad it wasn't your turn."

Felix had had enough. He clambered down from the seat of the wagon and dropped off onto the muddy ground.

"Don't worry, Gotrek. I intend to be around to complete your saga. I wouldn't want to break a sworn oath, would I?"

Gotrek stared at him, as if suspecting a hint of sarcasm. Felix made his expression carefully bland. The dwarf took the idea of Felix's composition seriously; he wanted to be the hero of a saga after his death, and he kept the educated Felix around to make sure of it. Shaking his head, Felix walked over to where Kirsten and her mistress stood.

"Good day, Frau Winter. Kirsten." The two women surveyed him wearily. A frown crossed the sorceress's long face, although no expression seemed to flicker in her hooded reptilian eyes. She adjusted one of the raven's feathers pinned in her hair.

"What's good about it, Herr Jaegar? Two more men dead from wounds. Those arrows were poisoned. By Taal, I hate those wolf-riders."

"Where's Doctor Stockhausen? I thought he would be helping you."

The older woman smiled, a little cynically, Felix thought. "He's seeing to the Baron's heir. Young Manfred got his arm nicked. Stockhausen would rather let good men die than have little Manfred injured."

She turned and walked away. Her hair and cloak fluttered in the breeze.

"Pay no attention to the mistress," said Kirsten. "Master Manfred lampooned her in one of his plays. She's always resented it. She's a good woman really."

Felix looked at her, wondering why his heartbeat seemed so loud and his palms so sweaty. He remembered Gotrek's words back in the tavern, and felt his face flush. All right, he admitted, he found Kirsten attractive. What was wrong with that? Maybe the fact that she might not be attracted to him. He looked around, feeling tongue-tied, trying to think of something to say. Nearby, children were playing soldiers.

"How are you?" he asked eventually.

She looked a little shaky. "Fine. I was afraid last night, with the howling of the wolves and the arrows coming down, but now... Well, during the day it all seems so unreal."

Behind them, from the wagon, came the groans of a man in agony. She turned momentarily to look, then hardness passed across her face and settled like a mask.

"It's not nice working with the wounded," Felix said.

She shrugged. "You get used to it."

Felix was chilled to see that expression on the face of a woman her age. It was an expression he had seen on the faces of mercenaries, men whose profession was death. Looking around, he could see children playing near the cart of the wounded. One was firing an imaginary crossbow, another gurgled, clutched his chest and fell over. Felix felt isolated and very far from home. The safe life of poet and scholar he had let back in the Empire seemed to have happened to someone else a long time ago. The laws and their enforcers he had taken for granted had been left behind at the Grey Mountains.

"Life is cheap here, isn't it?" he said. Kirsten looked at him and her face softened. She linked her arm with his.

"Come, let's go where the air is cleaner," she said.

Behind them the shrieks of the playing children mingled with the groans of the dying men.

Felix saw the town as they emerged from the hills. It was late afternoon. To the left, the east, he could see the curve of fast-flowing Thunder River and beyond that the mighty peaks of the World's Edge Mountains. South he could see another range of hills marching bleakly into the distance. They were bare and foreboding and something about them made Felix shudder.

In a valley between the two ranges nestled a small walled town. White shapes that could have been sheep were being herded through the gates. Felix thought he saw some figures moving on the walls. At this distance he could not be sure.

Dieter beckoned for him to approach. "You are fair-spoken," he said. "Ride down and make parlay. Tell the people there that we mean them no harm."

Felix just looked at the tall, gaunt man. What he means, thought Felix, is that I am expendable, just in case the people aren't friendly. Felix considered telling him to go to hell. Dieter must have guessed his thoughts.

"You took the Baron's crown," he said.

It was true, Felix admitted. He also considered taking a hot bath and drinking in a real tavern, sleeping with a roof over his head; all the luxuries that even the most primitive frontier town could offer. The prospect was very tempting.

"Get me a horse," he said. "And a truce banner."

As he clambered up on the skittish war-horse he tried not to think about what suspicious people armed with bows might do to the messenger of a potential enemy.

A crossbow bolt hissed through the air and stuck quivering in the earth in front of the hooves of his steed. Felix struggled to control the animal, as it reared. At times like these he was glad his father had insisted that riding be part of the education of a wealthy young gentleman of means.

"Come no closer, stranger, or, white banner or no, I'll have you filled full of bolts." The voice was coarse but powerful. Its owner was obviously used to giving commands and having them obeyed. Felix wrestled his steed back under control.

"I am the herald of Gottfried von Diehl, Baron of the Vennland Marches. We mean no harm. We seek only shelter from the elements and to renew our supplies."

"Well you can't do that here! Tell your Baron Gottfried that if he's so peaceful he can march on. This is the freistadt of Akendorf and we want no truck with nobles."

Felix studied the man who shouted at him from the gatetower. Beneath a peaked metal cap his face was keen and intelligent. He was flanked by two men whose crossbows were pointed unwaveringly at Felix. Felix felt his mouth go dry and sweat run clammily down his back. He was wearing his mail shirt but he doubted it would be much good against quarrels at such close range.

"Sir, in the name of Sigmar, we seek only common hospitality..."

"Begone, boy, you'll get no hospitality in Akendorf nor in any other town in these lands. Not travelling with twenty armed knights and fifty men-at-arms."

Felix wondered at the quality of scouts the freistadt must have, to know the numbers of their force so exactly. He saw the pattern of things in this land. The Baron's force was too powerful for any local warlord to open his town gates to them. It would be a threat to any ruler's position in these isolated towns. Yet Felix doubted whether the Baron's force was strong enough to take a walled fort against determined resistance.

"We have wounded," he shouted. "Will you at least take them?"

For the first time the man in the tower looked apologetic. "No. You brought those extra mouths here. You can feed them."

"In the name of Shallya, mistress of mercy, you must help them."

"I must do nothing, herald. I rule here, not your Baron. Tell him to follow Thunder River south. Taal knows, there is enough unclaimed land there. Let him clear his own estate or claim one of the abandoned forts."

Felix dispiritedly brought his horse around. He was keenly aware of the weapons pointed at his back.

"Herald!" the lord of Akendorf cried. Felix turned in the saddle to look at him. In the fading light the man's face held a look of concern.

"What?"

"Tell the Baron on no account to enter the hills to the south. Tell him to stay by Thunder River, I would not have it on my conscience that he ventured into the Geistenmund hills unwarned."

Something in the man's tone made the hairs on the back of Felix's neck prickle.

"Those hills are haunted, herald, and no man should dare them, on peril of his immortal soul."

"They will not let us past their gates. It's that simple," Felix concluded, looking round the faces that circled the fire. The Baron gestured for him to sit down with a faint movement of his left hand, then turned his rheumy gaze to Dieter.

"We cannot take Akendorf, at least not without great loss of life. I am no expert on sieges but even I can see that," said the grey-haired man. He leaned forward and put another branch on the fire. Sparks drifted upwards into the cold night air.

"You are saying we must continue on," said the Baron. His voice was weak and reminded Felix of the crackle of dry leaves. Dieter nodded.

"Perhaps we should go west," said Manfred. "Seek out land there. That way we could miss the hills, assuming there is anything there to fear."

"There is," said Hef. Even in the cheery glow of the fire his features looked pale and strained.

"Going west is a foolish idea anyway," said Frau Winter. Felix saw that she was glaring right at Manfred.

"Oh, how so?" he asked.

"Use your brain, boy. The mountains to the east are the haunt of goblins, now that the dwarf realm is sundered. So the best land will be that furthest away from Thunder River, safest from raids. It will be held by the strongest of the local rulers. Any place to the west will be better defended than Akendorf."

"I know my geography," sneered Manfred. He looked around the fire, meeting the gaze of every watcher. "If we continue south we will come to Blood River, where the wolf-riders are thicker than worms in a corpse."

"In every direction lies peril," wheezed the old Baron. He looked straight at Felix and his blue eyes were very piercing. "Do you think that the Lord of Akendorf warned us to keep to the river simply to make us a tempting target for any raiding greenskins?"

Felix considered for a moment, weighing his judgement. How could he be expected to tell whether the man had been lying or not on the basis of a few minutes' conversation? Felix was acutely conscious that he would influence the destiny of everyone in the caravan by what he said. For the first time in his life he felt a vague glimmer of the responsibilities of leadership. He took a deep breath.

"The man seemed sincere, Herr Baron."

"He was tellin' the truth," said Hef, tamping some smokeweed into the bowl of his pipe. Felix noted the way the man's fingers played nervously with its stem. Hef leaned forward and pulled a twig from the fire, using it to light his pipe before continuing.

"The Geistenmund hills are an evil place. Folk say that centuries agone sorcerers came out of Bretonnia, necromancers exiled by the Sun King. They found the barrows of the folk who passed here in Elder days and used their spells to raise an army. Came very near to conquering the whole of the Border Princes afore the local lords made alliance with the dwarfs of the mountains and threw them back."

Felix felt a shiver pass up his spine. He fought an urge to look back over his shoulder into the shadows.

"Folk say that the sorcerers and their allies retreated into the barrows. These were sealed with dwarven stonework and powerful runes by the victors."

"But that was centuries ago," said Frau Winter. "Strong though their sorceries were, can they endure?"

"I don't know, mistress. But tomb robbers never return from the Geistenmunds. Some nights unnatural lights can be seen in the hills and when both moons are full the dead lie unquiet in their tombs. They come to take the living so that their blood can renew the life of their dark lords."

"Surely that is nonsense," said Dr Stockhausen. Felix himself was not so sure. The previous year on Geheimnisnacht he had seen terrible things. He pushed the memory back from his mind.

"If we go west we face certain peril and no surety of finding haven," said the Baron, his face made gaunt and angular by the underlight of the fire. "South it is claimed we will find clear land, guarded though it may be by a sorcerous foe. I think we should brave the southward way. It may be clear. We will follow Thunder River."

His voice held no great hope. He sounded like a man who had resigned himself to his fate. Does the Baron court death, wondered Felix? In the atmosphere created by the trapper's dark tale Felix could almost believe it. He made a mental note to find out more about the von Diehl curse. Then he noticed the face of Manfred. The young noble was staring raptly into the fire, a look almost of pleasure on his face.

"I believe I have found the inspiration for a new play," said Manfred von Diehl enthusiastically. "That delightful story the trapper told last night will be its core."

Felix looked at him dubiously. They were walking along the west side of the caravan, keeping between the wagons and the ominous, barren hills.

"It may be more than a simple trapper's tale, Manfred. There is some truth to many old legends."

"Quite so! Quite so! Who should know that better than I? I think I shall call this play Where the Dead Men Walk. Think of it: silver rings clinking on bony fingers, the parchment skins of the restless dead glistening in the witchlight. Imagine a king who lies in state untouched by the worms and who rises every year to seek blood to prolong his shadowy reign."

Looking at those brooding, blasted heights, Felix found it only too easy to imagine such things. Among the four hundred who followed Baron von Diehl only three people dared enter the hills. During the day Dr Stockhausen and Frau Winter would search among the mossy boulders on the rubble-strewn slopes for herbs. Sometimes they would encounter Gotrek Gurnisson if they returned late. The Trollslayer prowled the hillside by night as if daring the powers of darkness to touch him.

"Think," said Manfred in a conspiratorial whisper. "Think of lying sleeping in your bed and hearing the soft pad of approaching feet and no breathing whatsoever except your own... You could lie there listening to your heart pound and know that no heartbeat tolled within the chest of the approaching..."

"Yes," said Felix. "I'm sure it will be an excellent work. You must let me read it when it is complete."

He decided to change the subject, tried to think of one that would appeal to this strange young man. "I was thinking perhaps of writing a poem myself. Could you tell me more of the von Diehl curse?"

Manfred's face froze. His glittering look made Felix shiver, then Manfred shook his head and smiled and became his old affable self.

"There is really little to tell." He giggled slightly. "My grandfather was a very devout man. Always burning witches and mutants to prove it. One Hexensnacht he roasted a pretty maid called Irina Trask. All his subjects came to watch, for she was a beauty. As the flames rose about her she called on the powers of hell to avenge her, to bring death to my grandfather and the wrath of Chaos to his heirs and followers and all their children. The darkness and its children will take you all, she said."

He fell silent and stared gloomily towards the hills. Felix prompted him. "What happened?"

"Shortly thereafter my grandfather was killed, while out hunting, by a pack of beastmen. There was a quarrel amongst his sons. The eldest, Kurt, was heir. My father and his brother rebelled and ousted him. Some folk say that Kurt became a bandit and was killed by a warrior of Chaos. Others claim that he headed north and met a much darker fate.

"My father inherited the Barony and married my mother, Katerina von Wittgenstein." Felix stared at him. The Wittgensteins were a family with a dark reputation, shunned by normal society. Manfred ignored his stare.

"Uncle Gottfried became their warleader. My mother died giving birth to me, and my father disappeared. Gottfried seized power. Since then we have been dogged by ill-luck."

Felix could see a figure approaching downslope. It was Frau Winter. She seemed to be in a great hurry.

"Disappeared?" said Felix distractedly.

"Aye, vanished. It wasn't until much later I found out what had happened to him."

Frau Winter approached. She and Manfred exchanged glares. "Bad news," she said. "I've discovered an opening on the hillside up there. It is barred by runes, but I sense terrible danger lies beyond it."

Something in her tone compelled belief. She swirled on down into the camp. Manfred glared daggers at her back.

Felix looked over at him. "There is no love lost between you two, is there?"

"She hates me, has done ever since Uncle named me heir. She thinks her son should be the next Baron."

Felix raised an eyebrow.

"Oh yes, didn't you know? Dieter is her son. He's my father's bastard offspring."

Moonslight dappled the waters of Thunder River. It gleamed like liquid silver. Old gnarled trees hung over the banks at this point, reminding Felix of waiting trolls. Nervously, he looked about. There was something in the air tonight, he decided; a tension, a feeling that something was not right.

He had to fight to control the sensation that somewhere something evil stirred, hungry for his life, for the lives of all the people of Baron Gottfried's entourage.

"Is there something wrong, Felix? You seem very distracted tonight," said Kirsten.

He looked over to her and smiled, finding pleasure in her presence. Normally he enjoyed their nightly walks by the river but tonight foreboding came between them.

"No. Just tired." He couldn't restrain a glance in the direction of the nearby hills. By the light of the moons the opening looked very like a gaping maw.

"It's this place, isn't it? There's something unnatural about it. I can feel it. It's like when Frau Winter does one of her dangerous spells. The hair on the back of my neck prickles. Only this is much worse."

Felix saw terror surface in her face then disappear again. She looked out over the water. "Something old and evil dwells below those hills, Felix. Something hungry. We could die here."

Felix took her hand. "We're quite safe. We're still by the river."

His voice quivered and his words did not come across reassuringly. He sounded like a scared boy. They were both shaking.

"Everyone in the camp is afraid, except your friend Gotrek. Why is he so fearless?"

Felix laughed quietly. "Gotrek is a Trollslayer, sworn to seek death to atone for some crime. He's an exile from his home, family and friends. He has no place in this world. He is brave because he has nothing to lose. He can only regain his honour by dying honourably."

"Why do you follow him? You seem like a sensible man."

Felix considered his reply carefully. He had never really questioned his motives that closely. Under the gaze of Kirsten's dark eyes it suddenly became important for him to know.

"He saved my life. We pledged blood-loyalty after that. At the time I did not know what the ritual meant but I've stuck to it."

He had given the barest facts, the truth in a sense, but not an explanation. He paused and stroked the old scar on his right cheek. He wanted to be honest.

"I killed a man in a duel. It caused a scandal. I had to give up my life as a student, my father disinherited me. I was full of anger, got into trouble with the law. At the time I met Gotrek I had no goals, I was just drifting. Gotrek's purpose was so strong I just got sucked along behind him. It was easier to follow him than to start a new life. Something about his self-destructive madness appealed to me."

She looked at him questioningly. "It doesn't any more?"

He shook his head. "What about you? What brings you along Thunder River?"

They approached a tumbled tree. Felix gave Kirsten a hand up onto the bole, then jumped up beside her himself. She smoothed the folds of her long peasant skirt, tucked a lock of her hair behind one ear. Felix thought she looked very lovely in the moonslight, with the mist beginning to rise.

"My parents were vassals of Baron Gottfried's, serfs back in Diehlendorf. They indentured me to Frau Winter. They died back in the avalanche, along with my sisters."

"I'm sorry," said Felix. "I didn't know."

She shrugged fatalistically. "There has been so much death along the way. I'm just grateful to be here."

She was quiet for a long moment and when she spoke again her voice was soft. "I miss them."

Felix could think of nothing to say, so he kept quiet.

"You know, my grandmother never travelled more than a mile from Diehlendorf in her life. She never even saw the inside of that bleak old castle. All she knew was her hut and the strips of fields where she laboured. Already I've seen mountains and towns and this river. I've travelled further than she ever dreamed. In a way I'm glad."

Felix looked at her. Along the shadowy planes of her cheeks he could see a teardrop glisten. Their faces were very close. Behind her, tendrils of mist drifted from the surface of the river. It had thickened quickly. He could barely see the water. Kirsten moved closer.

"If I hadn't come I wouldn't have met you."

They kissed, unskilfully, tentatively. Lips barely brushed lips. Felix leaned forward and took her long hair in his hands. They leaned into each other, holding one another hungrily as the kiss deepened. Passionately their hands began to wander, exploring each others bodies through the thick layers of clothing.

They leaned over too far. Kirsten screamed slightly as they fell off the tree trunk onto the soft wet earth.

"My cloak's all muddy," said Felix.

"Perhaps you'd better take it off. We can lie on it. The ground's all wet."

Under the shadow of the deathly hills they made love in the mist and moonslight.

"Where have you been, manling, and why are you looking so pleased with yourself?" asked Gotrek surlily.

"Down by the river," replied Felix innocently. "Just walking."

Gotrek raised one bushy eyebrow. "You picked a bad night just to go walking. See the way this mist thickens. I smell sorcery."

Felix looked at him, feeling fear creep though his bones. His hand went to the hilt of his sword. He remembered the mist that had covered the moors around the Darkstone Ring a year before, and what it had hidden. He glanced over his shoulder into the darkness.

"If that's true we should tell Dieter and the Baron."

"I've already informed the duke's henchman. The guard has been doubled. That's all they would do."

"What are we going to do?"

"Get some sleep, manling. It will be your watch soon."

Felix lay down in the back of the wagon on top of some sacks of grain. He pulled his cloak tight about him. Try as he might, sleep was a long time coming. He kept thinking of Kirsten. When he stared at Morrsleib, the lesser moon, it seemed he could see the outline of her face. The mist grew thicker, muffling all sound except Gotrek's quiet breathing.

When sleep finally came he dreamed dark dreams in which dead men walked.

In the distance a horse whinnied uneasily. A huge hand was clamped over Felix's mouth. He struggled furiously, wondering whether Lars had come back for revenge.

"Hist, manling! Something comes. Be very quiet."

Felix came groggily to full wakefulness. His eyes felt dry and tired; his muscles ached from the mattress of sacks; he felt weary and lacking in energy.

"What is it, Gotrek?" he asked softly. The Trollslayer gestured for him to be quiet and sniffed at the air.

"Whatever it is, it's been dead a long time."

Felix shivered and drew his cloak tight. He felt fear begin to churn in the pit of his stomach. As the meaning of the dwarfs words sank in, he had to fight to restrain terror.

Felix peered out into the mist. It cloaked the land, obscuring vision at more than a spear's length. If Felix strained every sense he could just make out the wagon opposite. He cast a glance back over his shoulder, fearful that some frightful denizen of the dark might be creeping up behind him.

His heartbeat sounded loud in his ears and he remembered Manfred's words. He pictured bony hands reaching out to grab him and carry him off to a deep dark tomb. His muscles felt as if they had frozen in place. He had to struggle to get them to move, to reach for the hilt of his sword.

"I'm going to take a look around," whispered Gotrek. Before Felix could argue or follow, the dwarf noiselessly dropped off the cart and vanished into the mist.

Now Felix felt totally alone. It was like waking from a nightmare to find himself in a worse one. He was isolated in the dark and clammy mist. He knew that just outside the range of his perception hungry, uncanny creatures lurked. Some primitive sense told him so. He knew that to stir from the cart meant death.

Yet Kirsten was out there, sleeping in Frau Winter's carriage. He pictured her lying in bed as terrible pressure was exerted on the caravan's door and slowly the timber buckled inwards to reveal...

He drew his blade then leapt from the cart. The soft thud of his landing rang as loud as the tolling of a bell to his fear-honed senses. He strained to pick out details in the mist as he moved through the outer ring of wagons to where he knew Kirsten was.

Every step seemed to take eternity. He cast wary glances about him, fearful that something was creeping up stealthily behind. He skirted pockets of deep shadow. He wanted to cry out loud to alert the camp, but something instinctively stopped him. To do so would be to attract the attention of the terrible watchers - and that would mean death.

A figure loomed out of the shadows, and Felix brought his sword up. His heart was in his mouth till he noticed the figure was wearing leather armour and a metal cap. A guard, he thought, relaxing. Thank Sigmar. But when the figure turned, Felix almost screamed.

Its face had no flesh. Greenish light flickered in its empty sockets. Age-rotten teeth smirked from the fleshless, lipless mouth. He saw that the helm which he had originally taken for a guard's was verdigrised bronze and inscribed with runes that hurt the eye. The smell of mould and rotten leather rose from the thing's tunic and tattered cloak.

It lashed out at him with its rusty blade. Felix stood frozen for a moment and then, acting on reflex, flung himself to one side. The thing's sword nicked his ribs. Pain seared his side. He noticed the movement of ancient tendons under the paper-thin skin of the hand that held the weapon. He countered with a high blow to the neck, his body responding with trained discipline even as his mind reeled in horror.

His blade crashed through the thing's neck with a cracking of severed vertebrae. His return blow chopped through its chest like a butcher's cleaver through a bone. The skeletal warrior fell like a marionette with its strings cut.

As if Felix's blows were a signal, the night came alive with shadowy figures. He heard wood splinter and animals scream in terror as if whatever spell had held them mute was broken. Somewhere off in the night Gotrek bellowed his war chant.

Felix rushed through the mist, almost colliding with Dieter as he tumbled out of a wagon. The big man was fully dressed and clutched a hand-axe.

"What's going on?" he shouted, through the cacophony of screams.

"Attackers, dead things from under the hills," Felix said. The words came out in jerky gasps.

"Foes!" shouted Dieter. "To me, men. Rally to me!" He gave out a wolf-like war-cry. From about came a few weak answering howls. Felix charged on, seeking Kirsten's home. From the shadowy gap between two wagons, figures leapt out, striking at him with long wickedly curved blades.

He writhed aside from one and parried the other. Two more skeletal creatures leered at him. He chopped at one's leg. It fell over as his blade broke through the knee. Mind numbed with horror, he fought almost mechanically, leaping over the blow of the one on the ground then bringing his heel down to break its spine. Blows flickered between him and the other till he chopped it to pieces.

He saw two battering through the door of Frau Winter's wagon just as he had feared. From inside came the sound of chanting, which he assumed was a prayer. He prepared himself to charge but his eyes were dazzled by a sudden blueish flash. Chain lightning flickered, and a smell of ozone filled the air, overcoming even the stench of rot. When Felix's sight cleared he saw the charred remains of two skeletons lying near the caravan's steps.

In the doorway Frau Winter stood calm and unafraid, a nimbus of light emerging from her left hand. She looked over at Felix and gave him an encouraging nod.

Behind her was Kirsten, who pointed over his shoulder. He whirled and saw a dozen undead warriors rushing towards him. He heard Dieter and his men ran up to meet them. Then he joined the rush.

For Felix the night became howling chaos as he hacked his way round the camp in search of Gotrek.

At one point the mist cleared and he pushed some quivering children under a wagon away from the bodies of their dead parents. The man lay in a night shirt, the woman was close by, a brush handle clutched in one hand like a spear. Felix heard a sound and turned to face a skeletal giant bearing down at him. Somehow he survived.

Felix fought back to back with Dieter till they stood among a pile of mouldering bones. The battle surged away from him as the mist closed in and for a long moment he stood alone, listening to the screams of the dying.

A passing figure lashed out at him and they exchanged blows. Felix saw that it was Lars, a grin frozen on his face revealing missing teeth, terror froth foaming from his mouth. Berserkly he hacked at Felix. The man was mad with fear.

"Bathtard!" he hissed, chopping at Felix with a blow that would have felled a tree. Felix ducked underneath the blow and lunged forward, taking him through the heart. Lars sobbed as he died. Felix wondered how crazed Lars really had been. If the trapper had killed Felix it could have been blamed on the attackers. He returned to the fray.

He rounded a corner to find a score of undead warriors being driven back by the furious onslaught of Gotrek's axe. Blue chain lightning flickered and the area about him was suddenly clear. He looked about for Frau Winter to thank her but she was gone, vanished into the mists. He turned to see Gotrek standing astonished, his jaw hanging open.

Sometime before dawn their assailants retreated back towards the hills, leaving Baron von Diehl's warriors to contemplate their ruined wagons and the bodies of their dead.

In the early morning light Felix watched warily as Gotrek inspected the rubble of the old stone arch. The stench of dank air and mouldering bones that came from within made him want to gag. He turned to stare downslope, to where the surviving exiles were building funeral pyres for the dead out of the remains of broken wagons. Nobody wanted to bury them so close to the hills.

Felix heard Gotrek grunt with grim satisfaction, and turned to look at him. The dwarf was running his hand expertly along the broken stones with their faint webwork of old runes. Gotrek looked up and grinned savagely.

"No doubt about it, manling, the runes guarding the entrance were broken from the outside." Felix looked at him. Suspicion blossomed. He was very afraid.

"It looks as though someone has been giving the von Diehl curse a helping hand," whispered Felix.

Rain lashed down from the grey sky. The cart rumbled southward. Beside the caravan the waters of Thunder River tumbled headlong towards their goal. The rain-swollen river constantly threatened to burst its banks. Felix jerked the reins, the oxen lowed and redoubled their efforts to move on the muddy ground.

Beside him Kirsten sneezed. Like almost everyone else she was pale and ill-looking. The strain of the long journey and the worsening weather had made them all prey to disease.

No town would take them in. Armed warriors had threatened battle unless they moved on to untenanted land. The trail had become interminable. It seemed as if they had been riding forever and would never come to rest. Even the knowledge that someone in the train had freed the undead beneath the hills has ceased to be alarming, fading into cold suspicion when no culprit could be found.

Felix looked at Gotrek guiltily, expecting Kirsten's sneeze to produce his usual crass comments about human frailty, but the Trollslayer was silent, staring towards the World's Edge Mountains with a fixity of purpose unusual even for him.

Felix wondered when he would pluck up the courage to tell Gotrek that he wasn't continuing onwards with him, that he was settling down with Kirsten. He was worried about what the dwarfs reaction would be. Would Gotrek simply dismiss it as another example of human faithlessness or would he turn violent?

Felix felt miserable about it. He was fond of the Trollslayer, for all his black moods and bitter comments. The thought of Gotrek wandering off to meet a lonely doom disturbed him. But he loved Kirsten, the thought of being parted from her was painful to him. Perhaps Gotrek sensed this and it was the reason for his withdrawn mood. Felix reached over and squeezed the girl's hand.

"What are you looking for, Herr Gurnisson?" asked Kirsten. Gotrek did not turn to look at her but continued to stare longingly at the mountains. At first it seemed as if the Trollslayer would not reply but eventually he pointed to the outline of one cloud-girt mountain.

"Caraz-a-Carak, the Everpeak. My home," he said. His voice was softer than Felix had ever heard it and it held a depth of longing that was heart-breaking. Gotrek turned to look at them and his face held such a look of dumb, brute misery that Felix had to look away. The dwarfs crest of hair was flattened by the rain and his face was bleak and weary. Kirsten reached past to adjust Gotrek's cloak about his shoulders, as she would have done for a lost child.

Gotrek tried to give her his ferocious, insular scowl but he could not hold it and he just smiled sadly, revealing his missing teeth. Felix wondered whether the dwarf had come all this way just for that fleeting glimpse of the mountain. He noticed a drop of water hanging from the end of the Trollslayer's nose. It might have been a teardrop or it might have been just rain.

They continued southward.

"We can't leave them just yet," said Felix cursing himself for being such a coward. Gotrek turned and looked towards the tumbled-down fortified mansion which they had found. He could see smoke rising in plumes from the chimneys of the recently cleared building.

"Why not, manling? They've found clear ground, cultivatable land and the ruins of that old fort. With a little work it should prove quite defensible."

Felix strove desperately to find a reason. He was suprised that he was trying so hard to delay the moment when he had to tell Gotrek of their parting. The way Gotrek looked at him disapprovingly reminded him of his father at his sternest. He felt once more the need to make excuses, and he hated himself for it.

"Gotrek, we're only a hundred miles north of where Thunder River flows into Blood River. Beyond that is the Badlands and a horde of wolf-riders."

"I know that, manling. We'll have to cross there on our way to Karag Eight Peaks."

Tell him, thought Felix. But couldn't.

"I can't go just yet. You've seen the bodies we found in the mansion. Bones cracked for the marrow. The walls have been burned. Dieter has found the spoor of wolf-riders nearby. The place is not defensible. With your help, with the help of a dwarf, it could be made so."

Gotrek laughed. "I don't know why you think that."

"Because dwarfs are good with stone and fortifications. Everyone knows that."

Gotrek glanced back at the mansion thoughtfully. He seemed to be remembering a former life. A frown creased his brow and he rested his forehead against the shaft of his axe.

"I don't know," he said eventually, "that even a dwarf could make this place defensible. Typical human workmanship, manling. Shoddy, very shoddy."

"It could be made safe. You know it could, Gotrek."

"Perhaps. It has been a long time since I worked with stone, manling."

"A dwarf never forgets such things. And I'm sure the Baron will pay handsomely for your services."

Gotrek sniffed suspiciously. "It had better be more than he pays his mercenaries."

Felix grinned. "Come on. Let's find out."

Unable to sleep, Felix got up quietly. He dressed quickly, not wanting to wake Kirsten. He gently rearranged the cloaks that they used as blankets about her so that she would not get cold, then kissed her lightly on the forehead. She stirred but did not awake. He lifted his sword from where it lay by the entrance of their hut and stepped out into the cold night air. Winter was coming, Felix thought, watching his breath cloud.

By moonslight he picked his way through the cluster of hovels which lay in the lee of the new wooden walls surrounding the mansion. He felt at peace for the first time in a long while. Even the night-time noise of the camp was reassuring. The fort had been completed before the first snows; it looked as if the settlers would have enough grain to last the winter and seed a new crop in the spring.

He listened to the cattle lowing and the measured tread of the sentry on the walls. He looked up and saw that a light still gleamed in the window of Manfred's room. Felix thought about his convoluted destiny. Not a place I would ever have imagined myself settling down, a fortified village on the edge of nowhere. I wonder what my father would think if he could see me now, about to become a farmer. He'd probably die of mortification. Felix smiled.

It was exciting to be here. There was a sense of something about to begin, a community still taking shape. And I will have a place in shaping that community, he thought. This is the perfect place to start a new life.

He walked on towards the guardtower where he knew he would find Gotrek. The dwarf was unable to sleep, restless and ready to move on. He liked to while away the night watches in the tower he had designed.

Felix clambered up the ladder and through the trapdoor in the floor of the guardroom. He found Gotrek staring out into the night. The sight of the dwarf made Felix nervous but he steeled himself, determined to tell the dwarf the truth.

"Can't sleep, eh manling?"

Felix managed a nod. When he had rehearsed his speech to himself it all had seemed simple. He would explain the situation rationally, tell Gotrek he was staying with Kirsten and await the dwarfs response. Now it was more difficult, his tongue felt thick and it was as if the words had stuck in his throat.

He found himself flinching inwardly at all the accusations Gotrek might make; that he was a coward and an oathbreaker; that this was the thanks a dwarf got for saving a man's life. Felix had to admit that he had sworn an oath to follow Gotrek and record his doom. Certainly he had sworn it while drunk and full of gratitude to a dwarf who had just pulled him from under the hooves of the Emperor's cavalry, but an oath was still an oath, as Gotrek was wont to point out.

He moved over to beside Gotrek. They stared out over the ditch that surrounded the outer wall and which was sided with sharpened stakes. The only easy way over it was the bridge of earth that this gatetower overlooked.

"Gotrek..."

"Yes, manling?"

"You've built well," he said.

Gotrek looked up and smiled grimly. "We'll soon find out," he said. Felix looked to where the Trollslayer pointed. The fields were dark with wolf-riders. Gotrek raised the alarm horn to his lips and sounded a blast.

Felix ducked as an arrow splintered into the wood of the parapet in front of him. He reached down and took a crossbow from the fingers of the dead guard. The man lay with an arrow through his throat. Felix fumbled for a quarrel and strained to cock the weapon. He eventually slipped a bolt into place.

He leapt up. Fire arrows flashed overhead like falling stars. From behind him came the stench of burning.

Felix looked down. Wolf-riders circled the camp as a wolf-pack circles a herd of cattle. He could see the green skin of the riders glisten oilily in the light of their burning arrows. The flames highlighted their jaundiced eyes and yellowish tusks.

There must be hundreds of them, thought Felix. He thanked Sigmar for the ditch and the spikes and the wooden walls that Gotrek had made them build. At the time it had seemed needless labour and the dwarf had been roundly cursed. Now it seemed barely adequate provision.

Felix aimed at a wolf-rider who was drawing a bead on the tower with one pitch-soaked arrow. He pulled the trigger on the crossbow. The bolt blurred across the night and took the goblin in the chest. It fell backwards in the saddle. Its blazing arrow was launched directly into the sky, as if aimed at the moons.

Felix ducked and reloaded. With his back to the parapet he could see down into the courtyard. A human chain of women and children carried buckets from the rain-barrels to the flaming hovels, struggling vainly to extinguish the fires. He saw one old woman go down and others flinch as arrows fell around them like dark rain.

Felix turned and fired again, missing. The night was filled with a cacophony of sound. The screams of the dying, the howling of wolves, the deadly cutting whisper of arrows and crossbow bolts. He heard Gotrek singing happily in Dwarvish and somewhere far-off the Duke's dry, rasping voice giving calm collected orders. Dogs barked, horses whinnied in terror, children cried. Felix wished he were deaf.

He heard the scratching of claws on wood nearby and lurched to his feet. He looked over the parapet and almost lost his face. The jaws of a wolf snapped shut below him. The creature had leapt the ditch, ignoring the stakes which were covered by the bodies of its fallen comrades.

He smelled the stench of its breath as it fell, saw its rider hanging on grimly as it gathered itself for another spring. Felix let fly with a crossbow bolt. It thunked into the creature's chest, and the wolf fell. Its rider rolled clear and scuttled off into the night.

Felix saw Frau Winter climb up into the watchtower, to stand at Gotrek's shoulder. He hoped she would do something. In the howling chaos of the night it was impossible to tell, but Felix felt that things were not going well for the defenders. The ditch seemed to be filling with the bodies of their attackers, and the guards were falling like flies to the incessant barrages of arrows in spite of the protection of the parapet.

When Felix looked again he saw a group of heavily armoured orcs, bearing a sharpened tree runk, racing towards the gate. A few crossbow bolts landed among them but others were deflected by the shields of those who ran alongside the rammers. He heard the juddering sound of the tree's impact on the gate.

Felix fumbled for his sword, preparing to leap from the walls into the courtyard and hold the gate. If it fell all he could do was sell his life dearly; they were too badly outnumbered to delay the besiegers long. He felt fear twist in his gut. He hoped Kirsten was safe.

Frau Winter's calm clear voice rang out. She chanted like a priest at prayer. Then the lightning came.

Searing blue light leapt through the night. The air stank of ozone. The hair on the back of Felix's neck prickled. He tried to watch as the lightning flashed among the ram-carriers. He heard them scream. Some danced back, capering like clowns, dropping the tree trunk. They fell to earth, bodies smouldering. The disgusting burned-meat smell of scorched flesh filled the air.

Again and again the lightning lashed out. Wolves howled fearfully, the hail of arrows slackened, the sickening smell increased. Felix looked at Frau Winter. Her face was drawn and pale, her hair stood upright. As her face alternated black and blue in the flashes, she looked daemonic. He had not suspected any human being could wield such power.

The wolf-riders and the orc infantry retreated, howling in terror, to beyond the reach of those appalling thunderbolts. Felix felt relieved, then he noticed, off in the distance, a glow of light.

He peered into the darkness, making out an old greenskin shaman. A red nimbus played around his skull, illuminating the wolfskin head-dress and the bone-staff he held in one gnarled claw. A beam of blood-coloured light flickered from his head and lashed out at Frau Winter.

Felix saw her moan and totter back. Gotrek reached out to support her. He watched her grimace in pain, her face becoming a pale mask. She gritted her teeth, and sweat beaded her brow. She seemed to be engaged in a contest of wills with the old shaman.

The wolf-riders rallied around their braver leaders. Cautiously they began to return, although their renewed attacks lacked the wild ferocity of their initial onslaught. All through the night the struggle continued.

In the morning Felix approached Gotrek where he stood with Manfred, Dieter and Frau Winter. The woman looked weary beyond endurance. People crowded around her, gazing at her in awe.

"How are we doing?" Felix asked Gotrek.

"As long as she holds out, we can. If she can call the lightning." Manfred looked at Gotrek and nodded agreement.

There was a commotion from the other side of the courtyard.

"Frau Winter, come quickly, the Duke has been gravely wounded. An arrow, maybe poisoned," said Dr Stockhausen. Wearily, the sorceress walked into the mansion. From the crowd Felix saw Kirsten move to support her. He smiled at her, glad they were both alive.

With a sound like thunder, the gate rocked back on its hinges. Another blow like that and it will fall, thought Felix. He looked over at Gotrek who was testing the edge of his axe experimentally with his thumb. On this second night of the siege the Trollslayer was looking forward to hand-to-hand combat. Felix felt a tug on his shoulder. He turned to see Hef. The big man looked deathly afraid.

"Where is Frau Winter?" he asked. He nodded at the gate. "That's no battering ram. That's the staff of that old devil. He'll have all our heads for his lodge afore the night's out unless the witch can stop him!"

Felix looked from Hef to the rest of the pitifully depleted band of defenders. He saw tired warriors; wounded men who could barely carry a sword, teenage boys and girls armed with pitchforks and other improvised weapons. From outside the howling of wolves was deafening. Only Gotrek looked calm.

"I don't know where she is. Dieter went to get her ten minutes ago."

"Well, he's takin' his time 'bout it."

"All right," said Felix. "I'll go get her."

"I'll come with you," said Hef.

"Oh no you won't," said Gotrek. "I trust the manling to return. You'll stay here. The gobbos will pass this gate over our dead bodies."

Felix made for the mansion. He knew that Kirsten was with the sorceress. If things went as badly as he feared he would at least see her before the end.

He had barely reached the door when he heard a splintering sound from behind him and the crash of the gate falling in. He heard Gotrek bellow his war-cry, and the screams of terror from some of the warriors. He turned and saw a terrible sight.

In the gateway, mounted on a great white wolf, was the shaman. Around his head was a halo of ruddy light. It played from the tip of his bone staff, staining the faces of all around like blood. From the wall a quarrel flashed but it was turned aside by some force before it could hit the sorcerer.

Flanking the shaman were six mighty orcs, mail-clad, axe-armed and fierce. Beyond them was a sea of green faces and wolves. Gotrek laughed aloud and charged. The last thing Felix saw before he stepped inside was the Trollslayer running forward, axe held high, beard bristling, towards the source of that terrible light.

Inside, the mansion was strangely quiet, the roar of sound outside muffled by the stone-walls. Felix ran through the corridor, shouting for Frau Winter, his voice ringing eerily in the quiet halls.

He found the bodies in the main hall. Frau Winter had been stabbed through the chest several times. Her clean grey dress was red. She had a look of suprise on her face, as if death had taken her unawares. How had the goblins got inside, thought Felix crazily. But he knew no goblin had done this.

Another body lay near the door, stabbed through the back as she had struggled to open it. Not wanting to believe it, Felix advanced, heart in his mouth. Gently he turned Kirsten's body over. He felt a brief flicker of hope as her eyes opened, then noticed the trickle of blood from her mouth.

