‘I hope these sailors know what they’re doing,’ Berit said. ‘That has the earmarks of a very nasty squall.’

They continued to watch the inky cloud as it boiled higher and higher, covering more and more of the western sky.

That’s not a natural storm, Berit,’ Khalad said tensely. ‘It’s building too fast.’

Then there was a shocking crash of thunder, and the cloud blanched and shuddered as the lightning seethed within it. Both the young men saw the shadowy shape in the instant that the bluish lightning thrust back the darkness to reveal what lay hidden in the cloud. ‘Klæl!’ Berit gasped, staring at the monstrous, winged shape half-concealed in the churning storm-front.

The next crash of thunder ripped the sky, and the shabby vessel shuddered in the overwhelming sound. The inverted wedge of Klæl’s face seemed to ripple and change in the midst of its veiling cloud, and the slitted eyes flamed in sudden rage. The great, batlike wings began to claw at the approaching storm, and the awful mouth opened to roar forth the thunder of Klæl’s frustration. He howled in vast fury, and his enormous arms stretched up into the murky air, reaching hungrily to clutch at something that was not there.

And then the thing was gone, and the unnatural cloud tattered and streamed harmlessly off to the southeast to become no more than a dirty smudge on the horizon. The air, however, was filled with a sulphurous reek.

‘You’d better pass the word to Aphrael,’ Khalad said grimly. ‘Klæl’s loose again. He was looking for something, and he didn’t find it. God knows where he’ll look next.’

‘Komier’s arm is broken in three places,’ Sir Heldin rumbled when he joined the mail-shirted Patriarch Bergsten, Ambassador Fontan, and Archimandrite Monsel in Monsel’s book-littered study in the east wing of the palace, ‘and Darellon’s still seeing two of everything. Komier can travel if he has to, but I think we’d better leave Darellon here until he recovers.’

‘How many knights are fit to ride?’ Bergsten asked.

‘Forty thousand at most, your Grace.’

‘We’ll just have to make do with what we’ve got. Emban knew that we’d probably come this way, and he’s been sending messengers by the platoon. Things are coming to a head in southeastern Tamuli. Sparhawk’s wife has been taken hostage, and our enemies are offering to trade her for Bhelliom. There’s a rebel army in the Arjuni jungles preparing to march on Matherion, and two more armies massing on the eastern frontier of Cynesga. If those armies all join up, the game’s over. Emban wants us to ride east across the steppes until we’re past the Astel Marshes and then turn south and lay siege to the Cynesgan capital. He needs a diversion of some kind to pull those armies back from the border.’

Sir Heldin pulled out his map. ‘It’s workable,’ he said after a moment’s study, ‘but we’re going to be a little light for that kind of job.’

‘We’ll get by. Vanion’s in the field, but he’s badly outnumbered along that Cynesgan frontier. If we don’t create enough of a disturbance to relieve some of the pressure on him, he’ll be swarmed under.’

Heldin looked speculatively at the huge Thalesian patriarch. ‘You’re not going to like this, your Grace,’ he said, ‘but there’s not much choice in the matter.’

‘Go ahead,’ Bergsten told him.

‘You’re going to have to lay your cassock aside and take command. Abriel’s been killed, Darellon’s incapacitated, and if Komier gets into a fight, the weight of his axe will cripple him.’

‘You’re still here, Heldin. You can take charge.’

Heldin shook his head. ‘I’m not a Preceptor, your Grace, and everybody in the army knows it. I’m also a Pandion, and the other orders have strong feelings about us. We haven’t made very many friends in the past couple of centuries. The other orders won’t accept me as commander. You’re a Patriarch, and you speak for Sarathi – and the Church. They’ll accept you with no argument.’

‘It’s out of the question.’

‘Then we’ll have to sit here until Dolmant sends us a new commander.’

‘We can’t wait!’

‘My point exactly. Do I have your permission to tell the knights that you’re taking command?’

‘I can’t, Heldin. You know that I’m forbidden to use magic’

‘We can work our way around that, your Grace. There are plenty of accomplished magicians in the ranks. Just tell us what you want done, and we’ll see to it.’

‘I’ve taken an oath.’

‘You took another one earlier, Lord Bergsten. You promised to defend the Church. That oath takes precedence in this situation.’

The hugely bearded and black-robed Archimandrite Monsel looked speculatively at the reluctant Thalesian. Then he spoke in a neutral sort of way. ‘Would you like an independent opinion, Bergsten?’

Bergsten scowled at him.

‘You’re going to get it anyway,’ the Astellian churchman said with unruffled calm. ‘Given the nature of our opponent, we’re face to face with a “Crisis of the Faith”, and that suspends all the other rules. God needs your axe, Bergsten, not your theology.’ He squinted at the Thalesian Patriarch. ‘You don’t seem convinced,’ he said.

‘I’m not trying to be offensive, Monsel, but “Crisis of the Faith” can’t just be pulled out and dusted off whenever we want to bend some rules.’

‘All right, let’s try this one then. This is Astel, and your Church at Chyrellos recognizes my authority here. As long as we’re in Astel, I speak for God.’

Bergsten pulled off his helmet and absently polished the glossy black Ogre-horns on his sleeve. ‘Technically, I suppose,’ he conceded.

‘Technicalities are the very soul of doctrine, your Grace.’ Monsel’s huge beard bristled with disputational fervor. ‘Do you agree that I speak for God here in Astel?’

‘All right, for the sake of argument, yes.’

‘I’m glad you agree; I’d hate to have to excommunicate you. Now then, I speak for God here, and God wants you to take command of the Church Knights. Go forth and smite God’s enemies, my son, and may heaven strengthen your arm.’

Bergsten squinted out the window at the dirty-looking sky for a long moment, mulling the clearly specious argument over in his mind. ‘You take full responsibility, Monsel?’ he asked.