"We could at least get some supper," Kalten added, "and maybe a couple of hours' sleep. I've been up for a long time. Besides, we might be able to pick up some information if we ask the right questions."

The inn was run by a thin, good-humoured fellow and his plump, jolly wife. It was a comfortable place and meticulously clean. The broad fireplace at one end of the common-room did not smoke, and there were fresh rushes on the floor.

"We don't see many city folk this far out in the country," the innkeeper noted as he brought a platter of roast beef to the table, " - and very seldom any knights - at least I judge from your garb that you're knights. What brings you this way, My Lords?"

"We're on our way to Pelosia," Kalten lied easily. "Church business. We're in a hurry, so we decided to cut across country."

"There's a road that runs on up into Pelosia about three leagues to the south," the innkeeper advised helpfully.

"Roads wander around a lot," Kalten said, "and like I told you, we're in a hurry."

"Anything interesting happening hereabouts?" Tynian asked as if only mildly curious.

The innkeeper laughed wryly. "What can possibly happen in a place like this? The local farmers spend all their time talking about a cow that died six months ago."

He drew up a chair and sat down uninvited. He sighed. "I used to live in Cimmura when I was younger. Now, there's a place where things really happen. I miss all the excitement."

"What made you decide to move out here?" Kalten asked, spearing another slice of beef with his dagger.

"My father left me this place when he died. Nobody wanted to buy it, so I didn't have any choice." He frowned slightly. "Now that you mention it, though," he said, returning to the previous topic, "there has been something a little unusual happening around here for the last few months."

"Oh?" Tynian said carefully.

"We've been seeing bands of roving Styrics. The countryside's crawling with them. They don't usually move around that much, do they?"

"Not really," Sephrenia replied. "We're not a nomadic people."

"I thought you might be Styric, lady - judging from your looks and your clothes. We've got a Styric village not far from here. They're nice enough people, I suppose, but they keep pretty much to themselves." He leaned back in his chair. "I do think you Styrics could avoid a lot of the trouble that breaks out from time to time if you'd just mingle with your neighbours a little more."

"It's not our way," Sephrenia murmured. "I don't believe Elenes and Styrics are supposed to mingle."

"There could be something to what you say," he agreed.

"Are these Styrics doing anything in particular?

Sparhawk asked, keeping his voice neutral.

"Asking questions is about all. They seem to be very curious about the Zemoch war for some reason." He rose to his feet. "Enjoy your supper," he said and went back to the kitchen.

"We have a problem," Sephrenia said gravely. "Western Styrics do not wander about the countryside. Our Gods prefer to have us stay close to their altars."

"Zemochs then?" Bevier surmised.

"Almost certainly."

"When, I was in Lamorkand, there were reports of Zemochs infiltrating the country east of Motera," Kalten remembered. "They were doing the same thing wandering about the country asking questions, mostly having to do with folk-lore."

"Azash seems to have a plan that closely resembles ours," Sephrenia said. "He's trying to gather information that will lead him to Bhelliom."

"It's a race then," Kalten said.

"I'm afraid so, and he's got Zemochs out there ahead of US."

"And church soldiers behind," Ulath added. "You've gone and got us surrounded, Sparhawk. Could that Seeker be controlling those wandering Zemochs the same way it's controlling the soldiers?" the big Thalesian asked Sephrenia. "We could be riding into an ambush if it is, you know."

"I'm not entirely certain," she replied. "I've heard a great deal about Otha's Seekers, but I've never actually seen one in action."

"You didn't have time to be very specific this morning," Sparhawk said. "Exactly how is that thing controlling Annias's soldiers?"

"It's venomous," she said. "Its bite paralyses the will of its victims - or of those it wants to dominate."

"I'll make a point of not letting it bite me then," Kalten said. "You may not be able to stop it," she told him. "That green glow is hypnotic. That makes it easier for it to get close enough to inject the venom."

"How fast can it fly?" Tynian asked.

"It doesn't fly at this stage of its development," she replied. "Its wings don't mature until it becomes an adult. Besides, it has to be on the ground to follow the scent of the one it's trying to catch. Normally, it travels on horseback, and since the horse is controlled in the same way people are, the Seeker simply rides the horse to death and then finds another. It can cover a great deal of ground that way."