"Felix," she said. "Is that you? I knew you'd come."

Her voice was weak and blood frothed from her lips as she spoke. He wondered how long she had lain there.

"Don't talk," he said. "Rest."

"Can't. I have to talk. I want tell you I'm glad I came down Thunder River. Glad I met you. I love you."

"I love you too," he said, for the first time, then he noticed her eyes were closed. "Don't die," he said rocking her gently in his arms, but she was already dead. He felt her body go limp and his heart turned to ash. He laid her down gently, tears in his eyes, then he looked towards the door she had tried to open and cold fury filled him. He raced down the corridor.

Dieter's body lay in the doorway to the baron's room. The side of the big man's head had been caved in. Felix pictured him rushing through the doorway in anger and being hit from the side by his prepared enemy.

Felix sprang over the body like a tiger, rolling as he hit the ground and leaping to his feet. He surveyed the room. The old duke lay in bed, a knife through his heart, blood soaking the bandages on his chest and the sheets of the bed.

Felix glared over at the chair in which Manfred sat, his red sword across his lap.

"The curse is fulfilled at last," the playwright said in a controlled voice that held the shrill edge of hysteria. He looked up and Felix shuddered. It was as if Manfred's face were a mask through which something else stared, something alien.

"I knew it was my destiny to fulfil the curse," Manfred said conversationally. "Knew it from the moment I killed my father. Gottfried had him imprisoned when he started to change. Locked him up in the old tower, took him all his food himself. No-one else was allowed into that tower except Gottfried and Frau Winter. Nobody else went there till the day I did. Ulric knows, I wish I hadn't."

He rose to his feet gripping the hilt of his sword. Felix watched him, hypnotized by his own hatred.

"I found my father there. There was still a family resemblance in spite of the way he had... changed. He still recognized me, called me son in a horrid rasping voice. He begged me to kill him. He was too cowardly to do it himself. So was Gottfried. He thought he was doing my father a kindness, by keeping him alive. Keeping alive a mutant."

Manfred began to edge closer. Felix noticed the blood dripping from his blade, speckling the floor. He felt dizzy and tired. The mad young aristocrat became the centre of his world.

"As I felt the old man's blood flow over my knife, everything changed. I saw things clearly for the first time. I saw the way Chaos taints all things, twisting and corrupting them as it had done to my father's body. I knew that I was his son and that within me, carried in my blood, was the mark of daemons. I was the agent of Chaos, spawn of its loins. I was a child of darkness. It was my destiny to destroy the von Diehl line. As I have done."

He laughed. "The exile was the perfect opportunity, hell-sent. The avalanche was mine, a good start. I thought I had failed when I released the undead and they didn't succeed in destroying my uncle and his followers. But now nothing can save you. Darkness will take you all. The curse is complete."

"Not yet," said Felix, his voice choked with hatred. "You're a von Diehl and you're still alive. I haven't killed you yet."

Insane laughter rang out. Once more Felix felt as if he was staring at some devil in human flesh.

"Herr Jaegar, you do have a sense of humour. Very good! I knew you would be amusing. But how can you slay the spawn of Chaos?"

"Let us find out," said Felix, springing forward to the attack. Viperishly swift, Manfred's blade rose to parry then began the counter. Swordstrokes flickered like lightning between them. Steel rang on steel. Felix's swordarm was numb from the force of Manfred's blows. The nobleman had the strength of a maniac.

Felix gave ground. Normally, cold fear of Manfred's insanity would have paralyzed him but now he was so filled with rage and hate that there was no room for terror. His world was empty. He lived only to kill Kirsten's murderer. It was his one remaining desire. Two madmen fought in the Baron's chamber.

Manfred advanced with cat-like grace, smiling confidently, as if amused by some mild witticism. His blade wove a web of steel that was slowly tightening around Felix. His eyes glittered, cold and unhuman.

Felix felt the stone of the wall at his back. He lunged forward, striking at Manfred's face. Manfred parried with lazy ease. They stood vis-a-vis, blades locked, faces inches from each other. They pushed with all their strengths, each searching for advantage. Muscles stood out in Felix's neck, his arm burned with fatigue as slowly, inexorably Manfred pushed back his arm, bringing his razor-sharp blade into contact with Felix's face.

"Goodbye, Herr Jaegar," said Manfred casually.

Felix brought the heel of his boot down on Manfred's instep, crunching into the foot with all his strength and weight. He felt bone splinter, saw the nobleman's face twist in agony, felt the pressure ease. He brought his blade forward, slicing across Manfred's throat. The playwright tottered back and Felix's thrust took him through the heart.

Manfred fell to his knees and stared up at Felix with blank uncomprehending eyes. Felix pushed him over with his boot and spat on his face.

"Now the curse is fulfilled," he said.

Mind clear and unafraid, Felix stepped out into the cold night air, expecting to find the wolf-riders and death. He no longer cared. He welcomed it. He had come to understand Gotrek thoroughly. He had nothing worth living for. He was beyond all fear. Kirsten, I will soon be with you, he thought.

In the gateway he saw Gotrek, standing amid a pile of bodies.

Blood flowed from the dwarfs appalling wounds. He was slumped forward, supporting himself on his axe, barely able to keep upright. Nearby Felix saw the bodies of Hef and the other defenders.

Gotrek turned to look at him and Felix could see that one eye was missing, torn from its socket. The dwarf staggered dizzily, fell forward and slowly and painfully tried to pull himself upright.

"What kept you, manling? You missed a good fight."

Felix moved towards him. "So it seems."

"Damn gobbos are all yellow-eyed cowards. Kill their leaders and the rest turn tail and run."

He laughed painfully. "Of course I had to kill a score or so of them before they agreed."

"Of course," said Felix, looking towards the pile of dead wolves and orcs. He could make out the wolf-head-dress of the shaman.

"Damnedest thing," said Gotrek. "I can't seem to stand up."

He closed his eye and lay very still. Felix watched the small line of stragglers begin to trek northwards under the watchful eyes of the few remaining soldiers. Felix thought that they might be taken in by one of the settlements now that they were no longer being escorted by the Baron's full force. For the sake of the children he hoped so.

He turned to the mass grave, the barrow in which they had buried the bodies. He thought about the future he had buried with them. He was landless and homeless again. He settled the weight of the pack on his shoulders and turned to look at the distant mountains.

"Goodbye," he said. "I'll miss you."

Gotrek rubbed at his new eye-patch irritably, then blew his nose. He hefted his axe. Felix noticed that his wounds were pink and barely healed.

"There's trolls in those mountains, manling. I can smell them!"

When Felix spoke his voice was flat and devoid of all emotion. "Let us go and get them."

He and Gotrek exchanged a look full of mutual understanding. "We'll make a Trollslayer out of you yet, manling."

Wearily they set out towards the dark promise of the mountains, following the bright thread of Thunder River.

THE TILEAN RAT

by Sandy Mitchell

It was one of those Marienburg fogs, the kind you get when the year isn't sure if it's time to be winter yet, and alternates sunshine and drizzle with sharp, dagger frosts. Then at dusk, when the freeze comes, hardening the puddles till they crack underfoot, the mist starts rising from the waterways that flow through the city like blood through its veins.

It always starts slowly, a smooth, even layer above the water, so the ships and the riverboats choking the channels look as if they're floating on clouds, and the hundreds of bridges stitching the isles of the Reikmouth together seem to rise unsupported between them. Then the breeze starts to form ripples in the vapour, sculpting strange shapes that slip away when you look at them. As it rises the turbulence grows, lapping around the pilings of the wharves, then higher still, until it begins to flow gently through the streets like the ghost of the river itself.

Once that happens, the city changes. If you walk the streets then you move like a ghost yourself, wrapped in your own shroud. Torches flare, their light swallowed by the smothering grey, and the voices of the people around you become hushed, huddled close to their speakers for comfort.

None of which mattered to Buttermere Warble. He was comfortably settled in his favourite corner of Esmeralda's Apron, a halfling dive on the edge of the Elven Quarter, working his way steadily through the menu. Right then his biggest problem in life was deciding between walnut souffle and cherries Bretonnaise for dessert; so when the door banged open, to leave trouble hovering diffidently on the threshold, it took him a moment to notice her.

She didn't look like trouble then, of course, not to the casual eye, but Warble had a nose for it. So he glanced up as she pushed the door closed, snipping off a tendril of fog that had wandered in with her to see what all the noise was about.

There wasn't anything obvious about her he could put his finger on to account for the sudden sense of foreboding he felt then. Elves were a common enough sight in the Apron; it was close to their own part of town, and the food was well worth the detour. There were several in the tavern already, their knees jammed awkwardly under the halfling-sized tables, and at first he thought she was there to meet friends; she stayed close to the door, sweeping her eyes across the room, as though looking for someone.

But the pit of his stomach told him otherwise, so when their eyes met, and she started across the room towards him, he barely felt a flicker of surprise.

The Apron was always crowded at that time of night, so Warble had time for a good, long look at her before she made it to the table. Her clothes were well made, but nondescript: a black leather tabard over a woollen tunic and trews, both green; strong but muddy boots; and a black, heavy cloak. She had pointy ears, green eyes, all the usual features; the only thing that surprised him was her hair, which curled thickly down to her shoulders, and was the colour of a freshly-minted penny. Redheads were almost unknown among elves; Warble had certainly never seen one before, and if something didn't exist in Marienburg, the saying went, it probably didn't exist anywhere.

"Mr Warble?" Her voice was a warm contralto, like melting syrup. He nodded, and motioned for her to sit. She still towered over him, but at least he could talk to her now without breaking his neck.

"Call me Sam," he said. Nobody called him Buttermere, except his mother, who's fault it was.

"Sam." The way she said it was like drowning in chocolate. "I need help."

"Everyone does," he said, deciding on the souffle. "It's that kind of world."

"It is if you come from Feiss Mabdon," she said bitterly. Warble paused, his arm half raised to signal the waitress, and tilted his head back to look her straight in the eyes. He'd seen the handful of tattered refugees who'd made it to the Wasteland a few months before, picked up in mid ocean by trading vessels; what news they'd brought had been garbled in the telling as it raced from street to street, but he was sure he was about to hear something that would put him off his meal if he let it.

"Go on," he said finally, curiosity outweighing his more physical appetites. She paused for a moment, marshalling her thoughts.

Her name was Astra, and most of what she told him matched the story Warble had already pieced together for himself. It was common knowledge the Dark Elves had overrun the northern isles of the elven kingdom, and that most of the population of Feiss Mabdon had drowned after taking to the sea, fleeing from the armies marching on their city. What he hadn't been prepared for were her tales of the atrocities committed by the invaders, which had made the near certainty of death in mid ocean seem infinitely preferable to the wretched refugees. He'd been right, he did lose his appetite.

"So where do you fit in to all this?" he asked eventually. "You seem to have survived, at least."

"I wasn't there." Her eyes flashed, bright, cold emeralds boring into his own. "I was on a trading voyage to Lustria. When I returned..." She paused. "You can still see the smoke where the city was. All I can hope is that my family drowned cleanly. Instead of..."

"I'm sorry." Warble nodded. "But I still don't see why you've come to me."

"There's only one thing left, of all that my family once owned. A small statuette of a rat. It's almost worthless in itself, but it's very precious to me." Her voice dropped. "I took it with me, to Lustria. But just after we docked here, it was... it was stolen." Her voice wavered a little, and Warble found himself patting her hand.

"That's tough," he said. She sniffed, and forced a smile.

"I asked around. Everyone said go to Sam Warble. They said if anyone in Marienburg could find it, it was you."

The halfling nodded slowly.

"I'll do my best," he said. "But I can't promise anything. It's a big city. And I don't come cheap."

"I can pay." Her smile became genuine, dazzling, like sunshine bouncing from the harbour on a midwinter morning.

"I charge thirty a day, plus expenses," he said, expecting her to argue. Astra just nodded, took out a purse that would have choked a troll, and started to count. Warble's thirty crowns barely made a dent in it.

"Trade must be good," he said.

"Good enough. When can you start?"

"I already have." He pushed the empty plate aside. "Where can I find you?"

"The Flying Swan. Do you know it?" Knowing every inn in Marienburg, Warble nodded. "Ask for me there."

"Is that where you lost the statue?"

"Yes. I'd spent the day in the market, trading. When I got back, the room had been ransacked."

"Makes sense," Warble said. "Word gets around fast when someone's raking it in. Was anything else missing?"

"No." Astra shook her head. "Just the statue. Luckily I'd had my money with me."

"Can you describe it?" Warble asked. She thought for a moment.

"It's a statuette of a rat, about eighteen inches high." She held her hand above the tabletop, the palm downwards, to demonstrate. "It's made of solid brass, so it weighs quite a bit. It's up on its hind legs, wearing armour, and carrying a sword. And it's standing on a piece of red quartz, with its talons clenched to hold it in place." Her eyes lost their focus, and her voice became dreamy. "My father bought it in Tilea, years ago, before I was born. I used to play with it as a child. I thought it looked silly."

Warble nodded. He didn't rate his chances very highly, but he'd do his best.

He started looking in earnest the next day, and, as he'd expected, he drew a blank. None of the regular fences had anything; he saw enough brass rodents to fill a sewer, but none of them were perched on a red quartz base. He came closest with Old Harald, a decrepit human of indeterminate age, who kept a curio shop down by the Fisherman's Steps. You had to know where it was; in that narrow tangle of streets it was easy to lose your way, and sometimes it seemed the place wasn't there at all when you set out to find it.

"Looking for it too, are you?" he said, once Warble had finished describing the creature for what felt like the two-thousandth time. Harald's eyes flashed blue in the musty-smelling shop, reflecting the light from the candles he'd scattered at random among the tumbled profusion of his stock, and for a moment it was easy to believe the street stories of strange, magical artifacts that sometimes fell into his hands. It was nearly noon outside, but the fog was as thick as ever; the only difference daylight had made was that Warble moved through the streets in a tiny bubble of milk-coloured air, instead of the bruise-purple gloom of the previous night. He tilted his head back to look at the man.

"Who else is asking?" he said. Harald shrugged, wiping a hank of greasy white hair from his eyes.

"You know me, Sam. I'm getting forgetful in my old age." He sniffed, a droplet of moisture disappearing back up his nose just as Warble had expected it to make a bid for freedom. "Business is bad at the moment. Perhaps if I wasn't so worried about things..."

"Yeah, right." The halfling took out a couple of crowns, spinning them idly on the lid of a nearby chest. Then he wandered over to look at a rust-pitted astrolabe that squeaked on its bearings, and showed constellations unmatched by any stars in the skies over Marienburg. Harald was standing in exactly the same place when he turned back, but the coins had disappeared.

"Bit of a gentleman, he was." Harald nodded to himself. "Well dressed, if you see what I mean." He meant ostentatiously expensive, which was the only benchmark of quality he recognized.

"Can you describe him?" asked Warble. Harald nodded, stroking his chin, which rasped loudly under his fingertips.

"Fairly short. About a head under average, I'd say." Short for a human was still tall for Warble; he corrected the picture mentally. "And corpulent. There's a man fond of the good things in life, I remember thinking at the time. Maybe a bit too fond, if you know what I mean. Decidedly corpulent, to tell you the truth."

Warble thought about it. A little of the unease he'd felt listening to Astra started worming its way to the surface again. Something about her story didn't add up. At the time he'd dismissed it, happy to take her money, but it still didn't taste right. If she'd really been tagged by the Guild we don't talk about, why would they knock over her room while she was carrying all that gold around the streets? Besides which, the Swan paid good money to avoid that kind of inconvenience to its guests.

Of course that would explain who the fat man was; if someone was knocking over protected premises, the Guild would want to administer a firm rebuke. But he couldn't have looked like a dagger, or Harald would have said, or, more likely, been too scared even to mention him, and anyhow they had better ways of tracking people down than trying to trace them back through their loot.

Stranger and stranger. He decided to let it simmer for a while, and see what boiled away.

"That's all you can tell me?" he asked. Harald nodded.

"He was the only one I spoke to. The little one never said a thing."

"What little one?" For a moment the old shopkeeper hesitated, visibly debating with himself whether or not to hold out for more money, then he got a good long look at Warble's eyes and decided against it.

"I hardly even saw him, and that's the truth. They came in together, but the fat one did all the talking. The little one just stayed back among the shadows." His voice took on overtones of desperate sincerity. "You know my eyes aren't what they were."

"I know." Warble nodded sympathetically. "But you said he was small. Like a halfling, maybe?"

"Could be. Or a child."

"Or a dwarf?"

Harald shook his head.

"No. I'd have noticed a beard."

"Fine." Warble flicked him another coin anyway; it was all on expenses, and Astra could afford it. "If they come back, you know where to find me."

The rest of his regular contacts came up clean, although a couple of them had also had a visit from the fat man. No one had anything to add to Harald's description of him, except that he paid well for his information. No one else had seen his diminutive sidekick, but that didn't mean much; they could have split up to cover more ground, or he might have stayed outside to cover the door. With the fog still thick enough to burn, he would have been invisible a yard up the street.

Warble started glancing back over his shoulder, and keeping to the centre of the thoroughfares. By this time it was a more than even bet they'd have heard Sam Warble was after the rat too. That gave them an edge; he was a known face around town, while they were strangers. They wouldn't take long to find him, if they wanted to, while Warble didn't even have a name to go on.

No point worrying about it, then. He'd just have to wait for them to make the first move, and in the meantime he could check a couple of sources they didn't have access to.

Gil Roland was his favourite Captain of the city watch. Unusually honest for a man in his position, but not enough to compromise his efficiency, he liked to hang around with lowlifes like Warble who owed him favours and get his goodwill back in liquid form. The Blind Eye was almost opposite the watch headquarters, and attracted a large and faithful clientele of off-duty watchmen and petty hustlers in more or less equal proportions.

The taproom was dark and smoky, the way the customers liked it, and Warble began to relax in the convivial atmosphere. He wove his way through a forest of legs to Gil's usual table, and hoisted a couple of tankards onto it. The watchman took the nearest one, and drank deeply, while Warble clambered laboriously onto the bench opposite.

"Thanks Sam." He belched. "Long time no see. What have you been up to?"

"Nothing I want you to know about, Captain."

He laughed.

"Nothing changes. What are you after, then?"

"I just thought it was time to see my old friend, and express a bit of gratitude for the fine job you and your lads are doing in making the city safe for honest folk."

"Yeah, right." He drank again. "Seriously, Sam, if you're in trouble..."

"Nothing I can't handle," Warble said, remembering the fat man and his friend. "At least I think so." His hand went reflexively to the hilt of his dagger. Gil noticed the movement, but said nothing, faint lines appearing between his eyebrows. His florid face moved smoothly forward, his body, clad in the well worn leather jerkin of his trade, tilting with it across the tabletop. The hilt of his sword clanked quietly against the battered wood, and his voice dropped.

"What is it, then?"

"I just want a little information," Warble said. "Something's going on..."

"Something I should know about?"

"I don't know. Maybe you can tell me." Gil began to relax. He knew he wasn't going to get the whole story, but he wasn't stupid. He'd work it out for himself, given the time and a reason to.

"I've been hired to find some stolen property," Warble told him. "But the story doesn't quite hang together. And someone else is after the... item." Gil nodded, without interruption, and Warble began to see why he was so good at his job. "I just need to know if there's been any trouble at the Flying Swan recently."

"The Swan?" He shook his head. "You'd have to be crazy to steal from there."

"I know. Every latcher in Marienburg knows." Warble paused. "But the other interested parties in this are from out of town. Perhaps our putative thief was too."

"We haven't found anyone floating in the harbour recently." Gil looked reflective, having answered the obvious question without it needing to be asked.

"And no one's left town since the fog started." That went without saying. The watch had closed the gates as a matter of course, and there wasn't a skipper alive willing to put to sea or set off upriver in those conditions. Warble nodded.

"And you've heard nothing about any trouble at the Swan."

"That's right. I've heard nothing." The emphasis on the penultimate word was so faint it was almost lost, and all the more eloquent because of it. He finished his drink in a single swallow.

"What about a fat man? Well dressed, well off, might have a child or a halfling in tow."

"Nothing springs to mind." Gil shrugged. "But it's a big city, Sam. We can't be everywhere." He hesitated. "Try to remember that."

After talking to the official face of law and order, the obvious thing to do was spin the coin. So half an hour later Warble found himself standing in the back room of a leather merchant in the prosperous commercial district close to the southern docks. The smell of tanned hides was everywhere, permeating the brickwork, rising from piles of hides and the racks full of the finished products. He picked up a jacket, soft as the fog, black as a goblin's soul.

"Try it on, Sam. It's your size."

He put it down slowly, and turned.

"Way too expensive," he said. Lisette smiled, her teeth a white crescent in the shadows, and slipped her stiletto back up her sleeve. She favoured black, matching her hair, and blending her into the corners of a room.

"What brings you here?" she asked. Her eyes flashed orange in the dim light, hard and predatory. There were stories about her on the streets too, but no one ever repeated them.

"Information," Warble said. She stepped forward, eyes narrowed, looking down at him.

"Buying or selling?"

"Maybe trade," he said. Lisette settled slowly onto a bale of cowhide, her right ankle resting on a leather-clad knee, and leaned forward, bringing her face level with his.

"I'm listening," she said at last.

"There's something going on I don't like."

"That's your problem." Her voice was neutral, devoid of inflection. Talking to Lisette always gave Warble the shivers. He tried to match her tone, but halflings aren't really equipped for it.

"Maybe not. You know some people with an... interest in the Flying Swan, don't you?"

"I never discuss my business arrangements." He knew that already. He didn't even know for sure if she was a member of the Guild, let alone as high up in it as he suspected, but he did know from past experience that anything he told her would get back to them.

"I hear one of their guests was turned over the other day." That scored a hit; her eyes narrowed, just a fraction.

"Who told you that?"

"The guest. I've been hired to recover the missing item."

"I'll ask about it. What else?"

"A fat man. Also after the item. Hangs out with a child or a halfling, I'm told. One of your... contacts?"

"No." A faint shake of the head left highlights rippling in her hair. Warble hadn't been expecting a straight answer, and was left floundering for a moment; he'd never seen her so agitated before. That alone was enough to convince him she was telling the truth, and that none of this had anything to do with the Guild.

That should have made him feel better, but it didn't. He just kept wondering who could be stupid enough, or powerful enough, not to care about antagonizing them.

Warble had just turned the corner into Tanner's Alley when the fat man loomed up out of the fog, like a ship in full sail. The halfling spun on his heel, just in time to see a small figure with a big knife slip into the alley behind him. It wore a large floppy hat with a long feather, which effectively hid its face, and a velvet suit sprouting lace in strange directions. It took him a stunned moment to realize the hat was roughly level with his chest, before pulling his own weapon and backing against the nearest wall.

"All right," he said. "Who's first? The monkey or the organ grinder?"

To his astonishment the fat man laughed, in a loud, reverberating gurgle, like someone pouring a gallon of syrup into the harbour.

"By all the powers, Mr Warble, you are a fellow of mettle and no mistake. Your reputation seems less than exaggerated, indeed it does. Har har har."

"Glad to hear it," he said, keeping the blade up. The little figure to the right chimed in with a nervous, high-pitched giggle, and Warble shifted his weight ready for a kick to the chin. If he took him fast enough...

"Leppo, my dear fellow, please put that away." The fat man har-hared again, and patted him on the head. "You're quite spoiling Mr Warble's digestion, and we really can't have that."

The little figure nodded vigorously, giggled to itself again, and sheathed the knife. Warble hesitated for a moment, then put his own away, sure he could take these clowns if he had to.

"That's much better, har har." The fat man extended a hand wrapped in a velvet glove, and Warble shook it carefully. It felt like a small, furtive cushion. "Allow me to introduce myself. Erasmus Ferrara, antiquarian of note, if not notoriety, har har har. My associate and I have been most keen to make your acquaintance."

"Likewise," he said. Ferrara nodded, and poured out more treacle.

"Of course, my dear fellow, of course. A man of your sagacity and resource must have become aware of our own interest in the rodent very early on. Almost from the moment of our arrival, perhaps."

"Perhaps," Warble said. He didn't like the man; an air of almost palpable decadence hung around him, from his elaborately coiffured hair to the exquisitely worked embroidery of his overstrained shirt. "And perhaps you'd like to come to the point?"

That was a mistake. He had to ride out another paroxysm of gurgling laughter, echoed for the most part by the tittering of the fat man's tiny companion.

"By Sigmar's hammer, sir, you're a sharp one and no mistake. A man of business, sir, a man after my own heart. No beating about the bush for you, Mr Warble, but straight to the point, sir, straight to the point. Har har har." Warble began to think about getting him to the point of his dagger. "The point, Mr Warble, is that we'd like to engage your services."

"I've already got a client," he said. Ferrara nodded.

"Of course, my dear fellow, of course you have. The lovely Astra, no doubt. And no doubt she spun you a fine yarn."

"I can't discuss my clients, or their business," Warble said. Ferrara chortled for a while, like a pot preparing to boil over.

"Of course not, my dear sir. You're a fellow of principle, and I admire that in a man, indeed I do. But perhaps our interests coincide. Did she tell you what the rodent was worth?"

"A great deal to her," Warble said. They must have known that much already. Ferrara nodded.

"And suppose I were to offer you an equal share, should the creature fall into your hands before dear Astra seeks you out again?"

"What would I want with half a brass statue?" he asked. The fat man shook his head, tears of laughter squeezing themselves from between his eyelids.

"Brass, my dear fellow. She really told you it was made of brass?" Then he choked on his own hilarity, and couldn't speak again for what seemed like forever.

"Perhaps you'd like to share the joke," Warble snapped, feeling heartily sick of the pair of them. "What do you think it's made of?"

"Why, gold, my dear sir, solid gold." Ferrara finally managed to get himself under control. "The figure is worth an absolute fortune."

Suddenly a lot of things started to make sense.

"Tell me about it."

"Gladly, my dear sir. Gladly." Ferrara paused for breath. "But I can only offer you a third of the spoils. Poor Leppo would be most put out." The tiny figure bared its teeth, and hissed its agreement. Warble nodded.

"Fair enough."

"The statue was found in the Blighted Marshes of Tilea, close to the city of Miragliano, about four hunded years ago. Unfortunately, before its origins could be determined, the creature was stolen by unknown miscreants. Its whereabouts remained a mystery for centuries."

"Until now."

"Quite, my dear sir, quite. About fifteen years ago, in fact, when I stumbled across a reference to it in some old records in Tobaro. I won't bore you with the details, har har, but suffice it to say that I have been energetically pursuing it ever since, from city to city across the face of the known world. And now, it seems, the rat has gone to ground here, in Marienburg."

"Fascinating," Warble said. "And where does Astra fit in to all this?"

"Why, my dear fellow, precisely where you would expect her to." Ferrara chuckled again. "My young friend and I are by no means the only ones searching for this reclusive rodent. By now the city would be crawling with our rivals, were it not for this fortuitous fog."

"I see." Warble nodded slowly.

"Indeed you do, my dear sir, indeed you do. It's apparent we've given you much to think about. Har har." Ferrara turned, and took his tiny companion by the hand. "We'll speak again, sir, when you've had time to consider where your best interests lie. Come, Leppo. Time, I think, to fortify the inner man."

They vanished as quickly as they'd appeared, leaving a trail of turbulence in the muffling fog. A moment later a faint burst of oleagenous laughter erupted briefly, before fading away towards the Shoemaker's Square.

Warble turned slowly, and made his way thoughtfully back to the Apron.

Entering the familiar taproom felt like coming home. In a way it was; he'd spent a lot of time there over the years, and knew every pattern of grain in the tabletops. Warble sank into his usual seat with a deep sigh of contentment; simply being able to sit down at a table with his feet still touching the floor, and see over it without asking for a cushion, were luxuries most folk could never fully appreciate. He waved a weary hand for the menu.

"You are looking I think for the rat statue, yah?"

Warble leapt to his feet, twisting aside, and sent the chair flying. The clatter seemed to fill the room in the sudden silence, and he had a brief, embarrassed glimpse of all the faces staring in his direction before his eyes reached the belt buckle of the blonde giant standing behind him. After a moment the conversations resumed.

"Sorry. Did I startle you?"

"Just a bit," Warble said, tucking his dagger away. It wasn't a giant at all, now he came to look at him properly, just a very big human. His build and accent marked him out as a Norscan, probably from one of the merchant ships in the harbour. "What do you know about the rat?"

"I know who has it." He grinned. "And who wants it. Tell the lady to meet me tonight, at the sandbar. She knows where."

"I see." Warble nodded slowly. "And that's it? No demands? No threats?"

"What is the need for them?" The grin stretched. "Either she buys, or the fat man does. An honest trade, yah?"

"Yah," Warble said.

To his immense lack of surprise, Astra's room at the Swan showed no signs at all of recent burglary. Like all of them, it was clean, spacious and well-furnished; Warble could have lived for a week on what they charged for a night's lodging. Astra greeted him with a show of fluttering nervousness that might have taken him in the night before, but which seemed to him now to be an obvious and shallow charade.

"Well," she asked breathlessly. "Have you got it?"

"Not yet." Warble hesitated. "But I may have a line on who does."

"Who?" She grabbed his arm, her fingers digging painfully into the muscle fibres. Warble twisted free, and stepped back a pace.

"In a minute," he said. "First I want some answers."

"About what?" She regained her self control with a visible effort, and sat down on the bed. Her eyes, level with Warble's now, were wide and ingenuous. "Look, I'm sorry I got excited. But you know how important it is to me..."

"And to a lot of other people," Warble said. "I've been talking to the fat man."

Her lips drew back from her teeth, and she hissed like an angry cat. The halfling stepped back another pace, feeling his blood chill.

"What did he tell you?"

"That the statue's solid gold," he said. He was in too deep to back out now. "And that you never had your hands on it either."

"He's lying. Surely you can see that." She was forcing herself to remain calm. Her voice was conciliatory, but her fingers were twitching as though they were already embedded in his guts.

"That had crossed my mind," he admitted. "But so are you. This inn's protected; nobody steals from it. But you wouldn't have known that, would you?"

"No. You're right." Astra hesitated. "The truth is, the rat is valuable. Not as valuable as Ferrara said, but worth a lot to a collector. Both of us have contacts back in Tilea who'd pay through the nose to get their hands on it."

"Go on," Warble said. "You still haven't explained why you came to me."

"It turned up in Norsca, about six months ago. The owner agreed to meet both of us in Marienburg, and sell to the highest bidder." "Let me guess. He just happened to have a fatal accident on the way." Astra nodded.

"A perfectly genuine one, believe it or not. But the statue disappeared; the ship's captain thought it was worthless, and let one of the crew take it when he signed off."

Warble considered the story. It made perfect sense, and he still didn't believe a word of it. He nodded, slowly.

"Suppose I'd gone back to Ferrara?"

"Once he'd got his hands on it, you'd never have made it out of the door."

That much he did believe. The only thing he was sure of by now was that he wanted nothing more to do with the whole business.

"I've got a message from your sailor," he said at last. Astra tensed, her eyes fixed on his face.

"I'm listening."

"Not so fast," Warble said. "I don't work for nothing, remember?"

"All right." Her voice made the frost outside seem positively cosy. "Let's negotiate. How much do you want?"

"Eight crowns. I told you, I charge for expenses."

An interesting range of expressions flickered across her face, ending in what looked like genuine amusement.

"Eight crowns." She excavated them from her purse, like an indulgent adult distributing sweets. "You're an intriguing fellow, Sam. Why not try to cut yourself in?"

"We had an agreement," he said.

At least he thought they did. His sense of wellbeing, not unmixed with relief at the thought of never seeing any of these people again, lasted no longer than the walk back to the Apron. He'd barely set foot in the place when Harald leapt up from a table by the door, intercepting him neatly on his way to the bar.

"Is this your idea of a joke? Cheating a poor, harmless old man?" He waved something under the halfling's nose, spluttering incoherently. Warble grabbed it on the third or fourth pass.

"What are you on about now?" he snapped, then got a good, long look at it. It was one of the coins he'd given the old man that morning, the crisp, yellow surface scarred by a deep, silver rut. Sudden understanding punched him in the gut. "Holy Ranald, that's lead!"

"Absolutely. Counterfeit. And to think of all I've done for you, the times I've..."

"Shut up, Harald." He spilled the contents of his purse across the nearest tabletop, and pulled his dagger, his hands trembling. An ominous foreboding tightened in the pit of his stomach as he drew the blade across the first coin.

"Lead! The bitch!" The coins rattled and rolled beneath the blade as he stabbed and slashed at them, scarring the wood beneath. Every single one of them was counterfeit. After a while Harald stopped whining, and patted him sorrowfully on the shoulder.

"We've been done, boy. Best just to face it."

"Not yet we haven't." By now Warble was riding on a wave of incandescent rage. "I still know where to find her." He paused, counting to ten like his mother used to tell him to do. It didn't help. "And I want you to find someone else for me."

Trailing Astra from the Swan was a snap. The fog seemed denser than ever, and as night fell the thoroughfares faded into shadow-sketched phantoms. Warble felt he could almost have walked alongside her undetected, but an intimate knowledge of the local geography meant he didn't have to. Instead he hung back, doubling through gaps between buildings most folk didn't even know were there, getting close enough to make sure it was still Astra ahead of him once every minute or so. Before long he tasted salt in the air, cutting through the usual city odours of rotting waste and bad cooking.

The sandbar was one of the northernmost points of the city, facing the ocean; as Marienburg grew, commerce had shifted to the larger, more sheltered wharves further upstream, and the older, shallower basins had been allowed to silt up. Now hardly anyone used them, except for the deep-sea fishermen and a handful of smugglers.

As the ill-matched pair moved further into the region of mouldering dereliction, and signs of habitation became scarcer, Warble began to move a little more cautiously. He lost sight of Astra several times, but the tapping of her boot-heels gave her position away as effectively as if she'd been blowing a foghorn.

The rustle of his own bare soles against the cobbles was almost inaudible, but he strained his ears anyway; the fog carried sound in strange directions, and the abandoned warehouses around them created peculiar echoes. Several times he stopped dead, listening, convinced he could hear other footsteps, until reason reasserted itself and allowed him to believe it was merely the sound of Astra's progress rebounding from the rotting timber walls.

A moment later, he froze. Astra was talking to someone, out of sight behind a crumbling wall, through the chinks of which a flicker of lamplight was visible. The voices were low, the words inaudible, but the cadence was familiar; after a moment he recognized the tones of the Norscan sailor he'd met at the Apron.

Negotiations didn't seem to be going too well. The voices got louder for a moment, then the conversation ended in a single, choked-off scream.

Warble edged forward, his palms tingling, and felt something warm, wet and sticky underfoot. The old wharf was deserted now, but he could hear the familiar rhythm of Astra's boot-heels receding in the night. The sailor was lying a few feet away, steaming gently, so the halfling picked up the lantern and trotted across to examine him.

One look was enough to make him wish he hadn't. The man was very dead indeed, most of his intestines straggling across the cobbles.

Warble dropped the lantern, which shattered on the ground, and spent an interesting minute or two trying to hold on to his lunch. Then he listened hard, locating the distant footsteps, and set out after the delinquent elf.

He closed on her rapidly, his footfalls padding almost silently, while Astra's grew louder with each successive step. Suddenly she stopped.

Warble froze, certain she'd heard him. But he was wrong. Her voice was raised, and for a moment was drowned entirely by a familiar gurgling laugh.

The halfling edged forward again, keeping close to the shadows, feeling a peculiar sense of deja vu. Gradually the scene ahead began to resolve itself.

The light appeared first, brighter than the sailor's lantern, seeping through the fog like oil in water. Gradually, as he moved closer, it sketched the outline of a derelict warehouse, leaking from the missing planks in the roof and walls. One of the gaps was about head height; Warble flattened himself against the rotting timbers, and peered through it.

The building was well lit, but filthy, hissing torches hanging from brackets in the walls. Strange designs had been daubed on the woodwork in brownish red paint, and an intricately carved wooden chest stood on a raised dais at the far end. At first he thought the stringy things hanging from the beams were ropes of some kind; then he got a good look at them, realized the paint wasn't paint, and this time his last meal won the race to escape before he could catch it. He was in deeper trouble than he'd ever thought possible.

Everyone on the streets had heard stories of a secret temple to Khaine hidden somewhere in the city, and, like Warble, had laughed at the absurdity of the idea even as they eyed the shadows with sudden unease. Now he knew the ridiculous rumours were true; but whether he'd survive to tell anyone was in serious doubt. Gripped by a horrified fascination, unable to tear himself away, he watched the drama unfolding within.

Astra and Ferrara were arguing fiercely; encumbered by the statuette, she'd been unable to draw a weapon. Ferrara stood beyond her reach, a cocked crossbow in his hand, while his tiny companion sidled forward to take the rat. He'd discarded the hat, to reveal high, pointed ears embellished with gaudy ribbons.

Under any other circumstances the sight of a clean snotling, let alone one so fancifully dressed, would have astonished Warble; tonight it seemed perfectly reasonable.

"Believe me, dear lady, we've no wish to kill you. Certainly not here, har har, that would really go against the grain, would it not? But you must appreciate, we simply can't allow you to use the stone against us."

"I'll bathe in your blood, Ferrara. I'll make your death seem an eternity of torment." The words hissed from her hate-contorted visage, so strangled by rage they were barely coherent. Ferrara laughed.

"Why, my dear Astra. I never knew you cared." He blew her an exaggerated kiss. "And they say the Witch Elves have no sense of fun."

Screaming with a beserker's fury, Astra sprang forward, swinging the statuette like a club. It struck the little snotling on the side of the head. With a sickening crunch of shattered bone, the diminutive catamite flew across the floor of the temple.

"Leppo!" Ferrara fired as he screamed, the bolt catching Astra in mid charge. She spun with the impact, the fletchings protruding from her chest, and staggered towards the altar. Ferrara flung the weapon after her, and ran to the inert body of his companion. Large, greasy tears were running down his face as he cradled the tiny form. "You've killed him!"

Astra said nothing, weaving from side to side as though drunk, intent only on reaching her goal. A few paces from it she began chanting, then swung the statue by the head to shatter the red stone against the surface of the altar.

Ferrara was chanting too by now, his face suffused with gleeful malice, and the thunderstorm tension of magic began to crackle in the air.

It was then that Warble became aware of the scuffling of footsteps around him in the fog, and rolled for cover into the shadows. Faint figures loomed in the mist, running for the building, their outlines distorted by the enveloping vapours. At least, that's what Warble preferred to think. From the direction of the main doors came the clash of weapons, and the incohate shrieking of damned souls locked in mortal combat. Of course, he thought numbly, neither antagonist would have gone to the temple alone.

Mrs Warble hadn't raised any stupid kids, apart from his brother Tinfang, who was dead; Warble was up and running as soon as the coast was clear. Propelled by blind panic, he never noticed what direction he was taking, just so long as it was away from the warehouse, and had only the vaguest idea of how long it was before he collided with something warm and yielding that swore at him.

"Sam! In here!" Lisette dragged him into a side alley, an instant before the night erupted around them. An eldritch glow suffused the darkness, punching through the muffling fog, and a demented howling rose to tear at the very roots of his sanity.

"What the hell's going on?" he demanded.

"I thought you might need some help." Lisette held out a small flask; Warble gulped at it, finding a Bretonnian brandy that should really have been savoured under happier circumstances. "I made some enquiries. Your lady friend was lying about a theft from the Swan."

"I know," he said. "Thanks for the drink."

"Pay me back later. So I had her followed, and asked some more questions. She's a dark elf."

"I know that too. That's a temple of Khaine back there."

"Really." Her eyebrow twitched. "That explains a lot." Warble didn't ask what; if she wanted him to know, she'd have told him.

"The whole rat thing was a blind," he said. "Everyone was after the base it was mounted on. It's some kind of magic stone."

"A bloodstone. Someone like your lady friend can use it to summon daemons." Lisette nodded. "Go on."

"The fat man seemed to know what it was. He was trying to stop her from getting her hands on it."

"He would. There's another cult active in the city. We don't know much about it, but they're just as bad for business. It seems they're in some sort of feud with the Khaine one."

"They won't be active for much longer," Warble said. "They're tearing each other to pieces back there."

