‘We didn’t take any prisoners, Your Majesty.’

‘Now that’s the way to make war. Sarathi’s going to be cross with you, though. He really wanted Annias to stand trial.’

‘We’d have brought him, Wargun,’ Ulath told his king, ‘but he wasn’t very presentable.’

‘Which one of you killed him?’

‘Actually it was Azash, Your Majesty,’ Tynian explained. ‘The Zemoch God was very disappointed in Otha and Annias, so he did what seemed appropriate.’

‘How about Martel – and Princess Arissa – and the bastard Lycheas?’

‘Sparhawk killed Martel,’ Kalten told him. ‘Ulath chopped Lycheas’s head off, and Arissa took poison.’

‘Did she die?’

‘We assume so. She was doing a fairly good job of it when we left her.’

Then Vanion came in and went immediately to Sephrenia. Their secret, which wasn’t really a secret anyway, since everyone with eyes knew how they felt about each other, went out of the window as they embraced each other with a kind of fierceness uncharacteristic of either of them. Vanion kissed the cheek of the small woman he had loved for decades. ‘I thought I’d lost you,’ he said in a voice thick with emotion.

‘You know that I’ll never leave you, dear one,’ she said.

Sparhawk smiled faintly. That ‘dear one’ which she addressed to them all had rather neatly concealed the real ‘dear ones’ she directed to Vanion. There was a significant difference in the way she said it, he noticed.

Their recounting of what had taken place since they had left Zemoch was fairly complete. It was subdued, however, and it omitted a significant number of theological issues.

Then Wargun began a rambling and somewhat drink-slurred account of what had happened in Lamorkand and eastern Pelosia during the lengthy interval. The armies of the west, it appeared, had followed the strategy that had been worked out in Chyrellos before the campaign had begun, and the strategy seemed to have worked quite well.

‘And then,’ the tipsy monarch concluded, ‘just when we were ready to get down to some serious fighting, the cowards all turned tail and ran. Why won’t anyone stand and fight me?’ Wargun’s tone was plaintive. ‘Now I’m going to have to chase them all over the mountains of Zemoch to catch them.’

‘Why bother?’ Sephrenia asked him.

‘Why bother?’ he exclaimed. ‘To keep them from ever attacking us again, that’s why.’ Wargun was swaying in his seat, and he clumsily dipped another tankard of ale from the keg at his side.

‘Why waste the lives of your men?’ she asked. ‘Azash is dead. Otha is dead. The Zemochs will never come again.’

Wargun glared at her. Then he pounded his fist on the table. ‘I want to exterminate somebody!’ he roared. ‘You wouldn’t let me wipe out the Rendors! You called me to Chyrellos before I could finish up! But I’ll be a cross-eyed Troll if I’ll let you steal the Zemochs from me as well!’ Then his eyes glazed, and he slid slowly under the table and began to snore.

‘Your king has an amazing singleness of purpose, my friend,’ Tynian said to Ulath.

‘Wargun’s a simple man,’ Ulath shrugged. ‘There isn’t room in his head for more than one idea at a time.’

‘I’ll go with you to Chyrellos, Sparhawk,’ Vanion said. ‘I might be able to help you persuade Dolmant to pull Wargun up short.’ That, of course, was not Vanion’s real reason for accompanying them, but Sparhawk chose not to question his friend any more closely.

They left Kadum early the following morning. The knights had removed their armour and travelled in mail-shirts, tunics and heavy cloaks. That did not appreciably increase their speed, but it did make them more comfortable. The rain went on day after day, a dreary, foggy drizzle that seemed to wash out all signs of colour. They travelled through the sullen tag-end of winter, almost never really warm and certainly never wholly dry. They passed through Motera and rode on to Kadach, where they crossed the river and moved at a canter south towards Chyrellos. Finally, on a rainy afternoon they reached the top of a hill and looked down at the war-ravaged Holy City.

‘I think our first step is to find Dolmant,’ Vanion decided. ‘It’s going to take a while for a messenger to get back to Kadum to stop Wargun, and a break in the weather could start to dry out the fields in Zemoch.’ Vanion began to cough, a tearing kind of cough.

‘Aren’t you feeling well?’ Sparhawk asked him.

‘I think I’ve picked up a cold, that’s all.’

They did not enter Chyrellos as heroes. There were no parades, no fanfares, no cheering throngs throwing flowers. In point of fact, nobody even seemed to recognize them, and the only thing that was thrown was garbage from the windows of the upper floors of the houses they passed. Very little had been done in the way of repairs or reconstruction since Martel’s armies had been driven out, and the citizens of Chyrellos existed in squalor among the ruins.

They entered the Basilica still muddy and travel-worn and went directly up to the administrative offices on the second floor. ‘We have urgent news for the Archprelate,’ Vanion said to the black-robed Churchman who sat at an ornate desk shuffling papers and trying to look important.

‘I’m afraid that’s absolutely out of the question,’ the Churchman said, looking disdainfully at Vanion’s muddy clothing. ‘Sarathi’s meeting with a deputation of Cammorian Primates at the moment. It’s a very important conference, and it mustn’t be interrupted by some unimportant military dispatch. Why don’t you come back tomorrow?’

Vanion’s nostrils went white, and he thrust back his cloak to free his sword-arm. Before things had the chance to turn ugly, however, Emban came along the hall. ‘Vanion?’ he exclaimed, ‘and Sparhawk? When did you get back?’

‘We only just arrived, Your Grace,’ Vanion replied. ‘There seems to be some question about our credentials here.’

‘Not as far as I’m concerned. You’d better come inside.’

‘But, Your Grace,’ the Churchman objected, ‘Sarathi’s meeting with the Cammorian Patriarchs, and there are other deputations who have been waiting and are far more –’ He broke off as Emban slowly turned on him.

‘Who is this man?’ Emban seemed to direct the question at the ceiling. Then he looked at the man behind the desk. ‘Pack your things,’ he instructed. ‘You’ll be leaving Chyrellos first thing in the morning. Take plenty of warm clothing. The monastery at Husdal is in northern Thalesia, and it’s very cold there at this time of year.’