"What does it eat?" Kurik asked. "Maybe we can set a trap for it."

"It feeds primarily on humans," she told him.

"That would make baiting a trap a little difficult," he admitted.

They all went to bed directly after supper, but it seemed to Sparhawk that his head had no sooner touched the pillow than Kurik was shaking him awake.

"It's about midnight," the squire said.

"All right," Sparhawk said wearily, sitting up in bed.

"I'll wake the others," Kurik said, "and then Berit and I'll go saddle the horses."

After he had dressed, Sparhawk went downstairs to have a word with the sleepy innkeeper. "Tell me, neighbour," he said, "Is there by any chance a monastery hereabouts?"

The innkeeper scratched his head. "I think there's one near the village of Verine," he replied. "That's about five leagues east of here."

Thanks, neighbour," Sparhawk said. He looked around. "You've got a nice, comfortable inn here," he said, "and your wife keeps clean beds and sets a very fine table. I'll mention your place to my friends."

"Why, that's very kind of you, Sir Knight."

Sparhawk nodded to him and went outside to join the others.

"What's the plan?" Kalten asked.

"The innkeeper thinks there's a monastery near a village about five leagues away. We should reach it by morning. I want to get word of all this to Dolmant in Chyrellos."

"I could take the message to him for you, Sir Sparhawk," Berit offered eagerly.

Sparhawk shook his head. "The Seeker probably has your scent by now, Berit. I don't want you getting ambushed on the road to Chyrellos. Let's send some anonymous monk instead. That monastery's on our way anyhow, so we won't be losing any time. Let's mount"

The moon was full and the night sky was clear as they rode away from the inn. "That way," Kurik said, pointing.

"How do you know that?" Talen asked him.

"The stars," Kurik replied.

"Do you mean you can actually tell direction by the stars?" Talen sounded impressed."

"Of course you can. Sailors have been doing that for thousands of years."

"I didn't know that."

"You should have stayed in school."

"I don't plan to be a sailor, Kurik. Stealing fish sounds a little too much like work to me."

They rode on through the moon-drenched night, moving almost due east. By morning they had gone perhaps five leagues, and Sparhawk rode to a hilltop to look around. "There's a village just ahead," he told the others when he returned. "Let's hope it's the one we're looking for."

The village lay in a shallow valley. It was a small place, perhaps a dozen stone houses with a church at one end of its single cobbled street and a tavern at the other. A large, walled building stood atop a hill just outside the town.

"Excuse me, neighbour," Sparhawk asked a passer-by as they clattered into town. "Is this Verine?"

"It is."

"And is that the monastery up on that hill there?"

"It is," the man replied again, his voice a bit sullen.

"Is there some problem?"

"The monks up there own all the land hereabouts," the fellow replied. "Their rents are cruel."

"Isn't that always the way? All landlords are greedy."

"The monks insist on tithes as well as the rent. That's going a bit far, wouldn't you say?"

"You've got a point there."

"Why do you call everybody "neighbour"?" Tynian asked as they rode on.

"Habit, I suppose," Sparhawk shrugged. "I got it from my father, and I think it puts people at their ease."

"Why not call them "friend"?"

"Because I never know that for sure. Let's go talk to the Abbot of that monastery."

The monastery was a severe-looking building surrounded by a wall made of yellow sandstone. The fields around it were well-tended, and monks wearing conical hats woven from local straw worked patiently under the morning sun in long, straight rows of vegetables. The gates of the monastery stood open, and Sparhawk and the others rode into the central courtyard. A thin, haggard-looking brother came out to meet them, his face a little fearful.

"Good day, brother," Sparhawk said to him. He opened his cloak to reveal the heavy silver amulet hanging on a chain about his neck which identified him as a Pandion Knight. "If it's not too much trouble, we'd like to have a word with your Abbot."

"I'll bring him immediately, My Lord." The brother scurried back inside the building.

The Abbot was a jolly little fat man with a well-shaven tonsure and a bright red, sweaty face. His was a small, remote monastery and had little contact with Chyrellos. He was embarrassingly obsequious at the sudden, unexpected appearance of Church Knights on his doorstep.