"Good." Gradually the magical light faded, to be replaced by the familiar red and yellow flicker of leaping flames. "I think we'll let Captain Roland have the credit for mopping them up."

"What?" Warble turned, listening to the clatter of approaching footsteps, and when he glanced back she was gone.

"Sam." Gil appeared at the mouth of the alley a moment later, a squad of his watchmen behind him. Harald was somewhere in the middle of the group, clutching a battered pike from his shop, and puffing energetically. "We missed you at the Swan. What's happening?"

"It's a long story." Warble took another pull of Lisette's brandy, and sagged gratefully against the supporting wall. "And I bet you thirty lead crowns you don't believe a word of it."

THE PHANTOM OF YREMY

by Brian Craig

Now, said the story-teller, I will tell you a tale of Bretonnia, the country of the marvellous King Charles, who sets himself further above his people than any other lord in all the Old World, and who has so many governors under him that he cannot know their number, let alone their names.

This story tells of a town named Yremy, which was not so very far from Moussillon, the legendary City of the Damned - not far enough, in the opinion of its citizens. The great earthquake which had destroyed the heart of Mousillon had barely stirred the foundations of Yremy, and none of the houses of its gentle folk had fallen. Nevertheless, the tremors had left their mark upon the town, for once the rich and the mighty have felt turbulence in the ground on which they tread, they always walk in fear of losing their position.

This anxiety led the noblemen of Yremy to be especially stern and severe in their administration of the law. Whenever the governor had cause to speak to the good and honest men who had put him in his office he was proud to tell them that there was no other town in Bretonnia whose thieves were so fearful of the rewards of judgment, or where the scaffolds were so frequently hung with the broken bodies of those who dared offend the law and its upholders.

With such an advantage as this Yremy might have been a happy city, but the people of Bretonnia were always a discontented folk. There were among the ungrateful poor a more than tiny number who were embittered by the firmness of their masters, and resentful of the way in which its force inhibited their spirit of adventure.

"How should we live if we cannot steal?" they said to one another when they met in their secret dens and dirty inns. "Must we go back to the land, to spoil our hands and break our backs in the planting and the reaping? And for what? The best grain goes to the rich, who neither dig nor pick, and we are left with the turnips and the beets. We cannot seek honest work as watchmen, for we are the ones for whom watchmen must watch, and our masters would soon perceive that we had nothing to do. We must do what we can to reclaim the night for those who have stealthy business to conduct. We must discover among our ranks a robber of great daring, who can thumb his nose at the governor and his magistrates, and defy every effort of the guardsmen and the secret police to bring him to his reckoning."

Alas, there was a long hard time when they looked among themselves for this paragon of cleverness, and could not find him. Yremy's thieves grew lean in the winter, and less capable in their trade as each of them in turn was caught about his business and returned to his family lightened by a hand.

There came a day, however, when there began a series of robberies which restored hope to the poorest homes in Yremy - not petty thefts of food and trinkets from the marketplace, nor even a skilful cutting of purses, but burglaries of the boldest kind. These crimes were the work of a daring housebreaker who could climb high walls and break strong locks. Again and again he carried away fine jewels, virtuous amulets and gold coins, and sometimes weapons.

Only a handful of the people who were robbed in the early days of his career caught glimpses of this robber, and they could say little about him save that he went about his business clad all in black leather, wearing a mask to hide his face.

Only one man came near to laying hands upon him in those early days, but that was a fat merchant, who was at the time clad only in a linen nightshirt, and he lost all enthusiasm for a tussle when he saw that the thief was armed with a stabbing sword of the kind which is called an epée à l'estoc.

"He stole the bag of coins which was my worldly wealth," wailed this unlucky man, when he told his anxious friends of his terrible ordeal, "and did not hesitate to add insult to injury, for he took my powdered wig as well when I cursed him as a truffle-digging pig, and impaled it on a spike upon my gate."

In another realm, his hearers might have laughed about the wig, but in Bretonnia a merchant who apes the gentry by playing the fop is not reckoned a figure of fun, at least by his own kind. The fact that the robber carried a sword was taken more seriously still, for it was held to be proof of murderous intent, and rich men began to quiver in their beds for fear that when their turn came to attract the attention of the thief, he might puncture their bellies as well as their wigs.

Within a matter of weeks every man of quality in the town was howling for protection or revenge.

"We would expect such things to happen in Brionne," they cried, "but this is Yremy where the law is firm and the peace is sternly kept. Is this a phantom which robs us, that he cannot be captured and held? Is it some black magician who evades our every precaution with his spells? Then let us call upon our wizards and our priests to use their powers of divination! Let us call upon the Gods of Law to reveal this miscreant and deliver him to punishment!"

These anguished cries were heard even in the houses of the poor, where they caused a certain merriment, and the name of the Phantom was thenceforth on everyone's lips, whether they hailed him as a hero or damned him as a villain.

The only comfort which the wealthy could find in the midst of their distress was to say to one another: "In the end he will surely be caught, and then let us see what Jean Malchance and Monsieur Voltigeur will make of him!"

Jean Malchance and Monsieur Voltigeur are two of the central characters of our story, and the only two who can be properly introduced - for the identity of the Phantom must remain a mystery until its climax.

Malchance and Voltigeur were names invariably coupled, for they had been friends since boyhood, schooling together, courting the same woman (and when Voltigeur married her Malchance swore to remain a bachelor for life!), and in the fullness of time performing their public functions in harness, as senior Clerk and senior Magistrate of the High Court of Yremy. Voltigeur, who was ever the more glorious of the two, if only by a fraction, was the magistrate, while Malchance was the clerk.

Yremy was a large enough town to boast four magistrates in all, and an equal number of clerks, but whenever a man had cause to think of the High Court of Yremy it was Malchance and Voltigeur who sprang first and foremost to mind. They were different from their fellows, because they had a lightness of touch in conducting their affairs which was born of long friendship. They were witty and clever, and their exchanges frequently evoked wild laughter in the public gallery of the court, even when the said gallery was packed with the friends of the accused.

To say that there was a lightness about their manner is not at all to say that there was any lightness about M. Voltigeur's sentencing. Even in that matter, though, the cleverness and wit of the great man shone through. Aided by Malchance, M. Voltigeur was most inventive in his choice of punishments, sometimes devising penalties which were previously unheard of in the whole of Bretonnia. Some said that he followed the spirit of the law more closely than the ordinary scheme of punishment, but it must be admitted that others assessed him differently. M. Voltigeur himself said only that he tried to make a punishment fit the crime by which it was earned.

It is of course true that many people believe the customary scheme of punishment to be already well-designed to serve the end of suiting the penalty to the crime. They hold that there is an abundance of natural justice in the common decree that a murderer should be hanged, a thief deprived of his offensive hand, and a petty traitor - which is to say, a woman who murders the man to whom she has been given in marriage - burned alive. But M. Voltigeur was not entirely satisfied with the beautiful simplicity of this ordinary scheme, and it was his invariable habit to attend to matters of finer detail, which led him to treat different thieves quite differently.

For example, a man who stole an amulet or a gold coin might be allowed by M. Voltigeur to keep his hand, but instead be branded upon the forehead with the imprint of that same amulet or gold coin, heated near to melting-point, so that he must ever bear upon his brow the image of that which he had unlawfully coveted. A man who stole a bolt of fine velvet cloth (an item of much value in civilized Bretonnia) might likewise be allowed to keep his hand - but only on condition that he went about thereafter clad in a shirt of prickly hair which tickled his skin most horribly.

By the same token, a poisoner would not usually be condemned by M. Voltigeur to be hanged upon the scaffold or (if of gentle birth) beheaded by the axe. Instead, he would be placed in the public pillory, and given a series of very noxious brews to drink, until his guts felt as though they were on fire, and the flesh upon his bones turned black-and-green as it rotted expeditiously away.

Even the poorer people of Yremy perceived a clever wit at work in these unusual punishments, and the loyal public which loved to see the excutioner at work thought him a fine fellow for saving them from the ennui which might otherwise claim them when the common business of hanging became overfamiliar. M. Voltigeur was therefore an extremely popular man, frequently called "the Great Judge".

The so-called Phantom had not been long at his work when it became apparent that there was something most peculiar in the pattern of his crimes. For one thing, members of the family of M. Voltigeur appeared more often in the list of his targets than seemed likely. These burglaries stood out for a second reason too: instead of wholesale plunder of the accessible assets, the Phantom removed only a single item from each household, often leaving behind jewels and coin of considerable value. In every case involving a relative of the magistrate, the object removed was something the owner considered very precious, but each victim asserted that the value was chiefly sentimental.

The close relatives of M. Voltigeur at this time numbered five.

He was a widower, but had three surviving sons and two daughters. When the houses of all five had been invaded it became abundantly clear that some special of malice was at work. The fifth incident, involving the younger daughter, left no other interpretation possible, for this daughter had been unwise enough to marry for love, and she possessed nothing that was authentically valuable. She did however have a carved wooden heart which was marked by a patch of red dye in the shape of a teardrop, which she treasured greatly, not so much because of its significance as an emblem of the goddess Shallya, but because it had been given to her by the mother she had lost in infancy. This object was of no worth to any other, yet the clever robber went to some pains to remove it from her.

When the news of this particular crime spread through the town the possibility was widely discussed that the Phantom was engaged in exacting some perverse revenge upon those near and dear to the city's favourite Judge. All Yremy waited to see how M. Voltigeur would respond.

Now M. Voltigeur was a very dutiful man, though even his faithful friend Jean Malchance would never have said that he was unduly loving. He had been cool with his wife in the latter years of their marriage and he had always been cool with his sons. He was perhaps a little fonder of his daughters, but the fact that the younger had married for love had understandably annoyed him more than a little. But he who attacks a man's family also attacks the man, and when M. Voltigeur heard of the theft of the wooden heart he was moved to very considerable anger. He let it be known through the town that he would personally guarantee to double the price which had already been placed on the robber's head, so that the man who caught him would win a thousand silver sequins.

No reward of that dimension had ever been offered in Yremy for the apprehension of a felon, and in the meaner streets the sum was much discussed.

Every petty robber in the town began to watch his friends with avaricious care, and every unhappy child yearned to discover proof that one or other of his parents might prove to be the robber, and exchangeable for ready money.

And when none of the poor could find the Phantom among his acquaintances, the rumour began to be put about that the robber must himself be a gentleman!

This opinion was given further credence when the Phantom was very nearly apprehended in the garden of an impoverished marquis whose dwindling family fortune he had recently reduced by a further half. This time, the man who tried to stop him was no nightshirted milksop but a stout nightwatchman named Helinand, armed with a partizan (which is a kind of spear, as those of you who know Bretonnian weapons will already be aware).

Helinand engaged the masked thief with alacrity, the pressure of his duty reinforced by greed, thrusting at him with his weapon as cunningly as he knew how. But his opponent was equal to his every challenge, parrying every blow with his own much tinier weapon.

"Three times I drove him to the wall," Helinand declared, when he gave an acount of his adventure to M. Voltigeur, "and thrice he slipped away, as delicately as if he were dancing. I could not see his face, but I know now that he is a well-schooled fencer, who fights as only a light-footed sportsman fights, and very cleverly. Though he dressed himself in the plainest leather last night, I would wager everything I have that he is used to calfskin and lace!"

"And did the wretch speak to you at all?" demanded M. Voltigeur, who found this ration of information far too meagre to assuage his hunger for news.

"Why yes," said the unfortunate watchman. "When he finally tripped me up and took my partizan away, he said that he was sorry to have put me to the inconvenience of chasing him, but that he could not be caught until he had settled his account with you, which he hoped to do within the week. I did not recognize his voice, alas!"

When M. Voltigeur heard of this amazing insolence his hands so shook with wrath that he was forced to ask Jean Malchance (who was well-used to taking dictation from him) to write down a proclamation for him, which he then gave to the First Crier of Yremy, demanding that it be loudly read in every quarter of the town.

The message which the criers gave out was this:

"I, M. Voltigeur, magistrate of Yremy, am sorely annoyed by the miseries inflicted upon my friends and my children by that low felon which the silly common folk have named the Phantom. I declare that this so-called Phantom is in reality worthy of no name save that of Rascal and Coward, and I say to him that if he bears any grudge against me, then he ought now to direct his attentions to my own house, and to no other. Should he answer this challenge, I promise him that he will be caught, exposed for the shabby trickster which he is, and delivered to the kind of justice which his horrid crimes deserve."

This was an unprecedented event. Never before had a magistrate of the town sent such a message in such a fashion. Whether the man for whom it was intended heard it cried, none could tell, but wherever it was broadcast there were hundreds of interested ears to catch it and thousands of clucking tongues to pass it on, with the result that when the curfew tolled that day there was no one in Yremy who had not heard it repeated. It had been told to ancients so deaf they could hardly hear it, and youngsters so small they could barely understand it, and there was no doubt at all that if the Phantom was within the walls of the town, then the challenge must have been delivered. The citizens waited, thrilled by excitement, to see what would happen next.

In the meantime, M. Voltigeur had not been idle. As a magistrate of the town he had in the normal course of affairs a guardsman to stand outside his front door, and now he obtained three more from the governor, so that the guard at the front might be doubled and one of equal strength placed at the back of the house.

Inside the house he normally had a staff of thirteen servants, including six men. Not one of the six was frail and three - the coachman, the groom and his personal valet - were powerful fellows none would be eager to fight. M. Voltigeur ordered that from the day of his decree no more than two of his men should be asleep at any time, and that the others should all go armed; to those who were practised he gave short swords, while those who were unskilled were instructed to carry cudgels.

Naturally, there came also to his aid the valiant Malchance, who loyally promised that he would sleep on a couch outside M. Voltigeur's bedroom door, and would see to it that the six servants were distributed about the house most carefully, so that each and every landing might be kept under perpetual surveillance.

Nor did Malchance stop at such precautions as these. Mindful of the possibility that the Phantom's elusiveness might be laid to the account of magic, he brought into his friend's house the most talented of the town's licensed wizards, a man named named Odo. Odo, declaring that the thief had not yet been born who could steal goods which had been placed under his protection, set magical alarms upon the doorways, which made the entire house into a cunning trap.

Malchance suggested then that M. Voltigeur's valuables should be gathered together into three strong chests, and he sat up all evening, closeted with his friend, compiling an inventory as the things were put away. When that was done, he sent for Odo again, beseeching him to set sealing spells upon the locks of three chests, and also the lock of the room in which they were placed. Though these spells were but petty ones Odo, full of the confidence which wizards always have when their work has not yet been tested, assured M. Voltigeur that in combination with the other precautions they would surely suffice to ward off any vulgar servant of the thief-god Ranald.

That night, M. Voltigeur went to his bed determined to sleep as soundly as he normally did, in order to demonstrate his contempt for the Phantom and his faith in the precautions which he had taken. Unfortunately, his composure was not quite adequate to this intention, and he lay tossing and turning for many a long hour. Whenever he dozed off he found himself beset by horrid nightmares in which men he had sentenced to unusual deaths rose from their paupers' graves to march through the empty streets, heading for an appointed rendezvous with him, which he felt that he would somehow be obliged to keep.

The fourth or fifth time that a bad dream sent him urgently back to wakefulness he felt such an overwhelming impression of dread that he reached for the firecord which he had laid beside the bed, ready for an emergency. Having blown vigorously upon it to make it grow bright he applied it to the tallow nightlight which was nearby.

When the flame caught he took up the nightlight, holding it before him so that its faint radiance spread as far as it could into the four corners of the room. He did this to reassure himself that he was still alone and safe, but the plan misfired.

He was not alone.

Nor, he felt, as his heart seemed to sink into his belly, was he safe.

Seated at the foot of the bed was a very curious person. M. Voltigeur could not tell whether it was man or woman, because a dark hood concealed the cut of its hair, and a leather mask hid its face. Its slimness suggested womanhood, but there was no hint of a breast beneath the black silken shirt which he could see through the gap where a dark cloak was imperfectly gathered about its torso.

There was no doubt in his mind that he was confronted by the infamous Phantom of Yremy.

M. Voltigeur opened his mouth to shout for help, but the figure put a slender finger to the lips of its unsmiling mask. The gesture seemed more conspiratorial than threatening, and the magistrate was very well aware of the absurdity of keeping silent, but he nevertheless stifled his call.

"How did you come here?" he asked, instead - his voice hardly above a whisper.

"Did you really think that you could keep me out?" asked the visitor. The voice was light, but had an odd throaty quality. He could not tell whether it was man's or woman's - and for all he knew for certain, it might have been an elfs.

The Phantom continued: "Did not Helinand tell you that I would come to you within the week, Great Judge? Did you doubt that I meant what I said? Was it not, therefore, a silly thing you did when you issued so public an invitation?"

"What do you want with me?" asked M. Voltigeur, his own voice grating a little because his mouth was so dry.

"Only justice," said the other, "and a punishment to fit your many crimes. I come tonight only to pass sentence upon you - you must wait, as I have waited, for the sentence to be carried out. I will return again tomorrow to hear your plea for mercy... and on the third night, the sentence will take effect."

"What sentence?" whispered M. Voltigeur, feeling an urgent wish to know what the Phantom planned.

"No ordinary fate," said the voice from behind the mask. "Like yourself, I am not so lenient."

Then, and only then, did the magistrate recover sufficient presence of mind to cry for help - and cry he did, letting loose a scream whose clamorous panic surprised all those who heard it. As he screamed, some reflex made him put up his arm before his face, as though to ward off an anticipated attack. But no attack came, and when he dropped his arm again to see what was happening, there was no one to be seen. The room was quite empty.

The door burst open then, and Jean Malchance rushed in, brandishing a full three feet of polished blade, all ready to cut and slash. At exactly that moment the sound of the wizard's voice could be heard from another room, crying: "The alarm! The alarm! The door is breached!" Within minutes the footman and the coachman arrived, and then the other servants one after another, cudgels at the ready.

But there was nothing for them to do. There was only M. Voltigeur, devoid of powder and paint, sitting up in his bed, looking foolish.

The scenes which followed can easily be imagined. The room, which had no hiding places to offer, was searched with absurd thoroughness. Odo swore by all the gods that no one could have passed through the door until the alarm was raised. The guardsmen at the back of the house were summoned, and stoutly testified that no one had passed them, and that no one could have climbed to the shuttered window (whose shutters were still closed tight) without their seeing him.

On considering these facts, everyone save M. Voltigeur came quickly to the conclusion that no one had entered the room at all, and that he must have dreamed his encounter with the Phantom - but in order to save the magistrate's feelings they assured him that he must have been the victim of an illusionist's magic, which had compelled him to see that which was not there.

Though he was half-inclined to believe them, the magistrate did not like to think that such fear had been aroused in him by a mere illusionist, and he muttered darkly about the possible involvement of necromancy, as evidenced by the evil dream which had disturbed him - but in Yremy as in other cities of the Old World, necromancy was far more often talked about than actually encountered, and even M. Voltigeur could not bring himself to place much credence in that theory.

Unfortunately, the conclusion that M. Voltigeur had only dreamed his encounter with the Phantom seemed slightly weaker in the morning, when he and Malchance went to inspect the room where the three chests of valuables had been so carefully placed.

Though the magically-sealed door was apparently undisturbed the chests were not. One had been opened, apparently by sheer brute force, and its various contents had been scattered haphazardly around the room. Closer inspection revealed that though the wizard's spell had saved the lock from damage, its protection had not extended to the rusted iron hinges, which had been torn apart.

The magistrate and his friend sat down with the inventory, and after two hours of meticulous counting concluded that one object and one only was missing: a silver comb, which the late Madame Voltigeur had often used to put up her lovely hair.

M. Voltigeur swore all those involved in the affair to the utmost secrecy - with the inevitable result that the story was all around the town by noon, its every detail earnestly discussed by roadwardens and ragamuffins alike.

There is only one thing that the poor people of a town love more than a heroic villain, and that is a mystery. They swapped questions with one another with avid interest. Who could the Phantom possibly be? What magic or trickery had allowed him to enter the magistrate's house and escape again undetected? Why had he taken the silver comb? All these puzzles received careful consideration, but none of course could compare in fascination with the most intriguing question of all, which was: What sentence had been passed on Yremy's Great Judge? What punishment, to fit what crime?

The people racked their memories to recall every criminal on whom M. Voltigeur had ever passed sentence, whether living or dead (for those who are executed rarely die childless, and even in Bretonnia - though it is not the Empire - sons are expected to avenge fatal wrongs done to their fathers). The rumour spread that some unlucky person singled out by the Great Judge for a particularly nasty punishment must in fact have been innocent of his crime, and that the bloody libel of his false conviction was now to be wiped out, and the penalty repaid in full measure.

M. Voltigeur did not stir from his house that day, but this did not prevent him from hearing the cries and cheers of the ragged, hungry children of the street, who informed him with delighted squeals that he was doomed, and that the second morrow would be the most miserable of his whole existence.

The humble people of Yremy were not the only ones who were struggling to recall some particular case which might give a clue to the Phantom's identity. M. Voltigeur himself was as determined as anyone to find that clue, and had called upon loyal Malchance to jog his memory by reading from the scrupulously-compiled lists of indictments kept by the Court all the names of those who had had the misfortune to come before him.

The Clerk did as he was asked. He recalled to M. Voltigeur's mind the three highway thieves whose feet he had ordered flayed, so that they might never walk the roads again. He listed the prostitutes convicted of picking their clients' pockets, whose own "pockets" the magistrate had ordered to be sown up tightly with catgut. He suggested the names of a couple of tax-evaders who had been castrated in order to remind them of the condition which the town would be in if adequate provision were not to be made for its defence against marauders.

But all these were trivial matters, and M. Voltigeur opined that when all things were carefuly considered the only kind of case likely to have evoked such an extraordinary response as the Phantom's would be a case of murder.

Malchance then read out the list of murderers condemned to death by M. Voltigeur, which turned out to number fifty-two, but in the main it was a dull enough list, enlivened only by the occasional cleverness by which the deaths of the accused had been contrived. There seemed to be no one on the list who had not fully merited death.

M. Voltigeur then decided that they must concentrate their attention on those who had committed crimes involving magic - for he was sure that magic of some sort had been involved in the remarkable events of the night.

Alas, Malchance did not need to consult the records closely in order to remind M. Voltigeur that he had never had occasion to pass sentence on an authentic wizard. If such a one had ever committed crimes in Yremy, he had not been apprehended - a fact which, on reflection, could hardly be deemed surprising. In the last thirty years, in fact, the ever-vigilant guardsmen of the town - aided and abetted by licensed wizards and the priests attached to its miscellaneous shrines - had only managed to arrest four petty spellcasters. This tiny group consisted of three illusionists and one apprentice elementalist.

The last-named, who had been turned in by his own master after trying to penetrate the mysteries of his calling ahead of the appointed schedule, and also committing various other misdemeanours, was immediately rejected as an exceedingly unlikely Phantom. In any case, his punishment had been relatively mild and not particularly unusual - he had been buried in the earth up to his neck and slaughtered by a shower of stones hurled in an entirely unmagical fashion by a troop of guardsmen.

The illusionists seemed for a moment or two to be more promising suspects. Because illusionists were by nature deceptive, it was always difficult determine exactly what had happened before, during and after their capture, and there was always a possibility that the responsible persons might be deluded into thinking they had executed an illusionist when they had in fact allowed him to walk free, or executed a double in his stead. The three in question had all seemed relatively incompetent - they would not otherwise have been captured and tried - but it is one of the best-loved tricks of the master illusionist to disguise himself as an incompetent illusionist, thus to persuade his enemies that they have seen through his impostures when in fact they have merely torn away the first of many veils.

M. Voltigeur, however, had been the presiding magistrate in only one of these three cases, and that a rather sordid case of fraud and petty theft. The case was rendered less interesting still by the fact that in a rare fit of orthodoxy the magistrate had ordered that the thief suffer the commonplace penalty of losing a hand. The only exceptional item on the record was that M. Voltigeur had decided that as there were two counts, the man should also lose the least two fingers from his other hand. It was difficult in the extreme to believe that the Phantom could have achieved his feats with one hand lacking and the other mutilated, so this suspect too was set aside.

His failure to find any inspiration in the Court lists redoubled M. Voltigeur's determination to protect himself from the second promised visit of the Phantom. The guard outside the house was increased to eight. All six of the servants were issued with blades, and Jean Malchance acquired from the governor's own armoury a flintlock pistol with gunpowder and shot, which he gave to his friend with the instrucion that it must be saved as a last resort.

Odo was asked to spread his alarm spells more liberally, with the aid of a wand of jade borrowed from Verena's temple. He was also asked to occupy the room to the right hand side of M. Voltigeur's. One of the minor shrines of the town, dedicated to the veneration of Morr, responded to the unique situation by sending a priest to assist in matters of magical defence - an unusual step, given that priests usually considered their magic too noble to be wasted in petty secular affairs. This priest was a skilled diviner named Hordubal, who was lodged in the room to the left hand side of M. Voltigeur's.

Jean Malchance again elected to place himself outside the bedroom door, as the final line of external defence. He further suggested that as a new precaution he and M. Voltigeur should bring the three chests containing the magistrate's valuables to his bedroom. He helped his friend pack them most carefully, and when they were locked he summoned Odo again, instructing him to place alarm spells as well as magical seals upon the locks. Then he put them away beneath the bed - where, he said, they would surely be safe from any interference.

When darkness came M. Voltigeur made no attempt to go to sleep, having resolved this time to remain awake. He kept no less than five stout candles burning in his room. Alas, as the night wore on, his determination to stay alert was put to an increasingly severe test by a seductive drowsiness which continually crept up on him.

Four or five times the magistrate drifted off to sleep, only to dream each time that all the men he had ever condemned to death were rising from their graves and marching through the streets of Yremy, calling to him to meet them at a place assigned by destiny, to which he knew that he would in time be drawn.

No sooner had he lost count of the occasions on which this happened than he opened his eyes with a sudden start, and saw a figure standing at the foot of the bed, wrapped all around by a dark cloak. Shadowed eyes were staring at him through two holes cut in a leathern mask.

"It will do no good to strive against your fate, Monsieur Magistrate," said the voice, which sounded like the rustling of fallen leaves stirred by a cold north wind. "Sentence is passed, and only remains to be carried out."

This time, M. Voltigeur did not pause to debate matters with the Phantom. Nor did he bother to cry out to rouse his friends, but clumsily brought the pistol from beneath his sheet, and fired it.

The effect of what he did was not quite what he had expected. Instead of an instant explosion there was a sinister hiss and a great gout of white smoke which stung his eyes horribly. When the explosion came, after several seconds had passed, he had ceased to expect it and it made him jump with alarm. The recoil - which also came as a great surprise - wrenched the weapon from his hand. To the cloud of white smoke which had already blinded him there was added a much thicker cloud of black, and when he was finally able to see again he was not at all surprised to find that the visitor was no longer standing by his bed.

As the door burst inwards to admit the sword-wielding Malchance, M. Voltigeur leapt to the foot of the bed, fully expecting - or, at least, desperately hoping - to see a corpse stretched upon the rug. But all that was on the floor were the wide-scattered contents of one of the treasure-chests. The lid had been wrenched away by sheer brute force which had burst the hinges asunder.

Next door, the voice of Odo could be heard crying: "The alarms! The alarms! The door is breached, and so is the chest!"

One by one the servants arrived - but it appeared that they already suspected what they might find, for their blades were not held aloft, and when they found that the Phantom was nowhere to be seen they did not seem at all surprised.

Through the rest of the night the magistrate and his friend worked methodically through their inventory, in order to discover what had been taken from the second chest. By the early morning they were certain that one thing and one thing only was gone: a fine embroidered chemise trimmed with the fur of a rare white hare, which the late Mme. Voltigeur had used as her favourite nightshirt.

M. Voltigeur did not trouble to swear the company to secrecy, for he knew by now how futile such a gesture would be. The whole town seemed to know what had happened almost before the rising sun was clear of the horizon, and by high noon there was not a single detail of the night's events which had escaped the scrupulous attention of the gossips.

When he had eaten a far-from-hearty breakfast the magistrate summoned Jean Malchance, Odo and Hordubal to a conference, and implored all three to help him make some sense out of what had happened. He begged Odo to tell him what kind of magic had been worked to bring the Phantom into his room despite all possible precautions, and to leave it again so cleverly.

"Monsieur," said Odo, who had been racking his brains for some time in the hope of excusing the apparent failure of his magical alarms, "it seems to me we can only conclude that the so-called Phantom is indeed a phantom, in a perfectly literal sense. This is no illusionist protected by a spell or potion of invisibility, for he does not come through the door or the window at all. It can only be a ghost, and if it appears in this house, it is surely the ghost of one who died in this house."

"Ghost!" exclaimed M. Voltigeur, who had not thought of such a possibility, and was loath to consider it now. "Whose ghost?"

Odo hesitated, but felt obliged to say what was in his mind. "I am reluctant, Monsieur, to say what will probably seem a shocking thing, but I think we must consider your late wife the most likely candidate, for the things which the Phantom has taken from you and from your younger daughter are certainly things which your wife once owned. Can you remember, perchance, whether it was your wife who gave to your other children the things which were subsequently removed from their possession?"

While the wizard was speaking a deep frown came upon the magistrate's face, but M. Voltigeur did not react angrily. He was a man used to weighing evidence and drawing scrupulous conclusions, and when he considered the question which Odo had posed he realized that although he had not seen the connection before, all the objects removed from the houses of his sons had indeed been given to them by their mother, and that the trinket stolen from his elder daughter had likewise been a gift from her.

"But what possible reason could my late wife have for haunting me?" complained the magistrate. "I was ever as just and fair in my dealings with her as with the world at large. She lived and died in comfort, with all that a woman could desire, and had the privilege of bearing seven fine children, only two of whom died in infancy. I cannot believe that she might want to hurt me."

"And yet," said Hordubal, who seemed enthused by the possibility of finding an explanation of events which had utterly mystified him, "perhaps there is other evidence to incline us in the direction of an explanation of this kind. My lord Morr is the god of death and the god of dreams, and I felt his nearness when I slept last night in your house. You have admitted that each time you have seen the Phantom you have awakened momentarily from a dream in which graves seemed to open to yield up their dead, and that you have had a sense of being drawn to some fateful rendezvous. Perhaps your encounters with the Phantom were the meetings of which your dreams spoke."

"No doubt it was kind of Morr to send me an illuminating vision," said M. Voltigeur, with a sharpness born of disbelief, "but I might wish that he had made it clearer."

At this, Hordubal shook his head sorrowfully, and said: "It is we who are the servants of the gods - they are not ours. We should be grateful for what they send, not resentful that they do not tell us more."

"Most certainly," agreed Odo, in a pious way.

But M. Voltigeur only scowled, and turned to his friend. "This is nonsense, Jean, is it not?" he said. "Assure me, please, that there is another way of interpreting this case, which these silly men have overlooked."

"Well," said Jean Malchance, smoothly, "it certainly seems to me that there are several facts which are difficult to explain within this theory. The Phantom has certainly not been restricted to the bounds of this house, as true phantoms usually are. He has not even confined his attentions to the houses of M. Voltigeur's kin. He has carried out raids all over Yremy, and he was solid enough to engage the watchman Helinand in a very substantial duel. And if the Phantom were in truth a ghost, how could he break the hinges of the chests? I must remind you that when I burst into M. Voltigeur's room last night the contents of the chest were already strewn across the floor, and it seemed that Odo's magical alarm had proved no more effective than his magical seal."

"Quite so!" cried the magistrate. "What have you to say to that, Master Spellcaster? And since the alarm on the chest proved to be ineffective, how can we be sure that the alarms on the door and window of my room were not defective also? It is my belief that this Phantom is as solid as you or I, but that he is so clever a magician that your frail spells have been utterly impotent to keep him at bay!"

"Well," replied Odo, in the offended tone which all wizards adopt when their competence is questioned, "you may believe that if you like, but I must agree with my friend the good servant of Morr, that you have too haughty an attitude to man and god alike. My magic is a good and humble magic entirely appropriate to the needs of Yremy's people, and if it is not enough to protect you in this case I can only conclude that you do not enjoy as much favour with the goddess Verena as your calling has led you to suppose."

"Peace!" said Jean Malchance, in a soothing fashion. "It will not help us to become annoyed with one another. Nor will it help us to blame the gods for what they have or have not done, for I cannot believe that they are behind what is happening here. Let us think about this logically, and see where reason might lead us."

"Oh, certainly," replied Odo, unmollified. "Let us do that, and let us discover what feeble creatures we are, who hope to reach the bottom of such mysteries. If my magic has failed, then more powerful magic must be at work, and that is all there is to it."

"Perhaps so," said Malchance, evenly, "but I think that there is another way to interpret what has happened here, and with your permission, M. Voltigeur, I will describe it - though I must warn you that you may not like it any better than what these men have said."

"I am a magistrate," replied his friend, stoutly, "and I am eager to hear all evidence and argument, wherever it may lead."

"Well then," said Malchance, "let us consider the possibility that Odo's precautions were not so easily evaded. We packed the chests together, you will recall, and locked them all. Then I left the room in search of Odo, did I not, returning some minutes later so that the alarm spells could be set?"

"That is so," said the magistrate. "But I did not leave the room. No one could have removed the objects from the chest before the spell was set."

"But it is possible so far as I can tell," said Malchance, "that the objects we later found strewn around the room were not in the chest when the alarm was set, and could have been distributed before the lock was broken. Assessing the evidence purely from my own point of view, I cannot help but ask myself whether it might have been the case that the chest was broken open at exactly the same moment as the lock on the door, when I burst into M. Voltigeur's room. If that were true, there might have been no failure of the alarms."

"But that is absurd!" exclaimed the magistrate. "I tell you, Jean, that the objects were not removed while you were out of the room. Who could have done it, save for me? Who could have secreted them, and later have strewn them around the room, except myself? And who, except myself, could have broken the lock on the chest at precisely the time that you burst through my door?"

Jean Malchance spread his arms wide, and said: "There you have it, in a nutshell. Who has seen the Phantom in this house, except yourself? No one. Who could possibly have done any of these mysterious things, except yourself? No one. Ergo, I must ask that we take seriously the proposition that you are the one who has done them!"

Here Malchance was forced to pause, because M. Voltigeur appeared likely to suffer a fit of apoplexy.

The clerk put a reassuring hand on his friend's shoulder, and said to him in a kindly tone: "Of course I do not say that you have done these things knowingly, but only that you must have done them. You could have conjured up this ghost. You could have taken these relics of your dead wife from your children's houses. You could be the Phantom, and it is hard to see that anyone else can have done what the Phantom has done. What other explanation is as probable? That you have been bewitched or accursed is certainly possible, but I must in all conscience say that we cannot seriously doubt that yours are the hands which have actually carried out these actions."

M. Voltigeur was of a different opinion. "This is absurd!" he howled. "It is monstrous! I have been your firmest friend for forty years, Jean Malchance, and now you accuse me of this! I am a victim of robbery and evil haunting, and the only conclusion which my friend can reach is that I have robbed myself and haunted myself! It is no wonder, you serpent of ingratitude, that I had the wit and wisdom to become a great judge, while you remained my clerk. Logic be damned! Your contention is the vilest slander I have ever heard, and I only wish that I could find a punishment to fit such a crime, for I would surely exact it. Leave my house, and take your worthless spellcasters with you. Begone! I will face this vicious Phantom alone, and I will find out who he is for myself."

It is doubtful that Odo or Hordubal would have been overanxious to agree with the curious hypothesis which Jean Malchance had advanced, but when M. Voltigeur exploded in this manner, and called them worthless, they were by no means inclined to dispute it. In fact, they each came quickly to the conclusion that M. Voltigeur was equally excessive in his ingratitude and his ungraciousness, and that Jean Malchance's charges, however unlikely they might seem, must have struck a spot made sore by conscience.

Jean Malchance, on the other hand, seemed to repent his reckless words, and begged to be allowed to remain - in order, as he put it, to help M. Voltigeur defend himself against himelf - but this only roused M. Voltigeur's anger to a higher pitch, and he would not be content until his former friend was banished from his house.

The two spellcasters went with him, feeling very aggrieved by the way that their sincere attempts to help had not been better appreciated.

By nightfall, the story of the quarrel was all around the town, and so was the rumour that the notorious Phantom had all along been none other than M. Voltigeur himself, turned to a life of crime by arrogance and impiety. Many people who had never imagined such a possibility soon began to say that they had expected it, having always been certain that a judge who handed down such unusual sentences could have no real respect for the law.

Thanks to the incautious suspicions of Jean Malchance, M. Voltigeur went to bed that night a much less admirable man, in the estimation of his neighbours, than he had been before. In his own mind, however, he was absolutely certain that he was not guilty of the perverse charges which Malchance had so unexpectedly levelled against him, and he was enthusiastic to prove it in whatever manner he could.

He distributed his servants about the house as before, and the guardsmen about the grounds, but he was not prepared to trouble himself with magical alarms and magical locks in whose efficacy he could no longer trust.

Before he went to bed he carefully searched through the one chest which had not been plundered, and removed from it a small oval portrait of his dead wife, which had been painted before their marriage, and presented to him as a token of her respect - for she had ever been a respectful woman, who had never taken advantage of their intimacy to excuse any lapse of politeness.

He could not be entirely certain that this portrait was the article most likely to be sought by the Phantom, but it seemed altogether likely. He placed the portrait beneath his pillow.

He had kept the pistol, having persuaded himself that he had missed his shot on the previous night only because he had not understood how the cursed thing was supposed to work, and had failed to hold the barrel straight when he was bewildered by the smoke and the recoil. He was determined that his hand should be steadier this time, if he had the opportunity to fire another shot.

The careful taking of these precautions calmed his anger somewhat, but they could not quiet his anxiety, and when he went to bed he felt as though an iron band had been drawn around his waist, squeezing his belly. His head was like a seething cauldron, his thoughts like bubbles bursting randomly upon his consciousness, so that he hardly needed to fall asleep in order to experience delirium.

Two images kept coming back to him while he waited: the image of the graveyard where the dead were rising from their tombs, bent on keeping their appointment with the man who had sentenced them to death; and the image of Jean Malchance, who had undergone in a single instant of time a dramatic transformation from friend to foe.

It was the latter image which possessed him more firmly. What had made Jean do it? Was he, too, the victim of some awful magic? Might he too be accursed?

Because these images kept rising into his mind despite the fact that he was wide awake he was forced to search for something solid to look at, for the purpose of distraction. He took the portrait from his pillow, and occupied himself in staring at the face of the young girl whose wise and careful father had done him the honour of accepting his most generous offer for her hand.

Remarkably, the sight of the picture calmed him more than anything else he had done. As he stared into the painted eyes he became convinced that if this really was the face of the fiend which haunted him, then the ghost had certainly not risen of its own volition, but had been torn from its rest by the foullest necromancy.

But that, he thought, can hardly be possible. A necromancer must hate his victim more than he loves his own life, for he who injures others with the aid of daemons or vile spells must also injure himself. No one could hate me thus, for in all that I have done I have only been the humble instrument of the law.

Having reached this conclusion, he began to think as a judge again, and as a man of reason, with his thoughts quite unclouded by wrath and barely upset by tremors of fear.

And then, quite suddenly, he saw all that had happened in a different light, and guessed at last who the Phantom must be.

He looked up then, and saw that the Phantom was with him, standing at the foot of the bed, just as he had on the previous night. Those shadowed eyes were watching him through the holes of his mask.

M. Voltigeur raised the pistol, and pointed it carefully at the mask.

"My hand is steady tonight, Jean Malchance," he said. "I promise that I will not miss again."

Jean Malchance reached up without delay to remove the mask from his face, as though he had become tired of the masquerade in any case. He looked at his friend with eyes as hard as flints, and replied: "You cannot kill me, Monsieur. I have already seen to that"

M. Voltigeur licked his lips, and stared into the naked face of the man who was most definitely not his friend, but must have been his enemy for longer than he cared to think.

"I believe that you have," he whispered. "Or that you think so. But whatever wicked spell you have used, or whatever daemon it may be to whom you have sold yourself, you cannot be entirely sure. Dark magic is ever treacherous, and is said to be very likely to misfire, destroying its user instead of his victim."

"The same is said of pistols," the other retorted, calmly.

