“You have more intelligence to share, I assume?” the general went on.

The man ignored the question. “The Alpiran,” he said in Volarian tinged with an accent I had come to recognise as coming from the north of this fallen Realm. “Which is he?”

“What do you want of him?” Fornella asked in her strident tone. He didn’t even glance at her and my fear found new depths as his gaze scanned the deck until it fixed on me. He strode forward, coming close enough for me to smell the stench of his unwashed body. He stank of death and a complete disregard for any human standard of cleanliness, and his breath was like a gust of vaporous poison as I cowered away.

“Where,” he demanded, “is Vaelin Al Sorna?”

CHAPTER ONE

Reva

May the World Father, who sees all and knows all in His love, guide my blade.

She watched the tall man as he made his way down the gangplank and onto the quayside. He was dressed in common sailor’s garb, plain, dun-coloured cloth and sturdy but aged boots, a threadbare woollen cloak about his shoulders and, she was surprised to see, no sword at his belt or on his back. He did, however, have a rope-tied canvas bag slung over his shoulder, a bag of sufficient length for a sword.

The tall man turned as someone called to him from the ship, a broad, black-skinned man with a red scarf tied around his neck, marking him as captain of the vessel that had carried such an illustrious passenger to this minor port. The tall man shook his head, a polite but strained smile on his lips, gave a friendly but emphatic wave of farewell and turned his back on the ship. He walked on quickly, drawing the hood of his cloak over his head as he did so. There were a good number of hawkers, troubadours and whores on the quayside, most affording the tall man the barest attention, though he drew a few glances due to his height. A clutch of whores made a half-hearted attempt to entice his custom, clearly he was another salt-dog with little wealth to share, but he just laughed easily, hands spread in a sham of apologetic and reluctant poverty.

Stupid sluts, she thought, crouched in the dank alleyway that had been her home for the past three days. Fish traders occupied the buildings on either side and she was yet to accustom herself to the stench. He lusts for blood, not flesh.

The tall man rounded a corner, making for the north gate no doubt. She rose from her hiding place to follow.

“Payment’s due, love.” It was the fat boy again. He had been plaguing her since her arrival in the alley, extracting payment in coin not to alert the guards to her presence here, the port authorities had little tolerance for vagrants these days, but she knew it wasn’t payment in coin that really interested him. He was perhaps sixteen, two years her junior, but an inch or so taller than her and considerably wider. From the look in his eye he had spent much of her coin on wine. “No more pretending,” he said. “One more day an’ you’d be gone, y’said. An’ yer still here. Payment’s due.”

“Please,” she backed away, voice high, fearful. If he had been sober, he might have wondered why she backed away from the street into the shadow, where surely she was more vulnerable. “I’ve got more, see?” She held out her hand, a copper gleaming dully in the half-light.

“Copper!” He batted it away, as she had assumed he would. “Cumbraelin bitch. I’ll take your coppers and more besi—”

Her fist caught him under the nose, fore-knuckles extended, a precise blow to a spot which would cause the most pain and confusion. His head snapped back, a small explosion of blood coming from his nose and mashed upper lip. Her knife came free from the hidden sheath at the small of her back as he staggered, but the killing blow wasn’t necessary. The fat boy ran his tongue over his ruined lip, incomprehension lighting his eyes, then collapsed to the alley floor. She took hold of his ankles and dragged him into the shadow. His pockets yielded what remained of her coppers, a small vial of redflower and a half-eaten apple. She took the coppers, left the redflower and walked away munching on the apple. It would likely be hours before anyone found the fat boy and even then they would assume he was the victim of a drunken fight.

The tall man came into sight within the space of a moment, making his way through the gate, giving an affable nod to the guards but keeping his hood in place. She lingered, finishing her apple as he took the north road, letting him get a good half mile ahead before following.

May the World Father, who sees all and knows all in His love, guide my blade.

? ? ?