"My Lords," he grovelled, "how may I serve you?"

"It's a small thing, my Lord Abbot," Sparhawk told him gently. "Are you acquainted with the Patriarch of Demos?"

The Abbot swallowed hard. "Patriarch Dolmant?" he said in an awed voice.

"Tall fellow," Sparhawk agreed. "Sort of lean and underfed-looking. Anyway, we need to get a message to him. Have you a young monk who's got some stamina and a good horse who could carry a message to the Patriarch for us? It's in the service of the Church."

"Of course, Sir Knight."

"I'd hoped you'd feel that way about it. Do you have a quill pen and ink handy, My Lord Abbot? I'll compose the message, and then we won't bother you any more."

"One other thing, My Lord Abbot," Kalten added. "Might we trouble you for a bit of food? We've been some time on the road, and our supplies are getting low. Nothing too exotic, mind - a few roast chickens, perhaps, a ham or two, a side of bacon, a hindquarter of beef, maybe?"

"Of course, Sir Knight," the Abbot agreed quickly.

Sparhawk composed the note to Dolmant while Kurik and Kalten loaded the supplies on a packhorse.

"Did you have to do that?" Sparhawk asked Kalten as they rode away. "Charity is a cardinal virtue, Sparhawk," Kalten replied loftily. "I like to encourage it whenever I can."

The countryside through which they galloped grew increasingly desolate. The soil was thin and poor, fit only for thorn-bushes and weeds. Here and there were pools of stagnant water, and the few trees standing near them were stunted and sick-looking. The weather had turned cloudy, and they rode through the tag-end of a dreary afternoon.

Kurik pulled his gelding in beside Sparhawk. "Doesn't look too promising, does it?" he noted.

"Dismal," Sparhawk agreed.

"I think we're going to have to make camp somewhere tonight. The horses are almost played out."

"I'm not feeling too spry myself," Sparhawk admitted.

His eyes felt gritty, and he had a dull headache.

"The only trouble is that I haven't seen any clean water for the last league or so. Why don't I take Berit and see if we can find a spring or stream?"

"Keep your eyes open," Sparhawk cautioned.

Kurik turned in his saddle. "Berit," he called, "I need you." Sparhawk and the others rode on at a trot while the squire and the novice ranged out in search of clean water.

"We could just ride on, you know," Kalten said.

"Not unless you feel like walking before morning," Sparhawk replied. "Kurik's right. The horses don't have very much left in them."

"That's true, I suppose."

Then Kurik and Berit came pounding down a nearby hill at a gallop. "Get ready." Kurik shouted, shaking loose his chain-mace. "We've got company."

"Sephrenia!" Sparhawk barked. "Take Flute and get back behind those rocks. Talen, get the packhorses." He drew his sword and moved to the front even as the others armed themselves.

There were fifteen or so of them, and they drove their horses over the hilltop at a run. It was an oddly assorted group, church soldiers in their red tunics, Styrics in home-spun smocks and a few peasants. Their faces were all blank, and their eyes dull. They charged on mindlessly, even though the heavily armed Church Knights were rushing to meet them.

Sparhawk and the others spread out, preparing to meet the charge. "For God and the Church!" Bevier shouted, brandishing his lochaber axe. Then he spurred his horse forward, crashing into the middle of the oncoming attackers. Sparhawk was taken off guard by the young Cyrinic's rash move, but he quickly recovered and charged in to his companion's aid. Bevier, however, appeared to need little in the way of help. He warded off the clumsy-looking sword strokes of the mindlessly charging ambushers with his shield, and his long handled lochaber whistled through the air to sink deep into the bodies of his enemies. Though the wounds he inflicted were hideous, the men he struck down made no outcry as they fell from their saddles. They fought and died in an eerie silence. Sparhawk rode behind Bevier, cutting down any of the numb-faced men who tried to attack the Cyrinic from behind. His sword sheared a church soldier almost in half, but the man in the red tunic did not even flinch. He raised his sword to strike at Bevier's back, but Sparhawk split his head open with a vast overhand stroke. The soldier toppled out of his saddle and lay twitching on the bloodstained grass.