"But pistols do not care what they may destroy," said M. Voltigeur. "I have always believed that even the instruments of the foulest magic must hesitate to harm the good. And whatever hatred you nurse against me, you must allow that I have ever been a good and honest man, always as fair as I knew how to be."

"I believe that you underestimate the power of dark magic," said Malchance, "and I know full well that you overestimate your worth as a man. Fair as you knew how to be you always were, but your failing always lay in what you knew how to be."

M. Voltigeur's finger tightened a little on the trigger of his weapon, but he did not press it yet. He was not so very frightened, now that he knew what it was that he had to face.

"I thought you were my friend, Jean," he said, piteously. "Why were you not my friend, when I was always friend to you?"

"You hold the answer in your hand," replied Malchance. "I could have forgiven you the rest. I could have forgiven you for winning every other contest in which we took part as boys or men. I could have forgiven you for becoming a magistrate while I remained a clerk. I could even have forgiven you for becoming famous for those cunning sentences you passed, though fully three in four were ideas which I put into your head. I am the man who fits punishments to crimes, Monsieur, and I am doing now what I have always done."

M. Voltigeur looked at the portrait which he held in his hand.

"I remember that you liked her," he said, quietly.

"Liked her!" said Malchance, stifling a cry of pain and showing for the fist time that ire which he must have kept hidden for many long years. "I loved her with all my heart, and she loved me. But she could see that there was a magistrate in you and a clerk in me, just as she could see that there was gold in your family coffers and only silver in mine. She loved me, but she would not marry for love. She would rather have a man without a heart, whose fine clothes and full pockets made up for the emptiness that was inside him. If you had loved her as I loved her, I would have understood, and forgiven, but I could not forgive you what you are, and what you made of her."

"But men and women should not marry for love!" said the Great Judge, with the air of one stating the obvious. "It is our reason which sets us above the beasts, and we must live by that reason and not by silly passion. It is passion which drives men to use dark magic, and to sell their souls, thus to hurt themselves more horribly than any penalty of the law ever could."

"I have not used much magic," Malchance told him. "Far less than you think, I do believe. I had only to use a petty spell which would blind you to my actions unless I desired that you should see them. I was beside you while you packed your chests, and removed whatever I wished before you closed them and before Odo put his seals upon them. I slept within your door, not without, and could do what I wished, unnoticed, even while you kept your vigil. It was from within that I opened the door - and thus broke the magic seal - on each of the two occasions. I admit, though, that my arms were at full stretch the night I had to break the weakened chest as well, having earlier strewn its pilfered contents about the floor."

"But you are only a clerk," said M. Voltigeur, "and as a clerk you surely have no skill in magic at all!"

"I can read," replied Malchance, "and that rare talent, which made me your servant because I could do it better than you, allowed me to search in forbidden books for that which men of my station are not supposed to have. You do not know what I can do, Monsieur. You do not know me at all, for I am merely an appearance to you, about which you cannot truly care - just as she was."

M. Voltigeur looked again at the portrait.

"Why did you steal her gifts to my children?" he asked.

"Because they should have been gifts to my children. It should have been my children that she bore, and not yours. You have no right to these things I have taken - you have no right to your own family, though I know you would not care if they were taken away, and so I have not sought to hurt them. I loved her. All her love-tokens are rightly mine, and all the things which she loved."

"Oh Jean," said the magistrate, with a sigh, "you are a great fool. I was your friend, and you should have been mine. Instead you are a famous robber, and a faithless betrayer. How will I find a punishment to fit such crimes?"

"We are not here to pass judgment on me," said Malchance. "I have been occupied in passing sentence on you. In the eyes of the people of Yremy you, not I, are the famous robber. My denunciation has carried to every covert and corner of the town, and because it came from your trusted friend it is believed! And in the morning, valuables stolen from many houses will be discovered in those chests beneath your bed, to add the final proof. Your confession, dictated to me in your final hour of life, and signed by your own hand, will also be offered in evidence - I have it in my pocket now, with your name already forged. Your loyal footman who admitted me tonight fully believes the story which I told him, that I was bitterly sorry about our quarrel, and came to make amends. When I swear that you died by your own hand, and that I was just too late to prevent it, I will shed such tears that no one would doubt me for a moment. Every detail is now in place."

"Not quite," said M. Voltigeur. "I have not died by my own hand, and have no intention of obliging you in such a matter. In fact, I rather think that I might shoot you dead instead."

"Alas," said Jean Malchance, "I think that you are wrong, and can only hope that you will not be too disappointed."

"I must stand by my belief," said the magistrate, "that your evil magic will not work on a virtuous man, and that whatever daemon has given you your skill will come for your soul, not for mine."

And so saying, he fired his weapon, determined this time that the smoke and the recoil would not affect his aim.

The powder in the pan sizzled madly for a moment, and then the pistol blew up in his hand.

The force of the explosion sent fragments of twisted metal into his eyes. One tiny sliver penetrated to a deeper level; and killed him on the instant.

Jean Malchance had thrown up his arms to shield himself from the explosion, but he quickly lowered them again.

Poor man! he thought. You were ever a poorer Judge than you thought. It does not need magic to block up the barrel of such a stupid weapon as that, and only the pettiest of spells to accomplish it unobserved. If I have damned myself for such a little thing, so be it, but I do not think I have.

The coachman arrived then, followed by the footman and the valet, and all the other servants who had kept such fruitless watch.

"Alas," said Jean Malchance, "the poor man was so deluded and deranged that he thought his phantom had come back to haunt him again. But see! It is only a portrait of his dear late wife."

So saying, he picked up the little picture - bloodstained now - which had fallen on the floor, and when the servants had looked at it, he put it in his own pocket, and took it away with him.

Malchance was quite correct in his estimation that the people of Yremy would believe what he told them, and he had more than enough apparent proofs to convince them. He pretended to be so stricken by grief that he never served again as a clerk to the court of Yremy, but retired to live in solitude, alone with his memories and his secrets.

M. Voltigeur, who was famous while he lived as the Great Judge, became more famous still after his death, albeit briefly, as the Phantom who had haunted himself. It was said of him by many that he had devised the most fiendish of all his punishments for himself.

Whether Jean Malchance was damned for those petty magics which he had used to secure, as he saw it, a penalty uniquely fitted to his enemy's trespasses, no one knows. All that is certain is that he died but a few years after, and that just before he died he made a full confession of the whole affair - not to any eager priest of Verena or Morr, but to a wandering story-teller like myself, whom he first forced to swear that the tale should never be told within the walls of Yremy.

The inevitable result of that injunction, of course, was that everyone within those walls had heard the whole of it within a fortnight - and the lowest of the low were for once united with the highest of the high in thinking it the finest tale to which their humble town had ever given birth.

CRY OF THE BEAST

by Ralph T. Castle

Tomas woke suddenly, with his senses alert and his heart pounding. For a moment there was nothing but the hiss and roar of the surf on the beach outside his bedroom window. But then, once again, he heard the noise that had roused him. It was a high-pitched wail - an inhuman cry rising and falling on the wind.

He slid silently off the straw mattress, struggled into his boots, breeches, and leather jerkin, and crept to the window. He cupped his hands around his eyes and peered through the tiny panes of hand-blown glass. It was still night outside, but the foam on the waves glowed white, catching the first faint light of dawn.

Again, the strange cry echoed around the bay. Tomas's skin tingled. He shivered.

He crept across the rough-hewn boards and opened the door into the other room of the little cabin. He paused and listened. Brodie was lying quietly on his cot beside the hearth. The fire in the grate still smouldered, and the room smelled of wood smoke. In one corner were shelves of dishes and pots and pans above a simple wooden table. In another corner was a washtub. Everything was neat and clean and stowed in its place.

Tomas crept across the room. Carefully, silently, he lifted the stout oak bar that secured the front door.

"Tom?" There was a rustle of blankets as Brodie sat up. "What are you doing, there?"

"I was just - going for a walk."

"A walk?" Brodie's voice rose in disbelief.

Tomas hesitated. "It's almost dawn."

"But not quite." Brodie lit the oil lamp and struggled out of bed. He was a Halfling, a tubby figure less than four feet tall, with a round, friendly face and a touselled head of hair bleached white by the sun. Muttering to himself, he set about dressing in his usual clothes - a faded blue sailor's jacket, leather breeches, and boots that looked one size too large. A red silk handkerchief was stuffed into his breast pocket, a rusty sword was sheathed at his hip, and an ornamental flint knife hung on a thong around his neck.

He ambled over to Tomas. "What's your hurry? After breakfast, it'll be light enough to venture out."

Reluctantly, Tomas let go of the wooden bar. Having just passed his eighteenth birthday, he didn't like being told what to do. "I heard something," he said.

Brodie put fresh wood on the fire and used leather bellows to fan the flames. He broke eggs into a cast-iron pan, set the pan over the fire, then picked up an old cutlass and sliced a fresh loaf of heavy, dark bread. "I know what you heard." His voice sounded gruff. "I heard it too." He put the bread on a plate, then pointed at Tomas with the cutlass. "I'll wager you don't have the slightest notion what kind of creature would make a sound like that."

Tomas shrugged. "That's why I wanted to find out." He sat down at the table. "Do you know what it was?"

Brodie shook his head. "I'd rather not talk about it." He glanced toward the window, then looked quickly away. He slid the eggs out of the frying pan, onto a plate. "Eat your breakfast."

When Tomas stepped out of the cabin half an hour later, the sun had risen into a clear, pale blue sky. A breeze from the west was raising spray from the white caps of the waves. It was a brisk, bright spring morning.

Brodie's cabin stood on a wide ledge of rock just twenty feet above high tide, beneath chalk cliffs that formed a shadowy white wall around the bay. The cabin had been built before Tomas was born, using planks salvaged from a shipwreck. He had shared this tiny refuge with Brodie for as long as he could remember.

Brodie's fishing boat was anchored out in the bay, and a small rowing boat lay on the sand. Tomas started picking his way down the familiar path from the cabin to the beach. It was his job, on most mornings, to take the tarpaulin off the rowing boat and push it out into the surf. Together, he and Brodie would row to the fishing boat, tether the smaller boat to the bigger one, then set sail for the open sea.

Today, however, the routine was interrupted. Something was lying on the beach where it had washed ashore during the night. At first, as Tomas started toward it, it looked like a sodden bundle of rags. But as he drew closer, he realized that it was far more than that.

"Brodie!" he shouted. "Come quick!" And he started running, his feet spraying sand.

It was a body - thin, pale, and frail - wrapped in a cloak soaked with seawater. The arms were stretched out, as if trying to cling to the sand beneath, and the face was turned to one side. As Tomas circled to get a better look, he saw that the features were not human.

"It's an elf woman!" he shouted, as Brodie came hurrying down from the cabin.

The Halfling reached the prostrate figure, kneeled, and gingerly touched his finger to the side of her throat. "Seems she's still alive. Help me turn her on her stomach. Quickly, now."

Methodically, he started moving her arms and massaging her back, forcing seawater out of her lungs. For a long while, there was no sound other than the roar of the surf, the occasional cry of a gull and Brodie's breathing as he worked hard on the unconscious figure. Finally, after Tomas would have been ready to give up, the elf woman stirred. She made feeble choking noises, coughed some water onto the sand, and tried to turn over.

With gentle strength, Brodie sat her up. "Easy," he said. "You'll be all right, now. Easy."

She coughed again, then turned toward him, blinking in the sun. "Thank you," she gasped. Her thin, delicate face widened in an attempt at a smile. Tomas saw that she seemed to be just a year or two older than himself. She was deathly pale, her hair was plastered flat to her head, and there were dark circles under her eyes. Even so, she had an exquisite, fragile beauty.

"Back to the cabin," Brodie said. "You hold her under the arms, Tom, and I'll lift her knees."

Together, they carried her across the sand. As they started up the path, she looked out at the ocean. "My brother," she said weakly. "Still out there."

"One thing at a time," said Brodie. He kicked open the door and laid her in front of the hearth. He threw two new logs on the fire, then turned back to her. "We'll wait outside while you get your wet clothes off. Here, dry yourself with this," he gave her a towel, "and then put this on." He handed her a blanket.

"Where do you think she came from?" Tomas asked, as he and Brodie left the cabin and pulled the door closed behind them.

The Halfling scanned the ocean. "Shipwreck. See the timbers there, just off the point?" He pulled out his spyglass and peered through it. "Two-masted brigantine. Must have run aground just before dawn. Smashed to pieces; there's little of it left. The crew must have drowned."

"Maybe the wailing sound I heard," said Tomas, "was the elf girl crying for help."

"No." Brodie's voice was a curt denial. He stowed the spyglass back inside his jacket and massaged his fleshy face. "Look, if you give that girl some hot food, I'll take the row-boat out there for a look around, just in case."

"Won't you need help?"

"I can manage well enough. You take care of her for me. Will you do that?" His voice sounded unsure, almost plaintive. For some reason, he seemed to have lost his usual bustling confidence. Tom looked into the Halfling's eyes, and saw a trace of fear.

The fire hissed and crackled. The elf girl sat huddled in her blanket, sipping a mug of soup, while Tomas hung her clothes up to dry. "If your brother's still alive, Brodie will find him," he said. "He's an expert seaman."

She stared into the embers of the fire. "If I am to face the truth, I have to admit my brother must be dead." She sighed deeply. "He gambled, last night in Remas. Lost most of the crowns we'd made from trading our silks and yarns, then drowned his sorrows in wine before he set sail. And now, he's drowned himself, as well."

There was a long, uneasy silence. "What's your name?" Tomas asked.

"Linna." She turned her pale grey eyes toward him. "And you?"

"Tomas Fenman." As their eyes met, he felt strangely drawn toward her. He had never seen a human woman so delicately beautiful.

"You live with a Halfling," she said. "How is that so?"

"I never knew my parents. Brodie found me wrapped in a blanket when I was just a few months old. He took me in and cared for me."

"The Halflings are well known for their hospitality." She smiled faintly. "A generous people."

"Yes," said Tomas.

"And he makes a living as a fisherman?"

"Yes."

"And you help him?"

"Yes," he said again. He felt annoyed, as if he ought to be able to think of more to say. But there was something unsettling about her steady stare and her questions.

"It must be a dull life here for a strong, independent young man like you," she said, looking frankly at his broad chest and muscled arms.

"It isn't dull at all," he answered defensively. "I've studied to be a mariner.'

"On your fishing boat, yes." She shrugged. "I saw it anchored in the bay."

"When we trade our catch in the town," he went on, "I earn money as an entertainer. I do backflips, and I juggle anything the crowd gives me. Stones, coins, even swords and daggers with bare blades."

She nodded thoughtfully, as if picturing it.

"Some time, I hope to join a travelling carnival."

"But that would mean leaving your friend Brodie. He must be getting old, now. Nearing his hundredth birthday? I'm sure he needs your help here. And you seem a kind person. I think you're too kind to abandon him. So if you dream of adventure, you must know, really, it can be no more than a dream."

Tomas felt suddenly angry - all the more because what she said was uncomfortably accurate. "I don't think that's any of your business."

"Oh." She looked down into her lap, and then nodded to herself. "You're right, I spoke without thinking. I am upset about what has happened. My brother is gone; our ship and crew are gone; I have nothing left. I apologize for offending you."

Tomas's anger left him abruptly. "It doesn't matter." He shifted uncomfortably. "If there's something I can do - "

"You could sit here beside me," she said. "Your presence might be a comfort."

He joined her on the cot. He felt himself grow tense, reacting to the nearness of her beauty. He didn't quite trust himself to look at her.

"Thank you," she said. She rested her head on his shoulder, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, and closed her eyes.

Minutes passed. From her breathing, Tomas realized she had gradually fallen asleep. After a while, he carefully moved her so that she lay stretched out on her back. She muttered something, but didn't wake up. He laid another blanket over her, then paused and looked at her. Her face was serene in sleep. The curve of her neck lay revealed beneath her tangled blonde hair. How could someone who battled storms in the Great Western Ocean seem to fine and frail?

When the Halfling came back to the cabin he was weary and dejected. "No sign of her brother." He eyed the elf girl, still sleeping soundly. "There's a few things worth salvaging, but I'll need your help, Tom."

"Shall we wake her?"

"No, best not." Brodie glanced around. "We'll keep an eye on the place from outside."

Tomas frowned. "What are you afraid of?"

Brodie slapped his belly. "Afraid? Me? Hah." He took Tomas's arm. "Come on. She'll be fine." But his eyes still moved quickly, checking every shadow.

By late afternoon they had recovered the ship's log - which was in an elven language that neither of them could read - and some food supplies in small wooden crates. They returned to the cabin, woke Linna, and Brodie cooked a meal.

The food seemed to revive her. She told them something of her home life on the isle of Ulthuan, where she had lived in one of the Elven Kingdoms. Her parents had been traders who had died unexpectedly in a typhoon that sank their ship. She and her brother had tried to continue the business alone, and had scraped by for a couple of years, despite his drinking and gambling. The two of them had made the hard voyage from Ulthuan to the Tilean Sea half a dozen times or more.

As the sun set over the ocean, turning the sky gold, Brodie broke out a keg of rum. He started telling some of his old sea stories, of lost treasure, piracy, and giant serpents that could swallow a ship and all the crew besides. "But that's not the half of it," he went on, happy as only a Halfling could be when his belly was full with ample quantities of food and drink. "Why, there are creatures to the north, in the Sea of Claws, that would eat such a serpent for breakfast." He bent toward Linna, as if sharing a deep, dark secret. "Did you ever hear of a mariner by name of Richard Crowell?"

"I know little of human legends," Linna said.

"This man was no mere legend. Fifteen years ago - maybe a little more - it was a bad summer. Day after day the skies were dark with storm clouds, the land was wet and cold, and nights seemed longer than they had any right to be. There was talk that the creatures from the underworld were rising up against us. Babes were carried off by griffons, even hereabouts in the Tilean Cities, and beastmen were seen roaming the hillsides. People were scared to go out even by light of day."

Tomas had heard this story too many times before. He stifled a yawn.

"Well, Richard Crowell gathered together the best swordsmen, the bravest fighters. He routed the creatures of darkness from their caves and cisterns underground, and he found sorcerers who would use their magic to strip the monsters of their spells. He made Remas safe for honest folk to live in once again. And then, not content with that, he led an expedition up the coast, across the Middle Sea, to the Sea of Claws. He'd heard that this was where the evil beasts were coming from, and he wanted to stop them at their source."

There was a short silence. "And what happened?" Linna asked politely.

"Oh, there were battles the like of which you cannot imagine. All manner of flying things, creatures with tentacles instead of heads, humans that were half man, half woman - there was a screaming and a wailing, a gnashing of fangs and a beating of wings." Brodie paused. "Well, that's what I was told. I wasn't there myself, you understand."

Linna smiled. "No, I suppose not."

Brodie finished his rum. "We Halflings are simple folk. A warm home and a full belly, that's all the excitement we need."

"And what of Richard Crowell?" she asked.

Brodie's mood became more sombre. "Some say he succumbed to the evil forces he pitted himself against, after he made landfall and ventured into Norsca. But no one really knows."

"Norsca?" Linna's eyes narrowed. "I've never been there. It's a faraway place."

Brodie set his glass down abruptly. "Indeed, indeed it is. So far away, I wonder why we're wasting our time talking about it."

"How do you - '

"Just stories I've heard, that's all." He stood up. "I declare, it's past my bedtime." He belched and steadied himself against the table, then yawned loudly. "You should bed down for the night in Tomas's room, my dear. He and I can sleep in here."

She rose gracefully to her feet. "Thank you." She smiled at Brodie, then turned to Tomas and took his hand. "It was a special pleasure to meet you, Tomas."

Her touch was cool and light, yet he felt a wave of warmth spread from her hand to his. "Good night," she said, looking into his eyes.

"Good night," he answered dumbly. Neither he nor Brodie said anything more till she had left the room and closed the door behind her.

"I don't know, Tomas," the Halfling said finally. He threw a thick overcoat onto the floor in front of the fire, then stretched out on it on his back. "Hard to tell, whether things are what they seem."

Tomas knew from the Halfling's slurred speech, this was no time to pay much attention to his ramblings. "Will you be all right sleeping down there?" he asked.

"Right as rain." Brodie yawned again.

Tomas lay down in Brodie's cot and pulled a blanket over himself. He stared at the wooden ceiling, watching it flicker in the light from the fire. He imagined Linna in the other room, in his bed. Had it been an invitation, the way she'd looked at him when she said goodnight? No, she must still be grieving over the loss of her brother. If he went creeping in to see her now, he'd just be making a fool of himself.

He tossed and turned in the narrow bed, while Brodie snored where he lay on the floor in front of the fire. Tomas kept seeing Linna's face. Even when he finally fell asleep, she was in his dreams.

Tomas felt a hand on his shoulder. He woke with a start, looked up, and saw a shadowy figure bending over him. It was Linna, he realized, and she was fully dressed. "There's someone outside," she whispered. "Quickly. Come and look."

The fire had died down till it lit the room with a dim red glow. Brodie still lay in front of it, snoring, his hands clasped across his stomach. Tomas considered waking him - but the Halfling was in a stupor, sated with food and drink.

Linna went quickly to the window beside the door of the cabin. Tomas lit the oil lamp and carried it over to her. "Someone knocked on the window in my room," she explained. "It was so dark outside, I couldn't be sure - '

Tomas held the lamp up high and peered through the rippled glass. He saw a ragged figure standing in the night, his clothes soaked with seawater. He raised his hand imploringly, and his mouth opened as though he was trying to speak.

Linna pressed her face to the glass. "It is my brother!" She ran to the door, her eyes wide with excitement. She lifted the oak bar and dropped it with a thump on the floor.

Brodie muttered something and rolled over. He opened his eyes and squinted in the light. "What - "

Linna was already tugging the door open. A gust of icy air wafted in, making the flame in Tomas's oil lamp flutter. "Corma!" she called. "It's really you!"

"Wait," said Tomas, as she started out of the cabin. There was a strange odour in the cold night air. He sensed that something, somehow, was wrong.

"Wha's going on?" Brodie sat up. He saw the open door, and Linna stepping into the night. "Hey!" he shouted. "Stop there!"

But it was too late. In the flickering light from the oil lamp, Tomas saw the elf girl throw herself into her brother's arms. But her moment of joy turned almost instantly to horror. As Tomas watched, the figure of her brother mutated hideously. Linna screamed in panic and started struggling to free herself from the tight embrace.

One of the arms that clutched her had turned into a huge purple crab's claw. The other was a brown tentacle, coiling around Linna's waist. A lumpy, fur-covered body literally burst out of the sodden clothes, and a razor-edged reptilian tail thumped onto the ground and started lashing from side to side. The creature's feet were hooves, and its face contorted till it looked like the head of a bear, with bulbous, bulging eyes and black horns that sprouted from its forehead. It growled, revealing long, curved, yellow fangs. Its breath steamed in the cold air.

"Vile thing!" Brodie shouted. "Let her go!"

Tomas turned and saw that the Halfling had struggled up onto his feet. He was clutching the flint dagger that he normally wore on a thong around his neck.

The creature picked Linna up with its tentacle and tossed her across its shoulders. It tilted its head back, uttered a long, wailing cry, then strode away into the blackness.

Tomas was trembling. The wailing cry was the very same sound that he'd heard the previous night.

"Tomas! Help!" Linna cried. Her voice was almost lost on the wind.

Clouds were covering the moon, and the light from his lamp reached no more than a dozen feet. Summoning all his courage, Tomas stepped into the darkness.

Something ran in front of him: a deformed near-human shape with green, leathery skin. Another joined it. Goblins, he realized. They stood barring his path, hissing menacingly.

"Tomas!" Linna called again, and he saw her briefly silhouetted against the stormy sky as the beast carried her down the path to the beach.

In despair, Tomas hurled the oil lamp. His aim was true: the lamp hit the creature in the back of its legs and smashed, scattering droplets of fire. The thing cried in pain, and for a moment seemed about to drop the elf girl. But then it continued on its way, disappearing into the night.

Brodie appeared beside Tomas. He drew his rusty sword from its cracked leather sheath and brandished it at the goblins. "Begone!" he shouted.

They hissed again and started forward.

Brodie raised his sword above his head. Tomas saw that the Halfling's hands were shaking. "I'm warning you!"

The goblins continued toward him with their teeth bared and their claw-like fingers extended. And then, without warning, they stopped still, as if there had been a noise that only they could hear. Suddenly then turned and ran off into the darkness, leaving Brodie and Tomas alone in the night.

Brodie sheathed his sword. He shook his head as if to clear it, then grabbed Tomas's arm. "Quickly. Back inside."

Dazed, Tomas allowed himself to be led toward the door. "But we have to save her," he protested.

"No." Brodie hauled him bodily into the cabin.

Tomas pried at the Halfling's fingers. "Let me go!"

"That thing has powers you've never dreamed of. And you don't even have a weapon to defend yourself."

"You mean we're just going to do nothing? You want us to hide like cowards?"

Brodie slammed and barred the door. He glowered at Tomas. "You'd see the sense of it, if you knew what I know."

Tomas was barely listening. "It took her, Brodie. It just took her away."

Brodie stumbled to the bed and sat down heavily. With hands that still shook, he lit a candle. "The beast you just saw was once a man. It got deformed when it chose to serve the dark forces."

Tomas frowned "It looked just like a sea elf, at first."

"That was magic. It disguised itself, see, with a spell of illusion, to tempt the elf girl out. But my dawnstone, here, showed it for what it was." He patted the wedge of flint that hung around his neck.

"Dawnstone?"

"It's enchanted. Has the power to undo the effects of magic." He shook his head grimly. "I only wish I'd used it sooner, to reveal the beast before she went to it."

Tomas reached out and touched the dawnstone. It was cold and smooth. His fingers slid over its polished surface. "I always thought it was just a flint dagger. Where did you get it?"

Brodie chewed for a moment on his lower lip. He gave Tomas a sidelong glance. "Well, we don't need to talk about that now. You had a nasty shock out there. A terrible tragedy. Let's brew some tea, and - "

"I want to know the truth," Tomas said firmly. "What happened out there? How did you get the dawnstone? How do you know all these things about creatures and dark forces?"

The Halfling fidgeted uneasily. "I was there, see," he said in a low voice. "With Richard Crowell and his crew."

"In the Sea of Claws?" Tomas stared at him with disbelief.

The Halfling shrugged. "I was only the ship's cook. Never was a fighter. But the fact is, Tomas, you were there too."

For a moment, they stared at each other. Then Tomas laughed uncertainly. "I don't understand."

"You were a babe, so you don't remember. But Richard Crowell, he was your father. Your mother was killed only a week after you were born - killed by a beastman. That was the real reason for Richard's quest: he wanted revenge against the things that had taken his young wife away. Oh, but it was much harder than he'd thought it would be. He anchored his fleet off the coast of Norsca, told me to stay on board ship and take good care of you, and went ashore with his army. He promised to come back if he could. But he never did. Only one of his men survived long enough to get back to the ship, and he told us terrible stories about the creatures they'd seen on land, with terrible magical powers. He died from his wounds just a few hours later, and the crew were so scared they set sail right away, heading back south."

Tomas felt stunned by what he heard. At the same time, he felt a growing sense of excitement after so many years spent wondering about his parents. "This is really true?"

The Halfling nodded. He grasped the dawnstone and lifted it over his head on its leather thong. "Richard knew I wasn't a fighter, so he gave me this stone for protection. His wife had worn it, back before - before she was taken. Richard had another one just like it, which he kept himself. A matched pair, very rare indeed."

"This one used to belong to my mother?"

"Indeed it did. Here, you need it now more than I do."

Tomas held the stone in both hands. "I wish you'd told me all this before, Brodie."

"It was best you didn't know." The Halfling gave Tomas another quick, guilty look. "If you'd known the truth, you might have done something rash, maybe even got it into your head to run away looking for your dad."

Tomas nodded slowly, saying nothing.

"I wanted the best for you, Tomas. I cared for you as if you were my own."

"I - I know that." Tomas stared at the stone, expecting to see his reflection in the shiny black surface; yet somehow it seemed to absorb all the light that fell on it.

"If you ever think there's magic being used against you," the Halfling said, "you take hold of that stone. You have to grasp it in your fist. Yes, like that. Just hold it, so."

"All right. I'll remember."

"Now put it on for safe keeping." He watched closely while Tomas looped the leather thong around his neck and dropped the stone inside his jerkin. "See, it's you they really wanted, tonight."

Tomas looked up in surprise. "Me?"

Brodie stood up and paced across the room. He poked nervously at the fire, sending sparks flying up the chimney, then paced back again, the floorboards creaking under him. "All these years I've been watching and waiting, expecting them to come for you. Your father must have hurt them badly, before they killed him, and they'll not forget it. Revenge; that's what they're after."

"Then why did they take Linna instead of me?" Even as he spoke, he saw again the awful spectacle of the elf girl being dragged away into the darkness.

"I reckon they found her brother, last night. Maybe took him off the wreck. They would have got her too, but she swam for safety and didn't reach the shore till it was almost light. They don't like the light of day. So they bided their time till it was dark again, then lured her out, hoping you'd follow." Once again, he started pacing to and fro. "We're not safe here, Tomas. That dawnstone protects against magic, but it's no use against brute force, and I'm not much of a fighter, and you've never learned swordplay." He shook his head ruefully. "First thing tomorrow, we'll pack everything into the boat and set sail. Find us a quiet little haven - maybe in the Estalian Kingdoms, on the Southern Sea. The winters are warm down there, and there's nary a creature of darkness to be seen. What do you say, eh?"

Tomas looked at the Halfling in confusion. "You mean - you'll let them drive us out of our home here?"

Brodie laughed bitterly. "You think we have any choice? Look at us, what's a pair like us going to do against the forces of darkness?"

Tomas stood up slowly. His face was grim and brooding. He walked to the window and stared out into the night.

"Come away from there." Brodie spoke sharply, but at the same time, there was a fearful, pleading sound to his voice.

Tomas remained where he was. "She might still be alive."

"Her? Alive?" The Halfling laughed without any humour. "They'll have drunk her blood by now. That's the terrible fact of it, Tomas. They make that wailing noise when they're hungry. The man who was with Crowell's army, he told us these things before he died, don't you see?" He went over and tugged at Tomas's shirt. "Let's get our rest. We'll need it for tomorrow. We've got to pack our belongings, and there's a long voyage ahead of us."

Tomas shook his head. "It's not right."

Brodie ran his hand nervously through his tousled hair. "Now you listen to me. See sense, Tom. You saw that thing - "

"I can't run away and abandon her."

Brodie swore. "Do you think you're like your father, is that it? You'll be as dead as your father, too, before this is done."

Tomas seized the hilt of Brodie's sword and jerked it out of its sheath.

Brodie's eyes widened with disbelief.

"I have to go out there." Tomas shook off the Halfling's plaintive, grasping hands, and opened the door.

The night was as black as before. Heavy clouds moved swiftly across the sky, obscuring all but a faint trace of moonlight. The sea hissed and roared, and Tomas flinched as a cold gust of wind hit him in the face. He strained his eyes, trying to see into the darkness. Fear clutched his stomach as he imagined the creatures that might be lurking there.

"Tomas! Please, please come back!"

He looked at the little Halfling standing in the doorway of the cabin, and for a moment he weakened. He loved Brodie as he would have loved his father, had he known him.

But then the wailing cry started again, and Tomas felt his fear give way to righteous anger. He strode forward, raising the sword high.

Behind him, he heard Brodie come out after him. "I can't let you go, Tomas. I can't!"

Tomas leaped down onto the beach and crossed the sand in long, loping strides. Within a few moments, he had disappeared into the darkness, leaving the Halfling far behind.

Tomas paused when he reached the cliffs at the opposite side of the bay. His heart was beating fast and his chest was so tight, it was difficult to breathe. He paused, gasping for air, and tried to listen. This was where the wailing had originally seemed to come from.

Briefly, the large moon, Mannslieb, appeared between two clouds. In its faint light, Tomas saw tracks in the sand. There were large, deep hoof marks, and two sets of smaller subhuman footprints.

The tracks led around the point. He ran quickly, scaled a heap of boulders, and found himself in the next bay. He had played here often, in his childhood. There was a cave, up in the cliffs. The tracks ended immediately beneath it.

The moon disappeared behind the clouds again, but there were easy footholds in the rock. Tomas slid the sword into his belt and started climbing. He moved swiftly; his muscles were strong from the juggling and acrobatics he had practiced. It only took him a few moments to reach the cave mouth.

He grasped the sword again and paused, hearing faint scuffling noises. "Linna!" he shouted. "Linna, are you here?"

There were chittering sounds, like distant daemonic laughter. A foul, sweaty stench wafted out. He tightened his grip on his sword and took a cautious step forward.

Something grabbed his leg. Sharp horny fingernails ripped through his breeches. Pointed teeth sank into his flesh.

Tomas shouted in fear and pain. He groped in the darkness and managed to close his free hand around the goblin's neck. He tore the thing from him, wincing as its teeth pulled free. It made a terrible screeching sound and writhed in his grip.

"Give her back!" he shouted.

The goblin hissed and spat into his face.

Tomas slammed the goblin down onto the floor of the cave, stamped on its neck, and stabbed his sword into its body.

The goblin's screams turned to a gargling sound as it choked on its own blood. The great moon reappeared in the sky outside, shedding just enough light for Tomas to see the creature impaled on his sword, squirming in its last death throes. Tomas jerked the blade free - then stopped in dismay. The tip of the blade had snapped off where it had plunged through the goblin and struck the rock beneath.

There was a scuffling sound. Tomas whirled around. Two more goblins were running toward him with their teeth bared.

He leaped quickly to one side, avoiding the first. He swung the sword, using the sense of timing he'd learned from juggling in the village square. The blade caught the second goblin in the side of its neck.

It was a heavy blow, but the sword's edge was dull. The creature screamed and fell, but it was still alive.

Tomas spun around just in time to grapple with the first goblin as it returned and threw itself at him. He stumbled backward.

It screeched and tried to claw his face. Tomas turned as he fell, so that he landed on top of the creature, squashing it against the rocky floor. Momentarily, it was stunned. He picked it up by one leg, turned, and swung it. His aim was true: its head smacked into the head of its companion. Their skulls smashed together with a terrible wet crunching sound.

For a moment, the only noise in the cave was of Tomas's laboured breathing and the gushing of goblin blood. Some of the hot, wet stuff was on his hands. He wiped it on his breeches and picked up his broken sword. Cautiously, then, with his pulse thudding in his ears, he crept further into the cave.

The moonlight faded into blackness with each step that he took. At the same time, he began to see a flickering orange glow ahead. He reached a bend in the passageway. Beyond this point, he knew, there was a large cavern.

He sidled around the bend with his back to the wall and his sword raised. Up ahead, two torches had been wedged in fissures in the rock, illuminating a ceiling festooned with stalagtites and a floor cluttered with huge boulders. Near the center of the chamber was a frail, pale figure, tied to a column of rock. "Linna!" he shouted.

The figure struggled and made smothered sounds. Tomas tried to suppress the surge of hope that he felt. He glanced nervously around. Where was the monster?

He saw movement from the corner of his eye - but when he turned his head, he found that the shape had just been a shadow. The whole chamber was alive with dancing shapes created by the flickering light.

He leaped up onto a slab of rock and circled around the edge of the cavern, coming gradually closer to the elf girl. She seemed to be unharmed. But caution held him back from running to her.

He reached for the dawnstone and closed his fingers around it as Brodie had shown him.

The figure of the elf girl shimmered as if he were seeing it through a heat haze. Suddenly, it dissolved. In its place was the beast, lashing its tail. Its bulging eyes were fixed on Tomas, and its fangs were bared.

"Where is she?" Tomas shouted. His voice echoed around the chamber.

The beast made a coughing, gargling sound that almost sounded like laughter.

"What are you?" Tomas demanded, fighting to suppress his overwhelming fear.

The beast's mouth widened in a ghastly grin. "I am a Champion of Slaanesh." Its words were slurred; its voice was guttural and inhuman. It screamed, then, and hurled itself forward.

The wall of the cavern was behind Tomas's shoulders. He gasped in terror and swung his broken blade in a hopeless attempt to slash the creature's body. It seized the sword deftly in its crab-claw, twisted it out of Tomas's hand, and hurled it contemptuously aside. Almost in the same motion, it swept its razor-edged tail in a wide arc, aiming to cut Tomas in two.

Tomas dodged to one side and the tip of the tail grazed his chest, ripping his shirt. He found himself off-balance and falling. Railing his arms, he toppled from the edge of the slab where he stood.

His reflexes saved him. He somersaulted as he fell, and landed hard on his heels. But as he looked up he saw that the beast was already coming for him.

Tomas ran. He scrambled up a series of ledges, then jumped up from one boulder to another. The creature was too cumbersome to match this kind of agility, and its hooves slipped on smooth stone. It roared with anger and lashed its tentacle-arm like a whip, reaching for Tomas's face.

He ducked under it, then jumped higher, till he reached the top of a tall heap of boulders. The last one moved under his weight, and he realized it was precariously balanced. He looked back at the creature and saw what he should do. He turned his back to the wall, braced his feet, and pushed with all his strength.

The boulder teetered ponderously under him, then started tumbling. It dislodged other rocks beneath it, creating an avalanche. There was a rumbling sound, and the whole cave seemed to shake.

The monster vented an inarticulate cry. It stumbled backward as the rocks rolled down toward it. It had fierce strength but seemed to lack intelligence, Tomas thought. Perhaps all it knew was how to inflict pain and death.

The first boulder hit its legs, and the creature fell. With inhuman strength, it pulled itself out from under the rock - but its legs had been crushed, and it could no longer stand. It screeched in pain and tottered helplessly, raising its claw-arm in a futile effort to protect itself as two more boulders tumbled down. One hit the claw and smashed it into fragments. The other landed squarely in the creature's hairy chest.

It bellowed in agony as it fell beneath the rock. Blood spurted out and it writhed, lashing its tail. It vomited up a foul mixture of foaming, steaming, pink-and-brown sludge, and shouted again. Its struggles were gradually diminishing.

Tomas was shaking so badly, he had to crawl down the tumbled pile of rocks on his hands and knees. When he reached the bottom he stood for a long moment, trying to regain his equilibrium as he stared at the creature. It glared back at him through eyes that were growing dull and dim. Its tentacle twitched in little spasms. It made a guttural, croaking noise, then gasped, coughed, shat convulsively, and finally died.

Tomas rested against a nearby rock, taking slow, deep breaths. He checked the gash on his chest and found that it was bleeding, but was not deep. His leg throbbed with pain where the goblin had bitten him, but that too was not a major wound. He wiped sweat out of his eyes, blinked, and looked around.

He saw the stone column where the beast had disguised itself as the elf girl. "Linna," he exclaimed in a whisper. A pile of tattered clothing was lying there, and the rocks were slick with blood. Further back, where the creature had made its lair, there was an ugly heap of bloody bones and chunks of pale flesh.

Tomas clenched his fists. He willed himself to be strong. With a sense of hollow dread, he forced himself to go and take a closer look.

Some of the shredded clothes were Linna's. He remembered hanging them up to dry in the heat from the fire in Brodie's cabin. Other garments were also elfin in style, but seemed cut for a man. She and her brother had died here, there was no possible doubt. Tomas cursed himself for having come too late to save her.

He turned away, feeling sick with guilt. His father had been right: it did no good to hide. So long as people gave in to their fear, more innocent victims would die, and the dark creatures would multiply and grow stronger. The only way was to match their strength with greater strength.

Tomas turned and walked shakily back past the creature lying with its chest crushed beneath the boulder. The bulging eyes stared up blindly, and the mouth gaped in an ugly, silent scream.

Tomas paused. He saw something that gleamed in the flickering light. Trying to suppress his revulsion, he squatted down beside the corpse. Almost lost in the beast's thick furwas a shiny black object. He reached out, took hold of it, and dragged it into view. It was a dawnstone, just like the one that Brodie had given him.

With a trembling hand, he took the stone from around his own neck and held it beside the one that the creature wore. There was no doubt: they were identical. A matched pair.

He stood up suddenly, and felt himself swaying. What had Brodie said about Richard Crowell? Some say he succumbed to the evil forces. And: The beast you just saw was once a man. And: He promised to come back if he could.