The tall man kept to the road for the rest of the day, occasionally stopping to check his surroundings, eyes scanning tree-line and horizon. The actions of a careful man, or an experienced warrior. She kept away from the road, staying in the trees that dominated the country north of Warnsclave, just close enough to keep him in sight. He walked at a steady pace with a regular, long-legged stride that ate up the miles with deceptive speed. There were a few other travellers on the road, mostly carts carrying cargo to or from the port, a few lone riders, none of whom stopped to talk to the tall man. With so many outlaws haunting the woods talking to a stranger was unwise, though he seemed unconcerned at their wary disinterest.

As night fell he left the road, entering the woods to seek out a campsite. She tracked him to a small clearing sheltered beneath the branches of a large yew, hiding herself in a shallow ditch behind a copse of gorse, watching through the weave of ferns as he made his camp. It was all done with an impressive economy, the near-unconscious actions of a practised wilds-man; wood gathered, fire lit, ground cleared and bedroll laid in the space of what seemed mere moments.

The tall man settled himself against the trunk of the yew, ate a supper of dried beef, washed it down with a gulp from his canteen, then sat watching his fire burn down. His expression was oddly intense, almost as if he were listening to a conversation of some import. She tensed, wary of discovery, knife already drawn. Does he sense me? she wondered. The priest had warned her he had the Dark in him, that he was the most formidable enemy she was ever likely to face. She had laughed and cast her knife at the target on the wall of the barn where he spent so many years training her. The knife shuddered in the centre of the target, which split and fell apart. “The Father blesses me, remember?” she said. The priest had whipped her, for her pride and the crime of claiming to know the mind of the World Father.

She watched the tall man and his oddly intense expression for another hour before he blinked, cast a final glance around at the forest and huddled in his cloak to sleep. She forced herself to wait another hour, until the night sky was as dark as it would get and the forest was near black as pitch, the only light of substance the lacelike wisps rising from his dead fire.

She rose from her ditch in a crouch, knife reversed, blade flat against the skin of her arm to hide the gleam. She moved towards the tall man’s sleeping form with all the stealth the priest had beaten into her since the age of six, as near soundless as any forest predator could be. The tall man lay on his back, head tilted to one side, neck laid bare. It would be so easy to kill him now, but her mission was clear. The sword, the priest had told her, over and over. The sword is all, his death is secondary.

She switched the grip on her knife, the blade poised, ready. Most men will talk with a knife at their throat, the priest had said. May the World Father, who sees all and knows all in His love, guide your blade.

She launched herself onto the tall man, knife reaching for his exposed throat . . .

The air whooshed from her lungs in a pained rush as her chest connected with something hard. His boots, she realised with a groan. Then she was in the air, launched by the tall man’s boot thrust to land on her back a good ten feet away. She scrambled upright, knife slashing into the spot where she knew he would follow up his attack . . . The knife met only air. The tall man was standing next to the yew, regarding her with an expression certain to provoke an upsurge of rage in her breast. Amusement.

She snarled, charging forward, ignoring the caution instilled by the priest’s cane. She feinted to the left then leapt, the knife slashing down to pierce the tall man’s shoulder . . . The knife met only air. She stumbled, unbalanced by the momentum of her attack. Whirling, seeing him standing close by, still amused.

She lunged, knife moving in a complex series of jabs and slashes, accompanied by a dizzyingly fast array of kicks and punches . . . They all met only air.

She forced herself to stop, drawing breath in ragged gasps, fighting down the rage and hate. If an attack fails, withdraw. The priest’s words were loud in her head. Watch from the shadows for another opportunity. The Father will always reward patience.

She gave the tall man a final snarl of rage and turned away, ready to sprint into the darkness . . .

“You have your father’s eyes.”

GO! the priest’s voice shouted in her mind. But she stopped, turned back slowly. The tall man’s expression had changed, the amusement replaced with something like sorrow.

“Where is it?” she demanded. “Where is my father’s sword, Darkblade?”

His eyebrows rose. “Darkblade. Haven’t heard that one in years.” He moved back to the camp, tossing fresh branches on the fire and striking a flint.

She turned back to the forest, then back to the camp, self-hate and frustration burning in her. Weakling, coward.