Tomas clutched his stomach, nauseated by the idea that the corpse in front of him had once been his father. He took slow, deep breaths, trying to regain control. Part of him simply could not believe it; and so, again, he kneeled and compared the dawnstones.

They were identical in every detail.

In a sudden spasm of anger, he ripped the creature's dawnstone loose and thrust it into his pocket. Nothing but revenge, he realized, could take away the outrage that he felt. Whatever person or entity had concocted this travesty should surely be made to pay in some way.

He turned and started toward the exit from the cave, feeling a fierce new determination. Maybe he was being foolish; he was, after all, at the beginning of his manhood, and he had survived his first battle more by luck than skill. Nevertheless, he would go back and find Brodie, and ask the Halfling for his help.

To search for vengeance in the Sea of Claws would be an enormous undertaking. It would require courage, resources, trained warriors, and expert seamen... not to mention the services of a good ship's cook.

NO GOLD IN THE GREY MOUNTAINS

by Jack Yeovil

On the opposite crag, the seven towers of the Fortress of Drachenfels thrust skyward like the taloned fingers of a deformed hand. The sunset bloodied the castle as Constant Drachenfels, the Great Enchanter, had done in life. Joh Lamprecht had heard all the stories, all the songs. He knew of the long-lived monster's numberless crimes, and of his eventual downfall and defeat. Brave Prince Oswald and Fair Genevieve, his vampire ladylove, had ended the horror, and now the castle was untenanted, all but the most earthbound ghosts flown to the beyond. However, it was still shunned. No peasant of this mountain region would dare set his boot upon the path to Drachenfels while the stories were told in whispers, the songs remembered by ill-favoured minstrels. And that was what made the place ideal for Joh's purposes.

Big, slow Freder was too lackwitted to be concerned with superstition, and dark, quiet Rotwang too wrapped up in his own skills to take any notice of the rumoured creatures in the darkness. Which left only young Yann Groeteschele to be frightened by the old legends, the shadows and the night winds. Joh could count on the young bandit's unswerving loyalty for as long as Groeteschele's fear of him outweighed his fear of the name of a dead sorcerer. That should be a considerable time.

Groeteschele had only heard the songs about Drachenfels' Poison Feast and the Sack of Gisoreux, but he had been present when Joh broke the back of Warden Fanck and led the mass escape from the penal quarrypits of the Vaults, to the South, and in the Loren Forest he had held down the writhing body of Guido Czerepy, the silk merchant, while Joh tortured out of him the location of his hidden cache of gold.

In the still air, the rattle of the coach was audible from several miles away. Joh keened like a crow, and Rotwang answered from his position of concealment down by the road. Joh tapped Groeteschele, and indicated the youth's crossbow. The lamps of the coach became visible in the evening haze. Joh felt the old excitement in his vitals, and gripped the hilt of his curved sword. He had taken the scimitar from the corpse of a slain envoy of Araby, shortly after relieving the man of the jewelled tokens of esteem he was bearing to the Imperial Court, and found it a more satisfactory item of killing steel than the common straight sword of the Old World.

Groeteschele slipped a quarrel into his crossbow, and steadied it against his cheek. Joh kept his eyes on the coach. As robberies went, this was simple. Three times last year, he had held up the same coach - carrying gold from the Kautner seam down from the Mountains and through the Reikwald Forest to Altdorf - and the trick had been easier each time. Once the miners had paid their tax tribute to the Emperor's collectors they were hardly disposed to buy guards to escort it to Karl-Franz's coffers and so it was placed on the regular mail and passenger run.

Tonight's plunder would serve to equip Joh and his band for a more daring, more profitable exploit. Joh had a nice little Tilean princedom marked down, its vaults ripe for plundering, but he would need to hire specialists, to buy equipment that could not be stolen, and to make arrangements with a slightly dishonourable banking house to dispose of the accrued funds. A chest of Kautner gold should set the job up perfectly.

The coach was near enough for Joh to see the horses' breath frosting. The coachman sat alone on the box, draped in a cloak. He would be wearing a breastplate under his garments, but killing the coachman never stopped anything anyway.

There was a long, creaking sound and a crash. A tree fell on the road just as the coach had passed. Good. Freder had done his part well. Joh nodded, and Groeteschele stood up, firing and reloading. His first quarrel took the lead horse of the four-strong team in the side of the neck and it tripped. A figure darted into the road, sword flashing. Rotwang drove his blade deep into the animal, and it fell. He leaped aside, and the team continued, dragging its dying comrade a few yards.

Joh made his way down from the rocky mountainside towards the road, Groeteschele following. He had complete confidence in Rotwang's expertise with this manoeuvre. It was tricky. Many bandits were crippled or worse when they got tangled up with the horse they were trying to immobilize. But Rotwang was the best killer Joh had ever seen, trained to it from birth.

When he came out of the trees, all was well. The coach was halted, and Rotwang stood a little way away from it, red sword dripping. Freder held the still-standing horses and glowered up at the coachman. His height, broad shoulders and apish appearance helped to deter many a solid citizen from interfering in the band's business. Joh nodded to Groeteschele, and the young man climbed up beside the quivering coachman and sorted through the luggage, throwing parcels and packages to the dirt road. Someone inside the coach was complaining loudly.

"It's not here," Groeteschele said.

"What!" snapped Joh. "Idiot, it must be. Look harder."

It should be in a small chest with the Imperial Crest and a fine Breton lock. It usually was. Groeteschele rooted among the remaining cargo.

"No, nothing," he said.

Joh signed to Rotwang, who walked towards the coach. The coachman was trembling, praying to all the Gods. Groeteschele climbed down, and Rotwang pulled himself up to the top of the coach. He moved like a big cat, with strong but apparently lazy gestures, and he could strike like a daemon. He sat beside the coachman, plucking and throwing away the man's whip, and then did something to the man with his hands. The coachman screamed, and Joh knew Rotwang's inexpressive face would be wearing a slight smile. Rotwang whispered, passed his hands over the coachman's body again, and there were more screams.

Little knives flashed red in Rotwang's hands, and he paid some attention to the coachman's face. Finally, the bandit spat into the road, and pushed the coachman off his seat. The man sprawled, dead, beside his vehicle.

Joh looked up at Rotwang.

"No gold," the killer told him. "The Kautner seam petered out three months ago. No more gold in the Grey Mountains."

Joh swore, calling down the wrath of Morr on this venture. He had blundered badly, and would have to redeem himself or lose position. Groeteschele was young and Freder was a clod, but Rotwang - who had so far displayed no taste for leading the band - could easily take his place.

"What is the meaning of this?"

The coach door opened and a well-dressed man stepped out. His elegantly booted foot landed on the coachman's body and he cringed away. He looked at Joh and Groeteschele and drew a long, fine duellist's sword. He assumed a fighting stance and looked at Joh, waiting for the bandit to strike the first blow. Groeteschele shot him in the head and he staggered back, shaking from the blow. Freder pulled his purse away from his belt and threw it to Joh. It was heavy, but not heavy enough to make this job worth its while. The ill-advised hero slid down the coach and sat, dead, in the road beside the coachman, eyes staring either side of Groeteschele's bolt.

Joh went to the open door, and looked into the coach.

"Hello," said a musical female voice, "are you a bandit?"

She had golden curls, and was dressed fit for the Imperial Court in a brocaded dress with pearls worked into the bodice. She was not ostentatiously bejewelled, but her fingers and ears yielded more gold than many a small miner's claim would in a year. Her pale oval face was lovely, delicate and lightly painted.

She sat on the plush seat of the coach like a dressed-up doll, her feet not touching the floor. Joh judged her to be about twelve years old.

"Is there anything worth stealing?" Groeteschele asked.

Joh smiled at the girl, who smiled back.

"I think so."

Her name, she told them, was Lady Melissa d'Acques, and she was distantly related to both the Royal Family of Bretonnia and the Imperial House of the Second Wilhelm. She had insisted the bandits bring her luggage to Drachenfels when they took her there, and from the number, quality and expense of the dresses in her travelling wardrobe, Joh knew her family would be capable of paying a substantial ransom for her return. So far as he could make out, the girl was somewhat simple for her age. She treated her captors as if they were servants pretending to be bandits and this whole episode a game to while away a dull afternoon in the gardens. So far, this had worked to Joh's advantage - she had ridden on Freder's saddle and given them no trouble - but he dreaded the inevitable moment when she tired of play and wanted to be taken home. Typically, she seemed to have found a soulmate in Freder, with whom she was laughing and joking, exchanging nonsense rhymes. If only she knew how many men and women the rough-faced giant had killed with his hands alone.

She didn't complain at the quality of the food they gave her at their camp, which was pitched in one of the courtyards of the fortress, and she tried cheerfully to answer all his questions. His problem was that, in order to convert his stroke of luck into gold crowns, he needed to know more about Melissa's family. How he could get in touch with her father, for instance. But Melissa, although only too willing to expound at childishly tedious length about the minutiae of her family life, was unwilling or unable to give an address where her family could be contacted, and only had the vaguest awareness of anything outside the cloisters of her aristocratic circle. Joh gathered her family maintained households in Parravon, Marienburg and Altdorf, and that several of her male relations could be found in the courts of Bretonnia and the Empire.

As Melissa spoke, Freder squatted by her grinning, enraptured by her stories about playthings, pets and servants. Everyone and everything in the d'Acques circle had a nickname. She experimented with several unflattering nicknames for Freder, and tried to extend the practice to Joh and Groeteschele. The wolf-faced Rotwang she was - wisely - a little afraid of, and so Joh had him see to business elsewhere, settling down the horses. It was vital that he learn more...

"Tell me, Melissa, where is your father now? Were you travelling to him?"

Melissa cocked her head to one side and then the other. "That depends, Mr Joh. Sometimes, he's in his castle, sometimes he's in his palace. Now, he's probably in his palace."

"And where is his palace?"

"He's a Count, you know, and a Baron. It gets so confusing remembering. The servants have a terrible time. In Bretonnia, he's a Count, and in the Empire, he's a Baron, and there are fearful penalties for getting them mixed up. We travel between Bretonnia and the Empire quite a bit."

Melissa yawned, forgetting to cover her mouth, and stretched. She didn't appear to be very comfortable in her starched and formal clothes. That might mean she was being sent on a short journey, that she had people nearby. She hadn't known the man in the coach at all before setting out, and hadn't formed a good opinion of him. "He pinched my cheeks and patted my hair too much. He deserved to be killed."

Lady Melissa was quite a startling little girl. The aristocracy bred its young bloodthirsty, Joh guessed. Certainly the Duke's son he had had to kill all those years ago, after the fop had run through Joh's father from behind on a minor quarrel, had been a death-happy fool. That had been the first step on the road to outlawry. There was a song about Joh Lamprecht, telling of how he was driven to the bandit life by injustice and tyranny, but Joh knew he would never have been content to be a copper miner like his father and grandfather. He would have been a bandit even if he had been born on the estates of Benedict the Benevolent, rather than the Iron-Fisted Duke of Diijah-Montaigne.

"I'm tired," she said. "Can I go to bed now?"

Joh nodded to Freder, who took the child up in his arms like a fond father, and bore her away. Joh had had Rotwang air out one of the bedrooms in the castle, and do his best to clean the cobwebs away. They had chosen a room with a still-functioning lock and an available key. It had no exterior windows, and would serve as a comparatively luxurious cell.

Freder came back, grinning, to the campfire.

"Well?" Groeteschele asked Joh.

Rotwang came out of the shadows suddenly.

"We could do very well out of the Lady," Joh said. "But we'll have to take it slowly. She's rich. They aren't like you and me, Groeteschele. They have strange ways. I think we'll be able to find out about her family, and then we'll bargain for a ransom."

"What if they don't want her back?" Rotwang asked. He was a foundling, sold for a pit-fighter before he could walk, and had no ideas about his real family. Joh sometimes wondered if Rotwang were entirely human.

"Of course they'll want her back, Rotwang. She's a precious package."

Freder tried to say something. It took him a long time to get a sentence out, and usually it wasn't worth the wait. Because they were all tired, Joh, Rotwang and Groeteschele sat back and let him speak.

"Cuh-cuh-cuh-couldn't w-we cuh-cuh-cuh-keep her?"

Rotwang spat in the embers. They hissed. The shadows closed in.

In the darkness of the Fortress of Drachenfels, the Old Woman crept, her fingers curved like claws, her still-sharp mind reaching before her. She had no need of her eyes after all these centuries. As a creature of the night, the cursed stones were comfortable to her. There were intruders now, and she would have to see them off or be destroyed. Her veins were thinned, and her sharp teeth slid in and out of their gumsheaths. It was too long since she had slaked her red thirst.

Drachenfels was gone, but he had left something of himself behind. She could taste the residue in the foul air. The spirits writhed deep in the shadows. But the living beings stood out like beacons. She latched onto them all, sipping their thoughts - although she would rather have been sipping their blood - and fixing them in her ancient mind.

The bandits and their prisoner. It was an interesting situation. She found human relationships endlessly fascinating. There were so many ways they could be broken down, set aside and tampered with. For her, there was pleasure in the panic and fear she could whip up in the bandits before the feeding frenzy fell upon her, just as an epicure would prepare his palate for the main course with a selection of aperitifs or a great amorist postpone lovemaking with extensive foreplay.

She was pleased that the strongest physically of the living men was the weakest in mind. That made things so much easier. His strength would nourish her, help her get through the long night, and deal with the more dangerous of the intruders.

Her eyes filled with blood.

Joh was startled awake, as if by a mailed fist clenching around his heart. He was sure he had cried out. Groeteschele was shaken out of sleep at the same moment. They bumped heads. Blinking in the afterlight of the fire, they looked at each other. Something was wrong, but they couldn't tell what it was. Joh had been dreaming, he knew, but the dream vanished from his head as he was jolted out of the fug of sleep. It had been a bad one, and he was sweating.

Rotwang was up, daggers in both hands. He kicked something, and it rolled towards the light.

Groeteschele let out an involuntary oath, his voice womanish and shrill. Freder's head lay at his feet.

"The rest of the oaf is here," Rotwang said.

Joh stabbed a pitch-covered torch at the embers. It caught, and he held it up. Rotwang stood over Freder's bulky body. The head had been taken off neatly, and there was almost no blood. This was not a natural killing.

"It's this place," Groeteschele said. "It stinks of that devil Drachenfels."

"The Great Enchanter is dead and gone," Joh said.

"So is Fat Fool Freder," said Rotwang.

"There's someone else here with us." Groeteschele was shivering, but not with the cold. In his nightshirt, with his long, milky-white face, he looked himself like a cheap engraving of a ghost.

"That's obvious. It's a big place."

"The girl?"

Joh had a moment of concern for the Lady Melissa. He did not want her dying in any manner he could not profit from.

The three bandits pulled on jackets and boots over nightclothes. Joh swore as he cut his palm open on the silver spur he had forgotten to remove from his rough-riding boots. There was no time now. Weapons in their hands, they entered the wing of the castle where the captive's room was. Rotwang lead them through the dark. The sharpness of his eyes in shadow was among his most valuable attributes.

Joh knew how serious their trouble was when he noticed that Rotwang wasn't sure about the path he was taking. The Fortress was legendary for its labyrinthine and contradictory byways. That was one of the reasons Joh had chosen to pitch camp in the courtyard.

After a moment of near panic, they found the room. "Look," said Rotwang.

The wood around the handle was deeply scored, as if a knife-fingered hand had tried the door.

It was still locked. Rotwang fumbled with the key, and opened the door.

"What are you doing?" Melissa said, sitting up in bed, her hair loose. "Am I to be murdered in my bed?"

As soon as he saw Freder's bodiless head, Rotwang knew that Joh Lamprecht's time as a King of Banditti was over. It only remained for Rotwang to live out this night in the castle, and leave. Perhaps he would turn to the mercenary life again, and enlist in one of the many armies of the Old World. There were always opportunities for people with his skills, and many employers uninterested in the legalities of his previous adventures. He was not profligate in the deployment of his abilities, and liked to see gold from each of his killings. So far, the coachman had not been worth the effort. The little girl would never bring more than her jewellery. Kidnapping was a fool's crime, and had Joh proposed it outright Rotwang would have left there and then. The business of the bungled coach hold-up had been bad enough but the kidnapping - and now the death of one of their number - told him that the days of easy plunder were at an end.

Currently, Joh was trying to talk to the Lady Melissa, to no great purpose. The girl knew nothing. Groeteschele was sitting in a chair, hugging himself. The youth was badly scared. He had been as courageous as any in the band's previous exploits, but had only faced cold steel and human muscle. Whatever it was that walked this castle was no natural thing, Rotwang knew.

Prince Oswald should have had the place razed to the ground once the Great Enchanter was dead.

"We stay here, and protect the girl," Joh ordered.

Rotwang didn't know if his chief fully meant what he said. He had not hitherto been noted for his sense of chivalry. Still, a farmer would guard from wolves a calf he fully intended to butcher on the morrow.

Groeteschele was too deeply frightened to answer. Joh looked to Rotwang.

This was as good a position as any to defend.

He nodded.

Joh sat on the Lady Melissa's bed, and told the child to lie back and go to sleep. He stroked her hair, almost tenderly.

"Good night, Mr Joh."

The little girl smiled, shrugged, and pulled the covers up over her head.

"Shut the door and wait, Rotwang," Joh said. "It'll come to us."

"I know."

Joh wondered if the only dangers in the castle were outside the room. Groeteschele was nearly mad with fear, and the mad can be dangerous to those who mean them no harm. The lad was gripping his sword with both hands, holding it vertical in his lap, his forehead pressed against the flat of the blade. His eyes were active, looking at every corner of the room, but empty of intelligence. Joh had never bothered to find out what Groeteschele had been before Warden Fanck shackled them together in the quarries. They had shared days and nights ever since, but Joh still knew nothing of Groeteschele's antecedents, his former life, his original crime. Somehow, he knew it was too late now.

And Rotwang was slow to respond to his orders, taking a second to think things through. Obedience was no longer automatic. The killer was out for himself, and would not hesitate to leave the others to a ghastly death if he thought he could survive the better for it. After all, the man had lasted so long in his profession precisely because he was dangerous, treacherous, conscienceless. Often, Joh had wondered what the result would be if he were to duel with the killer. Rotwang would have the edge in training, experience and simple skill, but Joh thought the other man was dead inside. He killed without passion, without interest, and Joh suspected - hoped - his own brand of hot-blooded combat would prove superior to Rotwang's chilly discipline. It was a question he had never felt the need to put to a practical test.

The torch burned in its sconce, filling the room with red shadows. The Lady Melissa slept, or seemed to, the covers rising and falling as she breathed.

Joh had to turn the situation around to his advantage. He had to extort a suitable ransom from the d'Acques clan. He had to proceed to his Tilean pickings, and make his name as a strategist. There would be more songs about Joh Lamprecht. More odes to his glories.

Outside, in the bulk of the castle, there were sounds. Joh knew the same winds that had blown the night before were setting shutters to rattle and old furniture to creak. But amid the thousand tiny natural sounds of night, there were silences that betokened huge and malevolent presences. Drachenfels was dead. There was no question of that. But the dead could still be dangerous. Perhaps something of the Great Enchanter remained behind in his fortress, waiting, watching, hungry...

Like Groeteschele, he clutched his weapon as a cleric does the symbol of his deity.

He could only wait.

The Old Woman was glutted with the first of her victims. Freder's blood had proved rich, and with it came a rush of the memories of his body. She felt his pains and his pleasures as she drained him lustily. She had absorbed his life, and freed his tethered, childish spirit from its cage of meat. As an afterthought, she left him for the others to find. She found it easy to pass through the castle. Locked doors, walled-up passages, and trap-laden corridors posed no problems for her. Like a mist, she could pass where she willed.

From Freder's dull memories, she learned about the others. It was easy to see how to proceed against them. So easy. People never changed, never learned. They were always easy.

In the warm darkness she made and unmade fists, extending and retracting her hard, sharp nails.

Her thirst was quenched. The rest of the night's work would be for the pleasure of it.

Considering who her prey were and their intentions towards their captive, the Old Woman believed she served the cause of Justice as surely as any Imperial man-at-arms or thrice-blessed servant of Verena.

She could still taste the blood in her mouth.

She reached out for the weakest of the minds against her, and forced herself in.

After sitting still for over an hour, Groeteschele screamed. His sword leaped slightly in his hands, and blood trickled down his forehead. He stood up, the blade scraping his skin. Joh was startled out of a half-sleep by his friend's cry, and pushed himself off Melissa's bed. The child miraculously stayed asleep. Rotwang took an apparently casual interest.

Groeteschele dropped his sword. He was bleeding profusely, but his self-inflicted wound looked comparatively minor. His scream died away, but he kept whimpering.

"Calm yourself," Joh ordered.

Groeteschele didn't take any notice. He was gabbling to himself, his meaning impossible to gauge. Blood dropped from his cheeks and chin onto his nightshirt. He shook his head, and wrung his hands. He could have been posing for a statue of the muse of fear.

Joh reached out to take hold of Groeteschele's shoulder, but the younger man dodged back, his terror increased by the prospect of human contact.

Rotwang stood aside, impassive.

Groeteschele began to chant something in a language Joh didn't recognize. It was the unknown tongue the bandit used when he sometimes talked in his sleep, the tongue Joh assumed was that of the never-mentioned land of his birth. As he chanted, he made signs in the air with his fingers. Droplets of blood detached from his face and fell to the floor.

Groeteschele hit the door, and passed through. Joh heard him blundering down the corridor, still chanting.

The bedclothes rose in a hump, and the Lady Melissa burrowed her way sleepily to the surface.

"What's going on?" she asked.

Joh's face was wet. Groeteschele had splashed him with his own blood.

"Watch the girl," he told Rotwang. "I'm going after him."

Rotwang nodded. Melissa smiled and rubbed her eyes.

Lantern in one hand, scimitar in the other, Joh stepped outside. He could still hear Groeteschele babbling.

He walked slowly, towards the noise.

Joh Lamprecht was a sentimental old fool, Rotwang thought. The boy, Groeteschele, was dead, and Joh should have left him to rot. But Joh had formed an attachment to the youthful Yann, and would not be dissuaded from plunging into the darkness to face whatever horrors lay dormant in Drachenfels, waiting for him with claws, pincers and hot coals.

He paced the bedroom, struggling with unfamiliar feelings. Hitherto, he had faced death with a cool reserve born of a knowledge that those who let their emotions take over in a crisis were those least likely to walk away whole. In combat, he was as dispassionate as a surgeon, and he still lived, while all the berserkers he had faced were wormshit.

Now, he felt fear. Not just the healthy quickening that kept you cautious in the pit, that reminded you to keep your body away from your foeman's blade, but a deep-down fear that whispered to him, incessantly compelling him to throw down his sword and run like Groeteschele, run until he was free of Drachenfels, free of the Grey Mountains...

He knew that was the way to die, but the temptation was still there.

The little girl was sitting up in bed now, playing with her long, fine hair. Although roused in the middle of the night, her curls seemed naturally composed rather than tangled. Joh was right; the rich were different.

He had pledged his sword for the rich all his life. In the pits as a child, he had been wagered on by aristocratic sportsmen who prided themselves in picking a winner. Later, he had fought for the Elector of Middenland when his tenant farmers tried to resist a raise in the tithe. So much blood spilled, so much profit made, and so little of it, in the end, for his own benefit.

"Mr Rotwang?" the girl asked. He didn't reply, but she continued. "Mr Rotwang, are you a really brave and ferocious bandit, like Blaque Jacques in the songs?"

He ignored her. Brave and ferocious. That is what he had been earlier in the evening, before the accursed Joh Lamprecht led him to this doom-laden castle and exposed him to the terrors of the dark.

Brave and ferocious. Now, he was not so sure about that.

He could still hear Groeteschele chanting. The monotone had changed now, and the young man seemed to be singing. He was breathing badly, interrupting the song in the wrong places, and Joh assumed he was near the end of his strength. Good, he didn't want to have to fight his comrade to bring him back.

He had never realized before how much the young man meant to him. Freder had been a cretin, and Rotwang was beyond conversation, which meant Groeteschele was the only person in the band Joh could talk to, could hand down the benefit of his experience to. Unconsciously, he had been training the lad to be his successor on the outlaw path. Without him, Joh's nights would be long and empty. All the passed-on wisdom would go to waste.

If Yann Groeteschele died here in Drachenfels, there would be nobody left. When Joh himself passed on, there would be nobody left alive who knew the workings of the Three Gold Crowns Scam, the mechanics of the Vault-Piercing Screw, the profit to be had from the Joh Lamprecht Stagecoach Switch Manoeuvre. Without Groeteschele, Joh's life would be a waste.

In the back of his mind, Joh knew these thoughts weren't like him. Groeteschele was another crossbowman, no more nor less. Warden Fanck and sheer chance, not a bond of affection, had shackled them together. And yet, here in the dark of Drachenfels, something was coming out of him. He thought he was being worked on, and tried to resist.

Joh found Groeteschele backed up in a blind corridor, squeezed into a corner, still chanting. His eyes were shut tight, crusted over with his scabbing blood, and he was tracing symbols in the dust. Joh recognized a few gods' names - Shallya, Verena, Ulric - in Groeteschele's litany, and the scrawl on the floor included approximations of several sacred signs.

"Come, lad, there's nothing to fear," Joh lied.

Groeteschele kept up his mad prayer. Joh set down his lantern and went to his comrade, and bent over, hoping to help him to his feet, to guide him back to Melissa's room to await the dawn.

Groeteschele's right hand was still tracing signs, but his left was at the belt he had drawn around his nightshirt, gripping something tightly. As he touched the young man's right upperarm, Joh realized what Groeteschele was holding.

He kept his quarrels strung on his belt.

Joh tried to pull back, but Groeteschele was fast. His eyes flicked open, and his left hand shot upwards. He spat a curse, and lodged the point of the crossbow bolt between Joh's chest and shoulder.

Joh felt the weapon scrape his upper ribs and sink through the joint. Pain flowed up and down his arm, and he dropped his scimitar. Groeteschele was standing up now, working the quarrel deeper, his right hand caught in Joh's hair.

They struggled together. The lantern was knocked over under their feet, and a small spill of burning oil spread in the dirt. Joh saw red shadows dancing on the walls as he wrestled with Groeteschele. He punched the young man in the belly with his left hand, and knocked the wind out of him. Groeteschele broke the clinch and staggered away. He let go of the quarrel with a final yank that shot another bolt of pain into Joh's torso.

Groeteschele was going for Joh's dropped sword. Joh kicked him in the side, and tipped him over. He fell into the burning pool, and his flimsy cotton nightshirt caught in an instant, flaming upto his legs.

Screeching curses, Groeteschele came at Joh, the flames spreading over his entire body.

Joh stepped back, and there was a wall where one hadn't been before. He struck the stone with his wounded shoulder, and screamed out loud, nearly fainting with the agony. He held up his left arm like a shield as the fiery Groeteschele lurched forwards. The bandit's smooth face was on fire now, the features running like wax, and the enclosed space was thick with the stench of burning flesh.

Joh's scimitar was ten yards away, and Groeteschele stood between him and it. He only had one weapon available.

Clenching his teeth against what he was about to do to himself, he got a proper grip on the barbed bolt in his shoulder. He hoped to be able to pull it out as easily as one draws a dagger from a sheath, but the arrowhead tip tore muscle as he extracted the spike. He invoked the name of Khorne and held up the dripping quarrel like an offering.

A great scream was building up inside Groeteschele's chest, and emerged through an enlarged and ravaged mouth as he leaped at Joh, his flame-tipped hands reaching out to throttle.

With his left hand, Joh stabbed, aiming for the cut on Groeteschele's forehead. He struck home and, thumb over the end of the quarrel, forced the steel into his friend's brain.

Groeteschele's eyes died, and Joh pushed the dead man away from him. His left sleeve was alight. He tried to reach for it with his right hand, but as his elbow bent a crippling wave of pain made him sink to his knees. He scraped his burning sleeve against the wall, and the fires went out.

He felt like curling up and going to sleep, letting his pains fade away. But he knew that would be fatal.

At least his legs were uninjured. Unsteadily, using the wall as a brace for his back, he got to his feet.

Now, he realized how little notice he had taken of the path to this place. He had no idea how to get back to Rotwang and Melissa.

The fires died down, and he was in total darkness, alone with his pain.

Trusting to instinct, he pushed himself away from the wall and followed the corridor.

The Old Woman's brain buzzed with the emotional discharge from the clash between the former friends. Their pain and fear was so much the greater for the bond between them broken by their fight. Her mouth was dry, but jolts of pleasure coursed through her human-seeming body.

Over a thousand years ago, when she was truly young, her coach had been stopped by a bandit. Not a gold-seeking thug such as these, but a wild-haired monster of the bloodline of Belada the Melancholy, an unlettered savage who could live for an eternity but who lacked the refinement to make such an existence bearable.

She was that vampire's get, his daughter-in-darkness, and she had birthed many a blood herself. The lady Genevieve, whose finest moment had come in this castle, was her granddaughter-in-darkness, the get of her get. It had been a proud, productive life...

Freder's blood flowed through her veins, mingling with her own ichor. It was time she killed again, took more sustenance.

Two bandits and their little captive. They were alone in Drachenfels. The configuration was amusing.

In the morning they would all be dead. But the Old Woman's death would be like life. The others would be gone, used-up husks thrown away to rot.

Her eyeteeth extended and grew sharper, and she ran her velvety tongue over them.

The little girl smiled innocently at Rotwang. A few minutes ago, he had realized he was nervously walking up and down the carpet and resolved to calm himself. Now he stood stock still, barely breathing, swordhilt in his hand. He didn't have too tight a grip - that made you too inflexible when it came to responding to an attack - and he was visualizing a stylized wolfs head in his mind. It was the symbol he had worn as a pit fighter, and it always helped him relax before a battle to dwell upon its shape. Maybe, the wolf was his personal talisman. He had always favoured Ulric, God of Battle, Wolves and Winter, over the more obvious Khaine, Lord of Murder, as the protector of his profession.

Sometimes, he dreamed that he was a wolf. He had been thickly-pelted as a child, although he was not abnormally hairy now, and he wondered if his unknown parents had lycanthrope blood in them. He had never shapeshifted, but he was not like other men in many ways.

The girl was singing to herself, a Breton lullaby he didn't recognize.

"Mr Rotwang?"

"Yes, my lady?" He hated himself suddenly, for lapsing into the servile form of address. But it was only natural to him. "What is it?"

"Tomorrow, when the sun comes up, will we be here?"

He had no answer.

Melissa scrambled out of bed. She wore a long, gold-embroidered nightdress that could almost pass for a ball gown. Her bare white feet were silent on the thick carpet. She danced around the room to her lullaby, holding her skirts out and curtseying to an imagined courtly admirer.

When Rotwang was her age, he had been killing for seven years. He resented the Lady Melissa for her family, her wealth, her childhood. All these things had been denied him. He hated his possibly wolfish parents for abandoning him among men. He should have been suckled on the steppes, raised with the pack, and taught the trick, the trick of shaking aside human form.

The door was hanging open now. Since Groeteschele and Joh had pushed through it, he hadn't bothered to pull it shut. Anything that could so neatly decapitate Freder wouldn't be bothered by a lock. Rotwang preferred to see what was coming at him.

Outside in the gloom, he could make out a bare stone wall, interrupted by niches containing long-unlit lamps. Constant Drachenfels was rumoured to favour human oil in his lamps. It would not have been out of character for the Great Enchanter, whose reign stretched back to the time of Sigmar and beyond.

"Mr Rotwang," asked the child, "when are you going to try and kill me?"

Rotwang turned and looked at the open face of the child, feeling her words like the slap of an armoured gauntlet across his cheek. He held up his sword. It was out in the open. He hoped she could see it was no immediate threat to her.

But again, he had no answer for her. Something foul-smelling came out of the darkness behind him, and a claw-gripped hand fastened on his shoulder...

The Old Woman fastened on Rotwang's mind, and burrowed deep. She found the wolf, and she turned it loose.

Rotwang was raising his sword to the Lady Melissa. Joh assumed he had gone mad, and laid a hand on the bandit's shoulder, spinning him around.

Rotwang's eyes were yellow, and his nose was reassembling as a snout. The creature opened its mouth and disclosed pointed, discoloured teeth. It was still Rotwang - his front tooth was still chipped - but a beast was rising inside him.

The little girl backed away, and climbed up onto her canopied bed. She held onto a bedpost and watched.

Joh leaned against the doorjamb, a dreadful numbness seeping from his swollen shoulder through his entire body.

Rotwang lashed out, and he ducked aside. Still, the creature's claws brushed his head, tearing lines in his scalp.

The Rotwang-thing had thrown its sword away. The bandit didn't need the knives sheathed on his belt. He had knives in his fingers.

It was strange that you could ride with someone for five years and never know certain things about them.

Joh's knees felt weak. His arm was useless. He was going to die soon, and he thought the easiest thing to do would be to offer his throat to Rotwang's teeth and nails. But he had been surviving too long to take the easy way out.

His scimitar was gone, and his knives. But he still had his boots. And his silver spurs.

Silver. If Rotwang were a true werewolf, he would be averse to silver.

Rotwang lunged at him, coming on all fours. He reached up with his left hand for the top of the door and got a grip, hauling himself into the air. His left shoulder felt lanced, but he managed to get himself aloft.

Rotwang, his charge started, passed under him. He jabbed down with his heels, and dug in as deep as he could.

The creature howled like a wounded wolf, and reared up. Joh was pushed against the lintel and lost his grip. His head smashed against the stone, and he felt something break inside.

He was falling, and he was face-down on the floor. The howling thing was on his back. He kicked upwards, hoping to slice with his spurs.

The weight was gone, and he tried to roll over.

Melissa was still watching, as she might do a puppetshow at court. She was giggling and clapping. There was something seriously wrong with the way the little girl had been brought up.

He reached for his heel, and twisted one of his spurs off. The spiked star spun as he sliced the air with it.

Rotwang was suffering. His clothes.were torn, and his thickly-furred body was bleeding.

Man and monster got shakily to their feet.

Rotwang breathed noisily, blood and saliva dripping from his twisted snout. His shoulders were huge, and his claws extended.

Joh held up the spur.

Rotwang rushed at him, and he chopped into the monster's face, drawing the spur through his eye into his snout.

Claws sunk into the meat of his belly, and he broke away, leaving his weapon lodged in the werewolf's face.

He pressed the flaps of skin on his stomach, holding his insides in. He could feel almost nothing. That was bad.

Rotwang was leaning against the bed, shaking and twitching as he changed back into human form. Blood streamed from his wounded head. Melissa reached out and patted his shoulder, smoothing the thinning fur. She could have been looking after a family pet.

The rich. They were barely human.

Melissa's expression changed. She looked almost sad as Rotwang's wolfish growls faded into the human sounds of painful sobs. The spur was still stuck into his head. She opened her pretty little mouth, and Joh saw the unnaturally sharp teeth flash as she fastened on Rotwang's neck, tearing through to the vein.

A gusher of blood came out of the bandit, and Melissa suckled greedily.

The Old Woman drank the bandit's wolf-spiced blood, feeling his spirit depart as she stole his life from him.

He had killed others. Many times, he had killed without mercy. She did only what was right.

When it was done, when Rotwang was empty, she wrestled his head off and turned her attention to the wounded man in the corner.

"Hello Mr Joh," she said, "does that hurt?"

Melissa, the old woman who seemed to be a child, knelt by him and watched as he died.

"You were my favourite bandit, you know," she said.

He couldn't feel pain any more, but from the writhing wetness he couldn't contain in his gutwound, he knew it was bad.

"How... old... ?"

Melissa daintily pushed her hair aside. Her eyes were remarkable. Joh should have noticed them before. Eyes of experience in a face of innocence.

"Very old," she said. "Over eleven hundred years. I never grew up."

The cold was settling in now. Joh felt it travelling up his body.

"Your... family...?"

She was wistful, almost melancholy. "Dead and dust, I'm afraid. My human family, at least. I have sons-in-darkness, but none who would have paid you a ransom."

He was shivering now. Seconds lasted for an age. The final grains of sand of his life took an eternity to drip through the glass waist. Was this Death? A slowing curve that forever dragged out the pain, but never really ended. Or was that life for Lady Melissa d'Acques?

He had one last chance. Silver. Vampires like the stuff no more than werewolves. He scrabbled for his other heel, but his fingers seemed swollen, awkward, and wouldn't respond. He cut himself. Melissa took one of Rotwang's dropped knives and deftly cut away the spur, flipping it to the other side of the room without touching it. She smiled at him, the sympathy of a victor. There was nothing more to do but die.

She took a dainty kerchief and dabbed the smears away from her bee-stung lips. At once a child and an ancient, she was beautiful but beyond his understanding.

"Kiss me," he said.

She tipped his head away from his throat, and granted him his wish.

The next morning, the sun rose over the Fortress of Drachenfels, and a small human figure made its way down the mountain towards the road.

Lady Melissa left the bodies were they were. Those she had drained were decapitated. The bandits would not be her get. She was more responsible than some undead fools who let loose a plague of thoughtless offspring.

She hauled her bulky but light trunks down to the road and made a canopied chair of them.

Sunlight hurt her eyes a little, but she was not one of the Truly Dead bloodsuckers who burst into flames after cock's crow.

As the sun climbed, she settled down to wait. The road below Drachenfels was ill-travelled, but someone would come along eventually.

Under her makeshift sunshade, she closed her eyes and slept.

HAMMER OF THE STARS

by Pete Garrett

They came by night, so it was whispered, moving through the forest in the dark, leaving no traces. It was not known, among those who rumoured in dim recesses of the city's kitchens, how they had passed the sentries on the outer gate.

Peredur Mappavrauch heard the news from Saskia Whiteflower, quite early on the first morning while collecting his wrapped lunch of apples, black bread and red smoked cheese from the cook's assistant.

"Isn't it exciting, Peredur? Haven't you heard? Strangers in the Lower Town - a whole caravan, travelling folk, and they say the weirdest, wildest men seen here for years and years!"

The cook's assistant added to the news: "Ladies too, they say, beautiful as anyone can imagine but heavily veiled."

"Them too. Though how these gossips know they are beautiful when they are veiled, I cannot guess."

Elen, Peredur's mother, entered as usual to ensure he left for the Academy on time, not forgetting his slate, chalk, lunch or precious books. She must have overheard the conversation, for she stressed: "Do not dally on the way, my dearest, to look at parades of idle foreign mountebanks. There are always strange men in the Lower City, and it's better not to know them. Many a young scholar has been distracted from his hard and honourable career by adventurers, magicians and slaves of forbidden gods."

Peredur, though nearly eighteen and over six feet tall, knew better than to argue with such advice. Whiteflower, an orphan but niece to the Graf, seldom heeded warnings: "Surely our city is guarded against spells by ancient protective charms?"

"It's the temple of Our Lady Verena which casts the mantle of safety over us," Elen said. "Even that only covers the Upper City. The Academy is in the Lower, with its temptations, so the initiates can learn to combat the forces of evil." She turned to Peredur. "Go straight there, and be thankful you live here with Uncle Rhenhardt, in Wurtbad with its Academy. On what's left of your poor father's estate, you'd be lucky to learn your letters."

Round the first corner, Whiteflower popped out of a nook: "Are you coming to see the strangers? I hear the Graf will speak to them within the hour, demanding to know their business. That'll be a spectacle not to be missed."

"Well... I should go straight to the Academy."

She did not, as she often did, cast aspersions on the Academy and the clerics. "That's all right. I've found a new tunnel... a short cut to the postern gate. You can do both."

Peredur nodded, and she led the way down to the wine cellar. No one knew the underworld of Wurtbad like his cousin Saskia Whiteflower. Noble born, but not due to inherit anything, the ladies in waiting turned a blind eye when she ignored girls' lessons and trained with the squires, if they would have her, or spent hours by herself exploring dungeons and tunnels. She had found a passage under the barrack block, but he thought it led only to more cellars - no faster way out.

"Here." He knew the narrow gap through which she darted; it took them out of the storage area, into a long, gloomy tunnel. In the lamplight, he could see the stonework change: slabs larger, but more regular than above, arching massively over their heads. Folk said the whole Upper City was built on the foundation of these colossal ruins; they had been abandoned long before the Graf's ancestors fortified the hilltop, so no one could say what men had built them, if men they were.

They hurried down a passage: it had once been the aisle of a gigantic hall. To one side, the arches were filled with regular blocks; but on the other, they were piled in more confusion. Perhaps the upper stories of the palace had simply collapsed into the middle of the hall: but possibly they had been smashed there by some inconceivable force.

The aisle swung sharply to the left. After a short distance, she stopped, and started examining the outer wall. He had time to observe intricate carving on the squared stones. Whiteflower ran her hands along a design, then pushed hard. A large section, several apparent slabs, swung back. It released a gush of cold and murky air, flickering the light alarmingly.

"I guessed from old tales there might be a passage here. Look!" She pointed across the aisle, to a larger than usual arch, almost filled not with rubble but with a marble dais, on top of which they could see the back of an enormous throne. "Whoever ruled in those days needed a private escape route."

She showed him how to operate the secret door. Then, on down a flight of shallow steps... she took them fast and sure, the light bouncing with the rhythm of her stride, casting its shadows in a wild procession across the mysterious walls like clouds racing over the great moon in a high wind. They caught glimpses of carvings or murals - strange, handsome beings who were not quite men and women - but had no time to examine them.

Saskia Whiteflower had other things on her mind. "Why does your mother stop you doing so many things? She makes you spend so long in the school, you have no time to train properly with the squires, though you're the best of the lot. And you've no chance of any adventures."

"I'm not really supposed to be a squire at all. You see, my father was a freelance knight. Sometimes, he'd act as Judicial Champion for adventurers in trouble. That's how he came... to be killed. He never made much money, and sold some of the little land he had. So we're almost poor relations here."

"I see. My step-father won't let you be a proper squire."

"No, no! Mother vowed, when my father died, that I wouldn't lead that kind of life. She wants me to be a scholar. It's uncle Rhenhardt who insists he won't have a boy in his household who doesn't have a chance to train as a squire."

"Oh!" She sniffed angrily. "He's never insisted I be given a chance. I have to train sneakily."

Peredur was about to reply that girls seldom did do squire's training, when they came to the bottom of the steps. The way was blocked by masses of mortared stones, great old ones, their carvings clashing wildly, interspersed with smaller modern blocks. The face was not quite sheer: there were little ledges above the courses, as though they were very steep stairs.

"I'd better lead the way. Here, you hold the lamp." She hoisted her black satin skirt, with its pale lily flowers, and tied it carefully in a knot at her waist, then started nimbly upward. He had time to think that she was really almost as useful as a boy. She wore men's hose, very tight, and he noted that though she was not tall her legs were as muscular as those of any youth, and in some subtle way far more pleasing to look on.

"Hold the lamp up. There!" She pushed something, and a door slid open. Peredur blinked as daylight flooded in, and he took longer than she had clambering up. Whiteflower untied her skirt and led the way out. They were in a corner between the city wall and the buttress by the postern, having scrambled up the great wall's foundation!

They had saved a few minutes, but anticipation hurried them through the Lower City towards the market square. The crowds were large for the hour, all heading in that direction.

The Upper City was built on a curved hill, like a crescent moon. The outer wall ran between the two horns; the Lower City was on the inner slopes, its streets stepped down to the market. The sun was already above the eastern arm of the hill, bright in a pale blue sky misted with translucent clouds. As they scurried down from the gate its rise reversed; buildings eclipsed it more and more often.

Turrets and minarets thrust weirdly into the sky with none of the regularity of the Upper City, which could have been in any part of the Empire. Here travellers and dealers in strange goods from Kislev, the Border Princedoms and beyond had recreated their distant, exotic homes with no order or plan: a place where the spiced aroma of enticing foreign foods mingled with the incense of strange temples and the odd scent of unknowable goods in small and evil-looking shops; where they sensed the gaze of bleak little eyes from every shuttered window or dark, uninviting door.

The steeply stepped streets around the market formed a theatre, which was already crowded - but they knew a narrow passage beside the bookseller's shop, which led to a balcony he let them use. No stalls had been set up in the market place. The traders hung round the edge, looking with curiosity, resentment and fear at the group which dominated the square.

Rumour was right: no such party had passed this way in their time. The strange men were every sort you could imagine, colourful in dress, often with some plate or mail armour - though few wore the full suits which were uniform among the Graf's guards. They did not resemble an army, with no appearance of discipline or drill; though they were drawn up in a kind of formation, close around their wagons, and had the look of men used to working together.

Peredur could have filled a book with the appearance of this outlandish crew, had his eyes not fixed on the leader: as huge a man as he had ever seen, human in aspect though with an air of something savage - wolf or ape or bear. His black hair was not long, but curled wild and almost matted, as did his beard. He wore a double coat of mail with some heavy plates attached, but no helmet: his coif was thrown casually back. He led a steed which increased the fierceness of his look. This was no charger, but a gigantic boar, high at the shoulder as a stallion: such a beast as wild hordes ride who are not men. Its tusks were as large and hacked as swords, and the warrior had a bigger one yet as handle to his massive battle hammer, shaft and iron head alike inscribed with runes. The man had a vast power about him, though whether for good or evil was hard to tell.

Beside him stood a man powerful as he, but shorter His beard was long, and he wore a doublet of rough cloth: no mail. He had a kindlier expression than his companion, carried a heavy staff that did not have to be a weapon, and led a horse which, though very large and shaggy, was still a horse.

Behind this formidable duo, was the strangest sight yet: a wicker chariot, light and graceful beside the gaudy wagons, drawn by six greyhounds (these were bigger and sturdier than dogs bred for racing; but had a look of swiftness and grace no word can better describe). Two were pure white, two almost black, and two of both colours, exactly half and half. The car had an awning, black/grey and white, from which hung veils of ephemeral silk behind which two figures could just be seen: no details could be made out, but their presence alone had beauty.

A trumpet sounded from above. The main gate of the Upper City had a huge barbican which extended down the hill like an arrow nocked to a bow. Graf Manfred appeared on the battlement, splendid in his scarlet cape and hat, with a squad of his men. Peredur's Uncle Rhenhardt was in command, and most carried loaded crossbows. There were other archers on the walls above.

The Graf spoke sternly: "Who are you, strangers who have passed our outer gate, by what enchantment I cannot guess? What business have you? If you are not our enemies, your words had better be convincing!"

The big barbarian was the spokesman. His voice was loud, surprisingly cultured, with but a trace of accent: "Lord Count! We are not enemies! We keep the laws of civilized lands, and seek only to help those we visit. Nor do we come empty-handed: we can trade or entertain, and are men of many skills. If any of your folk are hardy and honourable, seek noble adventures, and have something to offer, we will welcome them to join us."

Graf Manfred still looked suspicious: "So, you seek to recruit from our citizens - or is it to kidnap them? To trade - or is it to steal? To entertain - or is it to bewitch? You do not even give us your names, the land of your birth or the purpose for which you travel in this extraordinary caravan!"

The giant hung his head slightly, as though his appearance was so impressive that he had no need to act savagely. The shorter man beside him now spoke up: "We are of many countries, most of them distant. I am known among our fellowship as K'nuth the Stout. This is my kinsman, N'dru the Strong. Among our own nation, it is not required of a guest or stranger to give one's born name: there are those who would abuse the knowing of it!"

"You are not yet guests!" The Graf seemed little mollified.

The huge cousin spoke again: "It must seem strange that so much about us is veiled in mystery. We are law-keepers, with a mission of great benefit to all civilized folk. I can tell by my runes, by the smell of your air, that this city is not in thrall to the cults of darkness: yet evil has its tendrils everywhere. There are those who would promise much to know the object of our quest, and their spies cannot always be recognized."

The Graf whispered with Rhenhardt, then replied: "So! You will tell us nothing of yourselves. False names, precious little else! Anyone can claim a noble quest and powerful enemies. You are so many, I would call you a small army if you wore livery."

There was a rattle of movement above: a bombard was trundled onto one of the large bastions; a bolt-catapult appeared on another. Peredur tried to place himself protectively in front of Whiteflower, but she pushed past him again.

The huge N'dru was losing patience: his hands tightened on the carved ivory shaft of his mighty hammer. Peredur wondered if he would try to batter down the great gate single-handed. Given time, he surely could have, but the soldiers above were raising their crossbows. Now the cousin K'nuth whispered frantically in his leader's ear; and one of the mysterious figures in the chariot sprang to her feet so that conveyance rocked wildly for a second.

The giant returned with effort to his humbler mood. He drew a mighty breath and said: "Great Count, I swear that I and my companions mean you and your people no harm. Indeed, great good will come to you when we achieve our aims. I will swear so on the high altar of Ulric, and of any other god you nominate."

The Graf relented a little: "This city worships Our Lady Verena. We enjoy her special protection: she will not permit the foul adherents of the dark to succeed in their disgraceful arts within our walls. On her altar you must swear, along with that of your own fierce god."

"That, I and my men will willingly do," said N'dru the Strong.

The atmosphere relaxed. Peredur heard the distant striking of a clock. "It's late. I must hurry." Whiteflower made a face, but did not stop him dashing up the steps to the Academy. He reflected on the strange things they had witnessed. The life of adventure was forbidden, yet he did not regret seeing the strangers, and yearned to know the secret of their mysterious quest.

Brother Martin had finished the register when he rushed in. "Where have you been, Peredur? It's not like you to be late."

"There was a commotion in the town. Strangers. I thought for a minute there would be a battle, right there in the Market."

"Strangers! That's a strange excuse! No more of this!"

It was tense at the Academy. The others were mostly from families without noble blood, children of merchants or other leading burgesses. They resented Peredur's status as nephew to the Garrison Commander, and felt he was over-privileged because of it. But they feared him, as one who trained with the squires. Some tried flattery, which was more annoying than hostility. They were a miserable lot, well suited to a future without action.

During lunch, Brother Martin sought him out. "So. You saw the mysterious ones. Let us put your escapade to some use. What kind of men were they? What can you learn from what you saw?"

Martin was about thirty, less bound by books than most of the clerics. He listened carefully to Peredur's description, then said: "There are lands where men fear to reveal their names. They are nests of wizardry, where the battles of lawful and unlawful magic are waged more fiercly than in this relatively tranquil city."

Peredur tried to digest this. "You fear the barbarians may be plotting to deceive the Graf, using spells of illusion?"

Brother Martin shook his head. "No. Such spells have no power in the Temple. But there are many ways to speak the truth." He looked down the colonnade, and made a bow towards the owl of Verena which watched over the entrance. "One must be fair. Men who dwell outside the Empire are not necessarily barbarians, nor always wicked by design. Yet in places where names are unsafe to utter, the worship of Ulric goes often hand in glove with that of Solkan the Avenger. Their followers are not corrupt, but can be unjust: a hard faith to reconcile with worship of Our Lady."

In Wurtbad there were large temples only to Verena, Ulric and Sigmar. If foreign cults had gained a toehold in the Lower Town, Peredur was not deemed ready to learn of them. His mother hoped he would live in those quiet colonnades, avoiding conflict over things more desparate than the exact meaning of ancient texts. Elen had influence, being in charge of her brother's household, and Rhenhardt was not treated as a mere freelance, having been married to Saskia's mother, the original White Flower of Wurtbad. The latter had been the Graf's favourite sister, the most beautiful woman ever to have lived in the city.

Peredur was taught about the Empire, the centre of civilized life, and little of the lands beyond. Intrigued by what he had seen that day, he was boldened to ask his uncle at supper if the visitors had taken their oaths in a satisfactory manner.

"So it would seem. The clerics took precautions against illusion, and didn't detect anything." Less convinced of Our Lady's protective power than most, Uncle Rhenhardt never scoffed openly. "They didn't look like perjurers in action to me."

Peredur's mother had a different view: "They must have used magic to enter the Lower City - unless you hire men who sleep on sentry duty and leave the gates open." She glared at Rhenhardt, who seemed about to reply, but she hurried on: "By all accounts, the adventurers are wild creatures, scarcely human. I'm amazed they were not sent packing when they were under your guns."

He replied mildly. "They have a frightening look, but it is merely a matter of dress and style. I examined them closely. They do not include any half-orcs, or even dwarfs."

"Perhaps. But you must at least keep the children away from them, and not let them attend this ghastly show."

Peredur had heard about no show, and had no idea what to protest about. Whiteflower had, and was very indignant. "I am not a child, I am the Graf's niece, and I am not being told what not to attend. The 'show' is to be a festival in honour of Ulric the White Wolf, who is neglected here in Wurtbad."

Elen opened her mouth to scold Whiteflower, but Rhenhardt spoke rapidly for once. "Although the visitors are guests here, they have invited us to attend this festival. It is the Equinox of Spring, sacred to Taal as well as the White Wolf. It would be discourteous for the family to not attend."

Elen spent the next days haranguing Peredur about the dangers posed by adventurers, and the evil gods they must worship in secret. Each day he went straight to the Academy as required, merely peering down the steps into the Lower Town on the way, trying to see he knew not what. In the event, he saw nothing. Rumours were started by students whose fathers had sold the visitors supplies, or bought from them strange treasures. They reported that the strangers had constantly asked questions about the layout, history and traditions of the city. After a few days, one whose father kept a tavern reported seeing the man K'nuth standing drinks and asking about the tunnels in the ruins under the Upper City - about who had made them, and how they could be entered.

That evening, Peredur and Whiteflower went again to those hidden passages. They saw nothing but ancient stones, murky shadows and dust. Yet in the distance, several times, they seemed to hear sounds: voices, carried perhaps through air holes; boots stepping heavily on rock; the clank of iron. And once or twice they noticed a peculiar smell, not unpleasant but quite alien to the clammy world beneath the earth: smoke, heavy with some rich oil, and a hint of sandalwood, as though exotic lamps had guided someone's path through the underworld, then vanished through the old unyielding walls.

The Spring Equinox dawned. The parade in honour of Ulric would be followed by a demonstration of martial skills and a dance in honour of Taal, Lord of Nature and Wild Places. His worship had faded in Wurtbad, since it no longer had wildness, save the wildness of men. Elen said it would be a violent, obscene performance, like the Bull Dances of decadent southern lands - not festivals of true religion. But she did not object when Rhenhardt said they would be seated in the Graf's box, in a house overlooking the market, with terraces of seats.

The Academy closed early and Peredur hurried over. It was still mid-afternoon, and few people had arrived. He ducked into a half-enclosed courtyard: it was shaded there, only the rear being open to the sky. One could get water from a fountain, fed by a mineral spring. At first he did not see the woman who was there, but it was more than surprise that made him start. Though he could not see her face at first, she had a grace and sad dignity he had never dreamed of. She turned sharply at the sound of his footfall, like a fellow deer startled while drinking at some secluded brook in the forest. Her uncannily beautiful face was unlike any he had seen: framed by slightly waving night-dark hair, the bones exotic, delicate. Her complexion was bronze-tinted by the sun, though somehow pale also, as though the blood was afraid to linger. She wore a cloak which fell to her feet, fastened down the front with silver. It was of a very rich material, mostly blue in colour but winter-dark, with white embroidered clouds and flecks of snow, lightened by tiny jewels like stars and a silver moon.

He was too abashed to speak. Girls whose noble families kept them from the Academy attended religious festivals, and he feared this court had been assigned to their secluded use.

"I beg your pardon, Sir." It was she who apologized, improbably, to him. "I thought it would be allowable to use this fountain, while I was waiting for the Festival to begin." Her voice was very clear and carefully pronounced, without a trace of accent, as though her upbringing had been so refined that it was protected from any infection by the multitudinous brogues which rose clamouring from the alleys of the city.

"Of course it is. May I help you to a drink?" He carefully washed and filled one of the cups which sat beside the spring. "I do not believe we have met. Is this the first time you have attended the Spring Festival here?"

"Here, yes. But I am familiar with all of the festival dances and customs."

"Oh." Tongue-tied, Peredur racked his brain for something to say to this exquisite beauty. "Er, I have heard that the... dances performed at the Festival are... doubtful... dangerous stuff... rather like those performed in foreign places."

"Oh! Yes, I suppose you might have heard that. The festival is, of course, international. It takes place in all the lands where Great Ulric and Holy Taal are venerated, and there are similarities in the rituals and dances. As for dangerous, yes, you could say that. But the gods protect their own."

"I... don't quite see what you mean."

"Not everyone chooses to participate in the rites. No, not everyone would choose to do that. But some are called, and that call, if it is powerful enough, may not be refused."

There was something infinitely distant in that perfect voice, something he did not understand and wished to hear no more. "You are well informed, yet I have not seen you at the Academy."

"No, I have not visited the Academy. Most of my education has come from my family. But I would like to visit Verena's..."

"D'vorah! Come." A young woman in a loose dress of fine, pale-blue material appeared at the door, but did not enter. They looked almost to be twins, but the newcomer's hair was strikingly pale, like the light honey called Bee's Milk. The other smiled wanly at him, gave a little curtsey, turned and left quickly.

"Who was that woman?" a sharp voice interrupted. He saw his mother had arrived, and thought it was she who had spoken. Then he realized Saskia Whiteflower was with her, in one of her angry moods.

"I... don't know. She seemed well-bred, I suppose she is from a family which keeps its girls from the Academy." He offered this, realizing he no longer believed it.

"Well." His mother, Elen, did not seem annoyed. "You scholars can mix in the best circles. Remember that."

But Whiteflower was less impressed. Her bad mood persisted through the festival, and worsened when the Graf led the warriors of the city out on parade: "Look! All the squires but us!"

It was a poor display. Nobles rode in fine but handed-down armour which seldom fitted, as their fathers had weighed less. The squires were similar: few would follow military careers. Rhenhardt's men were best: war was their trade, not their duty.

Then the visitors, true men of Ulric, went through their paces. The manoeuvres lasted a long time, but few remembered the detail, perhaps because of what came after.

It was nearly sundown, and the arena cleared of men. Two wooden towers were trundled forward, and a wire was tightened between them. While this was being done, K'nuth the Stout spoke: "Friends, we have honoured Ulric, Lord of Winter. Now we welcome Spring, in the name of Taal of the Wild Places!"

At his words, the assembly fell silent. Into the arena came the strangest sight: a huge bison ridden by a man! The beast was oddly coloured - brown to the shoulder, with a white mane. It easily bore its rider, despite his size: he had to be N'dru the Strong, though his face was covered by the mask of a white wolfskin, from a beast he must have killed himself. Some of the audience fell to their knees, believing for an instant that Ulric had ridden the Winter into the city and they could worship him.

The sun lowered redly to the Western hill. K'nuth announced: "Behold, Winter ends, and Ulric quits the land!" The warrior leapt from the bison's back, vaulted easily over the barrier. "Now, life returns to the world as the Dancer of Spring."

"What dancer is this?" Peredur whispered to Whiteflower.

"Look!" She hissed. "Your noble little friend!"

His blood quickened. A figure moved, slow but graceful, up the steps of the eastern tower. He knew the blue embroidered robe, the hair now garlanded with green. She paused before the taut wire, appearing calm, but he sensed a tremor of fear run through her. A trumpet sounded, strange music, and she threw her arms upward, her cloak back: it did not fall, but fanned out around her like a parasol. The assembly gasped: it was lined with silver mirrors, brightly reflecting the dying sun. Beneath, her arms and legs were bare, browned almost to the colour of her golden cuirass. The music rose, and she moved forward onto the wire, dancing along it, her delicate feet never missing a step.

She pranced to the far tower; whirled the cloak up, tossed it on to the platform, blue side up, so her golden body shone dominant over it. Light flashed onto the ends of two batons she held, which burst into flame. As the crowd gasped, Peredur hoped the show was over, but it was not finished. N'dru stared at the bison, holding his hammer up: its runes glowed with more than reflected light. The beast moved toward him: as it passed under the wire, the girl stepped easily into the air, landing with both feet on its back, sank almost to one knee, but stood upright in triumph, twirling her torches like juggler's clubs.

She leaned forward and somehow attached the brands to the beast's great horns, then jumped off the tail, landing clean. The bison turned to look to the insult to its dignity: instead of fleeing, she ran lightly to it and vaulted over its head, her golden armour flashing fire between the two torches as she somersaulted.

How could any cult, Peredur thought, allow so fair a girl to run such a risk, however well she took it? The bison angrily speeded up, trying to shake her off. Twice more she skipped nimbly down, turning to vault again between the flames. Their heat enraged the creature: she could not cope with its faster charge - or did intense sympathy transfer Peredur's fear to her, disrupt her concentration? That final time, she slipped, fell heavily from the bison's back, lay still as it turned, then tried to scramble up as it thundered angrily at her.

A moan of sympathy rose all round. Peredur jumped up, wild with terror, and made a futile grab for his short sword, as though he were near. No one could rush between her and the monster: but N'dru had other resources. Leaping onto the barrier, he swung his great hammer and threw it. The bison was almost on the struggling girl, but the hammer was faster: runes glowing on its fearsome head, it struck the animal between the eyes, smashing its skull and hurling it backward onto its haunches. Nor was this all: runes glowing now on the mammoth shaft, it bounced into the air, and flew back surely to its master's mighty hand, as though it was a dove or homing bird.

The squires who served at the evening feast all chattered about the magic weapon, the amazing rescue. Whiteflower and Peredur were included because of their better manners; they were in fact to serve the top table. N'dru sat next to the Graf, then Rhenhardt, K'nuth, and the two beautiful maidens, D'vorah the dancer, subdued by her ordeal, and C'tlain, the light-haired one. These were the sisters of N'dru. There were also notables of Wurtbad present, including Brother Martin.

Peredur took care of D'vorah, giving her the best portions. He tried clumsily to express in words the beauty of the dance. She replied graciously but briefly. Time was short: the menu was complex, and the visitors had brought contributions. The first was a brown pepper from Achillesia, which N'dru warned might be too hot for their taste; hardly anyone had much, just a dash for politeness, while the strangers swamped their food with the stuff. Martin also: he looked worried, not just hot.

D'vorah ate little; Peredur offered her other dishes. She seemed pleased, but wanted nothing. N'dru beckoned him, and said to the Graf: "Your hospitality is excellent, but I must ask if it is common among you for squires to make eyes at a guest's sister?"

Peredur almost sank into the floor, and did his best not to fear this huge, outlandish man. But it was hard, and he dared not upset the Graf. Manfred at least invited him to defend himself.

"I mean no offence. I wish to see the lady lacks nothing, as she has endured much more today than anyone else."

N'dru frowned, a barbarous figure who even wore his mail at table: "Give equal care to all the guests. Our stock is inured to hardship and danger: my sister needs none of your fawning."

Peredur was isolated - the Graf would not defend a fatherless scholar, and his family, especially his mother, would frown on attention to a foreign adventuress - but he could not keep silent: "Here we do not submit our women to the attentions of wild animals and deny them those of civilized men!"

N'dru sat right up, and many feared him then. "Men! Since when have boys who don't even parade with the squires been men? If you hope to worm into my company via my sister, forget it!

If you have other designs on her, why, I'd sooner see her marry a half-orc! Now, get to pouring wine, before I lose patience!"

One person supported Peredur readily. Whiteflower had been working quietly and busily. For some reason, she had hennaed her hair, and put so much rouge powder on her face, which was really quite pretty, that it looked like a doll's mask - though now it was redder still with rage: "What do you know, you ignorant savage? Peredur Mappavrauch is the best of all the squires, the son of a great knight, a champion - but far too serious a scholar to join your band of tramps and gypsies!"

The room froze. N'dru seemed past words, like a bombard with the fire lit and creeping along the fuse. But K'nuth had seen the Graf's arms on Whiteflower's gold brooch, and he cut in: "Lord Count, please forgive my cousin his concern for D'vorah's honour. Our married women are always true, but while single they can be tempted. I lost my own sister to an idle charlatan, a wolf who blathered his way into our fold. This young man is no more eager to join our company than we to have him. It's all a misunderstanding."

People started to relax. Even N'dru took the mood. "That is so. And we have things to give and do! I have a present for you, my lord. Wine of Fallerion, the best vintage! Let even the squires drink it: it may make men of them!"

The wine was white, but with an odd bright hue, like quicksilver. Peredur only pretended to drink; he wanted no gift of N'dru! Nor did Whiteflower drink, and they noticed that Brother Martin's cup also remained full. Libations were poured to Taal and Ulric. Music was played.

As the company drank deeper, N'dru made a request: "Do you know Honorius? The 'Riddle Song of the Seals'? In most cities, they have verses which are not sung elsewhere. We would love to hear yours. My cousin K'nuth the Wise knows many verses, from many towns. Later, he will play them all for you."

Martin beckoned to Peredur and whispered: "You are better away from here. Do not argue, I have a task for you. Here is the key to my study. Bring these books to the private shrine: The Book of Honorius, the Commentary of Xnagacius and the Alchemicon. Go!"

Peredur hurried through the night of Wurtbad, and saw men of N'dru's company plying the sentries with wine and wild, hypnotic music. It took ages to find the books, but at last he had them. When he reached the palace again, that same music was throbbing from the hall.

He found Brother Martin and Saskia Whiteflower in the Graf's little shrine to Our Lady, who presided in the form of a lifesize statue with her sword and scales. Whiteflower was pale beneath the powder: ''Do you think, Brother, they are trying to use enchantment?"

"Not here. But they can hypnotize." Martin fumbled through the Alchemicon."Alas, it's as I feared! 'The Silver Wine of Fallerion! This wine is more potent than any other. A man who has drunk deeply of it shall succumb swiftly to hypnotic chants or mesmeric songs!' Why didn't I recall more clearly! 'Protection can be got from herbs and seeds, most notably the Brown Pepper of Achillesia.'" He snatched the Commentary."Here: 'Scholars call the Riddle Song a parable of the soul's path to perfection. But the old view has not been refuted, namely that the Seals were real sacred objects of great magic power, not symbols, and the Riddles refer to their location.'"

Whiteflower was very excited: "There was a mention in the 'Wurtbad' verse of the Lord's Escape. How closely the savage and his man listened to that! And to the Sealing of the Stone! There's a passage below the cellars which the Old Lords used as an escape tunnel, with a picture on the wall of an Elf Queen placing a seal on a stone. Perhaps a clue to a hidden door!"

Martin read on: "Some say the whole 'Riddle Song' has a greater secret woven into it - the way to an even older and more sacred item: the Hammer of the Stars. Its use cannot be attained without the mastery of the Seven Seals. It is protected by the mesmeric influence of the song: one cannot hear it and remember it all." He closed the great book. "Alas, the dry scholars of the Academy have long ignored the wise words of Xnagacius!"

They ran to the Great Hall. Terror rose within them: not a man was moving there. All the nobles of the city lay slumped in their seats, the guards and servants in like plight around them. They seemed not ill, but in more than a drunken stupor: a trance. Of N'dru and his companions, there was no sign - but the door to the cellars was open!

Only three remained to defend the Seal of Wurtbad, who had not drunk the Silver Wine. But they were unarmed. Peredur had a meagre store of weapons in Rhenhardt's house. As he rushed in, and rummaged for his light mailshirt, his mother hurried into the room. She had left the banquet early: "What are you up to? I knew no good could come from you mixing and brawling with those mountebanks, and making eyes at gypsy women!"

"I have started nothing! They are our enemies! They have drugged the garrison, and plan to rob us of the Sacred Seal!"

Shaken, Elen insisted: "Our Lady rewards holiness. She does not require such a material object to channel her protection."

Martin came in: "He is right. Verena would not grant us her favour if we allowed so sacred a thing to be purloined. Stop complaining, and hurry to Shallya's Temple where they may know a remedy for what has been done to our soldiers!"

Elen went pale, looking about to feint, but her voice firmed: "If this is so, you must swear by Our Lady that you put on armour in her cause, not in some quarrel over a dancing girl."

Peredur took that oath, as fast as permissible. His mother became decisive. "Then I will give you the one bequest I have to pass down from your father." She led the way to her own chamber, and used a small gold key to unlock a heavy box. "The Iron Coat of Edvard Mappavrauch, the greatest knight ever to live in this country. They say it has the property that no man who puts it on in a righteous cause can take a fatal wound."

The armour was of heavy plates riveted together, sculpted so it could be put on quickly like a coat. There was a shield of similar design, and a long sword. Whiteflower had already put Peredur's mail shirt over her dress, and picked up a halberd. As Elen hurried off, the three descended into the dark cellars.

They traversed the gloomy way beside the ancient hall, and slipped through the hidden door of the Lord's Escape. Half way down the stairway, Whiteflower shone her lamp on an inlaid fresco: "Look! The Elf Queen seals an ancient stone to an armring, as in the Riddle. How real her ringstone looks! I wonder..."

She touched the jewel: at once a door swung open. Beyond lay more steps; but these ran up. They were not quite dark: a faint and flickering light came from above. There were also voices, singing a strange chant that could not be called music, and again the scent of burning oil and sandalwood. "I thought as much! Those foreigners were interpreting the Riddle!"

Up they crept, quiet as they could. They came to an arch between more of the huge pillars. Perhaps there had once been a door: now one could see into the chamber. Torches had been put in brackets on the weirdly-carved walls, where gargoyles, Elven they supposed, sought vainly to be ugly. The giant N'dru knelt before a black ancient chest; the stocky K'nuth held his staff across it, chanting words they did not understand. Behind, the sisters - D'vorah replying to the chant, C'tlain silent. Suddenly the chest opened of its own accord. N'dru reached for something within, hesitated, then brought out a hinged armband of heavy gold. It had a number of jewels, glowing in strange colours as by their own light, but the centrepiece was a blade of obsidian like a stone spearhead, held to the band by a golden seal.

"A Dawnstone!" Martin breathed. Then he stormed forward. "How dare you, guests in this city, try to steal its most holy treasure, its ward against the spirits of the night!"

N'dru stared at him: "So! Someone is awake in this slothful town! I dare what I dare, for a place like this can claim no ownership of so powerful a thing. You slumber cheerfully here, ignoring the world without where the empire of evil grows ever stronger. Not surprising, when flabby burghers of provincial places hoard selfishly things they cannot use or understand!"

Peredur was amazed: "Did you not swear by the holy gods that whatever you think of us and our city, you will not harm us?"

"Yes. I have sworn to do you good. I have seen the face of evil in this world, dark lands where brutes beyond description swarm hideous out of the earth. And I have beheld that which can overcome them - that which is death to all unnatural things."

Martin gasped. "You mean... The Hammer of the Stars?"

"Yes. I have seen that... fashioned by the Slann, those who were before men, who travelled lightly to the Otherworld - but only, as yet, in visions. Those who guard it are like you; lazy in the crusade, they seek only its protection for themselves. But I shall see it with these eyes; will touch it myself, and with these hands will turn its head against the dark."

Martin was not appeased: "That may be a laudable ambition, but when you swore your oath in front of the City Fathers you knew they would not agree with you. Therefore you have used deception, and that is forbidden to a devotee of Ulric. He will not grant you his blessing now, never allow you to benefit from the zone of safety which the Dawnstone and its jewels provide; still less attain the using of the Hammer of the Stars! Had you not drunk deep yourself of the wine you gave our citizens, you would know this!"

N'dru snorted: "Tell not initiates of the White Wolf what He will give! It is courage and will that grant access to these wondrous things; those who lack them can never approach the Hammer. Well may you blather to your own petty gods!"

He went on one knee, holding the amulet above him, as though an offering: "Lord Ulric! Grant me the power to wear this marvellous instrument of Thy Will! Let it guide me past all illusions and unworthy spells set against the righteous by those who have usurped the Star Hammer! Allow me to wield that holy weapon, in the war against darkness and un-nature!"

He opened the armband, and very deliberately placed it round his wrist. Martin groaned "No!" as it snapped shut. At once there was a stirring of the air in the chamber, which grew into a wind like a god departing, howling like a wolf in pain. The torches guttered, went out: first there was total blackness, then a very faint light which grew slightly - it was the runes on N'dru's battle-hammer, and others glowed from Peredur's armour.

A female voice spoke sharply, in a language Peredur did not know. A brighter light appeared, seeming to come from the hair of the woman C'tlain: he wondered if it would be consumed, or bleached even lighter. Martin spoke: "See! As I predicted! Your drunken folly has deprived the amulet of its ability to disperse all charms. Surely, in all reason, you must now return it to us."

N'dru shook his head. "I shall to the High Temple of Ulric. There, its power will be restored, when Winter comes again."

Peredur was tiring of all this. Drawing his sword, he stepped forward: "You've done enough damage. Return the amulet, if you are wise - I'd love the chance to force you!"

The big man's reply was to snatch up the great hammer with a snarl, and swing it without words. Peredur took the blow on his shield: it was a mighty one, but he was not hurt. Before N'dru could recover, Peredur slashed at his half-exposed neck. This did not wound him but managed to shear through the badly fastened mail, so a flap came loose. N'dru swung again, and this time dashed the shield right out of Peredur's grasp. The blow was so great that the older man was for an instant off balance, at his opponent's mercy. Peredur poised his sword to strike again... He looked down the blade, and saw only the face of D'vorah. Her expression bore such agony that he knew he could never strike her brother down. He pulled his blow, tried only for a wound to the arm, but did little damage there.

N'dru knew nothing of this narrow escape, and resumed swinging blows as fast as they were heavy. Had he been more sober, he must surely have prevailed easily; even so, he was dangerous. Handicapped and shieldless, Peredur skipped around the room. N'dru was much more experienced, and tried to corner him in the doorway, drive him down the steps. The big man laughed as he swung the hugest blow of all. Peredur could only duck. The hammer whistled over his head, and crashed into a great pillar. It had missed him by a hair's breadth, but that was the end for the ivory handle shattered into fragments, the runes still glowing. Peredur twisted away from the hammer-head, stumbling to the ground - needlessly, for it shot back at its master, not gently but with the force of a cannonball, striking N'dru on the breastplate with a mighty crash and pitching him over onto his backside.

Now they were both on the ground. Voices began to clamour but Whiteflower stepped forward with her halberd, deftly sliding the point against N'dru's throat, keeping out of his reach.

"An end to fighting: Verena dislikes it! Return the amulet!"

N'dru was not finished. He snarled at her, slowly gathering himself up. She did not stir, and he pushed forward against her point: a contest of titanic wills. Neither would yield: a tiny drop of blood formed at the needle tip; then the air was torn by a scream, and D'vorah collapsed in a feint. N'dru sagged back, saying: "Alas, who would have thought I could fail thus! I must return your seal, loss though it is to the quest!"

He shuffled back to the chest. They followed, and Peredur found himself saying: "What makes you think only men of Ulric are worthy to seek the Hammer of the Stars? Here are devotees of Verena, and I for one fancy seeking it out, trying my courage."

N'dru paused in amazement, hand on seal, starting to unclasp it. They froze, a tableau of unsatisfied adventurers. The voice of C'tlain broke the silence, colder than D'vorah's, distant, prophetic: "Take heed. The route to what you seek, is perilous and little known. Even the best find it a hard one, as we have seen. But that is not half, for the mighty thing is well guarded, and you will find that if you should reach the city of the Star Hammer you would regret that you went there."

She spoke to them all, to no man in particular. N'dru had been fumbling at the clasp of the Dawnstone amulet; now it fell from his arm into its chest, which slammed shut. The light from the runes, and the enchantment on the hair of C'tlain, vanished as suddenly.

By the time Peredur, Whiteflower and Martin found their tinder in the dark, there was no trace of the visitors. It took them a longer while to repass the secret door. It was the time of false dawn before they reached the upper city - and found the strangers had vanished from there too, as suddenly as they had arrived.

You may think Peredur returned cheerfully to the dull Academy. Not so - though he had a greater purpose to his learning now. Saskia Whiteflower, and even Brother Martin, were restless also. Peredur had not meant to make an idle boast when he had said that he would seek the sacred Hammer. The three would be ready for that quest one day soon.

PULG'S GRAND CARNIVAL

by Simon Ounsley

The old man lay in a ditch at the side of the road to Krugenheim, his right hand clutching at the mortal wound on his chest.

"Robbers," he whispered with his fading breath when Hans saw him lying there and ran across to offer help. "They took all my money, took my mule..."

"I'll help you up," said Hans, appalled and flustered at the sight of the old man's wound. "We'll get a lift, see a doctor in Krugenheim..."

"It's no good. I won't make it to the side of the road, let alone to Krugenheim." The ghost of a smile crossed the old man's face. "That's one thing to be thankful for, I suppose," he said. "I could never stand the place."

"At least have a drink," said the youth, taking his water bottle out of his bag and holding it to the man's lips. A few drops ran into the parched mouth and the old man coughed and spluttered.

"I don't suppose you have any ale, do you?" he said.

Hans shook his head and put away the bottle. The old man looked sad and disappointed.

Hans looked about him helplessly, at the muddy ditch, at the trees beyond. What now, then? What more could he do to help this dying stranger? He looked down and saw the blood-shot eyes staring back at him.

"You're a pale sort of a lad," said the old man thoughtfully. "When you first appeared, I took you for the goddess Shallya come to visit me. I suppose, in a way, she must have sent you, though it's really too late and, heh heh, I could have wished for someone a little prettier."

Hans blushed and clenched his fists. Always these jibes! All right, so he looked a little bit strange...

"No, no," said the old man. "Don't get upset, boy. I'm glad you came along here and, who knows, maybe I can make you glad of it too. Here, feel inside my jacket..."

Hans looked horrified. He sat there staring at the old man's chest wound: at the stained fabric, the ruptured flesh.

"No, I don't want you to touch my wound. It hurts enough already, thank you. Look, see here, inside this pocket."

Hans reached out and felt inside the pocket. He drew out a long piece of hollow bone with holes in its side. He was holding a flute. The old man's eyes sparkled.

"There's something the robbers didn't get," he said. "Served me very well all these years, it has. And me an old man travelling alone with my wares on all the wild highways of the Empire. Protected me from evil, it has. Until now, of course. Reactions getting slow. Didn't have time to pull the damn thing out."

Hans looked at the instrument doubtfully.

"The flute? Protected you? How?"

The old man spluttered and began to cough up blood.

"Listen," he said. "Listen now, before I'm gone." His voice had grown fainter now. Hans had to lean forward in order to hear. He could feel the man's cold breath on his cheek and the stench of death in his nostrils. "Do you ever wish," the old man whispered, "that people would do what you tell them..?"

Krugenheim was quite a sight.

Hans just stood there on the great bridge above the River Glosch, staring at the view and shaking his head in wonder. The city was perched on the top of a hill which towered above the surrounding countryside like a monster over a mouse. With its high walls and proud flags flying in the breeze, it took his breath away. And it almost took away the thought of the sores on his feet into the bargain. It had been worth the trek all the way from Hazelhof just to stand here and look at the city for the first time. Travellers through his home village had spoken of Krugenheim as a small, insignificant city compared to such fabulous places as Altdorf and Middenheim, but it was the first city Hans had ever seen and it looked grand enough to him. He could hardly wait to walk through its bustling streets and be a part of it all.

This is Krugenheim, he thought to himself. Things are going to be different here.

Then he heard raucous, cackling laughter and turned to see two men on a cart looking across at him. One of them was talking to the other behind a cupped hand, but this meagre attempt at propriety hardly seemed to be worth the bother. It was quite obvious that Hans was the butt of their laughter.

"A cream bun," he heard one of them saying, as the cart passed him by. "A cream bun with a nice dollop of jam." And they both started laughing again. The driver fell about and almost lost control of his donkey.

Hans felt his heart sink to the pit of his stomach. This was the way it had always been. He wanted to cry. He wanted...

Then he remembered, and took the flute out of his jerkin pocket. He started to play. He was no musician and the notes he produced weren't much of a tune but the old man had told him not to worry about such matters - the magic would work anyway.

Right then, he thought: stop the cart!

"Whoa!" he heard the driver call, pulling on the reins. The cart slowed to a squeaky halt and the two men just sat there, staring in front of them.

Hans walked round the cart to take a look. They looked like two particularly stupid pack animals, he thought. He felt excitement rising inside him. It had worked!

But what to do now?

Ah yes - that would do. He thought the appropriate instructions and stood back watching in satisfaction as the two men climbed down from the cart, painstakingly removed their breeches, and threw them over the side of the bridge. The garments billowed out like strange grey sails as they drifted down to the river, far below.

A crowd began to gather, laughing and jeering at the two men, and Hans drew back, trying to lose himself amongst it. When the men regained their wills and began to look about them in astonishment, he quietly slipped away and resumed his trek up the road to the city gate.

Now, suddenly, he began to feel guilty. He remembered what the old man had said as he lay dying, about how the flute would lose some power each time it was used.

"Magic isn't an easy thing to come by," he had said, "so don't go squandering it every time you get annoyed at someone. The flute will recharge itself but it takes a while. Three times a year is the most you should use it. Any more than that and it'll run out of magic."

Just three times a year! Hans thought to himself. And he had used it once already. He would have to be more careful in the future...

But then he thought of the two men standing there without any breeches on and began to feel happy again. It had been worth it just to see their faces. And, after all, the flute still had two of its lives left, didn't it?

With rather more skill than he had managed for the flute, he began to whistle a jaunty tune. Yes, he thought to himself, pocketing the flute. This is Krugenheim. Things are going to be different here.

Half an hour later, he was no longer so sure.

Entering the city gate had gone well enough. He had arrived at the same time as a party of adventurers: a rag-tag mixture of a dwarf, an elf, a grey-bearded wizard and two halflings, between them loaded with enough weapons, treasure and suspicious-looking maps to keep the city guards busy for the rest of the day. So they had waved Hans through without any questions. And now here he was in Krugenheim at last, walking up a steep cobbled street and gazing in amazement to either side as more people than he had ever seen before thronged about him, walking, talking, dancing and shouting their wares. This is wonderful, he thought - this is where life is.

So far, so good.

And then he had felt hungry.

The little inn had looked cheap and inviting enough, a bit like The Woodsman's Arms back in Hazelhof. It was good to be away from his home village at last but a few home comforts wouldn't come amiss, he decided. And he was very tired from his long journey. So, he had made his way down the narrow side street to the inn, never thinking to keep open a wary eye as he went...

Wham! Thump!

The blows seemed to come out of nowhere. Suddenly his head hurt and there were strong arms about him, the palm of a grimy hand pressed against his mouth. And then he was being dragged backwards, heels scraping across the cobblestones, the strap of his bag chafing on the skin of his arm as it was pulled away from him. He felt hands groping through his pockets, drink-sodden breath on his face. He saw a young face pressed close to his, and found himself staring for a moment into a pair of mean eyes and a drooling mouth which seemed to have every other tooth missing.

The flute, Hans thought to himself, through the sickly haze which had suddenly infested his head. Don't let them take the flute! Then the restraining arm grew tighter around his body and the pain made the haze want to rise up and blot out everything else. Would they kill him, Hans wondered dimly as a film of black and white speckles swept across his vision.

He was only barely aware of the crack of a whip and shrill cries as the arms finally released him. He felt a blow in the small of his back and then painful jolts to his arms and legs as the ground seemed to rise up and hit him. He lay there helpless while all the sores on his body clamoured for attention, trying not to be sick and listening to the boot-heels clattering away across the cobblestones.

When he finally managed to focus his vision, he saw a pair of fine leather boots beside his head. Then there was a firm hand on his shoulder, helping him gently back to his feet.

"Well then," said a voice in his ear, "what sort of a day have you been having?"

He found it difficult to stand up at first. His vision began to grow dim again, and some sort of monster seemed to be writhing about in his stomach. But the arm was supporting him firmly and after a while he began to feel better, bringing his eyes into focus on his rescuer. He saw boyish, steely blue eyes set in a haggard face framed by a luxurious growth of greying hair and beard. Full, greedy lips were parted in astonishment.

"Goodness me," said the man, staring at Hans with unconcealed fascination, "by Ranald's waxed moustache, what have we here? A thing of peculiar beauty, I do believe."

Hans tried to pull away, unnerved by his rescuer's intense scrutiny, but he felt the dizziness returning and was forced to lean forward on the man's arm again.

"I should stay where I was if I were you," said the man. "Oh yes - this could be the making of you, my lad." He cupped Hans' chin in his hand and examined him as though he were a pack animal at market. Hans no longer had the strength to complain.

"Albino," said the man, running his fingers across the youth's face. "White hair, pale skin and yet here - " His fingers paused on Hans' right cheek, "a mark of great distinction. Red, wouldn't you say, my boy? Bright scarlet. Quite astonishing."

"So I look a bit different," muttered Hans miserably. "So what?" His heart felt as sick as his stomach now. Would it always be the same? Would he never escape from the ridicule of his pale skin and his birthmark?

The man seemed to be getting excited. "So what?" he said. "So what, the boy asks. So I can make a star of you, that's what. I must introduce myself. I am Hannibal Pulg, proprietor of the greatest show in all the Empire: Pulg's Grand Carnival, a display of diverse animals so unique and astonishing it will satiate the appetites of children and scholars alike. And you can be a part of it, my boy, yes indeed, perhaps even my partner before very much longer. Your qualities will stand you in good stead in this business, mark my words. It really is difficult to get suitable staff these days. In other cities, I was able to employ genuine mutants but the authorities here tend to be so fastidious about that sort of thing..."

"You want me as a freak!" cried Hans, as realization dawned on him. "You want to exhibit me!"

Pulg applied a delicate finger to his full lips.

"Hush, my boy," he said. "Steady yourself. I will help you to exploit your natural qualities to the full, that is all."

"You'll display me as a freak," said Hans. "That's what I've always been. I came here to get away from that."

"Did you indeed? And where did you come from, if I might make so bold as to ask?"

"Hazelhof," said Hans. "I come from Hazelhof."

"Ah," said Pulg, gazing off into the middle distance as though to bring the place to his mind's eye. "Far distant Hazelhof. About twenty-five miles away, isn't it? Aren't you the little traveller then?"

"I walked all the way," boasted Hans, having failed to recognize the irony in Pulg's voice. Twenty-five miles was indeed a long way for him, futher than he had ever travelled before in his life. Kalbkopf the timber merchant had journeyed into Krugenheim twice a week on his cart but none of Hans' family had ever been offered the chance to accompany him.

"So," said Pulg, "you walked all the way to Krugenheim and then, to celebrate your safe arrival, you decided to plunge into the centre of the most lawless district in the whole city and get yourself mugged - was that the plan?"

Hans peered about him thoughtfully.

"Well I didn't know," he said. "It looks all right to me round here."

"Does it indeed?" said Pulg. "Well, let me set you straight on that point, my dear boy. This is the Untergarten, where the city watch never set foot in any numbers smaller than a snotball team. Pick up a stone here and you'll find half a dozen thieves hiding under it. You are lucky indeed that I was passing through this district on my way to conduct a matter of business or you would have been left for dead in that gutter down there."

"I might as well have been," said Hans, miserably. "They've taken my bag and my money - I've nothing left." Or have I? he thought to himself, remembering the flute with a flush of excitement. He felt for the inside pocket of his jacket and - yes - it was still there.

"What's the matter, my boy?" said Pulg. "A touch of indigestion?"

"No, I mean yes, that is..." Should he tell Pulg about the flute? Hans decided it was better to keep quiet about it. "It's just shock," he said, trying to act casual. "It isn't every day I get attacked in the street."

"Hmm," said Pulg, looking slightly suspicious. "Perhaps not in Hazelhof. But it might be a different story if you're left on your own in this city for very long. What are you going to do with yourself now? You don't have any money. Are you going to eat paving stones? Make a career out of lying in the gutter?"

"I'll get a job," said Hans defiantly.

"Oh yes," said Pulg. "No doubt you will. As a corpse working for a necromancer or some such sinecure. I'm offering you a more comfortable position, with the benefit of my guiding eye to oversee your interests. All this and a share in the future of Pulg's Grand Carnival. Fame and fortune can be yours. How can you refuse?"

Well, thought Hans, looking about him at the grimy street and the hungry looks on the faces of the bedraggled passers-by, perhaps I would be better off as a freak in this man's carnival than as a penniless traveller alone in a strange city. As a temporary measure only, of course. Until I can think of some way to make use of the flute and improve matters...

"All right," he said at last, even managing a feint smile for the benefit of his self-styled saviour. "I'll take up your offer."

"Excellent, my boy," said Pulg, grabbing Hans' hand in his and tugging it up and down in a handshake of extraordinary exuberance. "In days to come, when you and I are co-proprietors of the greatest carnival in the history of the world, you will look back on this afternoon with particular fondness. And for the time being I can offer you a salary of ten shillings a week and all the food you can eat. Subject to availability, of course."

"Now then, Folderol!" he bawled, mysteriously, turning away from Hans and admonishing the pavement with a mighty crack of the whip with which he had earlier, and so effectively, seen off the muggers.

"I hope he hasn't gone wandering off again," he said, turning back to Hans. "Now then, we must get you some food..."

"Look out!" said Hans, pointing in terror over Pulg's shoulder. "It'll kill us both! Run for it!"

It was coming at them down the street: a great hulk of a creature with large ungainly feet whose talons scraped along the pavement as it came. It had a long lizard-like scale-encrusted body and a pointed tail which whipped out to either side as it took its lumbering steps. Its head seemed to consist mainly of a mouthful of sharp teeth which it displayed, row upon row, to terrifying effect. And then there were the wings - huge bat-like appendages which might well have smashed the windows of the houses on either side of the street had the creature chosen to extend them to their full span. As it was, it carried them folded against its body, waggling about in the air as it advanced, as though it was carrying a giant bat on each shoulder.

Hans was ordering his legs to flee but for some reason they seemed rooted to the spot. In his mind's eye he saw the creature come for him and lift him up in that great mouth. He could almost feel the teeth piercing through his skin. And then, without conscious thought, his hand began to drift towards the inside pocket of his jacket. Of course, he realized, the flute! Did it work on animals, he wondered, or fabulous creatures like this one? He would soon find out. His hand closed around the smooth tube of bone...

And then something so astonishing happened that he forgot all about the flute. He just stood there with his mouth gaping.

Pulg had turned and approached the creature and begun to talk to it, grabbing hold of a length of chain around its neck, something Hans had previously failed to notice. The beast stood there peacefully with its head on one side, a long snake-like two-pronged tongue flicking out from between its teeth.

"Well then, Folderol," said Pulg, scratching the creature's neck affectionately. "Would you like to meet this new colleague of ours?"

"I like to have Folderol with me on my trips around the city," Pulg explained later, as they sat in The Purse and Pocket Inn. They were dining on cold meats and ale while they waited for Pulg's business contact to arrive. "It keeps the carnival in the public eye. Wyverns are dangerous creatures, of course, but if you catch them at an early age they can be trained well enough."

"And did you train Folderol yourself?" asked Hans, incredulous. He was still astonished to think of how he and Pulg had walked through the streets to the inn with the wyvern at their side without causing mass hysteria. Passers-by had steered their paths well clear of the creature and some had looked very nervous, but no one had actually fled in screaming panic. He supposed that the citizens of a city were used to seeing all manner of strange sights in their streets.

"I didn't train the beast myself exactly, no," Pulg admitted, looking suddenly uncomfortable. "It was, well, a friend. Well, a business associate, I mean. Ah, speaking of which..." He rose and beckoned across the inn to a thin weasel of a man who had just entered. "Herr Schickelzimmer!" he cried. "My very good fellow. Here - come and join us."

The man approached the table warily, staring rudely at Hans, and shaking Pulg's proffered hand with no great enthusiasm.

"Good day, Herr Schickelzimmer," said Pulg. "A fine afternoon, is it not?"

The weasel sat down and seemed to consider Pulg's pronouncement doubtfully. "Perhaps," he said eventually.

"Excellent," said Pulg, apparently unabashed, and, pausing only to introduce Hans ('my new colleague - a young man of great promise'), he launched himself into a detailed exposition on the subject of dung.

The weasel began to show some interest now, making notes in a small leather book and interrupting occasionally on some matter of detail: "Fifty bucketsfull, you say? Is that compacted or uncompacted? Will you require the loan of buckets?" and similar enquiries.

Hans soon decided he had little interest in the conversation and his attention began to wander round the room. The clientele all seemed fairly well-to-do: merchants and city officials or suchlike, he assumed them to be. They were sitting round in pairs or small groups, engaged in earnest conversations from which they only occasionally paused to take a bite of food or a thoughtful swig of ale. There was none of the raucous laughter and drunkenness which was so prevalent in The Woodsman's Arms back in Hazelhof. But then this was the afternoon, Hans reminded himself. Perhaps by evening, these merchants would be up and dancing on the tables.

One group in particular caught Hans's attention: three men who looked particularly well turned out, in fine velvet jerkins and full cloaks, who were sitting over by the door. They seemed to be talking quite animatedly and they frequently glanced across at the table where Hans and Pulg were sitting. Their glances did not appear to be friendly.

Hans decided he should think of some way to break into Pulg's conversation and discreetly mention these attentions. But he was never given the chance. At that very moment, the decorum of The Purse and Pocket was shattered by an outburst from the weasel, who stood up and began to shout at Pulg in a thin, reedy voice which was nevertheless loud enough to echo through the room and silence all other conversation.

"I am a dealer in quality dung!" he cried, as though in response to some vast insult on Pulg's part. "I deal only in the produce of horses, donkeys and similar beasts of burden. I have no use for the droppings of griffons, manticores and giant frogs..."

"But, Herr Schickelzimmer," Pulg protested, "on the best scientific evidence, the dung of a griffon or a manticore is equally suitable for most common household and agricultural purposes to that of a horse or a donkey. I would go so far as to say..."

"Silence!" cried Schickelzimmer, so powerfully that Hans was frightened the thin reed of his voice would snap altogether. "I will have no more of this. You have been wasting my time, sir. All afternoon, we have been discussing details of a business arrangement and onlynow- only now do you disclose that the produce you offer is a hotch-potch of excrement from most of the animal species known to man. Some of these creatures are evil, sir. I will have none of it. Good day to you."

And with that, the weasel turned and stormed away, though Hans noticed that the group by the door exchanged brief words with him as he went. One in particular, a short bald fellow, grabbed the man by the arm, staring pointedly across at Pulg, who was busy trying to play down the incident.

"Such an excitable fellow," he was explaining to a man at an adjacent table. "We are discussing a simple matter of commerce and he carries on as though he has been crossed in love! Some of these people have no head at all for business."

"Herr Pulg!"

The cry came from the balding man, who had stood up and crossed to the centre of the floor. He now commanded the attention of the whole room. Pulg began supping with apparent nonchalance at his ale, but he was drinking alone. Everybody else was too eager to find out what would happen next.

"It has come to my notice," said the balding man, "and I think I am not alone in having noticed" (he paused briefly here to turn and glance at his friends by the door) "that you are quietly and insidiously advancing the forces of darkness in this city."

There were several audible gasps around the room. One young lad who had drunk too much became hysterical and had to be held down by his companions.

"You exhibit evil creatures to honest citizens," the balding man continued, apparently encouraged by this response. "You attempt to seduce them with exotic and lurid malformations of nature. You encourage children - yes, poor innocent children - to ride on their backs."

There were more gasps around the room.

"Where did he study drama, I wonder?" Pulg muttered in Hans' ear. "He's wasted in here. He should be out in the street, selling things."

But the bald man was apparently building to a climax now. He paused dramatically to wipe the sweat from his brow. "And now Herr Schickelzimmer, who has just departed The Purse and Pocket in justified outrage, informs us that you are planning to spread the produce of these hideous creatures throughout Krugenheim and its immediate vicinity. You have gone too far this time, Herr Pulg. People may be willing to overlook your seedy little sideshow but they will not permit the excrement of evil to be spread on their vegetables!"

His voice had risen to a thundering crescendo by the end of his speech but in its wake there were as many sniggers as gasps of outrage. The balding man glanced about him nervously. It had been going so well. What had gone wrong, he wondered? Could some of the speech have been rephrased slightly?

Pulg seized his chance to defend himself.

"Thank you for that expression of your views, Herr Grunwald," he said, rising to his feet and walking at a leisurely pace across the room. "But I think you misinterpret my attempts to educate the people of Krugenheim into the terrible threat posed by these creatures. Only through the study of the manifestations of evil in my carnival, I believe, can our citizens be made properly diligent in the battle against it."

"I would have thought that as a teacher yourself you would have understood that," Pulg continued, as he drew alongside the balding man, "but perhaps you are too busy organizing snotball contests to think very deeply about such matters as the rule of law." And with that he turned his back on Grunwald and swaggered away, scattering brightly coloured cards about the room as he went.

"A few free tickets for Pulg's Grand Carnival," he called back, as he crossed the threshold of the inn. "Come and acquaint yourselves with the menace which threatens us all!"

Grunwald was shaking with rage now, aware that the initiative had been snatched away from him.

"I shan't let the matter drop!" he called after Pulg. "I warn you that I have great influence at the city council!" But his words were lost in the general commotion as people scrambled around greedily for tickets. Hans took the opportunity to sneak quietly away in the wake of Pulg.

Outside, the street was a teeming mass of people. Hans was reminded of turning over a stone and finding an ant's nest underneath. He was worried for a moment that Pulg might have gone off and left him to fend for himself in the city but no, he soon saw the showman - conspicuous as ever. He was standing with two members of the City Watch beside the unmistakable figure of Folderol, who had been tied to a post outside the inn. The creature seemed to be amusing itself by sharpening its claws on the pavement and flexing its enormous wings. The sight was awe-inspiring but the Watchmen did not seem to fully appreciate it.

"Oh, quite harmless," Pulg was assuring them. "A positively benevolent animal! Only the other day, he saved a young child who would have been run over by a passing carriage... Ah, Hans, there you are!" he said, noticing the boy's approach. "Come on, we must be getting back now - there is work to be done!"

He untied Folderol's chain and began to lead the creature off down the street, raising his hat to the two Watchmen as he went. One of the soldiers saluted briefly in response but they were still looking very doubtfully at the animal.

"I am not happy, my boy," confided Pulg, as he and Hans walked along the street, the crowds parting at the sight of Folderol. "I fear that the mood of the city may be turning against me. It was all smiles and welcomes when I first came here, bringing a lot of excitement into their miserable lives. Now perhaps the novelty is wearing off and certain people are seeing their chances to work against me."

"Like that bald man, you mean?" asked Hans.

"Yes - his name is Grunwald, a local busybody," said Pulg, with a snort of derision. "A teacher and politician and Ranald knows what else. He claims to be a good influence on the youth of the city and wants to teach them all snotball to bring out their better qualities. Personally, I think they'd be better off hanging around street corners. But that's why he's set against me - all that stuff about 'evil' is just a cover. He wants me out of my property so he can use it for his kids and their stupid snotball matches."

"What is snotball?"

Pulg raised his eyebrows.

"Perhaps I was wrong about that village of yours," he said. "Perhaps it is in a forgotten valley at the other end of the world rather than twenty-five miles away. Well, you know what a snotling is, don't you?"

"It's a kind of rabbit, isn't it?"

"No, it's a kind of goblin - a small, smelly one. What they do is trap a snotling in a little wicker cage, the shape of a ball, and kick it around a bit on a patch of ground. It's supposed to encourage teamwork and good health, though not in the snotling of course."

Hans was astonished to hear of such a complex sport.

"In Hazelhof we just stand around and hit each other," he said. "It's called boxing."

"Indeed?" said Pulg, betraying a frown. "Is there no limit to human ingenuity? Ah, here we are then - home at last," and he led the way down a flight of steps to an unmarked door. Folderol looked at the steps with suspicion, first bending to sniff at them, then descending slowly and uncertainly like a child or an old man, unfolding its wings slightly for balance.

"If your claws weren't so enormous," said Pulg, scoldingly, as he unlocked the door, "you'd find you could get around a bit better."

As they entered, Hans was overcome by a stench of dung and a noise of clamouring animals. As his eyes adjusted to the dark, he saw that they were in an enormous room, much like the timber storehouses in Hazelhof, but this one was lined along all its sides with cages. Numberless pairs of eyes were staring at them from behind iron bars.

"The carnival!" Pulg cried, strutting across the floor, his cloak swirling behind him. "Ah, it does me good to be back here with these simple beasts, away from all the folly of humanity!"

The beasts began to roar and howl and chitter as though in reply to their master. Having acclimatized to the smell, Hans walked over to the nearest cages, staring in delight at their captives. He recognized a few of them: the snakes and the tiger, and this big black one over here seemed to be a giant beetle, but others were unfamiliar. He was about to ask Pulg to guide him round when he heard the clatter of boot-heels and a young woman came into sight. She wore a short jerkin with a belt around her waist, and nothing at all upon her legs except a pair of high leather boots. Hans' mouth gaped open. He had never seen anything like this woman before - she was even more interesting than the animals.

"We're not short of folly here either," the woman said, addressing Pulg. "Some of these animals are so stupid they can hardly eat and shit, let alone walk tightropes. And there are a couple of humans here too, in case you'd forgotten, who have to stay back and train the beasts while their master is away gallivanting about the city."

Pulg suddenly looked a bit less happy.

"A matter of business, Heidi," he said, in a tone which managed to be admonishing and placatory at the same time. "Only a matter of business would have drawn me away from here."

Heidi shook her head.

"But so often it's the business of getting thoroughly drunk at The Squandered Youth, isn't it, Herr Pulg? Well now you're here, you can take a look at the giant rat, if you'd be so good, oh master. I can't persuade him to jump through that burning hoop, no matter what I do to him."

"Later, Heidi, later," said Pulg, dismissively. "Such matters can be sorted out in mere moments later on. First of all, let me show you the new creature I found languishing on the cruel streets of the city..."

Heidi's gaze followed Pulg's outstretched hand, taking in Hans for the first time. The boy stared back, grinning nervously.

"Hans has agreed to come and work for us," Pulg explained. "I think he will fit in well with the ethos of our little extravaganza."

"Perhaps so," said Heidi, walking over to Hans, "especially if he can shovel dung." As she approached the youth, she crossed a beam of sunlight from one of the high windows which served to illuminate the hall. Her long dark hair seemed to sparkle and Hans felt his pulse racing. Uncertainly, he stretched out his hand to greet her. She came up and hit him over the head with a blow like the kick of a mule. He was knocked back against the bars of the cage. He felt as though he had been through a bout with Alexis Bosch, boxing champion of Hazelhof.

He looked at Heidi uncomprehendingly.

"Don't ogle me like that," she said. "I have enough trouble with the punters. I walk around half naked for their benefit, not for some puny little shit-shoveller."

"I think that Hans has great promise, Heidi," said Pulg, approaching rather nervously and rubbing his hands together. "I think that some day..."

"Some day he'll be co-proprietor, right, just like the rest of us?"

"Well, yes, when the exigencies of business allow..."

"In the meantime, it will be useful to have another downtrodden menial around to share the work, I suppose," said Heidi, with a faint smile. She held out her hand to Hans, who grasped it nervously. "Glad to have you around, Hans. Sorry about the head - just remember your place, that's all. Have you used a shovel before?"

"Well, I..."

"Don't concern yourself with things like that on your first day, my boy," said Pulg, putting an arm round Hans and leading him away, with a beaming glance at Heidi. "First I must acquaint you with the wonders of the carnival. You recognize these animals?"

"Some of them," said Hans. "Others..."

"Others are more exotic, of course," said Pulg. "Like this one," he gestured to the nearest cage. "Magnificent, isn't it?"

Hans found he was looking at a huge lizard with eight legs and vague grey eyes. It flicked out a long tongue to grasp a passing cockroach but missed the creature byseveral yards.

"Yes," said Hans. "What is it?"

"A basilisk," said Pulg, "as terrible and glorious a creature as any I have met. One glance into its eyes and you can be turned into stone - quite an awesome capability, don't you agree?"

Hans was too busy making sure he could move all his limbs to bother to reply.

"Don't worry," said Heidi, who was following along behind them. "Herr Pulg has taken the precaution of blinding the poor creature."

"Well, yes," said the showman, leading Hans onward. "A pity, of course, but quite a reasonable precaution in the interests of public safety. If only that idiot Grunwald knew the lengths to which I go to protect the public... Ah now, here is a magnificent creature, a bog octopus!"

They were standing by a cage whose lower part had been lined with boards and covered in mud. Two huge eyes and several tentacles were poking out of the mess of slime.

"One of my favourite beasts," said Pulg. "We might think of it as a sort of aquatic rhinoceros. But with more legs, of course. And here, here is a fen worm. Note its great length..."

The tour continued past all manner of strange creatures, each one described in loving detail by Pulg, who would dwell on such matters as their natural habitat and noble disposition, while Heidi would provide additional comments, usually concerning their low intelligence or poor level of toilet training.

Eventually they reached a fierce but strangely familiar creature which seemed infuriated at their presence. It snorted fire from its nostrils and flapped its great bat-like wings at them.

"Folderol!" said Hans, "but, I don't understand..."

"Oh no," said Pulg, with a chuckle, "not Folderol. He's rooting about here somewhere, free as the day he was hatched. No, this is another wyvern but this one is fierce and untamed as you can see. Folderol would be like this too, in his natural state."

"Phew!" said Hans. "No wonder those City Watchmen didn't look happy."

Pulg shook his head.

"They just don't appreciate the majesty of these creatures," he said. "I'm proud to exhibit them, my boy, I can tell you that. Every one of them, from wyvern to fen worm. They are fine, magnificent beasts."

"So just you remember that when you're mucking them out," said Heidi, "how magnificent they are."

Pulg seemed very annoyed now.

"Haven't you got that giant rat to see to, Heidi?" he said. "I've had about as much as I can take of your stupid comments. Why can't you appreciate the glory of this great enterprise of ours? Why must you always drag everything down to the level of excrement?"

At that moment, a small red-faced man carrying a large pitchfork came striding across the hall. Everyone wrinkled up their noses and took a step backwards. He seemed to smell worse than the animals.

"Right," said this newcomer, addressing Pulg. "That's all the dung I can pile up in the anteroom. Where do you want me to start putting it next?"

He had not chosen a good moment to arrive. Pulg turned round and bawled at him.

"Get rid of it!" he said. "Get it out of my sight!"

"What?" said the small man, "all of it?"

"No, you fool, every other shovel-full. Of course I mean all of it! What good it is to me?"

"But I thought you were lining up a buyer..."

"Well I was lining up a buyer, wasn't I?" cried Pulg, becoming hoarse, "but I'm one man battling against a chaotic world, aren't I? Don't you understand?"

The little man looked nonplussed.

"Well, er, no..."

"You need not concern yourself, Wolfgang," said Pulg, his voice suddenly dropping, "with the machinations of a cruel world. Don't worry yourself about the idiocies of dung merchants and the overweening ambitions of snotball fanatics. Just get that dung loaded up on the cart and get it out of here, all right?"

"Yes, Herr Pulg," said Wolfgang, looking positively terrified and scurrying away.

"Now then Hans," said Pulg, taking the boy by the arm. "Come and see this," and he led Hans through a door into a second hall, almost as large as the first.

"What do you think of that?" he said.

Hans looked about him, at a vast cage containing a flaming hoop and a giant rat which was cowering away from the flames in the shadow of a raised podium. Behind the cage were benches, row upon row, stretching back to a pair of large doors which Hans assumed to be the main entrance to the premises. This, presumably, was where the performances were held. There were posters on the wall advertising forthcoming attractions.

"Very impressive," said Hans.

"Pathetic," said Pulg.

Hans was taken aback.

"Pardon?"

"Pathetic," the showman repeated. "This poor cellar is wholly inadequate to the needs of Pulg's Grand Carnival. Come back here a moment," and he led the boy back into the other hall.

"Look at these creatures," he cried, stretching out his hands and pacing across the floor. Sunlight coursed through the high windows, producing great angled beams of brightness, which lent the hall the atmosphere of a place of worship. The creatures produced a chorus of disparate cries in response to Pulg's antics. They paced about or climbed up the bars of their cages. The bog octopus rose up out of the slime, its great round eyes blinking as it peered at the showman.

"Are the beasts not magnificent?" said Pulg. "Do they not deserve a better setting than a miserable cellar? There is a great stadium in Krugenheim. They use it for snotball matches and suchlike frivolities. But it is a fine stadium. That is where I plan to exhibit my carnival. And neither Grunwald nor paranoid dung merchants nor anyone else is going to stop me!"

Pulg had raised a hand in the air, as though in some sort of victory salute. His eyes were alight with the fire of vision.

Heidi could be heard sniggering in the shadows.

"Oh no?" she said. "Well they've done a pretty good job of it so far, haven't they? Time and again they've refused you permission to play the stadium. They don't want your animals shitting it up."

Pulg shook his head, suddenly brought down to earth again.

"No, Heidi," he said sadly, "of course you are right. That's because they are blind like you are, like I am for much of the time. They choose to be blind to life's realities. That is why they content themselves with foolish games like snotball. They think of life as like Folderol here." He crossed the floor to where the creature was sitting and preening itself and scratched its wings affectionately. Folderol flicked out its tongue and licked its master back.

"They think of life as a tame, calm thing, whereas in fact it is more like that other Folderol in that cage over there - a thing of darkness which can flare up in a savage attack at any moment. You can see that, can't you?" he said, turning to Hans.

"Yes, Herr Pulg." There was really nothing else to say.

"Good boy. But I will make them see reality. I will make them see the glories and the terrors of these beasts of mine. By Ulric, I will. I shall hold daily shows in the great stadium, and all of the Empire will come to see and be amazed!"

He turned and walked out of a side door from the main hall, without a further glance at either Hans or Heidi. It was almost as though they were no longer visible to him, as though he was gazing beyond the room at a vision which only he could see.

Heidi cleared her throat and turned to Hans.

"Worked for a madman before, have you?" she asked.

It turned out to be hard work at the carnival. The whole task of looking after the animals and much of the work of putting on the shows was split between just the three of them: Heidi, Wolfgang and Hans. Pulg just tended to strut around and talk a lot, though he introduced the shows and helped out Heidi with training the animals.

But, as the weeks went by, Hans decided his new life wasn't really so bad.

Back in Hazelhof, the dour woodsmen had mocked him for his strange appearance and his lack of physical strength. He had been an outcast there, where a man was considered of no use unless he could wield an axe. He had been reduced to doing odd jobs and running errands - for which no one ever thanked him. At least now he felt he had a part to play in life. He might get lumbered with some of the worst jobs - mucking out cages, for instance - but he also got some good ones, like giving out leaflets around the city, showing the punters to their seats, even taking part in the shows occasionally. And at the end there was always the applause of the punters - aimed principally at Pulg and Heidi and the animals, it was true, but he liked to think that he had earned a small part of it. And it was better than a clip across the head from an ungrateful woodsman.

The part of his new life he enjoyed best, though, was after the shows were over: the job of escorting Pulg every evening to The Squandered Youth.

"I'm getting worried about the public's attitude to Folderol," said Pulg, when he explained this new task to Hans. "That scoundrel Grunwald is looking for excuses to stir people up against the carnival. Leaving Folderol on his own outside the inn may not be a good idea at the moment."

Hans couldn't understand why Pulg didn't simply leave Folderol behind if that was the case, but Heidi explained:

"It's because he's always too drunk to walk home," she said. "Folderol knows the way and Pulg can ride on his back."

So Hans had to wait with Folderol outside The Squandered Youth while Pulg was in there drinking. "Smile at passers-by," the showman told him. "Stroke the animal from time to time. That sort of thing helps to gain public confidence."

But after a few days Pulg became more nervous still and decided it would be safer if they waited up on the inn's high balcony, where they would be safely out of sight altogether.

At first, Hans was very reluctant to ride on the animal's back. He seemed to keep sliding off, and the smooth scales afforded no purchase.

"Put more effort into it, Hans," Pulg scolded. "If I can ride him drunk, then I'm certain you can ride him sober. Put your arms around his neck! Pretend he's a beautiful woman."

Hans didn't find this last advice very helpful. For one thing, it would be difficult to think of anything less like a beautiful woman than this scaly monster. For another, he had no more experience of beautiful women than he did of wyverns. But he persevered, and eventually he felt that he had secure enough a purchase to risk a take-off.

"Right," said Pulg, clearing passers-by away with expansive, theatrical gestures. Even while trying to keep the wyvern out of sight, the showman in him could not be denied.

"Take to the skies, Folderol," he cried, and the lumbering beast began an ungainly jaunt along the street, bouncing up and down and flapping its wings as it went.

"This must be what an earthquake feels like," thought Hans, as he rode upon the creature's back, hanging on in desperation.

And then all the buildings he could see around him seemed to be swallowed up by the earth and when he peered cautiously down, with his cheek pressed close against the scaly neck, he saw Krugenheim falling away beneath him, the streets and buildings dwindling to the size of a rabbit warren. At his side, Folderol's wings rose and fell like the breeze-blown petals of a strange black flower, creating cold gusts of air which swept across his back.

The flight had wrested away all sense of caution and control. All he could do was hang on for the sake of his life, scared and exhilarated by the sheer helplessness of his situation. He just had to let go, he thought to himself, and he would be out on his own, floating through the air... He wanted to laugh, but the wind had taken his breath away.

And then Folderol had swept round in a great circle and was coming in to land on the balcony of The Squandered Youth, claws scraping on tiles as it slowed its momentum on the building next door then leaping into space again to land on the high balcony of the inn itself, with a great jolt which took away the rest of Hans' breath.

"Excellent," said Pulg, craning his neck and calling up to them. "I shan't be very long," and he disappeared into the inn for the rest of the evening.

And so a daily routine was established. When Pulg finally staggered into the street again, Hans would remount Folderol and the beast would leap into space, gliding down into the street below, riding the cushion of air beneath its outstretched wings. Hans would then dismount and the drunken Pulg would have to be manhandled up in his place for Folderol to carry him home.

Heidi would usually be sitting in the great hall with a mug of hot barley, ready with some witty remark about Pulg's condition as Hans assisted him across the threshold. The showman would either ignore her and stagger off to his bed or, on nights when he felt more spirited, he would get down on his hands and knees and beg her love and affection. She would tolerate this for a little while and then, if he still persisted, she would hit him over the head with a thick wooden stick which she kept handy for the purpose. She and Hans would then have to drag Pulg off across the floor to his bed.

The next morning, he would emerge looking bright and healthy enough and make no mention of the night before. Hans decided he must have a very hard head - and a conveniently poor memory.

"Why do you wait up for him?" Hans asked Heidi one day. "Why don't you stay out of his way?" Was she flattered by his attentions, he secretly wondered?

Heidi pointed out herself, Hans, Wolfgang snoozing away in the corner.

"Look at us," she said. "We work our backsides off so that Pulg can make money and throw it all away on drink. That's why I wait up for Pulg. I like hitting him. It's the only excuse I have to get back at the bastard."

What Hans liked most about his evening visits to The Squandered Youth was sitting up on the high balcony looking out over Krugenheim.

He had a fine view of the streets to the east, where the land fell away through the robbers' warren of the Untergarten to the wall and the gate where he'd entered the city. And over to the west, he could make out the law court and the stadium and the great turrets of the barracks where the Templars of the White Wolf from Middenheim were garrisoned, here to impose the sacred laws of Ulric in the city.

The view was impressive, and it was somehow reassuring for Hans to see the same skyline day after day, sitting there on the high balcony with Folderol by his side. The wyvern, he decided, was his best friend at the carnival. The others were all right in their way, but they each had their drawbacks. Pulg was entertaining but so overbearing and unpredictable that it was impossible to relax in his presence. Heidi was probably nice enough at heart, but Hans found her constant sarcasm unnerving and he could still feel the blow on his cheek from their first meeting. Wolfgang, well, he tended to jabber on about dung a lot...

Folderol, by comparison, was undemanding company, happily devoid of any irritating traits of conversation. He would sit there and listen - apparently - while Hans explained his plans to rise up and better himself. Hans had no guarantee that the beast could really hear or understand, of course, but with his head on one side and his great mouth hanging open as though with bated breath he did a very good job of appearing to listen. And he seemed to understand well enough when Pulg told him to take to the air, didn't he?

"Just think," Hans told the creature, with a sweeping gesture of his arm to indicate the whole of Krugenheim stretched out before them, "I could play my flute up here and everyone down there would stand to attention, waiting for me to tell them what to do. I could watch them all from up here and give them orders - wouldn't that be good?"

Folderol apparently thought so.

"Mind you," Hans admitted, "the effect does wear off after a while and I don't suppose the music would reach far enough..." and of course he could hardly risk using up the flute's magic just to test out its range. But he would use it when the time was right. The world might be full of dangers, as Pulg claimed, but Hans had the flute, didn't he? He had the flute to impose order, to regulate the world the way he wanted it. Someday, he would seize control of Krugenheim, or some small part of it. He would find a way to do it.

"But don't tell anyone," he said to Folderol, looking the creature in one of its tiny eyes. "It's a secret, all right?" Another advantage of the wyvern, Hans decided, was that he could be relied upon not to go around gossiping.

"It's not so bad," said Hans, sitting there thinking of future achievements. "It's not so bad, working for the carnival."

But it couldn't last, of course.

From that very first day in The Purse and Pocket, the figure of Grunwald had overshadowed the carnival like some spectre of doom. At first, this had shown itself only in the grumblings of Pulg, who would occasionally break off from a long diatribe on the subject of his great ambitions to make some disapproving remark about snotball.

And then the summons had arrived.

Hans himself had opened the door to admit the little man from the city council.

"Herr Pulg?" the little man had said, squinting into the gloom of the hall and wrinkling his nose at the smell. "I have a summons for Herr Pulg."

"I'll fetch him," said Hans, turning to go in search of Pulg. But then the showman himself came striding out of the shadows, descending on the little man like some enormous predatory bird. "A summons?" he cried. "A summons? What nonsense is this?"

The little man uttered a squeak of alarm and held out a piece of parchment which Pulg immediately snatched from his hand.

"Rodents?" cried Pulg, reading the document. "What does it say - an excessive level of rodent infestation?" He looked about him in disbelief and spread out his arms indicating the great hall. "But the building is in prime condition. I often eat my dinner off the floor here. Do you see any evidence of this 'rodent infestation'?"

The little man adjusted his spectacles and peered about him critically, as though he was scrutinizing some legal document.

"Well," he said eventually, clearing his throat. "There's one over there." He was pointing at the giant rat, which was peering back at him through the bars of its cage.

Pulg was speechless for a moment. He closed his eyes for a short while as though to concentrate his reserves of patience.

"That is not a health hazard," he explained, slowly and deliberately. "It is an exhibit. Surely this ridiculous summons does not apply to rodents which are displayed for the entertainment and education of the general public?"

The man from the council sucked in his breath and shook his head.

"I wouldn't care to express an opinion on that," he said. "And if you will excuse me now, I must return to my office..."

"But what should I do?" said Pulg, distraught. "I have not had a chance to read the small print..."

"Three days time," said the little man. "There will be an official inspection in three days time. If you fail that, we shall have to close you down." And then he was gone.

Pulg was left staring at a closed door, remembering Grunwald's final words that day at The Purse and Packet: "I have influence," he had said, "at the city council."

"Yes," muttered Pulg. "It seems as though he does have influence." But he did not seem to be too discouraged.

"Three days," he told Hans, speaking with renewed confidence. "There won't be a rat within five miles of here in three days time."

Hans watched in mounting excitement as Pulg's hired wizard entered the hall and began setting out his magical artefacts: black candles arranged in a circle and, in the centre of this, a pedestal on which he placed the rotting corpse of a venomous toad.

Heidi, characteristically, was less impressed. She stood there with folded arms, shaking her head.

"Why don't you just give up?" she asked Pulg. "It's hopeless. Grunwald is a determined man and has great influence in the city. If he doesn't get the council to close you down, he'll just try something else."

But Pulg hardly seemed to be listening.

"Look," he said, as the wizard began to chant, his arms weaving around, describing intricate arabesques in the air above him. "What an impressive sight! There won't be a rat alive in this building before long."

"I'll believe it when I see it," said Heidi.

But by nightfall the giant rat was dead on the floor of its cage, covered in great red weals.

It was Heidi who discovered it. She ran tearfully to Pulg with the news and the showman broke into a broad smile.

"Why, that is excellent news," he said. "If that great beast is dead then its lesser relatives will certainly have perished also. Now - you and Hans and Wolfgang must clean the place out from floor to ceiling. All rat corpses must be taken out and burnt."

"But I nurtured that animal," Heidi sobbed, "I nurtured it with my own hands!"

"It died a noble death," said Pulg, with quiet satisfaction. "It died so that the other creatures might live. When the men from the council come, they will not find a single rodent in the carnival!"

"Not unless they bring their own," Heidi muttered.

But Grunwald's plan appeared to stop short of such outright trickery. The men from the council came and poked around for hours, examining the floor with great looking-glasses, but they could find no evidence with which to close down the carnival.

When they had gone, Pulg opened a bottle of wine and fetched his staff tiny glasses, which he filled almost to the brim.

"A toast!" he announced. "I propose a toast to the ruination of Grunwald and his petty machinations!"

As they raised their glasses, there came a knock at the door.

"Get it, Hans," said Pulg. "Let us hope it is not the men from the council, come back for a closer inspection."

As Hans moved towards the door, he felt his elation slipping away from him. He was overcome with trepidation. He felt as though he would open the door and find the very doom of the carnival standing there on the threshold.

But it wasn't the men from the council. It was Grunwald himself.

The snotball impressario came swaggering in, with several of his cronies behind him.

Pulg drained his wineglass in a single gulp. Then he stood there without a word, waiting for Grunwald to speak.

"Nice of you to clean the place up for me," said Grunwald, casting a casual eye about the hall. "Now you've had a taste of the kind of influence I exact in the city, I expect you'll be ready to sell to me, won't you? Does five thousand gold crowns sound like a fair price?"

"It sounds a bit like getting mugged in the street," said Pulg, gesturing for Hans and Wolfgang to come to his side. "There's a big wooden box in my room," he whispered to them. "Bring it in here, will you?"

"Gone to fetch your cash-box, have they?" asked Grunwald, as they ran off.

"Not exactly," said Pulg. "It is something that I think will interest you, however. A recent invention of which you may have heard. I'm told it has potential sporting value, but I myself have purchased it for a different purpose."

"Oh yes?" said Grunwald, his eyes narrowing in suspicion as Hans and Wolfgang carried in the heavy wooden box.

"Just put it down there," said Pulg, and he bent to open the lid, taking out a long metal tube with a flared end. "It works like this," he said, "you take some of this powder and put it down the barrel. Then you take one of these balls of lead..."

There was a cry of panic from one of Grunwald's cronies. "It's a blunderbuss, a gun. He's going to shoot us all!" And the deputation began to edge back towards the door. Grunwald held out his arms in a gesture of restraint.

"This will not help your case," he said. "The penalty for murder is a heavier burden than mere business relocation. Perhaps I can suggest an alternative property. I have a grocer's shop..."

He didn't bother to continue this business discussion. Pulg had raised the blunderbuss to his shoulder, as though about to fire it.

"Don't do it!" cried Heidi, "don't be so stupid, Pulg!"

But her warning was no longer necessary. Grunwald and his friends were gone. Pulg was pointing his blunderbuss at the back door, which was swinging open in the breeze.

"Let's see him bring his influence to bear on this!" he said, laughing wildly.

"Right - that's it," said Heidi, whispering to Hans. "He's gone too far, this time. I'm getting out."

After that, Hans noticed that attendances at the shows began to drop. And people would turn and whisper in the street as he and Pulg and Folderol walked along. Hostile glances were commonplace.

"Keep that creature out of the way now," Heidi advised, taking Pulg on one side, but the showman ignored her. He alone seemed unaware of the strength of feeling that was rising against the carnival.

"Pulg's out of touch," said Heidi. "Grunwald is too powerful. He's gradually turning the whole city against us but Pulg doesn't seem to realize how serious it is. He thinks he can shoot down public opinion with that stupid blunderbuss of his."

Then, one day, Hans was chased through the streets by a mob of youngsters. He had been handing out leaflets for the carnival when the group of louts had seemed to emerge out of nowhere, throwing stones and calling him a fiend and a mutant. He had taken quite a battering.

"Don't you see what's happening, Pulg?" said Heidi, as she bathed the cuts on Hans' head. "Soon it won't be safe for any of us to walk the streets."

"We're going through a difficult period," said Pulg. "But don't worry - the public will fix their attention on some other poor scapegoat in a month or two. You mark my words."

"I'm more impressed by the marks on Hans' head," said Heidi. "It really is time we got out," she whispered to Hans. "We may not have the chance for very much longer."

The next day, she told Hans she was definitely leaving.

"I've got a new job," she said. "Barmaid at the Happy Haddock Inn. Much the same sort of work, really, but I'll show less legs and more cleavage. I'll miss the animals, though." "I wasn't sure you liked the animals," said Hans. "You complain about them so much."

"I complain because I hate being exploited by Pulg," said Heidi. "But I like the animals all right. They're the only reason I put up with it."

She was pacing up and down, eating sweetmeats compulsively from a big bag. Hans had never seen her look so nervous.

"It's Pulg," she said. "I haven't told him yet. I was going to do it at lunchtime but he presented me with a legal document making me officially second-in-command of the carnival. Can you believe it? The first step to a partnership, he said, beaming all over his scheming face."

"Congratulations," said Hans.

Heidi snorted.

"Hardly," she said. "Obviously it's got through to him at last that I'm not too happy with the way things are going and he's done this to try to bring me round. But it's too late. I'm definitely leaving."

"I suppose you're right," said Hans, dolefully.

"I know I'm right! But I still feel I'm letting him down. Ridiculous, isn't it?"

Hans could understand that. He would feel the same way himself.

"I like Pulg," he said.

"Yes," said Heidi. "I suppose people do like him. That's why he can get away with so much. I liked him once myself, before I got to know him better. But he's good for nothing, Hans, believe me. He's nothing but talk."

Hans thought this was going too far.

"But the carnival," he said. "It's Pulg's carnival. It must have taken some effort to assemble all those animals."

"Of course it did. But not on Pulg's part. From what I've heard him babble in his drunken moments, his mentor got the carnival together. Pulg was an orphan you see, brought up by a powerful magician. Pulg showed no facility for magic, too busy pulling the tails of dogs and the legs off spiders, so the wizard fixed him up with a tame menagerie for his livelihood. All that Pulg's done since is to drag it round the Empire, persuading fools like us to do all the work for him."

Hans was silent for a moment.

"I still like him," he said, defiantly.

Heidi gave a long-suffering sigh.

"But you have to leave here," she said. "Pulg isn't going to get away with things for much longer. If you stay around, he'll just bring you down with him."

"When will you tell him you're going?" asked Hans.

"Later," said Heidi, popping another sweetmeat into her mouth. "I'll tell him later."

Hans felt terrible that night, as he walked beside Pulg to The Squandered Youth. The showman was full of himself, telling all the old stories, about staging shows at the stadium, about how he and Hans would one day be partners. Hans wanted to blurt out that Heidi was leaving and be done with it. He hated himself for bottling it up like this, when he knew that Pulg should really be told. How would the showman react, he wondered? How could he get by without Heidi?

Despite all his fears, Hans found that as he walked on and listened to Pulg's great plans, his mood began to lift a little. He didn't really believe any of Pulg's wild plans any more but he found that the patter was infectious. He could almost believe, as he walked down the street with Pulg and Folderol, that everything was going to turn out all right.

Later, sitting up on the balcony of the inn, he found himself confused by the twin feelings competing inside him: Pulg's optimism and Heidi's despair. He turned to old reliable Folderol, sitting there beside him, and scratched the creature's scaly hide beneath his chin.

"What's going to happen to us, Folderol?" he asked. As usual, the creature did not reply.

Hans sighed and thought back on all the times he had sat up here, feeling so secure in his new life. Now it was all so different. He was almost afraid to look out at the skyline of Krugenheim, in case he saw it change before his very eyes. He still had the magic flute, of course, but how could he use it to help matters?

Then he looked down at the street and saw the soldiers approaching.

At first, he took them for a pack of beasts, but as they separated out from the passing crowds he saw that the bestial heads were sitting upon human ones. Hans did not find this reassuring. These were the Templars of the White Wolf, he realized, the ruthless soldiers of Ulric - each resplendant in a swirling wolf-skin cloak, complete with head for hood, and fashioned - it was said - from beasts killed by the soldiers themselves in single combat. When they marched up to the door of the inn, Hans didn't stay around to watch what happened. They had come for Pulg, he realized, incensed by all the talk of heresy that Grunwald had put about. He found a window that was sitting ajar, wrenched it further open and climbed through into the inn.

Now he was in the large room that the landlord hired out for private functions - not long since vacated, it seemed. There was a smell of stale beer and a pool of vomit on the floor. He ran across the room, colliding in his haste with a stack of chairs which fell crashing to the floor around him, and tried a door on the far side. He was lucky - it wasn't locked.

"I must get downstairs and rescue Pulg," he kept thinking to himself. "I must get down there and warn him before the soldiers get to him." But there wasn't much time.

Which way now?

He was in a corridor, with no sign of a staircase either way. He guessed the direction and turned left, rushing past the closed doors of guest rooms and turning a corner to find a small cat, cornered against a wall, baring its claws and mewing in hurt outrage. He had come to a dead end.

Hans retraced his steps, panting now, bemoaning the lost time, back past the door of the function room. Was there any point now? Surely he must be too late. Perhaps he could use the flute... Then he rounded a corner to find a staircase and Pulg running up it.

"Quick!" said the showman, "the balcony!"

They hurried back along the corridor and through the function room. There were clattering noises behind them. Were the templars giving chase?

"Who put those bloody chairs here?" cried Pulg, as he tripped and went sliding and crashing about the floor.

"Watch out," said Hans, as he helped Pulg back to his feet again, "there's a pool of vomit over there."

"Somehow," muttered Pulg, "I feel this whole businesses beneath me."

But then they were through the window and out onto the balcony and Folderol was there waiting - stretching his wings.

"Right," said Pulg, climbing on the creature's back. "Climb on behind me - hang on to my waist!"

"He'll never take the two of us," cried Hans, but he did as he was told, pulling himself up across the rough scales of the creature's body. He could hear the soldiers crashing through the chairs in the room behind them. He looked round and saw one of them lose his footing and slide through the vomit.

"Pay attention!" cried Pulg. "Hang on to me, you idiot!"

There was the usual sinking sensation in Hans' stomach as Folderol leapt off the edge of the building. But this time it was no gentle glide down into the street. Folderol flapped his great wings, straining to keep all three of them aloft. But they still seemed to be losing height. Hans could see some of the soldiers in the street below, running along beneath them, waving their swords - their cloaks swirling in the air behind them to make them look more than ever like a pack of wolves. Very much lower and those great swords of theirs would almost reach...

Then Folderol seemed to be gaining height at last. Hans saw clear sky around them as he lay there with his head pressed against Pulg's back, watching those great wings rising and falling, rising and falling, beating through the air beside them.

"Well done, Folderol!" said Pulg. "Well done, my boy! There'll be an extra steak for you for dinner tomorrow if we make it."

Then he shouted over his shoulder to Hans: "I'm only glad those templars didn't call any later in the evening. Another few mugs of ale and I'd never have noticed them outside the inn, never mind made it up all those stairs."

"But what are we going to do?" shouted Hans. "Surely they'll just come after us at the carnival!"

"We'll barricade ourselves in there, my boy," said Pulg. "There will be a siege of historic proportions. Don't worry - I've prepared for this eventuality. I've got enough food in store to keep us for months."

Hans didn't think this idea sounded very promising. He could imagine day after day stuck in that dark smelly building, while Pulg strutted about feeling grand and making rousing speeches. Hans could think of better ways to spend his time. And he hoped that this "food in store" of Pulg's didn't refer to the animals - he didn't fancy eating them. He began to wonder what a bog octopus would taste like...

"I'm going," he said suddenly, almost without thinking. "As soon as we land, I'm heading off. I'll take my chances alone."

Pulg didn't have time to reply at once. Folderol was descending now and they could see what was waiting for them at the carnival.

"Right," said Pulg. "So it's not going to be as easy as I thought..."

There were templars outside the carnival - all grey cloaks and swords and grim faces. They had Heidi and Wolfgang with them, apparently as prisoners.

"We could both fly off, I suppose," said Pulg, quietly scathing, "we could just fly off and leave our friends to the templars."

But Folderol continued to descend. There was a great bump and then a series of judders as the creature ran across the ground to slow himself. When they came to a halt, Hans found that he wanted to stay where he was, clutching the body of the wyvern for reassurance. But Pulg was sliding to the ground, pulling Hans down after him.

"All right then, boy," he said, "time for you to scurry off."

Even if he hadn't already been shamed out of it, Hans wouldn't have had the chance to get away. The templars were coming towards them, dragging their prisoners along as they came. Heidi was protesting with great animation, shouting obscenities and trying to land punches on the templars - it was taking two of them to hang on to her.

"You see what you've led us to, Pulg?" she cried. "Didn't I tell you it would come to this?"

"Quiet yourself, Heidi," said Pulg calmly. "We have nothing to gain from making the task of these gentlemen more difficult. This is a misunderstanding, nothing more. It will soon be cleared up."

"Are you Herr Pulg?" asked one of the templars, apparently an officer, stepping forward from the rest.

"I am..."

"In that case we must take you into the custody of the Templars of the White Wolf," said the officer, giving Pulg no further chance to speak. "You are charged with heresy for organizing public displays to promote evil in the city of Krugenheim. You will be tried and, if found guilty, you will be sentenced to death by burning. These, your accomplices, will perish with you."

Pulg edged backwards. Several templars drew their swords, ready to block a possible escape.

"I am a simple showman," said Pulg, "you must have the wrong man. Where is your written authority?"

"We have no need of written authority," said the officer. "We are the Templars of the White Wolf. Our authority stems directly from Ulric and He has no need of pen and paper for men to bow and obey Him. Now, kindly step forward and submit yourself for arrest. Or must we use our teeth to enforce the will of Ulric?"

All eyes were on Pulg. Would he come forward? Would he try to run? Heidi saw that this was her chance to escape. An elbow to the stomach and a kick to the groin and she was free, dashing away across the street.

"Catch up with her!" the officer cried. "Put her to the sword!"

Hans had drawn back to stand by Pulg. Here it was at last - the time to use the flute.

"Put your fingers in your ears," he whispered to the showman.

Then he drew out the flute and began to play.

The templars froze in mid-action. The ones that had begun to chase after Heidi were standing in mid-stride, like statues in extravagant poses.

This is it, thought Hans. I've saved Heidi. We can all escape now! I'm a hero!

Then it happened.

Folderol came lumbering forward with a great bellow, flapping his wings and leaping in amongst the templars, knocking them over like so many skittles. Some of them he tore at with his talons; others he took in his mouth, biting through wolf skin and human skin alike until the bones began to fracture.

Mesmerized by the flute, the templars had no chance to defend themselves. They just lay there and died as the wyvern tramped amongst them, tearing them apart like stuffed dolls.

It was all over in a few moments. The templars, poor Wolfgang among them, were lying dead in spreading pools of blood. Folderol stood in the midst of the carnage, claws in among the torn flesh, blood dripping from his gaping mouth. He began to look around him, wondering what to do next.

"Folderol!" Hans cried, wondering what had happened. Had the creature gone mad? He turned to see Pulg's reaction but the showman was no longer there. Had he seized his chance to run away? Then Folderol turned and began to move towards Hans, the tongue flicking in and out of his bloodied teeth.

He did not advance very far.

There was a small explosion and a blast of smoke and the creature fell to the ground, thrashing about in agony. And there was Pulg, over by the door to the carnival building, standing with the blunderbuss in his arms, hurriedly reloading.

"Stand back, Hans!" he cried. "Keep out of his way till I finish him off. He's not in a very good mood."

But Hans just stood there stunned, looking on in horror as his old friend rolled around in his death throes, tail and wings whipping hither and thither in a tortured frenzy as another ball, then another, then another, tore into his body from the blunderbuss, Then, finally, the tail thrashed its last and the creature lay still.

Hans wanted to cry.

"What have you done?" he shouted. "What have you done to him?"

"What have I done to him!?" said Pulg, throwing the blunderbuss aside and dashing across to seize Hans by the hand, pulling him over to the door of the carnival building. "What have you done to him, you mean, with that stupid artefact of yours. Come on - get inside. There'll be reinforcements."

He pulled the boy through the door and locked it behind them.

"Now then," he said. "Show me that thing!"

He had to shout to make himself heard. The hall was ringing with a great hubbub of baying, roaring animals. They must have caught a scent of the blood, Hans realized, and they want a share for themselves. Reluctantly, he held out the flute for Pulg's inspection.

"Where did you get it?" said the showman brusquely. "Why didn't you tell me you had it?" He took it in his hands and examined it, running his fingers over the smooth surface of the bone.

"It's none of your business," said Hans defiantly. "An old man gave it to me."

"If he was old, he should have accumulated more sense," said Pulg. "Then we might have avoided this dreadful mess. I think I could have beaten off that trumped-up heresy charge but I won't get away with the brutal murder of half the Templars of the White Wolf. Come on, we have to get out of here."

"But I don't understand what happened," said Hans. "Did Folderol go mad?"

"No," said Pulg. "He simply came to his senses. I thought you would have realized that Folderol was bonded to me by magic." He dashed across to his office and began to rummage through drawers.

"But you trained him," said Hans, following on behind. "You said you trained him."

"I may have hinted at that," said Pulg, "for the purpose of public relations. But training could never have reduced a wyvern to such a docile state. No - there was a magic bond. Here, take these and put them in that bag over there, will you?"

"You're a magician then?" said Hans, staring wide-eyed.

"No, but let's just say I knew one once. He was very good to me. Look - get a move on and pack that bag, will you?"

"What is all this?" said Hans. "What are we doing?"

"These are just a few essentials I keep for emergencies," said Pulg. "Salt meat, a few candles, a small tent... Here, put this on." He handed Hans a grey, hooded cloak and began to put on a similar garment himself. "We are druids," said Pulg, "on our way to a solstice ceremony in the Laurelon forest. Just remember that in case anyone asks."

There was banging and shouting at the outside door. The animals, who had been settling down a little, began to roar and shriek and chitter with renewed vigour.

"Listen," said Pulg, "you hear that? The sound of Chaos. It lay dormant in Folderol just as it lies in the rest of us, ready to break from its leash at any moment. It is a dark world, Hans. We must always prepare for the worst!"

"This cloak is too long!" Hans complained.

"Just be thankful you have any cloak at all," said Pulg. "Gather it up in your hands as you walk. Quick - this way." He led the way back towards the door. There was more banging. Someone shouted Pulg's name. The animals leapt at the bars of their cages, struggling to break free.

"The templars are there!" cried Hans. "We must go through to the front entrance."

"I think we'll be surrounded by now," said Pulg. "There's only one way out. Have you got your bag with you? Good." And, to Hans' amazement, he unlocked the door of the basilisk's cage and walked in. The animal turned its head, vaguely sensing his presence.

"Come on, my boy," said Pulg. "Basilisks are very slow animals. And we fed her only yesterday." He strode through the cage and opened a second door at the far side, revealing a further door in the wall beyond. "Mind you," he said, "it's a pity we can't stay around and see what the templars make of her when they break in and find her loose."

The door in the wall led into a dark passageway, sloping gently downwards. Pulg had to light a candle to show the way.

"There are store rooms along here," he said, "and a secret exit out of the building. Between you and me, I think these premises must have been used by villains once upon a time..."

"I've been thinking about the flute," said Hans, as he closed the door and followed the showman. "I think its magic must have interfered with Folderol's bonding somehow or other."

"Well," said Pulg, "what a bright little spark you are, to be sure. More precisely, it cleared Folderol's stupid little brain, didn't it? Like it did all those other dummies. And it cleared the bonding away with it."

"I'm sorry," said Hans, lapsing into a shamed silence. Behind them, they could still hear the cries of the animals, faint and distant.

"Well they might complain," said Pulg. "From what I know of those templars, the creatures will be burned alive before long. It took years to build up that carnival. Now it's all up in smoke..."

"Look, I'm sorry," Hans complained. "But it really wasn't my fault. I didn't know you'd used magic on Folderol."

Pulg suddenly turned round. There was a manic grin on his face. His eyes glinted like pits of fire in the candlelight.

"Don't worry, my boy," he said. "We must put the past behind us now. Think of what's ahead of us instead. All the excitement! All the adventure! Things can only get better..."

He proceeded to outline a brilliant future for them both, full of great riches and spectacular achievements.

We should be going, thought Hans, standing there helplessly listening to Pulg's exposition. If we don't hurry, the templars will catch us!

In the distance, the cries of the carnival creatures came louder again, as though they too had been listening to Pulg's words.

They put their trust in Pulg, thought Hans, and look where it's got them. Then he remembered something.

"You've still got my flute!" he said.

"Our flute," Pulg corrected him. "We're partners now - just as I always said we would be!" Then he turned and pressed his hand against the wall beside him. A large slab gave a creak and a judder and slid away to one side, revealing a narrow street beyond. It was dark now. Hans felt a cold breeze on his face, a welcome change after the dank smell of the passageway.

"See - the wide world awaits us," Pulg exclaimed. "I shall show you it, my boy, in all its splendour!"

He stepped out into the street with a triumphant swagger. Then he started in alarm. A dark figure was walking towards him.

"It's one of the templars!" whispered Hans in dismay. "They've found us."

But it wasn't one of the templars. As the figure stepped forward into the light of the candle, Pulg and Hans both gasped in relief at the sight.

"Heidi!" cried Pulg, recovering himself. "How splendid to see you! So now we can be three partners seeking our way in the world..."

Heidi did not look impressed with the idea. She seemed to be shaking with anger.

"And Wolfgang," she said, "what about him? He's not a partner, is he? Did you see what that creature of yours did to him?"

"Oh, my dear. An unfortunate accident..."

"All because you liked strutting around showing off with that beast at your side. And what about the other animals? You left them to die, didn't you?"

Pulg held out his arms in a gesture of helplessness.

"What could I have done to help them?" he said. "What can any of us do now? Look, I'll see if I have a spare druid's cloak in my pack for you, Heidi. We mustn't stand around here talking like this. The templars will catch us if we're not careful."

Heidi suddenly took a pace backwards.

"Yes," she said. "Perhaps they will."

And out of the darkness the templars came, like a pack of wolves descending on their prey. Pulg had no time to struggle. Within moments, they were all around him, pinning his hands behind his back, dragging him away. He looked back at Heidi in astonishment.

"You betrayed me!" he cried. "You told them where to find me."

Heidi turned her face away. There were tears on her cheeks.

"I had to do it," she said to Hans. "They would have burned the animals alive. It was the only way I could save them."

Hans was aghast, rooted to the spot. It had all happened so quickly...

A templar came up and spoke to Heidi.

"Remember," he said. "One day. You must be gone from the city in a day."

Heidi gave a silent nod and the templar left, following his comrades and their prisoner along the street. Hans caught a last sight of Pulg in the light of a brand one of the templars was carrying. He seemed to look back and catch the boy's eye and - what was that? - was it a wink?

"I made a deal," Heidi was saying. "I told them where to find Pulg in return for the freedom of you and me and the animals. They swore a binding oath to me, and it suits them really. It's Pulg they wanted, and this way they don't have the inconvenience of destroying all the animals."

Hans was hardly listening. Had Pulg really winked at him just then? And if so, why?

"But we have to get the carnival out of the city within a day," Heidi was telling him. "Come on - do you hear what I'm saying? We have to get what money we can from Grunwald for the hall and use it to get ourselves on the road."

Hans looked at her and wondered what to say. He wasn't sure he wanted to go with Heidi.

Suddenly, she looked afraid and desperate. She started to cry.

"I did the right thing, didn't I?" she said. "I'm sorry about Pulg but he was a bastard and I warned him often enough. How else could I have saved the animals?"

Hans looked doubtful. Then he realized what Pulg's wink might have signified. He began to brighten.

"Yes," he said. "Don't worry. You did the right thing."

"We can still call it Pulg's Grand Carnival," said Heidi. "The name can survive."

Yes, thought Hans, and Pulg has a good chance of escaping from the templars. He was trying to remind me that he still has the flute!

Perhaps Pulg too would survive...

"Come on," said Hans. "Let's go and see Grunwald and try to get this money."

They had a carnival to run.

THE WAY OF THE WITCHFINDER

by Brian Craig

There is, said the story-teller, a part of Bretonnia's coast which stands face to face with the Great Western Ocean, and engages in a constant contest with the sea. Sometimes the ocean retreats to expose new land, but in the end it takes back what it has yielded, and sometimes more. The legends of this region warn that when land is given by the sea it will one day be reclaimed. Thus, the wisdom of legend says that fields may be planted year after year when the clean rain has washed away the salt from the soil, but that no man should claim lordship over such fields, because any citadel which is built there will one day be broken by the great grey waves.

But there are in Bretonnia, as in all human lands, men who so yearn to be lords over their own kind that they are deaf to the wisdom of lore and legend - and so it happens that whenever new fields are given by the sea to hungry toilers, there come after them those who would be their Overlords, bearing warrants from kings who imagine that they have power to grant such favours.

These lordlings build their castles, around which towns inevitably grow; they raise their petty armies and begin that business of robbery which the powerful call taxation. They grow fat and rich, and devote themselves increasingly to the cruel pleasures of tyranny and the vain pursuits of luxury - and sometimes turn, as the most corrupt of that kind often do, to the secret worship of forbidden gods.

Then, the common folk cry out in their anguish and their desperation. They look to the east, in the hope of summoning magicians who serve the better gods to deliver them from their daemon-led lords; but should hopes of that kind prove futile, they must look to the west, whence come the great grey waves which will drown their fields and their masters alike and clear the way for a new beginning.

The story which I have now to tell is of such a petty citadel, which was named by its founder Ora Lamae, and which had fallen after many generations into the untender care of one Bayard Solon, who governed his lands in the name of Charles II, the father of our own vainglorious king. Bayard Solon was himself governed - ultimately by daemons, many said, but more immediately and more obviously by his daughter Syrene, who was possessed of unnatural beauty and unnatural appetites. Her reign over her father and his people had not lasted long before the angry people began to implore their gods to send a champion to destroy her, and waited most anxiously to see if their prayers would be answered.

There dwelt at that time in the foothills of the mountains which are called the Pale Sisters a grey, gnarled priest of Solkan named Yasus Fiemme. He had travelled widely through the northern lands, hunting out necromancers and daemonologists and countless hedge-wizards of dubious repute. He had bested all those he had faced, for he had ever been a man of iron, merciless and utterly incorruptible - perhaps the finest servant Solkan had ever found in a land where the Gods of Law had few followers.

But even great magicians grow old, and the time had come when Yasus Fiemme formed a different ambition, and built a shrine to his angry god, intending to take an apprentice to whom he would teach all that he knew, and train most carefully, thus preparing a scourge for the followers of evil who would be fiercer even than himself, fit to destroy the most powerful enemies a Man of Law might face.

The apprentice he found was a youth named Florian, who was clear of eye and strong in wind and limb, and to this boy he taught all the disciplines of strictness, austerity and repression, with such rigour that he made the boy absolute tyrant over his own flesh and inflexible commander of his own will. He taught him also the secret language of Law and the awesome lexicon of banishment which gave power to Law's servants to drive daemons back to their hellish seats and cleanse the world of change and chaos.

For thirteen years Yasus Fiemme kept Florian by his side, shaping and refining him in body and mind, straitening his every thought within the lineaments of Law, until he was perfectly certain that he had made an instrument for Solkan more powerful and more skilled than he himself had been in his younger days. And when the boy was twenty-and-one, Yasus Fiemme prayed to Solkan for a sign which would tell him what to do next, and where to send the youth to do the work of Law.

In response to these prayers, Yasus Fiemme was sent a dream, in which he saw the stern and stony face of his wrathful god, which said to him: "There is a city named Ora Lamae, far to the west. It is a very tiny city, but it harbours an evil out of all proportion to its size. It will provide the perfect test for the blade you have forged in my name, which will temper him if he is sound, and shatter him if he is weak. Give him my amulet of volcanic stone, and bid him remember the secret words which you have taught him. Send him forth to reclaim Ora Lamae for the cause of Law, but warn him sternly lest his resolve be weakened by temptation."

And so Yasus Fiemme brought forth an amulet of black volcanic rock, carved with powerful signs, and hung it around his acolyte's neck. Then he gave to the youth a Staff of Law, very straight and plain, cut from the heartwood of a great tall pine, and instructed him to use it well. And then, without a tear in his eye or any other signal of affectionate feeling, he pointed the way to Ora Lamae, and sent Florian forth upon the rocky road.

The regions which Florian crossed on his way to the ocean's shore were sparsely populated, save for a narrow strip to either side of the great highway which runs south from L'Anguille towards the ruins of once-great Moussillon.

There were few followers of the Gods of Law in those lands, but he found many to give him bread among the peasants and priests who walked in fear of dark magic and knew him for its enemy. He was thirty days and one upon the road, which was often hard even for one as lithe and strong as he, but in the end he came to the lush lowlands which the sea had long since abandoned to the manifold crops of mankind: to turnips and beets; to barley and wheat; to lentils and apple trees.

The walls of Ora Lamae were not so very high, but the castle itself had one high tower which loomed above the rest, black and forbidding. The sea could not be seen from the town wall, and was not often in the thoughts of those who had made their homes within the wall.

The guardsmen at the gate had grown complacent in the ten long years since pirates had last attacked the town, and Florian came unchallenged to Ora Lamae. He went immediately to the street of shrines beyond the market-place, there to lay down a mat - as is the custom of wandering preachers in Bretonnia - from which he could deliver his sermons and hear the pleas of any who had complaints to lay before the Gods of Law.

The rumour of his arrival in the town passed quickly through the streets, and crowds soon gathered about his mat, curious as ever to see a new spellcaster and measure his worth.

These crowds were not over-anxious to heed the message which he preached, which extolled the virtues of stern discipline and self-restraint, but they were ready enough to admire his strength and handsomeness, which seemed all the greater by virtue of his coldness. They were ready, too, to bring him news of many evils which were said to be abroad in the town - of children seized and murdered for their innocent blood, of lewd displays and dread perversions practised within the court, of strange madnesses and daemonic possessions and animal familiars.

For three days they brought him such tales, and sometimes half a loaf of bread and a jug of wine, and in all that time he did not stray far from the street of shrines.

While he heard what the people had to tell him, Florian was gradually overcome by sickening horror. He had little understanding of the magnifying ways of rumour and repetition, for his sheltered life had given him no opportunity to see how the best and least offensive of people lust after lurid gossip, and increase it when they pass it on. He heard what was said of the Lord of Ora Lamae and his gaudy daughter, and he believed every word of it. By nightfall on the third day he was resolved to bring down the wrath of Solkan upon the town, in the fullest measure which his virtues could contrive.

But when he laid himself prone upon his mat that night, to offer up his prayers and beg for guidance from his god, he found only darkness and confusion in his mind, and though he strove as mightily as he could to see with his inner eye no vision came. And when the criers called the hour after midnight, and all was still in the streets, there came to him a messenger: a gold-haired boy in a white tunic, who bid him follow.

Follow he did, through the winding alleys behind the street of shrines to an arched doorway in a tall, forbidding wall. Beyond the doorway there were dim-lit mazy corridors and flights of stairs, which turned him about in his course so many times that he felt sure he could never retrace his steps without a guide.

Eventually, the messenger brought him into an apartment more brightly lit than the corridors, where there awaited him upon a crimson couch a woman no older than himself. Her hair was dark, but sleek enough to glitter as it caught the light; her brown eyes were no less lustrous; and her lips were glossed with red, so that all her features seemed radiant. There was incense burning in the room, and the intoxicating vapours teased the mucous membranes of Florian's nose.

"You are Florian, priest of Law," said the woman, in a voice which was low and honey-sweet. "How quickly the news of your coming has spread through our realm!"

"And you are Syrene, called sorceress," he replied, "whose infamy has long been known in its every quarter. Do you summon me here to work for my destruction?"

She only laughed at that, and said: "I summoned you to see what you are like, and to show you what it is that you have sworn to destroy. Look at me, Florian, and imagine if you can what pleasures you could find in me, if you only had the wit to seek them out. Behold me, son of man, and ask whose face you would rather see in your dreams, when the burden of waking is lifted from your soul. Am I not more beautiful than Solkan?"

Florian's reply to this was to raise his Staff of Law, and point it at her heart. "Do you deny, daughter of Bayard Solon," he said, "that you have consorted with daemons? Do you deny that you have committed abominable crimes against man and Law alike?"

She placed her hand over her heart, but the gesture was a mocking one, making an insincere pretence of injury.

"I deny nothing," she replied, "for if there are pleasures which I have not yet tasted, I would stop at nothing to obtain their savour. If daemons can bring me ecstasy, I will yield myself to daemons; if the sufferings of others will thrill my blood, I will contrive that suffering. Pleasure, not Law, is the best measure of the things of this world, and where there is pleasure, there can be no crime. You do not know it now, but perhaps when you sleep, good Florian, your dreams will tell you a higher truth than your angry God of Law would like you to hear."

Then Florian began to chant the words of power which Yasus Fiemme had taught him, calling upon Solkan to come to his aid in blasting the enchantress from the face of the earth, but still she laughed, and the cloud of incense billowed about her until she was utterly hidden from view.

He heard her voice, saying: "Hearken to me, handsome youth, and learn that there is no sternness in all the world which cannot be melted by a loving heart."

But in answer, he cried: "No! It shall not be!" And he called again on Solkan to aid him in his struggle.

Then it seemed that something struck him down, and when he rose again to his feet he found that he was no longer in that chamber, but was instead upon his mat beneath the stars, in the quiet street of shrines.

Florian immediately fell prone upon his mat, and called upon Solkan to give him strength. And when, in the fullness of time, he allowed himself to sleep, his sleep was quite untroubled by dreams save those of punishment and righteous wrath, and the seductive image of the sorceress Syrene was kept at bay.

In the morning, men-at-arms came to Florian and seized him in the name of Bayard Solon, and conveyed him through the alleyways behind the street of shrines to a postern gate in the castle wall. Once inside they took him swiftly to the dungeons, where they cast him down into a noisome and filthy pit, replying to his protests that the laws of Ora Lamae reckoned it as dire an offence to hear treason as it was to speak it, and that he was guilty of both. They put a huge flat stone over the mouth of the pit to seal him in, and left him in darkness.

This, he knew, was the beginning of his testing. Solkan had allowed his enemies to cast him down so that he might rise again, if he could, to be a proper instrument of the wrath of Law. With this in mind, he embraced the grimy stones of his prison, and began an arcane chant which was his declaration of war against the forces which sought to hold his power in check.

"I will make the stone live!" he swore to himself. "I will make the earth itself rise against those who have polluted it!"

For three days and three nights he continued his chant, drawing the power of Solkan into his suffering body. His captors brought him neither food nor water, but he did not care, for there was a different nourishment working in his soul.

As he pronounced the final verses of his exorcism he felt the amulet upon his breast grow hot and bright, and the pit was filled with the cold and silver light of Law, which recognized no colours. The Staff of Law which he held in his two hands throbbed with power, so that when he touched it to the stone wall that confined him the stone seemed to peel away, splitting asunder to make a path for him which led outwards and upwards, towards the very heart of Ora Lamae's citadel - and as he marched upon that new-formed stair he began a new and triumphant chant, which grew louder and louder as the voice of Solkan joined with his in a mighty hymn to Order and Destruction.

When he came again into the corridors of the citadel he was met by men-at-arms with halberds and partizans, who tried to hack at him and strike him down, but he whirled his staff about him and the power flowed from its ends to break their weapons and drive them to their knees.

"I am Law!" he sang, between the choruses of his awesome spell. "Temptation has not touched me, and passion has no place in my heart! I am Law, and I am come to deliver retribution in the name of Solkan, scourge of change and chaos!"

There came against him then a host of strange shadows - beings of other worlds, still half-confined there, which took the guise of monsters in exerting their vicious will upon the hedonists of Ora Lamae. But their talons and their fangs and their deadly stings could no more prick him than the clumsy weapons of the soldiers. His amulet burned and his staff twirled, and the monstrous shadows were swept into whirlpools in the air which denied them their horrid aspect and swallowed them up entire.

"Daemons, loose your hold upon this place!" he sang, swollen with honest pride in his virtue and his power. "Evil, begone! I am Law, and cannot be resisted! I am Law, and will take my course!"

And so, with Solkan guiding his footsteps, Florian came to that part of the castle of Ora Lamae which was made into a palace for its Lord and its Mistress, where the walls were hung with tapestries and curtains, and the furnishings were a riot of colour and comfort.

The colour was blasted from cushions and tapestries alike by the cold white light of Law; the burning incense was gutted in its pots. Crystal shattered, spilling dark red wines to stain the floor, and from somewhere in the whirlwind of righteous wrath came the sound of screaming - but Florian saw nothing, so high was the pitch of his excitement now. His mighty voice boomed out the syllables of power, and the very earth awoke, as he had promised it should, to do the bidding of Law.

"Solkan! Solkan! Solkan!" he cried, with the rapture of possession, and the icy coldness of unbreakable resolve.

And when the spell was finished, and he looked about him, he found that he had come to the very top of Ora Lamae's tower, and stood now on the high platform where the sentries were put to watch the silver ribbon of the distant sea for the white of pirate sails. No sentry was on that rampart now, but only the Man of Law with his mighty staff, which had cut the heart of daemonic corruption from the court of Bayard Solon, and cauterized the wound with cold white fire.

He heard a sound behind him then, and turned to see the sorceress Syrene stumbling upon the rampart. He thought for a moment that she was come to bring one last blow to be struck against him by the forces of evil, but she had no weapon in her hand nor daemonic power in her eyes. She no longer shone with her unnatural glamour, and had lost the natural bloom of youth along with her stolen glory.

She was dull now, and helpless.

He looked at her, and said: "See what your temptations have come to, my pretty princess! How feeble were your charms, against the strength of Law! Did you really think that you could awaken lust in one such as me, who had Yasus Fiemme to teach me and Solkan for my inspiration? Learn, then, how impotent evil is against the true will and the stern soul!"

And when she looked at him, he saw in her eyes that she had indeed learned what folly it had been to oppose him so lightly with laughter and temptation. He saw that she knew pain now, as well as pleasure, and knew which was the stronger in the world, and what price was ordained by destiny for the luxurious to pay.

She did not call him fool now, nor did she seek to wake his passion with the promise of her flesh. Instead, she only begged him for his help, pleading with him to save her life - to save her from the very forces which she had sought to command.

"I will be whatever you want me to be," she said. "I will do whatever penance you demand. Only save me from the vengeance of the people, and the wrath of the daemons with which I made treaty. Only save me, now that you have destroyed all that I had and all that I loved."

And then, as Florian stared at her, she fell upon her knees, and put her arms across her bosom, as though trying to hide within herself from everything that was outside her.

Florian looked down at her, and suddenly, because he could not help himself, he felt a pang of pity.

Then the Staff of Law became quiet in his hand, as though it were only wood. And the amulet upon his chest ceased to burn with righteous fire, and became as heavy as a dead stone. And the grandiose spell which had possessed his mind and made him more than human faded in his imagination to a plaintive echo.

But still, he could not help himself.

He looked at the frail woman who had been the sorceress Syrene, and saw again through the dullness of her presence the brightness of what she once had been. Lust did not trouble him, so well had Yasus Fiemme taught him what a Man of Law must know and what a Man of Law must be - but pity, in spite of all that he had done, he had not conquered. The temptation to lust he had resisted, but he had not properly learned that there were in the world other temptations which might touch his heart.

Then he knew that the test of worthiness which had tried his power against the might of Ora Lamae's daemons was not yet done, and that as a sword of Solkan he was not yet tempered, and might yet break.

He opened his mouth to speak to the stricken Syrene, but for a fateful moment he did not know what to say. When he did speak, it was to damn himself, for what he said was: "Do not weep, my lady. Perhaps there is forgiveness in the world as well as Law."

He looked away towards the west, to hide the feeling which had cracked the ice that Yasus Fiemme had laboured so long to put about his heart and soul. Then he saw something which made him catch his breath in fearful surprise.

From the fields and the farmhouses of the realm people were on the move, with their horses and their loaded wagons and their flocks of geese, carrying whatever they could upon their backs.

They were not heading towards the town, but were trudging eastwards, away from the distant sea, as if they had known from the beginning that he who had come to claim their lands for Law would fail in his resolve.

He wanted to call out to them, to tell them that there was no need for them to flee, because he had cleansed the town and the castle of evil - but when he opened his mouth, he found that he had no voice.

And when he looked again to the west, he saw that the great grey waves were already beginning to eat up the land which the sad cold sea had given for a while to the charge and use of man.

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